"Yes? What am I to do?" He hesitated, then closed the door.
With a quick, almost finicky motion, Saint-Germain brushed the ashes from his hands and rose swiftly. "I will need my Barb for tonight, but by tomorrow I should have need of my coach. As you love me, will you drive for me?"
Hercule grinned hugely. "I would drive to hell, master, only to hold reins again."
Saint-Germain did not smile. "You may well do just that. I ask you to consider this before you accept: there is great danger, I fear, in what we will do. If you fail me, I am dead. And you may not live, either."
"Tell me," Hercule said after a thoughtful pause, "does this danger come from le Baron Saint Sebastien?"
"Yes."
"I see." Hercule looked steadily at le Comte, and when he spoke, there was steely resolve in his words. "If your danger is from Saint Sebastien, and I may do anything to bring him to ruin, though it cost me my life and soul, I would do it. And think myself cheated if you denied me my vengeance."
Saint-Germain nodded, his opinion confirmed. "I will need my traveling coach, Hercule. I entrust you to have it ready. You will have the heavy team harnessed, for we will have to go far and go quickly if we are to escape."
"But where?"
"We will be bound for England. My friend Mer-Herbeux has a number of messages he would want me to deliver for him in London, clandestinely, of course. No one will wonder at my sudden departure. And it will allow us to do two things at once."
"Who will go with you?" Hercule asked, thinking of the road to Calais. "I will have to arrange for a change of horses along the way, and I do not know how many will travel with you. Or do you travel alone?"
"I think not alone," Saint-Germain said slowly. "Roger will come after me in the second coach, but that does not concern me or you. I may take up one or two of the sorcerers working under us, in the cellar. It may not be wise for them to remain here."
Hercule nodded, remembering the cold-blooded ferocity of Saint Sebastien. Anyone left behind would be in grave danger from him. "I will carry them," he said.
"Good. Roger will tell you where the coach is to meet us, and at what hour. You will follow Roger's instructions exactly. He speaks for me, and with my authority." He hesitated, then continued. "I charge you most particularly to be sure that there is a fresh layer of earth under the floorboards of the coach. You will find the appropriate earth in a special crate in the stables. Roger will show you. Be sure that the earth is laid under the floorboards before you start out. It is most important."
Confused by this unorthodox request, but committed to helping Saint-Germain, Hercule repeated, "It is important. I will see that it is done as you wish."
"You must not fail me in this, for it is my strength—the good earth that has nurtured me all my life. And I will need its strength after dealing with Saint Sebastien."
Hercule bowed. "As you order, master: I will obey you." He was prepared to withdraw, and wondered if he should wait, since he had not been dismissed, though Saint-Germain appeared to have forgotten him.
"Hercule," he said distantly, "I think you had best warn Sattin and the others. They must be prepared to leave on short notice. There is a concealed tunnel that runs toward the river. It is part of the old monastery vaults on which the foundation of this building is laid. The monks used it for escape when their monastery was under attack. It is below the third cellar, and a trapdoor will take them there. It is set in the northwest corner of the cellar, and takes them into a very old burial chapel. The tunnel is in the vault next to the chapel, on the north side. If they cannot leave here unnoticed, they must use that tunnel, or we will all be very much in danger of discovery.
"Then we are to leave soon?"
"I am not certain, Hercule. I would think that by nightfall tomorrow I will know what we must do, and where. If you have no word from me by sunset tomorrow, hold yourself in readiness here, no matter what happens, and no matter who gives you instructions to the contrary. Have the coach ready, the horses harnessed, and three or four heavy rugs in the coach, as it will be cold."
"Do you want postilions or outriders?"
"One outrider is all. I leave it to you to find someone who is trustworthy. Perhaps you know of someone already.
"If I have not come to you before the dawn day after tomorrow, you must assume that Saint Sebastien has won. In that case, find Cardinal Foutet at Chambord. Tell him what you know of Saint Sebastien. Tell him also that Saint Sebastien, along with Beauvrai and others, celebrated an Amatory Mass on the body of Lucienne Cressie, who is in retreat in Brittany, at la couvent de la Miséricordia et la Justice de le Rédempteur. She will supply any proof that is needed. And, Hercule," he added very carefully, "do not let yourself be caught with this knowledge. Should you fall into Saint Sebastien's hands, be sure that you are a dead man. Too many lives ride on your silence." He looked up as the door opened and Roger stepped into the room. "What is it?"
“The bath is ready," Roger said. "I have secured a vial of holy water, and I have put the Host into your pyx. If you need them."
Saint-Germain nodded. "Thank you, Roger," he said. "I will be with you directly." He turned once more to Hercule. "Remember what I said If you have faith, be shriven tonight.”
Hercule was rather white around the mouth at these uncompromising words, but he said, "I will see the priest within the hour. St Sulpice is not far from here, or Saint-Germain-des-Près."
"Bon. But do not tell the priest more than he needs to know. You cannot confess for Saint Sebastien. Do not reveal more than you must."
"My sins alone will be absolved," Hercule promised, then limped awkwardly from the room.
Roger said nothing while Saint-Germain looked into the fire, one small hand fingering the embroidery on the standing collar of his robe. "You do not think me wise to trust Hercule."
"No."
"I trusted you, once, Roger, before I knew you."
"With good reason."
Saint-Germain raised his eyebrows. "And you doubt Hercule? Now, why?"
"He is a servant, master. He has always served Saint Sebastien. Obeying is a habit with him. Saint Sebastien has hurt him, it is true, but habits are not easily broken. He might, faced with his former master, find that he cannot deny him."
"Perhaps," Saint-Germain said softly. "And yet do you know, I think he will not betray me. I think that hatred is raw enough in him that all the years that have gone before have been burned from him, as much as last year's logs on the hearth."
Roger nodded diffidently, but it was clear he had not put his doubts aside.
"Come," Saint-Germain said crisply, breaking away from the contemplative mood that had held him to the hypnotic dance of the flames. "My bath, and then the pyx."
Roger stood aside as Saint-Germain swept out of the room.
Text of a letter from l'Abbé Ponteneuf to le Marquis de Montalia, dated November 4,1743, returned to l'Abbé by la Comtesse d'Argenlac on December 17, 1743:
Mon cher cousin, I greet you in the name of God and the Virgin.
I had hoped to receive your daughter this afternoon, so that she and I might have that little chat you have so much desired. Undoubtedly her maiden confusion has overcome her and she is reluctant to discuss so intimate a subject with me, though I am her Confessor. Your note, which I had the felicity to read this morning, informing me of the request of le Marquis Chenu-Tourelle, explains much, and I certainly hope that Madelaine is aware of the honor done her by that distinguished young gentleman.
It is my intention to hear her confession on Wednesday or Thursday, and at that time I will once again attempt to turn her mind to the delights of marriage and the sweet duties of a wife. She has read my letter that touches on these things, and has said she found it most instructive.
You had mentioned her scholarship before, and I am pleased to tell you that she continues to occupy her mind with worthy matters. Her readings in history are commendable, though she does read of matters not truly fit for an unmarrie
d woman's eyes. To be sure, it is sad to reflect that so much of history is not suitable reading for those gently born and gently reared. She has said that until now she did not understand much of the sorrow and misfortune of others around her, but that the reading of history has given her a new perspective of humanity, and where she was confused before, she now perceives humanity in truer colors.
Your concern for your daughter is most commendable, Robert. I know that your affection has done much to make your daughter the excellent young woman she is. But it is not only her soul which concerns me, but your own. How often I have exhorted you to make your Confession and be received again into the bosom of Holy Mother Church. As you think on Madelaine and her future, you must think as well of your own It is not wise of you to delay that moment when your soul is once again in Holy Communion with the Mercy Seat. Think, Robert, of the great emptiness that will fall on you if you cannot attend the marriage of your daughter. It would shame her if you had to refuse to take Communion with her at that joyous time. Think of your grandchildren, who are not so far off. You will want them to enjoy the protection of the Church, and take part in all the ceremonies and celebrations that give meaning to our discourse with God through His saints.
I most earnestly pray you will come to Confess, my cousin. It is important not only to me, and your cherished daughter, but it is of vital importance to you. It is your soul that stands in danger of eternal damnation. You cannot deny that when one is older, time grows increasingly precious, and it behooves you to think on your mortality and to reform your ways before the coming of the Dark Angel.
Believe me, I pray for you daily, and beg Our Lord and the Virgin to touch your heart and bring you truly repentant to us once again. It is not for worldly glory that I do this, but for the salvation of your soul. In less enlightened times, you would have been treated more severely, and even today, in Spain, you would find that your rejection of the tender love of the Church Triumphant would place you in a most unpleasant position. To be sure, the misled days of Torquemada are gone, but the Inquisition still keeps to its sacred obligation. It is sobering to think of the suffering of the body in this life, but it is much less frightful than the suffering of the soul in Hell. Do not think that you will escape that. Accept your contrition now and spare yourself an eternity of pain.
But I have said sufficient on this head For now, you have my assurance that I will avail myself of the opportunity to talk to your daughter and abjure her to make her husband's wishes her own, his will her will, and to love his law and his chastisement even as those of us in religious life love that flail that purges our errors.
In the most prayerful and faithful respects, I am in this world
Your cousin of blood and your brother
as we are children of God,
l'Abbé Ponteneuf, S. J.
Chapter 7
In the elegant dining room of hôtel d'Argenlac, all pretense at conversation had come to a halt. At his end of the table Gervaise started his second bottle of Bordeaux, and ignored the turbot of beef stuffed with mushrooms and fresh lobster that had been broiled in butter. Neither that succulent dish nor the two varieties of vegetables, one done in the Genoese manner, tempted his palate from the lure of his wine. He cast a jaundiced eye at the next course waiting on the sideboard and sighed audibly.
"What was that, Gervaise?" Claudia asked too quickly, her eyes turned toward her brother, who sat at her right hand.
"Nothing, nothing." He picked his glass up by the stem and held it up so that the light shone through the wine. "I was thinking that I should depart soon. It has struck nine, and I am engaged to meet Lambeaugârenne at ten. I doubt I will have time to finish more of this supper of yours. You will be pleased to have time alone with Robert, I am sure. You may gossip about the family and complain of me to him until the candles gutter, for all I care." He was about to swing himself unsteadily to his feet when one of the lackeys opened the dining-room door, very much flustered. "Well?" Gervaise demanded.
The lackey began uneasily. "There... there is a message, master. It is brought by a messenger...."
"I will read it in the yellow salon," he said peevishly, recalling the bet for six thousand louis he had lost that day. His face filled with petulance as he remembered that encounter. "The goose should have won," he muttered, as he reconsidered the race between a goose and a hare. "The goose has wings."
"My dear... ?" Claudia said anxiously.
"I beg your pardon," the lackey dared to interrupt, "but the letter is not for you, master, it is for le Marquis de Montalia."
Robert turned, startled and strangely afraid. "For me?" He had a fleeting thought that perhaps Madelaine required his support at hôtel Chenu-Tourelle, but he put this from his mind. "I thank you for bringing it to me." He held out his hand for the message and waited as the lackey placed the sealed sheets in his fingers. He started to put it down beside his plate, for it was terribly rude to read such messages while at table.
"No, Robert, pray read it." Claudia looked toward the lackey. "Who brought the message?"
"A servant in dark blue and red," the lackey said. "I am not familiar with the livery."
But Robert de Montalia obviously was. His face had gone the color of chalk, and quite suddenly his hands were unsteady. Even Gervaise shook his head truculently, knowing that his capricious invitation to Madelaine's fête the night before had brought much abuse on his head. "Sounds like Saint Sebastien's man," he said, to forestall any accusations against him.
"Yes," Robert said quietly. "Do you mind?" he asked his sister as he reached for the sealed sheets. One look at the cinq-foil signet on the seal confirmed what Gervaise had said. It was Saint Sebastien. He broke the seal and spread out the two crossed sheets, reading slowly, as if translating a difficult foreign language.
"Ah, Holy Mother," Claudia said to herself as she watched the expression on her brother's face become a mask of anguish. "Is it Madelaine?"
"Yes." Robert crumpled the two sheets and flung them across the room with a sudden oath. He rose from his chair, his sudden movement upsetting his wineglass, spilling the burgundy over the pale damask tablecloth.
"Saint Sebastien?" Gervaise said, puzzled. "She went out with Chenu-Tourelle. What has Saint Sebastien to say to her?"
Robert had ground his teeth. "He is my enemy," he said. "He has kidnapped Madelaine. He says... I dare not repeat what he says."
"There is a mistake," Gervaise said, for the first time wondering if there was. He took a hasty mouthful of wine, wiped his hand over his lips and said, "Look here, de Montalia, I know Saint Sebastien. He has said that he wants to renew your friendship of twenty years ago. He's probably asked Chenu-Tourelle to bring that girl of yours to his house, and wants you to join him. He is a trifle forbidding, but you must not be put off by that."
"A trifle forbidding?" Robert's voice had risen, and he held his fists at his side like wooden mallets. "He is dangerous, he is evil! He tells me in that... that pernicious letter that he is going to make a sacrifice of my child!" He stopped abruptly, seeing his horror reflected in his sister's eyes.
"Sacrifice? What sort of nonsense is that?"
"It is not nonsense," Robert said heavily. "Saint Sebastien intends to offer Madelaine in body and blood to Satan." He covered his eyes with his hands. "I must stop him."
Gervaise tried to scoff, and almost succeeded. "Offering to Satan? The last of that happened when Montespan was the Sun King's mistress. The police put an end to it, you may be sure."
"Gervaise, don't," Claudia begged him.
"No, it did not end then," Robert said, as if the words were dragged from him. "It became invisible, it became secret, but it did not end. And Saint Sebastien leads the Circle now. I know. I know," he said more loudly, stopping Gervaise before he could speak. "I know, because I was once part of that Circle. I know that he will do what he has promised to do to Madelaine, because I gave him that right before she was born." His voice broke, and tears coursed down the seams of hi
s face. "God forgive me, I did not know."
Claudia had risen and taken her brother into her arms. She regarded her embarrassed servants with distress, but mastered herself enough to issue a few terse orders. "Paulin, I will want some brandy for le Marquis. Fetch it at once. Soussère, send word to the stable to harness the racing carriage. Aiguille, remove the dishes and take them back to the kitchen. Tell my chef that we have had tragic news and cannot do his artistry justice." She smoothed Robert's hair back from his face and looked at him. "We will find her," she said with a conviction she did not feel. "We will find her and bring her to safety. You may leave shortly. Gervaise will go with you—"
"But Lambeaugârenne..." Gervaise objected.
"I am sure Everaud Lambeaugârenne can wait one night to fleece you, my dear," she said with asperity. "Send him your regrets."
"But this is all a mistake!" Gervaise insisted.
"Then the sooner you take Robert to Saint Sebastien, the sooner it will be resolved and you may keep your appointment with Lambeaugârenne." She looked up at Robert. "You will find her, dearest brother. You will."
"Oh, Holy Blood of Christ," he said, his shock deepening.
"Send for help, Robert, write a petition to His Majesty immediately. I'll see that it's delivered at once. I'll explain to him. When he understands, King Louis will authorize Saint Sebastien's arrest," Claudia advised, trying to turn his thoughts from the malefic visions the letter had conjured in him.
He glanced down, murmuring, "I have ruined your beautiful tablecloth. I did not mean to."
"It is nothing," she said gently. "Come, Robert, you must get your coat, if you are going out on such a night as this. Gervaise will go with you. All will be well, I am certain of it." She disengaged herself from Robert's arm as she said this, and then said to her husband, "You will need a coat, as well, Gervaise. There is a storm coming."
"Oh, very well," Gervaise grumbled. "I'll be at your disposal within a quarter of an hour. I must write a note to Lambeaugârenne. Servant," he said tersely as he made the most perfunctory of legs.
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