Rogier shook his head. “She has her sights set higher.”
Ragoczy understood the implication, and said, “Oh, no. I am not what she longs for, no matter what her hopes may be. She would be appalled if she knew anything of my true nature.”
“You think so? Her maid, Idune, says that since you have come, Hyacinthie talks of no one else. Most of the staff find her infatuation diverting.” He forked another small wedge of veal. “I only mention this so that you can take care. That young woman is determined to get what she wants.”
“This is her betrothal celebration. I doubt she would be so lax as to embarrass her uncle and her fiancé at this moment.” As he spoke, Ragoczy held up his hand. “Now that I am warned, I do understand the problem, and I will be on guard. I will have no hint of impropriety in my dealing with her.”
“I trust your discretion,” said Rogier, and finished his veal.
“You know me too well, old friend,” said Ragoczy as he came back from the windows.
“Keep what I’ve told you in mind, my master. That child is inclined to follow her own desires. All the servants say so.” Rogier carried his plate back to the tray, then went to the traveling chest to pull out Ragoczy’s formal clothes for the evening, and to find something appropriate for him to wear for the rest of the day.
Before seeking out von Ravenberg’s laboratory, Ragoczy donned a smock of black Egyptian linen to protect his clothes. With the help of a footman, Ragoczy quickly made his way to the staircase that led to it; he knocked on the door and waited to be admitted.
“Come in, Comte. Come in and be welcome. You know Baron Weidekraft, of course.” He pointed out the well-dressed stocky man seated on the chaise longue. “He is to be the first today.”
“Comte,” said Weidekraft.
“Baron,” he responded.
Von Ravensberg held out his syringe, turning it in his hand so that the glass tube caught the light. “This is the instrument I shall use. As you can tell, the glass body will allow me to gauge how much blood I have taken, so as not to drain you too much, Baron.” He managed a single, uneasy laugh. “With such a night as we have ahead of us, you will want to have all your stamina, won’t you?”
Baron Weidekraft had removed his coat and the cuff on his right sleeve and was in the process of rolling it up. “You said above the elbow?”
“If you would,” said von Ravensberg. He turned to Ragoczy. “I believe the vein in the bend of the elbow gives much the best results.”
“You may be right,” said Ragoczy, trying to gauge the amount of blood von Ravensberg might want.
As if anticipating Ragoczy’s question, von Ravensberg said, “I will use the blood the Baron provides to perform a number of tests. The most important is running a current of electricity through the blood. There is much to be learned from that procedure; my work is a beginning, but there is so much more to accomplish. I believe it may be possible, in time, to use electricity to reanimate those newly dead. Others have had some interesting results from similar experiments on the bodies of the recently deceased that—”
“Graf,” said Baron Weidekraft. “If you don’t mind?”
Von Ravensberg looked askance. “I am sorry, my dear Baron. I did not mean to offend you in any way.” He took an iodine swab and rubbed it on the bend in Baron Weidekraft’s elbow. “To promote healing,” he explained, then brought the syringe around so that its hollow needle was directly aimed at the vein. “If you will close your fist? I will not have to poke so hard if you will tighten your hand.”
Baron Weidekraft obliged, watching the needle as it neared the vein. He let out a yelp as von Ravensberg slid the point into his skin and set it in the vein. Almost at once, blood welled in the syringe; von Ravensberg withdrew the small plunger, increasing the flow of the blood. The Baron turned pale as he saw the syringe filling steadily. “What are you doing, Graf?”
“Taking the sample,” said von Ravensberg with a kind of dreamy excitement. “This will be a wonderful contribution. I can see the quality of your blood already. My tests will only confirm what I am certain I observe.” He had taken enough to fill a soup-ladle and showed no inclination to stop. “If you feel light-headed, lie back and close your eyes. I will shortly be done.”
Ragoczy could see that there would be a large bruise in the crook of the Baron’s arm, but did not mention this. “How much more will you need?”
“Not much. Do you see this line on the syringe?” He moved his finger so that Ragoczy could make out the precise black line. “I used to take somewhat less, but then I would often run out of the sample before I had run all my tests, which was most inconvenient. This provides ample for my purposes.”
“My physician bled me but two weeks since,” said Weidekraft.
“A sound practice,” von Ravensberg approved. “More men should do so. There would be less epidemic disease if all men were bled regularly.”
Ragoczy knew he was expected to agree, but could not, so he said, “Many patients cannot tolerate frequent blood-letting.”
“The weak ones,” said von Ravensberg in dismissal; he was satisfied with the amount of blood in the syringe at last. He looked down at Weidekraft. “I am almost done. I have made this as quick as possible, Baron.”
“Danke,” said Weidekraft, sounding a little tired.
“I will withdraw the needle. I want you to put your handkerchief to the puncture to stop any secondary bleeding. In a moment I will send you on your way.” He removed the needle from the Baron’s arm and held the contents up to the light. “Such a dark color. Very deep and rich.” He nudged Ragoczy with his elbow. “What do you think? Do you know anything about blood, Comte?”
“I have some knowledge of it, yes,” said Ragoczy, keeping to himself the opinion that Baron Weidekraft might be in danger of developing a spasm of the lungs.
“Then let me show you what I am doing to unlock its secrets,” he said, moving off toward his work-bench. As an afterthought, he said over his shoulder. “Sit up slowly, Baron. When your dizziness fades, you may go, with my thanks.”
Baron Weidekraft mumbled something, but levered himself upright on the chaise and sat for a time as if lost in thought; he hardly listened to his host’s eager explanation to Ragoczy while he hurried about his work-bench. After a few minutes he checked his handkerchief and rolled down his sleeve but did not bother to retrieve his cuff. Finally he was able to rise and toddle to the door, letting himself out without disturbing von Ravensberg.
Ragoczy had watched the Baron depart out of the tail of his eye, and thought that the man would surely need to rest before the evening’s festivities. He interrupted von Ravensberg apologetically. “My dear Graf, I am most gratified to see your extensive tests you perform in your studies. I am deeply impressed. But let me recommend that you test no more subjects today, or you will have guests unable to enjoy your banquet and ball later.”
It took von Ravensberg almost ten seconds to realize what Ragoczy was saying to him. “I take your point. You are right, Comte: as you and I are of approximately equal rank, I take no offense in this interjection. Yes, you are right—I have been letting my discipline supercede my obligations as a host.” He looked at the small glass tube of blood with the electrical connections attached to both ends. “I will complete this before the blood starts to coagulate, and then I will tend to the gala we will enjoy tonight.”
“Then I ask you to excuse me now,” Ragoczy said with a slight bow. “I have learned much, and I will devote some cogitation to your techniques.” He started toward the door only to be halted by von Ravensberg’s comment. “I am glad your good friend Madame von Scharffensee is with you now. My niece can be such a fool.”
Text of a letter from Klasse van der Boom in Amsterdam, to Saint-Germain Ragoczy, Comte Franciscus at Château Ragoczy near Lake Geneva, Yvoire, Swiss France; carried by private courier and delivered twenty-one days after being written.
To the most excellent Comte Franciscus, the greetings of Klasse van der
Boom in Amsterdam on this, the 3rdday of April, 1818
My dear Comte,
I have sent a request to Professor Olav Pedersen of the University of Uppsala, requesting that he prepare for Eclipse Press a history of the reign of Charles XIII, whose death in February must have a great impact on all of northern Europe, particularly since his successor was at one time Napoleon’s general. Jean Baptiste Bernadotte may be recognized as Swedish for the sake of the Crown, but he is still a Frenchman, for all that. As soon as I have an answer from Professor Pedersen, I will inform you of his decision. It would be a real accomplishment to have such a publication available in the next eighteen months. I know that is an unrealistic dream—the book has yet to be written and we cannot drop all other projects for this one—but I believe that such a history will be eagerly sought, and not only by universities, but by learned men, politicians, and others. I apologize for acting without consulting you on so ambitious a project, but I am convinced that in this case time is of the essence. I hope you will agree with me, and will not withhold the necessary funds for this book.
I am also in receipt of a most intriguing manuscript by a Harold Woodham, a Canadian who has been traveling in America along the frontier west of the Mississippi River for three years and has made his journals of that time into a book of great interest. The actual grammar and spelling are not good, or so James Pomeroy tells me, but such things can be fixed, and I have turned that task over to Pomeroy. I have found, as you suggested I would, that Pomeroy is a most useful addition to our staff here: his skills in his own English language as well as his abilities as a translator in Greek, Russian, and Czech have proven their worth many times over. As soon as his year of probation is complete, I would recommend his engagement without hesitation. In fact, we will be hard-put to fulfill our publishing schedule for 1819 without him. The work that Woodham has submitted, in Pomeroy’s capable hands, will undoubtedly be improved. Lives and Customs among the Peoples of the American Plains has references to native groups about whom little or nothing has been published before—or certainly not in Europe.
Another interesting manuscript I have received and about which I am undecided is from Padre Diego Reyes, a Jesuit serving at Santa Maria en Cielo in Zaragoza, called A History of the Inquisition in Spain. Since that body is still nominally functioning, publishing the work could be construed as an assault on the Church itself, and that could be to our disadvantage. The manuscript is of a reasonable and pious tone, more inclined to support the Inquisition in all but its most flagrant excesses, but it does discuss a few of the questionable practices of the past, actions that cast the Inquisition in a more questionable light than the Church has endorsed. While I am convinced that the book has merit, I am not persuaded that it is a good project for Eclipse Press. Would you be offended if I suggested to the Padre that he submit it to another publisher, perhaps Neu Geschichte in Lubeck? It is far more along their lines than ours, and I do think it is worthy of publication. If you do not object, I will return the manuscript with a letter that Padre Reyes can use when sending the manuscripts to other publishers, Neu Geschichte in particular.
I am in the process of compiling our schedule for the second half of next year. As soon as I have completed it, I will dispatch it to you with all haste, and I will be glad of your comments on any aspect of the schedule you wish to make. Our sales continue to increase, not as rapidly as I would like, but steadily, and the numbers of copies ordered also increases. If our fortunes continue to improve, in another two years we will be able to expand our program once again, and undertake to reach a much wider readership than is presently the case.
In anticipation of that happy day, I am
At your service,
Klasse van der Boom
printer and publisher
Eclipse Press
Amsterdam
4
Hero pulled off her pelisse, her head throbbing, tossed the garment on the single chair in her room, then sat on the bed, unbuttoned her shoes, and lay back with her eyes closed, hoping a short sleep would stop the ache; she could not face an evening of eating and dancing with her skull feeling as if it had been caught in a vise; her eyes felt as if they had been blackened and her tongue seemed too large for her mouth. Ever since breakfast with Hyacinthie and the ladies, she had been feeling a bit unwell, as if something she had eaten was not quite wholesome. She knew she had to rid herself of the pain and the irritating dazzle in her eyes. She was wondering if she should rub her temples with violet-water, or call Ragoczy to ask him for something from his case of medicaments, when there was a knock at the door. “Yes?” she called. “Who’s there?”
“Rogier, Madame,” came the answer.
She sat up. “Oh. Come in, Rogier,” she said, feeling her hair to be sure the knot was properly in place, and thinking it was awkward not to have her maid in the room as well. “Is anything the matter?”
The door opened and Rogier entered, leaving the door ajar to prevent any semblance of the clandestine. “My master asked me to see how you are.”
“I have a headache,” she admitted, but could not bring herself to say anything that might cause Ragoczy to worry when he learned of it. “A rest should make it go away in an hour or so.”
“Would some tincture of willow-bark help, do you think?” Rogier ventured; he saw she was pale and her face showed signs of strain. “I have that and tincture of pansy as well, or something stronger, if you wish.”
She shook her head. “I think I will manage with a little sleep.”
“It is likely to be a long evening,” Rogier persisted. “You might do better to treat your discomfort now, so that you will not have to leave the festivities early.” He saw her hesitate. “I could bring them to you, and you can use them as you see fit.”
This suggestion appealed to her. “That would be most welcome, Rogier; thank you.”
“If there is anything else you require?”
“No; the two tinctures should be more than enough. I know the Comte doesn’t provide laudanum for the headache—or much else other than open wounds to be stitched closed.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, making a face as she did. “If you will see I’m not disturbed until three?”
“Of course, Madame,” said Rogier, and withdrew to the Rose Room to get the two glass bottles of tincture and a ewer of cold water from the rain-pail outside the window. He brought these in to Hero, setting them on the night-stand next to the bed. “Here you are, Madame. I noticed that your room-ewer was not here, and so I took the liberty of bringing this to you as well.”
Hero looked at the bottles and the ewer. “This should be sufficient. If I need anything more, I shall call you. At three I should send for Serilde to help me with preparing for the evening.” She had brought a lovely garment: a bias-cut, dark-spruce green, vinepattern jacquard formal gown with a slight train and prim neckline, a reminder that she was in mourning for her daughter, but not so forbidding as black or dull-purple would be; it was preferable to her other formal gown in dark-amber silk, suitable for private feasts at Scharffensee but too festive for this occasion. The green was preferable in every way. To accompany it, she had a magnificent necklace of diamonds and emeralds, with matching emerald ear-drops, gifts from Ragoczy, that would do much to lend her grandeur in this select company. She trusted Serilde would have the garment ready by the time she rose from her nap. With this in mind, she mixed small amounts of the tinctures in her bedside glass and added water. The taste was not too unpleasant; she reminded herself that this could help her to recover. Once again she leaned back, adjusted the pillows to ease her head, then made up her mind to fall asleep: twenty minutes later, she drifted into a light slumber, and thirty minutes later was solidly asleep.
Shortly after three, Serilde knocked on Hero’s door, then went in, walking as softly as she could. She found Hero still sleeping, looking a bit pale but otherwise well. Deciding to give Hero a little more rest, Serilde took out the ball-gown Hero would wear and hung it on the dressing-ra
ck next to the armoire, then selected the dancing slippers and silk stockings before hanging up the pelisse Hero had taken off two hours before. A glance at the clock on the night-stand reminded her that it was time for Hero to be up; she went to the bedside and gently said, “Madame von Scharffensee? Madame von Scharffensee?”
Hero opened her eyes slowly, winced, then looked around. “Serilde. What time is it?”
“Fifteen minutes past three, Madame. You asked to be wakened.” Serilde smiled a little. “You will be expected downstairs at five.”
“Five. Yes. I remember. Hyacinthie and Constanz.” She stretched as she sat up. “Then I suppose I had better dress.”
“Yes, Madame.”
She saw the gown, and smiled approvingly. “I see you have anticipated me.”
“You told me what you wanted for this evening yesterday.” Serilde kept her eyes on the gown, not Hero.
“I thank you for being so thorough.” She thought of the many times she had been traveling with her father, when she rarely had the help of a well-trained servant. “I do appreciate your efforts.”
“How are you feeling, Madame?” Serilde asked, thinking back to the warning Rogier had delivered an hour ago.
“A little dull, but generally better,” she said.
“Rogier said you had the headache.” She said it matter-of-factly, in case the information were incorrect.
“I did, but it is gone now.” This was almost accurate: a little remnant of pain was stuck behind her eyes, but was not enough to complain of; she would have another glass of water with tinctures before she went down to the ball and she was sure she would be ready to face the evening.
“Should I ask the Comte to—”
“No, that won’t be necessary; I’m quite restored,” said Hero, already feeling perplexed by the headache, for she rarely got them. Perhaps the exigencies of travel had tired her more than she realized. “You already have my ball-gown out.” She did her best to smile as she got to her feet. “I’ll want my lightest silk underwear, and the most flexible body-band I own.”
Saint-Germain 21: Borne in Blood: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain Page 31
