Hotel Transylvania (10 page)

She nodded, feeling a trifle distracted. She glanced again uneasily in Madelaine's direction, and saw her still in deep conversation with Châteaurose. "Oh, dear," she said to herself as she watched her niece and the gorgeous Marquis.

"Do not be troubled," Saint-Germain told her, and went on gently. "You are as good as a mother to her, and it is not surprising that you worry for her safety. But I promise you she stands in no danger now from Saint Sebastien, and I will do my utmost, I promise you, to be sure she never will."

La Comtesse turned to him impulsively. "You are so kind, Comte. I cannot help but wonder why you do this."

At these words, Saint-Germain laughed. "You need not think it is because I have designs on Madelaine's honor. Let us simply say that I have as little use for Saint Sebastien and his set as you do."

La Comtesse knew she would have to be content with that answer, unsatisfactory as it was, and she was secretly pleased that Saint-Germain had told her that he disliked Saint Sebastien. The niggle of doubt that had risen in her mind was quieted, and it was with a much calmer conscience that she made her excuses and turned toward the supper room.

A few moments later, Saint-Germain offered his arm to Madelaine. "A thousand pardons, Châteaurose, but la Comtesse has charged me with the pleasant task of escorting her niece in to join her at supper."

Châteaurose was not the least discomposed. "If you would appoint me your deputy, Saint-Germain, you would not be bothered, and I would have the pleasure of being in Mademoiselle's radiant presence still longer."

"It is no more bother for me than it is for you," Saint- Germain pointed out, and held his arm ready for Madelaine. "You have danced with her, and been at her side for half an hour, Châteaurose. You have the advantage of me there, in that I do not dance. Do not begrudge me the few minutes it will take me to lead her from here to the supper room."

"It will be as night to me until she returns," Châteaurose said sternly, as if accusing Saint-Germain of perfidious dealings.

Saint-Germain had paid him no attention. "Come, child. Your aunt is waiting." He smiled rather mischievously at Châteaurose. "You will have to find a better ploy in my absence. This one was most unsuccessful."

The little orchestra grew louder as the members swung into a set of variations on two popular arias by Handel. Saint-Germain did not hear the remark made by Madelaine. The gabble of voices and the suddenly loud music drowned her words, and he held up a hand for her silence until they were out of the room.

When they had swept through the double doors and into the long hallway, Madelaine repeated her comment. "I'm grateful for your timely rescue."

Saint-Germain's eyes very nearly twinkled. "Was he boring you?"

"Worse," she said, not objecting or even questioning when Saint-Germain led her down a side hall away from the supper room. "It is all very well to be told one is attractive, but I know that I am not the loveliest woman in the room. Madame de Chardonnay and la Duchesse Quainord are much prettier than I am. And," she went on, warming to the subject, "to be spoken to as if I were just out of the schoolroom—"

"Which you are," Saint-Germain interjected in some amusement as he opened the door to a small withdrawing room.

Madelaine paid no attention to this. "And could only understand one word in five!" Then she realized where she was and looked around in surprise.

The room was not large, but it was furnished in the first style of elegance. Two couches flanked the hearth, where a low fire smoldered under a carved marble mantel. On the far wall, another Velazquez hung over a table of inlaid rosewood and gilt, which held a number of morocco-bound books, a telescope, and an astrolabe. On the wall opposite the fireplace, fine silken draperies of Chinese brocade covered the entrance to an alcove, with a narrow, monastically hard bed hidden behind the opulence.

Saint-Germain handed Madelaine to the nearer of the two neat sofas, which were upholstered in Persian damask. "Pray sit down," he said sofdy, and walked across the room to the table where the telescope and astrolabe lay. "I have something to discuss with you."

At last Madelaine had taken stock of her surroundings, and all her training overrode her instinctive trust of him. "Where are we?" she asked, trying to show no outward concern.

"We are in one of the private rooms." He was toying with the telescope, not looking at her.

"And my aunt... ?"

"... is at supper, as I told you. We will join her later."

There was steel in her voice when she said, testing him, "And if I should want to join her now?"

"Then, of course, I will escort you." He picked up the telescope and fingered its fine brass casing. "A wonderful instrument, the telescope. And yet, Galileo was forced to deny its evidence. A pity."

Madelaine glanced at the door, and saw that it was not locked. The key hung there, and one of the door handles pointed down. Her curiosity was piqued, and she settled more comfortably onto the sofa. She knew that if she were discovered with him, alone, that she would be terribly compromised, but an inner surety told her that she was safe. "A man discussing Galileo is not very loverlike."

"No." Saint-Germain put the telescope back on the table. "What I have to say to you is not very loverlike. It is for your protection to listen to me."

She arranged her extravagant taffeta skirts around her with considerable skill. "Very well, Comte. I will listen." She smiled in spite of herself as she saw the quick flash of approval in his dark eyes.

There was a moment of silence while Saint-Germain leaned against the table, his hands thrust deep into the side pockets of his wide-skirted coat. "What do you know of Satan?" he asked her in a matter-of-fact way.

"Satan is the Enemy of God and Mankind, the Fallen Angel, who aspired to the Divinity of God...." She hesitated, then went on. "He was set upon earth to torment us with temptations and deceptions...."

He shook his head wearily. "Not the answers of the Sisters, please. What do you know of the Power called Satan?"

She looked confused. "I told you."

"Then you must learn anew," he said with a sigh. He flung his head back, then lowered it again, as if searching for the right place to begin. "There is a Power, which is only that. It is like the rivers, which nurture us and can destroy us. Whether we are prosperous or drowned in floodwaters, the rivers are still the same. So with this Power. And when it lifts us up and opens our eyes to goodness and wonders, so that we are ennobled and inspired to kindness and excellence, we call it God. But when it is used for pain and suffering and degradation, we call it Satan. The Power is both. It is our use alone which makes it one or the other."

"That is heresy," she began without conviction.

"It is the truth." He watched her, and saw the years of the Sisters' training war with her own good sense. At last he was sure she would reserve judgment. "Grant me that, then, for the sake of argument. There are those who use the Power as Satan, and for that they create much sorrow."

"And they will spend eternity in Hell," Madelaine said promptly with some satisfaction.

"You know nothing of eternity," he said sharply, but the compassion in his dark eyes took the sting from his words. "There are those in Paris," he went on in another tone, "who gather to invoke the Power as Satan. They are preparing for two of the festivals they keep: one at All Hallows' Eve, and one at the Winter Solstice. At the first there is a simple sacrifice, and they have already selected their victim. But at the second their Rule requires that they sacrifice a virgin, both in her body and her blood."

Madelaine would have given much to find a bantering word to turn his warning aside, but all she could do was watch him with widened eyes, her heart racing.

"Your aunt had told me that your father was once involved with Saint Sebastien's set. It is Saint Sebastien who seeks to make this sacrifice, with the help of Beauvrai and others. He has already made one minor sacrifice—at least, he felt it was minor—and he has grown stronger. I do not mean to frighten you, Madelaine, but you must not have anything to do with any of Saint Sebastien's Circle. And that includes young Châteaurose."

"Châteaurose? He is nothing but a foolish dandy." She tossed her head as punctuation.

"That is your newly found sophistication speaking, not your soul. And your soul will always prevail over the other."

She stared at him, bemused.

"Your soul is like a sword, bright, shining, and will always pierce through deception to the truth. Do not doubt what it tells you, ever, Madelaine."

"I know what it tells me now," she whispered, but he did not seem to hear.

'Tell me," he said, as he looked, unseeing, at the hearth, "when Châteaurose speaks to you, how do you feel?"

She shuddered, surprised at her depth of revulsion. "I feel as a flower must when a great worm crawls over it."

"Yes," he breathed.

"But," she objected, shocked by her own words, "he is nothing. He has done nothing..."

"Do not underestimate any of them, child. That way is your downfall."

She studied her hands. "And you? Why should you care what becomes of me? Why do you warn me?"

He turned away from her, and dared not look at her radiant face, and the dawning of understanding in her eyes. "It is not important."

"If you will not tell me, then perhaps I should find out for myself."

Suddenly his eyes, now filled with emotion, found hers, and he took one hasty step toward her. "Your life is so sweet, and so dreadfully short, I do not think I could bear to lose one hour of it to them."

She had risen, and her cheeks were pale. "Saint- Germain!"

He laughed gently, and resumed leaning against the table, self-mockery twisting his mouth into a painful smile. "No, you need not fear me; you will take no harm from me. I find no joy in assault and its fear. I have not forced myself on a woman for more than a thousand years. And certainly not in the sense you mean."

It was very still in the little withdrawing room. Three branches of seven candles each glowed, filling the room with soft amber light.

"A thousand years?" She tried to scoff, but the sound caught in her throat. "How old are you?"

"I do not remember," he said, turning away from her once again. "I was old when Caesar ruled in Rome. I heard Aristotle teach. Akhenaten praised the likeness of the bust I commissioned of his beloved Nefertiti in Amarna. No one has found its ruins yet, but I walked there when the city was new."

"You have never died?" She felt her hands grow cold as she asked.

"I did die once, long ago. Certainly I have seen enough of death to know how fragile and how precious life is."

She felt tears in her eyes, for there was such loneliness in his words that her heart ached for him.

"Oh, do not pity me. I have had more than my share of death. I think I have been mad at times, and then I bathed in blood. I sought out wars and cruelty. I remember the circus in Rome, and I disgust myself. And more recently, when I returned to my homeland, I used patriotism as an excuse to take lives and revel in it." He looked toward her again. "So you see, the reverence I have now for you and your brief life is dearly bought."

"Saint-Germain, are you so unhappy?" she whispered.

But he was still speaking. "I drink the Elixir of Life, and I do not die. I cannot die." He put his hand to the lace at his throat and fingered the ruby nestled there.

"With all those centuries, you still have concern for me?" There was wonder in her voice as she felt her fear evaporate.

"Of course." At his soft words, she looked at him, seeing something in his beautiful, unlined face that she had sometimes seen in fine paper, a kind of translucence that told her more of his age than wrinkles could have. "When I was young," he said as he watched her closely, "I was considered a tall man. Now, I am less than average. Four, five hundred years from now, and I will be thought a dwarf." He came toward her, and when at arm's length, reached out and gently touched her face with his small hands.

"Saint-Germain," she said softly, and reached to confine his hands.

"Do not tempt me, Madelaine. You do not know what I desire..." He broke off, mastering himself. "Come, I will take you to your aunt." His manner was brisk now, and he dropped his hands and stepped back, shutting her away. "Remember what I have said of Saint Sebastien, and be careful. I will guard you, but your wits are your best protection. Use them. And do not be too proud to ask for help."

She took his hand again. 'This Elixir of Life," she said, her eyes fixed on his. "How do you obtain it?"

He kept his distance, admiring her courage, knowing that it would take so little to possess her. He thought of the eventual consequences, and sought to stifle her longing. "I drink it," he said harshly. "Ask Lucienne Cressie."

Madelaine nodded. "I thought so. Was it you who made her ill?"

"No."
His voice was low, but filled with feeling. He pulled his hand free. "She took me because there was no one else. If there had been another, I would not have approached her."

"Does she know it is you?"

He laughed once. "She has dreams, my dear. Lovely, sweet dreams, and for a little time she blossoms. Then morning comes, and all is the same." He stopped again.