Hotel Transylvania (13 page)

There were six more addressed invitations in the stack when the door opened and le Comte d'Argenlac strolled into the room, his fashionable dress revealing that he had arrived some little time before, and had put off his traveling clothes. He was a good-looking man in his thirty-ninth year, but in his wife's company he had the manners of a sulky boy.

"Gervaise," his wife said, rising cordially.

He kissed her hand with more form than interest. "Good day, Claudia. I see you are well." He turned to Madelaine. "I see you are both busy. I hope you are still enjoying Paris, Mademoiselle." His tone said he would like nothing better than for her to go away.

"I find Paris delightful. But the rain does not please me." She had given him the curtsy that good manners required, and was mildly affronted when he did not return her so much as a nod of the head.

"Gervaise, dear husband, you must not behave so. Here is my niece, very correctly acknowledging you, and you act as if she were made of air." She smiled as she said it, but Madelaine saw le Comte set his jaw.

"I beg your pardon for my lamentable behavior," he said, with a bow that would have been more appropriate for a Duchesse.

"Comte," said his Comtesse with disastrous candor, "it is not Madelaine who annoys you, but me. I would prefer that we talk in private. And if you want to vent your spleen, do so at me when we are alone, my dear. Involving my niece in our petty quarrels only serves to make matters worse."

Madelaine was already at the door. "Excuse me, aunt. I see that you and your husband have much to talk about, and I will leave you alone. You may send to the library for me when you want me."

Her aunt gave her a harassed smile and said, "Yes. Very well. It is unfortunate, but you are right, my dear. I must talk to my husband alone for some little while. I know you enjoy reading, so will not apologize for isolating you in this way." She had her hand on the door, and as soon as Madelaine's skirt had rustied through it, she closed the door firmly and turned with a sinking heart to face her husband.

"My compliments, Madame," le Comte said, his almost handsome face flushed. "You cannot even greet me without disgracing me."

Claudia reluctantly crossed the room toward him. "It was not I who insulted Madelaine. But let that go. It is not what is bothering you." In spite of herself, she extended her hands to him. "Ah, Gervaise, why did you not trust me? Why did you not tell me long ago how it is with you?"

"So that you would pity me, and gloat? No, thank you, Claudia. Give me credit for more pride than that." He chose one of the old-fashioned chairs by the fire and sank down onto it.

"Certainly you have pride," his wife said in a slightly exasperated tone. "And it must be painful indeed for you, who have never had the least need to study economy, to be forced to do so now. But you must understand that you are in very serious trouble."

"No more." He held up his hand. "How I handle my affairs is no concern of yours."

She approached him again and dropped to her knees beside him, looking up to him with sad hazel eyes. "But it is my concern, Gervaise. If you cannot settle your debts, and your fortune is exhausted, the King will require that my fortune be used to that purpose."

Le Comte nodded savagely. "Now we have it.
Now
we have it. Your precious fortune would be used. It doesn't mean anything to you unless your fortune is involved." He pushed her hand away.

"That is not so," she said in a low voice, and felt herself precariously near tears. "Gervaise, please. You cannot want to bring ruin on us. Only consider what that means. It is not just your estates and this house we would lose..."

"You would like it if we lost the estates, would you not?" He pulled his hand from her. "You have always wanted me to come to ruin. That way, you will make me stop at home, and be at your beck and call, like some despicable lapdog." He pushed out of the chair. "No more tears, Madame, if you please."

"Very well," Claudia said as she got slowly to her feet. "Here you have been home less than an hour—it is less than an hour, is it not—and already we are quarreling, and over such senseless matters." She pressed her hands together and forced herself to stop trembling. "Do you know what it would mean to be poor, Gervaise?" she said in a moment. "Do you have any idea how we would have to live? In what circumstances we would find ourselves? No?"

"You are being melodramatic, Claudia," he snapped, but without conviction.

"I saw Lorraine Brèssin last spring," she said rather remotely. "I saw where she lived. It was not bad enough that Brèssin bankrupted them. When he killed himself, he made certain that his family would have nothing to do with Lorraine. She and I are the same age, and she looks fifty. Her hair is grizzled, she dresses in worse gowns than my chambermaid. Her two daughters—do you remember them? They had no skills but their looks and pretty speech, and they were taken by brothel keepers. The daughters of le Vicomte de Brèssin are common whores, Gervaise," she said with a stifled sob.

"Well, you need not worry yourself about that, Madame. We have no daughters, or sons for that matter, to be sold to brothels. So if we lose my fortune and yours, we will hurt none but ourselves." He strode to the door. "Control your tears, Claudia. It is bad enough having you rescue me. To have you weep is more insult than I can bear." He pulled the door open and stood for a moment, watching his Comtesse. "I suppose you must be thanked for paying my debts. But I will be grateful if, in future, you let me handle my own affairs!"

She nodded, standing very straight. "As you wish, Gervaise," she said in a strangled voice.

"I am going out. Do not expect me to dine with you." He had the satisfaction of seeing her composure break. Claudia covered her face with her hands and wept. "Good day, Madame."

Once outside of the withdrawing room, Gervaise strode down the long hall toward the stable room. He had taken great satisfaction from his conversation with his wife, but now he felt certain doubts. He did not, in fact, know how he was going to rescue the pitiful remains of his fortune. He had had some very disturbing letters from his man of business, but he refused to admit that perhaps Claudia had been right to pay what she could of his debts for him. He swore, and paused as he heard a lackey call to him.

"What is it, Scirraino?" he demanded impatiently as the servant came up to him.

Scirraino bowed and said, "There is a person to see you, master."

Gervaise started, thinking that perhaps it was about his debts. His man of business had warned him about that possibility. "Did he give his name?" He said the words more loudly than he had intended, revealing his nervousness. He glanced over Scirraino's shoulder. "Where is he?" Again the words were too loud, and he grimaced, glancing at the door to the library, which he suddenly realized was ajar. He opened the door, stepping quietly into the room.

Madelaine was sitting at the desk by the fireplace, a branch of candles giving light to the old leather-bound book she was reading. She leaned on her elbow, her hand against her neck, rubbing idly at the skin. There was a secret smile in her violet eyes.

"Mademoiselle," Gervaise said rather sharply.

Madelaine looked up sharply, somewhat confused, and rose to bob a curtsy to her host. "What is it, sir?" she asked, seeing the desperate light in his eyes.

"Nothing. Nothing." He looked around the library as if he had never seen the room before. Then he turned back. "What are you reading?"

Madelaine glanced down at the book. "Latin poetry. Here, let me read this to you." She picked up the book and twisted so that her own shadow did not fall across the page.

"
Jucundum, mea vita, mihi proponis amorem

Hunc nostrum internos perpetuumque fore.

Di magnifacite ut vere promittere possit

Atque id sincere dicta et ex animo

Ut liceat mobis tota perducere vita

Aeternum hoc santusfoedus amicitiae.

Isn't that beautiful? To promise love for eternity, and friendship."

This was a turn of events Gervaise had no idea of how to handle. His own scholarship was shaky, and anything in Latin roused him to panic. Now, to stand in his own library and have his wife's niece quote poetry to him, and that in Latin, was beyond his tolerance. "Very pretty," he said as he turned to the doorway, prepared to make his excuses and bolt.

But his lackey Scirraino was back, and leading another lackey, this one outfitted in deep blue with red lacings on his livery. "I have a message for you, sir. For your ears alone."

"Yes, yes, of course," Gervaise agreed quickly, glad to escape from Madelaine. He sketched a bow in her direction, saying, "Do not let me interrupt your reading, Mademoiselle. The library is yours for your stay, if you like." As he got to the door, he turned his attention to the lackey.

"My master sends you greetings," said the lackey, and Madelaine, only half-listening, thought she heard Jueneport's name mentioned, but she was not sure, and soon turned her attention to Catullus, thinking that the good Sisters of Sainte Ursule who had educated her would be shocked if they knew to what worldly use she put her Latin. Softly she read the words. " '
Da mi basia mille, deinde centum, dein mille altera, dein secunda centum, deinde usque altera mille, deinde centum
... "'To have a thousand kisses, and a hundred, until they were without reckoning. She closed her eyes and remembered Saint-Germain's touch, and his kisses.

Several minutes later she was shocked out of her reverie by the sound of Gervaise d'Argenlac calling for his coach, and the burst of activity his order provoked. She realized the library was cold, and, rather guiltily, that she had stayed away from her aunt much longer than she had planned.

With a sigh she closed the volume of Catullus and left the room.

Text of a letter from the sorcerer Beverly Sattin to Prinz Ragoczy, written in English, dated October 17, 1743:

To His Highness, Franz Jermain Ragoczy, Prinz of Transylvania,

B. Sattin sends his most Urgent Greetings. The Egg and Nest of the Black Phoenix are missing. BlueSky has been Beaten, and is near to Perishing. Oulen is missing, with the Treasure mentioned. We have searched, but there is no sign of it.

I Pray that Your Highness will lend your Assistance to the Guild in this Calamity. If it is Possible, come to us at the Place where we met before, at Your Highness' Earliest Convenience.

Yours, etc., in haste,
 

B. Sattin

Chapter 2

“Well?” Saint-Germain said without ceremony as he came into the taproom of the Inn of the Red Wolf; feeble rays of the setting sun gave a ruddy glow through the years of grime that caked the windows and made the room appear darker and bleaker than it had first seemed to be. The floor was littered with scraps of food and stains of sour-smelling wine.

Beverly Sattin was the sole occupant of the taproom, and he rose promptly as Saint-Germain came in. "Your Highness"—he made a deep bow—"Your Highness must excuse me for so unseemly a summons..." he began, speaking in English.

Saint-Germain also spoke in that language. "Have done with fripperies, then." He pulled off his black cloak, to reveal his usual black-silk attire beneath it. "I do not have long, and there are a great many questions you must answer. I came as soon as I had your message, Sattin. You will do me the favor of being equally punctilious."

Sattin fidgeted for a moment, looking as uncomfortable as a student asked to recite a piece he did not know. "Le Grâce is gone," he said.

"I know. I told you to keep him under locks with a guard." There was steel in Saint-Germain's voice. "Why was this order not obeyed?" Over the years he had learned that severity would often serve where reason would not. He sensed the dithering in Sattin, and drove his lesson home. "I am not a patient man."

Now Sattin was even more uncomfortable, but he gathered his wits and spoke. "He
was
under guard. In the attic room on the third floor. We did not secure the window. It is a killing drop to the street. We did not think he would try to escape that way."

"You were wrong, it seems."

Sattin opened his hands helplessly. "We were wrong. I know that is not an excuse, Highness. But we were certain he was secure. Domingo y Roxas kept guard the first night, and the next day the duty fell to Ceilbleu. We traded off the watch equally, making sure that Le Grâce got his meals and some little exercise. The room is very small, Highness. And when he asked for more blankets, we gave them to him. It is cold in that room, and the weather has turned. He tore the blankets and made a rope and let himself out of the window to the street. We did not know until Oulen took his breakfast to him the following morning that Le Grâce had fled...."