Hotel Transylvania Read online

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...."

  "And you did not see fit to notify me." Saint-Germain tapped his small hands on the back of one of the rough chairs.

  "I thought it best. He must have left Paris. There was no point in searching for him. He could be on his way to America by now."

  "He did not leave Paris. Continue." His eyes bored into Sattin's, and the English sorcerer grew frightened.

  "We... we notified some of the others in the city that Le Grâce had run away, and that he was not acceptable as a sorcerer, and possibly in danger of being taken by the law. All one must do is mention the law, and we all treat the afflicted Brother as if he were an adder."

  Saint-Germain nodded. "And after you alerted the other sorcerers and magicians, what then?"

  "Nothing. So far as we know, Le Grâce has vanished." He faltered. "But you say he is still in Paris?"

  "He is. One of my servants has seen him." He looked across the taproom. "Is this where you study alchemy?"

  Sattin shook his head quickly. "No. Our facilities are in the adjoining building. At the moment, Domingo y Roxas and his sorer are working on the Green Lion there."

  So these were alchemists of the modern school, Saint- Germain realized. They had women to perform those procedures that were thought to be female, and men for those considered male. And for the hermaphroditic processes, both artifex and sorer would work together. "When may we interrupt?" he asked, smiling wryly.

  "After sunset. Once the sun is gone, it is useless to continue." He said it automatically, but thought it strange that so great a man as Prinz Ragoczy did not know this.

  "You see," Saint-Germain said, by way of explanation, "I have studied with other schools. In the Persian and Muhammadan schools, women are not permitted. In China, only castrates are allowed to perform certain of the works. You must not wonder at my question, Sattin."

  The expression on Sattin's face was that of a Dominican confronted with heresy. "It is not possible to do the Great Work in any other fashion."

  "Of course," Saint-Germain agreed, bored. 'Tell me how you came to lose the athanor and the crucible?"

  "I do not know." Sattin turned away and stared into the black maw of the hearth. "Cielbleu has been delirious and cannot tell us. Oulen has disappeared as if into the air. No one has seen him. No one." He turned impulsively to Saint-Germain. "You must believe me, Highness. We did not know this could happen. The athanor was heated when it was taken. The process was working."

  "Quite a feat." He considered the alternatives for a moment. "Well, Sattin, either one of your own Guild Brothers is working with the thieves, or someone has learned your secret. Either way, your Guild is in grave danger of exposure. If I were you, I would not remain long in this neighborhood. If the law does not find you, whoever took the athanor will." He glanced at the windows, which were now quite dark. The taproom was lost in murky light, with only two branches of tallow candles to ward off the gloom. "Let us go to the laboratory. It is dark enough that Domingo y Roxas will not be hunting the Green Lion anymore today."

  Reluctantly Sattin rose. "Follow me," he said, feeling a desolation of spirit that left him fatigued.

  Saint-Germain pulled on his cloak, and as he secured the fastening, he touched the ruby in the lace at his throat. "I wonder," he said to Sattin, "if Le Grâce is part of this theft."

  "It would be impossible."

  "Impossible?" Saint-Germain's brows rose. "Do not say impossible, Sattin. That way leads to blindness." He stood in the door waiting for Sattin, and saw a strange expression come into the English sorcerer's eyes. "What is it?" he asked.

  Sattin hesitated, then plunged recklessly ahead. "I was recalling something I had read. There was a man who visited Helvetius, almost a century ago."

  "Yes?" Saint-Germain said pleasantly.

  "He gave him a piece of the Philosopher's Stone."

  "How fortunate for Helvetius."

  "In his book, he describes the man. He said he was of medium height, with dark eyes and dark hair, small hands and feet. This stranger spoke excellent Dutch, but with a slight accent that might have been northern. He rarely raised his voice, but he had a great presence to him, and authority."

  Saint-Germain nodded, his face enigmatic. "Why are you telling me this, Sattin?"

  "I did not realize until this moment," Sattin said almost dreamily, "the resemblance between you and that man."

  "How old was Helvetius' visitor? Did the good man bother to mention that?"

  "He said he was possibly forty-two." Sattin was puzzled now, and he lingered by the table in the center of the taproom.

  "And how old would you say I am?"

  "No more than forty-five."

  Saint-Germain held the door open insistently. "You have your answer, Sattin. Let us not waste any more time."

  But Sattin stared at Saint-Germain with covert worry as he led him down the darkened street toward a house near the Inn of the Red Wolf. Around them the night was full of the last sounds left over from the day. Here and there were sounds behind closed doors, some of them boisterous, some of them more sinister. Over the stench of the slum hung the odor of cheap food cooking in grease. Lean cats lurked in the shadows, drawing back as Sattin and Saint-Germain went by them.

  "Here, Highness," Sattin said deferentially as he pulled open a side door to the house that was quite the most ancient of the buildings on the street. "We do not have much, but we follow our calling as best we can."

  Saint-Germain had seen alchemists' laboratories from the land of Khem, which gave the science its name and was now called Egypt, through their development in many countries, in many ages. He knew that this one would be hot and smelly, and he was not disappointed.

  "Prinz Ragoczy," said Domingo y Roxas, turning to the opening door. "I hardly dared to hope you would come. We are disgraced by Le Grâce." He
smiled at this feeble jest.

  "It is of no matter. I know where Le Grâce is, and will do my poor best to discover if he knows aught of the athanor's present whereabouts." He turned to bow to the older woman with stern, dedicated features. "Madame?" he ventured.

  She gave Saint-Germain a no-nonsense nod as she wiped her hands on the stained apron that covered her plain woolen dress. "Good evening, Your Highness," she said in a wonderfully low voice.

  Domingo y Roxas shot her a quick look, then bowed. "Madame is Iphigenie Ancelot Lairrez," he said. "She is my sorer, and vastly skilled in the Discipline. She came to us from the Guild in Marseilles."

  "Enchanted," Saint-Germain said, liking the piercing eyes of the woman, and her calm assurance and realizing with a pang that she reminded him of Olivia, who had died the True Death almost a century ago. "You and Domingo y Roxas chased the Green Lion today. What fortune in the hunt?"

  "We achieved the Lion, but he did not devour the Sun," she said, begrudging him each word.

  "My congratulations." He walked farther into the room, glancing around him at retorts, basins, vials, jars, bellows, crucibles, and all the other equipment of the alchemist's art. At the far end of the room stood a brick construction that resembled nothing so much as a permanent beehive. "I see you still have an athanor for your other experiments," he remarked.

  "We have had this one for some time," Sattin explained hastily. "We found that we had to build changes into our newer one. The platinum gears you required could not be fitted into the old athanor."

  "Of course." He studied the small, specialized oven. It might have been worse: the design was only a hundred years out of date. He had seen many of far older vintage in use in many places. "Whoever took the athanor, then, knew what it was they wanted, and where to find it."

  "We fear so, Prinz," Sattin admitted, then added hastily, "It must not have been Le Grâce, for he did not know what we had done."

  "Are you sure of that?" Saint-Germain asked, and watched as the three alchemists fell silent. "You did not tell him, but there are others in the Guild who might have. Where is Oulen? You say that Cielbleu cannot tell you who beat him. What if it was one of your Brotherhood? And are you so certain that it wasn't?"

  Domingo y Roxas looked sharply at Saint-Germain. "Prinz Ragoczy, what you suggest is unthinkable. If it is as you say, then we are all betrayed."

  Saint-Germain's eyes rested on the little Spaniard. "You say this, who escaped from the Inquisition? They did not take you because you were protected, Ambrosias."

  Mme. Lairrez nodded suddenly, saying, "It may be unthinkable, but you are right, Prinz. It has happened, and either way, we are discovered." She had taken off her apron as she spoke. "We will have to move, of course."

  "That is the wisest course, Madame," Saint-Germain agreed.

  "But we cannot!" Beverly Sattin interrupted in English. "There is no place for us to go. Not with Le Grâce gone and our Guild exposed to its enemies."

  Domingo y Roxas did not understand Sattin's words, but he was in agreement with him. He said, "We have no one to turn to, Prinz. We are at the mercy of the authorities unless there is a safe place we can seek out. We were prepared against this day, but all our preparations are wasted now."

  "Unless a safe place is found, we must leave Paris very soon," Mme. Lairrez said with great determination. Saint-Germain's respect for her increased. She was obviously the most practical member of the Guild, and possessed a stem common sense that was lamentably uncommon among sorcerers. She looked at Saint-Germain with steady gray eyes, and said with candid dismay, "We are in a great deal of danger, Highness. We are without any friends."

  "If Le Grâce is still in Paris... as you say he is..." Sattin faltered, then bit his lower lip. "We have Cielbleu upstairs. We dare not move him far."

  Saint-Germain inwardly cursed himself for a fool, but he said, "You are overlooking one obvious possibility."

  The three alchemists turned to him, suspicion and hope in their faces.

  "There is a place where you may go, safely." He hated to expose himself in this way. He had survived as long as he had through knowledge and caution. But he could not let the Guild be taken by the law, for that would ultimately expose him. And he could not allow Saint Sebastien to reach them through Le Grâce, for there was far more danger from the Circle than from the ponderous forces of the Paris police.

  "What place?" Sattin demanded, finding die Prinz's sudden hesitation disquieting. He studied Saint-Germain, desperation twisting his features into a travesty of a grin.

  With a wry smile Saint-Germain said, "You can go to the cellars of Hôtel Transylvania."

  Text of a letter from Mile. Madelaine de Montalia to her father, le Marquis de Montalia, dated October 18,1743:

  To my very noble and dear father, Marquis de Montalia:

  It hardly seems I have been gone from home so long, and yet, my cherished father, you are always in my thoughts and my prayers. There is nothing in Paris, grand a city as it is, to compare with the beauty of our home. I have often waked at dawn and longed for the sight of our park which spreads out like a vast skirt of green with that lovely frill of woods where the preserves are. Even in the Bois-Vert there is nothing to compare with it, for I am always aware that the great city is no more than an hour's ride.

  As my aunt must certainly have informed you by now, we are to have a fête on the third of November, and we are all in a bustle already with preparations. Nothing could exceed your sister's kindness to me, and her warm heart and generous interest make me love her for herself as much as I love her by obligation of blood. And I am not the only one to so value her. Every day I see proofs cf her worth, and the affections in which she is held by all. You told me that you had some slight reservations in sending me to her, but there can be no sufficient reason for this. It is true that she lives the Grand Life, and is much in society, but this has not impaired her virtue nor her tone of mind. She is an excellent woman, and you should be grateful to her for her desire to assist me in the world, for I have seen quite a few who would take shameful advantage of this trust.

  L'Abbé Ponteneuf did me the honor of attending a practice hour I had with Saint-Germain last week. He is a worthy man, full of good counsel, and wholly aware of the pitfalls of the world. It is true that on occasion he desires overmuch to protect me from the dangers of society, and try as I might, I cannot convince him that whatever causes him worry, he should tell me, that I may be more on guard against those dangers.

  Aside from our practice session, I have seen little of Saint-Germain. He has given me a few books to read, some of Roman philosophers and in an improving tone. He has also given me a few of the Lives of the Saints, that I might be more familiar with the sacrifices demanded of us in this life. His knowledge is vast, and of an elevated nature, and I am certain that you would find his company a refreshing change from the dreary chatter that so often passes as conversation in good society.

  Tomorrow night we go to Hôtel Transylvania for a concert and a cold supper. There will be gambling, of course, but that is in a separate part of the Hôtel, and one can easily ignore it.

  I think so often, dear father, of the strictures you have laid on me concerning the hollowness of court life, and being here only reinforces your wisdom Most of the people here are shallow, unaware of the world beyond them, unwilling or unable to rise above their surroundings and see the variety of their people. De la Sept-Nuit, who my aunt says might offer for me, is not an evil man, I think, but thoughtless and consequently cruel. He has no concern for any other than himself, because he was never taught to regard the feelings of those other than himself. And it appears that the life in Paris only makes this worse. He has fortune, education of a sort, is pleasing of face, and of the first style, but he would ride past a starving child without ever hearing its pitiful cry, or seeing its emaciated state. No wonder you shun these people as you do.

  But consider this: you are an example to them, as well, and if you hide forever in Prove
nce, what can they learn of you, but that you are a recluse with your head in the clouds? I am sending you an invitation to the fête in November, and I pray that you will come. It would delight me to have you at my side, so that you should see how I go on in this vast ocean of society.

  In the time I have been here I have come to see many things which I did not understand before. Reflection on the teaching of the Sisters has brought me to a new sense of faith, at a depth which I had not known until this time. We are not in a world of life and death only, my father. There is a compassion that transcends the brevity of life, and makes bearable our pitiful mortality.

  If my mother has returned from her brother's estates, I hope you will tender her my duty for me, and commend me to her. For yourself, you have my filial respect and devotion, and my willing obedience to your orders and affections. With this continuing assurance, I am always

  Your devoted daughter,

  Madelaine Roxanne Bertrande de Montalia

  Chapter 3

  The lackey in deep-blue livery with red lacing bowed as he opened the door to the little salon, announcing as he did, "Le Comte d'Argenlac, Baron Saint Sebastien."

  Saint Sebastien looked up from his reading and nodded curtly as Gervaise d'Argenlac came uncertainly into the room. "Baron Saint Sebastien?" he said uncertainly. "You wanted to see me?"

  "Yes, d'Argenlac, I did." He rose from his deep chair and regarded his guest with hooded eyes. "I am, as you may perhaps know, a friend of Jueneport."

  Gervaise had almost cringed at the mention of Jueneport, and Saint Sebastien felt a surge of inward satisfaction. Evidently the interview of two days before had badly frightened d'Argenlac.

  "You need not worry, Comte," Saint Sebastien said smoothly, setting his book aside on a small rosewood table. The salon had three such tables, and its high ceilings were decorated with murals showing a disturbingly realistic Rape of the Sabines. At the far end of the room a low fire burned, for though the rains had stopped, there was a crisp bite to the air, which chilled the bright sunlight pouring through the high windows.