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  Until I greet you myself, I thank you again from my heart for your warm hospitality to my daughter and the consideration you have shown her, as well as your affection that comes to me with your invitation. I look forward to seeing you both once again, and to enjoying the brightness of Paris. In all things I have the honor to be

  Your devoted brother,

  Robert Marcel Yves Etienne Pascal

  Marquis de Montalia

  Chapter 4

  Clumsily propped on crutches, Hercule strove to brush down the legs of Saint-Germain's oldest carriage horse. He swore at himself as he worked, but his hands were sure and he refused to communicate his wrath to the horse.

  "He still knows," said the low, well-modulated voice from the shadows.

  Hercule looked up so quickly that he lost his balance and might have fallen if Saint-Germain had not stepped to his side. "Damn you!"

  "If you insist," said Saint-Germain without heat. He moved away and waited.

  "I... I'm sorry. I should not have spoken to you that way," said Hercule, not daring to meet the dark eyes of his new employer.

  "But the damage rankles," Saint-Germain finished for him, showing his understanding. "You need not apologize."

  "You are master here." As he said it, he recalled the arrogant smile on Saint Sebastien's face as he raised his tall cane to strike. The memory was enough to make him wince.

  "Are you afraid? of me?" The last was so soft that Hercule was not certain he heard it.

  "I don't think so," Hercule answered, frowning. With difficulty he moved out of the stall. "You will need to have the farrier tend to them presently."

  "It will be done," said Saint-Germain, watching the coachman. "Do you miss it?"

  "The driving?" Hercule said, sorrow thickening his voice. He blinked as he looked down the row of stalls. "Yes. I miss it as I would miss all my teeth."

  "Perhaps something might be done," Saint-Germain ventured, his tone neutral, almost disinterested.

  "There's nothing to be done," Hercule responded with sudden heat. "He wrecked me. He might as well have run over me with the coach. But that," he went on, less irate but now more implacable, "would have been too easy. It would have been over, and that would not have pleased Baron Clotaire de Saint Sebastien. He and his precious old Vidamie. He is a fine one to take anything from the Church."

  "Hercule," Saint-Germain interjected, but the coachman would not be mollified.

  "He is a monster, that one. He gives degradation and pain to everything that comes near him, and no one can touch him."

  Saint-Germain laid his small, gloved hand on Hercule's shoulder. "Suppose, my friend, suppose there were a way. Suppose I offered you the means to thwart Saint Sebastien. Would you do it?"

  "Thwart Saint Sebastien?" Hercule repeated, growing breathless at the thought. "How?"

  Saint-Germain did not answer directly. "If you had assistance, could you drive a coach?"

  "Even without assistance, if I could get onto the box, I could drive. Mon Dieu, I do not need my legs to drive, I need my hands, my arms, and they are fit enough. But I am like a worm and I cannot reach the box." His useless legs quivered in sympathy with his plight. "I have tried and tried, but they collapse, and... what use?"

  "You will have help onto the box," said Saint-Germain evenly. "You will have horses to drive, and when you do, you must not falter, for if you do, nothing will stand between you and that rabid pack that follows Saint Sebastien."

  "What are you saying?" Hercule asked, a coldness coming over him, composed both of purpose and fear.

  "There is someone Saint Sebastien has hunted. He thinks he has her within his power, that the woman is without friends because her husband is one of those creatures who worship with Saint Sebastien. He is mistaken." This last was so soft, so relentless, that Hercule almost believed that Saint-Germain had the means to oppose Saint Sebastien successfully.

  "But—" Hercule tried to pace but the crutches permitted him to lurch a few steps only.

  "I will need you to be on watch for me," said Saint- Germain, this time offering no assistance to the coachman. "I will make it possible for you to observe without danger. You will have to be seen, there is no help for it."

  "With my legs—" Hercule began, only to be interrupted.

  "Your legs will not matter. They will be under the table in any case. No one will notice them, I give you my word." His dark eyes, even in the shadowy stable, seemed to glow like embers.

  Hercule leaned against the support between the open stalls. "I am a coachman. There's no improving me," he warned.

  "But you can be disguised." Saint-Germain studied Hercule, waiting for him to reveal what troubled him.

  "And if I am discovered?" He despised the dread he heard in his voice.

  Saint-Germain shook his head slightly. "You will not be discovered. If you are recognized, it will mean nothing."

  "Comte—" Hercule began, then stopped once more.

  "What is it?" Saint-Germain asked. 'Tell me now, Hercule. I cannot risk having unanswered questions hamper us later."

  "Comte..." It was oddly troublesome to speak, as if his fear were a pebble caught in his throat. "What if Saint Sebastien makes a claim upon me? I have been his coachman, and he could require my... my return."

  Saint-Germain gave a cold smile. "Let him try. He will not accomplish it. Ask Roger, if you doubt me."

  "Your servant will say what you wish him to say," Hercule said, unable to conceal his rising panic.

  "If you think that, you do not know Roger. He will tell you the truth." Saint-Germain moved a bit closer to Hercule. "You want revenge for what Saint Sebastien has done to you."

  Hercule's hands tightened on the shafts of his crutches. "The Saints witness I do."

  "Yet you hesitate," Saint-Germain said gently. "Why?"

  "I..." Hercule could not meet le Comte's penetrating gaze. "I am afraid. If I fail, I fear what Saint Sebastien would do to me; and to you."

  "He will do nothing to either of us," said Saint-Germain with steady certainty that seemed out of place in a man decked out in black velvet and satin, whose shoes were decorated with diamond-studded bows. "He may try, but he will not be able to harm either you or me."

  "You sound certain," said Hercule doubtfully.

  "I am certain," said Saint-Germain, hoping it was so. He indicated the ruddy sunset light in the dingy windows. "Come. Your supper will be waiting."

  Though he was hungry, Hercule hung back. "What do you want me to do?"

  "For the moment, eat your supper," said Saint-Germain with the hint of a smile.

  "About Saint Sebastien." Hercule remained where he was and was finally able to return Saint-Germain's steady look. 'Tell me what I am to do, and when."

  Saint-Germain nodded once, and the muted light winked on the ruby in the lace at his throat. "You will need to drive someone out of Paris, at night, on short notice. That much is sure. There may be other tasks as well."

  "That will work against Saint Sebastien." Hercule felt his resolve returning.

  "Yes," said Saint-Germain.

  "I will do it," said Hercule in a rush.

  "And you will consent to watch for me?" Saint-Germain asked.

  "That, as well," said Hercule, stumping toward le Comte now, swinging his body between the crutches. "As long as there is strength left in my trunk and arms, I will do it."

  "You need only your eyes for watching," Saint-Germain reminded him. "And your good sense."

  Hercule halted two steps from Saint-Germain. "What of the rest? What else will I have to do?"

  Saint-Germain shook his head slowly. "I wish I could answer that: I wish I knew." He looked beyond Hercule, his dark eyes fixed on the fading light in the windows. "The time may come when I will need your aid against Saint Sebastien and his hellish followers." He paused, seeing alarm on Hercule's face. "For they are hellish."

  Hercule had to clear his throat to speak. "Yes."

  "I hope it will not come to that," Sa
int-Germain said, providing a reassurance he did not feel. "However, prepare for the worst and we will not be caught napping."

  "I will need to check your horses and your coaches," said Hercule, moving past Saint-Germain toward the door leading to the kitchen passage. His crutches thumped on the flagstones where the straw no longer covered them.

  "You have only to ask." He watched Hercule, taking care not to offend his pride again. "Speak with Roger."

  "After I look at the horses and coaches," said Hercule. He was about to close the door with a swipe of the crutch, but he turned and looked squarely at Saint-Germain once more. "Let me strike at Saint Sebastien once, just once, and I am your man for life, Comte." Then he turned brusquely and was gone down the narrow hall, leaving Saint-Germain alone in the dim stable.

  Text of a note from Lucienne Cressie, carried by her maid and intercepted by her husband.

  My dear Claudia;

  You offered once to receive me at your house if ever I felt I had to leave this place. I was ungracious in my refusal, and for that I most humbly beg your pardon and pray that you are not entirely deaf to my entreaties now. If you can find it in your heart to forgive my churlishness, send me word by my servant so that I will be sure to know of it. My husband has refused to permit me to receive anyone or to send or receive notes.

  I am terrified, Claudia. I have seen such things, have learned more of despair and humiliation that I cannot express the blot it has left on my soul.

  Please, please, do not refuse me. My life and my salvation are in your hands. For the love of God and Our Savior, help me.

  Lucienne

  Chapter 5

  Saint-Germain, you are not attending," Jueneport said as he looked up briefly from his cards. "Are you betting on this hand or not?"

  "What?" he said, mildly distracted. "Oh, the game. No, I think I will not play the set out." He tossed the cards onto the table face-up, showing what was plainly the winning hand.

  The other five men stared for a moment, and Jueneport remarked, "Your wits must surely be wandering if you will leave the game with such a hand and five thousand livres on the table."

  Saint-Germain gave him a sweet, insincere smile. "That is why I go. Where is the challenge if I hold such cards as these?" He had pushed away from the table, and now rose slowly. "Continue your amusements, gentlemen. I am going to find solace in the supper room."

  Jueneport hooted at this. "But you never eat, Saint- Germain." He looked at the others for confirmation, and was met with knowing snickers.

  "True enough, Jueneport, I do not eat in public. But there is conversation to be had, and some wit. Perhaps I can console myself with the company of one or two of polite society who are not addicted to drink or games of chance." He said this with flippancy, and it brought a fresh gush of laughter from the others, and none of them saw the dreadful fatigue at the back of his eyes. He made a leg, flourished his scented lace handkerchief, reminded Jueneport that his luck was quite out, and with one last quip sauntered away toward the Great Hall of Hôtel Transylvania.

  "Good evening, Hercule," he said to the majordomo as he passed through the door to the north wing.

  "Good evening, Comte," Hercule answered with a perfectly straight face.

  "Who is here tonight, Hercule?" He paused, decidedly elegant in his chaste black velvet. The silver embroidery of his brocaded cuffs and waistcoat set off his fine silver lace and gave a warm, winy cast to the ruby at his neck.

  "All the world, Comte." By not so much as a flicker of respect did he betray his employer. "You may find la Comtesse d'Argenlac in the ballroom, I think, unless she has gone in to supper."

  "I see." Saint-Germain's eyes were fixed on the magnificent Velazquez that hung across the Great Hall from him. He said in a louder voice, "Do you think the owner of the Hôtel might be persuaded to part with that picture?"

  "I doubt it, Comte," Hercule replied with perfect civility.

  "I would pay a good deal for that work," Saint-Germain continued, reminding himself that he had. "Well, I bid you tell your master, whoever he is, that I have an especial love of Velazquez."

  De la Sept-Nuit, chancing to walk by at that moment, grinned. "Offering for that painting again, Comte?"

  Saint-Germain, affecting surprise, looked up. "Oh, I did not see you, Donatien. Yes, I am trying once again, and still to no avail."

  "If you keep up your determined interest, we will all be betting on your chances." He turned to his companion for confirmation, but Baron Beauvrai paid no notice to this conversation.

  Beauvrai was startlingly dressed tonight, even by his own extravagant standards. He wore his most elaborate wig, which was tinted with delicate blue powder. This was secured at the back of his neck with a large satin bow spangled with golden stars. His coat and small clothes were of jonquil watered silk, whose broad claret-colored revers and cuffs could not be said to set it off to advantage. A straw-colored waistcoat of peau de soie was embroidered with turquoise floss, which was undoubtedly meant to complement his turquoise silk hose and gold shoes. He had completed the ensemble with pale-blue lace at throat and wrists, and had drenched himself with violet scent.

  Saint-Germain contemplated Beauvrai in silence, and punctuated this with a short sigh. "As always, Beauvrai, you leave me speechless."

  Beauvrai shot a swift glance at him, regarding Saint- Germain's somber dress. "I'd rather look a man than a priest," he said with what was obviously intended to be withering contempt. "From what I hear of you, you have no more claim to manhood than you do to the title."

  With a disarming smile, Saint-Germain inclined his head. "Mon Baron, if to be a man is to emulate you, I fear I must always be a disappointment." He was about to turn and leave Beauvrai sputtering with rage, but a chance remark from de la Sept-Nuit caught his attention, and he paused.

  "When you're at Chaisseurdor's, will you spend an evening with our party at Sans Désespoir?" de la Sept-Nuit was asking Beauvrai in an effort to turn his attention from Saint-Germain.

  "What? Chaisseurdor? Oh, oh, yes. I suppose I might. I'll be spending a week there. Chaisseurdor won't miss me for one night." He pointedly ignored Saint-Germain.

  "Bring him along," de la Sept-Nuit suggested, prepared to steer Beauvrai into the gaming rooms.

  "The thing is, he doesn't like d'Argenlac. They quarreled about the preserves ten years ago, and the matter hasn't been patched up yet. Damned silly, the both of them, if you ask me. Don't worry, Donatien. I'll take the time to visit Sans Désespoir. I want to see how you do the pretty with La Montalia."

  "I will do well enough, do not you worry." He clapped Beauvrai on the shoulder, and exchanging knowing winks, they went into the north wing of the Hôtel.

  Saint-Germain stood in the Great Hall for fully two minutes, a vacant expression in his dark eyes, which belied the thoughts racing in his mind. He wandered across the fine expanse to the Velazquez, pausing once to nod to a party of late arrivals. Looking up at the splendid antique faces, Saint- Germain felt a pang of loneliness, remembering how he had gazed eagerly at this very work when the paint was still oilily wet, when the artist himself had asked him if the figure of Socrates had the full weight of doom on it. Then, and now, Saint-Germain thought that ragged, unworldly, argumentative old Socrates would never have recognized himself in that austere figure of Velazquez's imagination, but he had refrained from saying so to the great painter.

  Walking rather slowly, Saint-Germain made his way toward the supper room. The alarm he had felt at Beauvrai's words with de la Sept-Nuit did not lessen as he considered them. He recalled the invitation la Comtesse d'Argenlac had sent him to join her party at Sans Désespoir, an invitation which he had refused, not wanting to tempt himself with the sweet, impossible nearness of Madelaine.

  Her image rose in his mind, and he tried to push it away.

  He could not afford to desire her, to care for her, for that way led to exposure, not only of him, but of her. For one blind instant he pictured the cruel stake pounded
into Madelaine's exquisite body, and the thought was hurtful to him.

  "Comte," said a voice near him, and he looked up quite suddenly to see Claudia d'Argenlac walking toward him on the arm of le Duc de la Mer-Herbeux. She was decked out in a grand toilette of the palest green satin embroidered with morning-glories over a petticoat of ruched Austrian silk with bows of matching Belgian lace the color of English roses.

  Saint-Germain recovered himself and made la Comtesse a profound leg. "I am delighted to see you," he said, knowing it was almost the truth. "I will not ask if I find you well, as the look of you tells me that. With all your plans, I would not be surprised to discover you alone in a comer recruiting your strength for the fête of the third."

  La Comtesse laughed merrily, the smile in her eyes almost as bright as the shine from her heavy emerald necklace. "Ah, no, my dear Comte. My husband has arranged for us to go to the country tomorrow, and make a little stay there while the hôtel is being made ready for the fête. If you had been to see us more often these past few days, you would know that."

  "I had your invitation," he reminded her, and turned his attention to le Duc. "I am very pleased to see you in Paris again, sir. I trust that your venture in London met with success?"

  "A modicum of it, Comte," de la Mer-Herbeux admitted. "The English pride themselves on being reasonable, but in the question of Austria, they seem singularly irrational."

  Saint-Germain smiled. "You must forgive them, de la Mer-Herbeux, if occasionally their desires run counter to those of France."