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  "Forty-two thousand louis!" Gervaise crowed, giddy with success as he pushed up to Saint-Germain. "Forty-two thousand louis! Now Claudia will see that I do not always lose."

  Saint-Germain was unmoved. "No, you do not always lose," he said softly. "Do not be foolish with your winnings, Gervaise."

  Le Comte d'Argenlac dismissed this warning with a wave of his hand. "I know my luck is with me, Comte. If I am doing well tonight, think of the All Hallows' fête at Maison Libellule. If my luck holds, I will be a millionaire again." He smiled dreamily at this prospect.

  Worried by this, Saint-Germain put one small, beautiful hand on Gervaise's arm and turned the full force of his compelling eyes on him. "D'Argenlac," he said, his voice musical and low, "do not gamble. Do not think that you will win at Maison Libellule: no one wins there. Do not sacrifice what you have gained."

  Gervaise laughed lightly. "Oh, I know you will not be at the fête. Claudia told me that you will have your musicians at our hôtel to rehearse that little opera of yours. But there will be other games, Comte. You need not concern yourself with me." He sauntered off, more drunk with his winnings than with wine.

  Saint-Germain was still staring after him when he heard de Vandonne speaking once more. "You saw how he played. He hardly looked at his cards. Yet he won."

  There was a sharpness in de Valloncaché's tone now. "Leave it alone, de Vandonne! D'Islerouge lost in fair play, and that's the end to it."

  "Fair play?" d'Islerouge demanded, color mounting in his drawn cheeks.

  The room had suddenly become very quiet. No one spoke as all eyes turned to Saint-Germain.

  For a few moments le Comte did nothing. Then, quite slowly, he rounded on d'Islerouge and said easily, "Pray be direct with me, Baron. I gather you think that I have cheated you."

  D'Islerouge swallowed hard. "Yes."

  "I see," Saint-Germain said, his eyes narrowing.

  "Don't be any more foolish than God made you, Baltasard," de Valloncaché snapped.

  Behind him, Baron Beauvrai barked out one derisive laugh. "He's a damned coward. Wouldn't meet me when I tried to call him out." He flicked his lace handkerchief over the brocade of his coat. "Common!"

  Now that he had actually accused Saint-Germain, d'Islerouge felt a cold, sinking fear that the elegant foreigner might be as successful a swordsman as he was a card player. "Well, Comte," he said with false bravado, "do you take my challenge?"

  Saint-Germain's dark eyes studied him, revealing nothing of his thoughts. "It is not my habit to accept the challenge of a man young enough to be my son," he said slowly.

  "Coward, craven," de Vandonne taunted him.

  "It is not you I will meet," Saint-Germain cut him short "D'Islerouge has bought himself the right to say such things of me, but not you, mon Duc." He turned back to d'Islerouge, nodding once. "Very well, I accept your challenge, Baron."

  Cold to the soles of his feet now, d'Islerouge bowed stiffly. "Appoint your seconds, and they may wait upon mine."

  Saint-Germain held up his hand. "No, no, d'Islerouge. I have the right to choose the time and place. I choose this room, and now."

  The hush which had hovered in the air deepened, and de Vandonne looked up in surprise. "Here?"

  "Certainly," Saint-Germain went on at his most urbane, "you have friends here who will act for you. I trust that I may have the support of de Valloncaché"—le Duc nodded as his name was mentioned—"and if you insist on form, I believe one of the other gentlemen here would be so obliging as to assist us."

  "One will do," d'Islerouge said numbly. He looked about him rather wildly, passing over de Vandonne and saying, "De la Sept-Nuit, will you be my second?"

  De la Sept-Nuit rose slowly. "Very well, Baltasard. I will accept the honor." He made no attempt to hide his scorn.

  D'Islerouge, already regretting his challenge, writhed in mental agony at the smooth condemnation patent in every motion, every look of de la Sept-Nuit "Weapons?" he said in a voice he did not recognize as his own.

  "Swords." Saint-Germain was already pulling off his black coat and tucking up the ruffled lace at his wrists. "If you ask the majordomo, I know he will provide you with dueling foils." He unbuckled his dress sword. "This is worse than useless," he said as he put it aside.

  With a quick nod, de la Sept-Nuit went from the room, le Duc de Valloncaché in his wake.

  Belatedly, d'Islerouge took off his coat, and then tugged at his fine lace jabot, pulling it from around his neck and tossing it aside, his eyes on de Vandonne, filled with a curious combination of rage and puzzlement.

  "Gentlemen," Saint-Germain was saying in a calm way, "if one or two of you would push these tables aside, so there is room enough... ?"

  Even Beauvrai was happy to assist in this work, shoving the elegant cloth-topped table where he had been sitting all the way back to the wall. He dragged his chair after him and sank into it, smug satisfaction spread cat-like over his face.

  Saint-Germain was about to remove his shoes when a glance at the window showed him the tarnished silver color of dawn. He stopped, and rebuckled the shoes.

  D'Islerouge saw this and scoffed to de Vandonne. "He is asking for a fall, is he not? I wonder if he realizes that I will not be satisfied with less than his life."

  De Vandonne grinned unevenly. "You will best him, mon Baltasard, and we will reward you." He took d'Islerouge's hand, holding slightly longer than was seemly.

  "Are you ready?" de la Sept-Nuit asked as he came back into the room with de Valloncaché close behind him.

  Saint-Germain straightened up. "May I suggest that you close and lock the door? It is not a time to be interrupted, I think." He glanced once around the room, then said to his second, "De Valloncaché, it might be wise if those candles were put out. They're almost guttered anyway. And if one of you would build up the fire..." He did not appear to think it odd that a French noble should be put to lackey's work.

  "I will see to it," Chenu-Tourelle said quickly, moving to the grate where three logs smoldered. He pulled another log from a neat stack by the hearth, and with judicious care shoved it onto the dying fire. A spurt of flame took hold of the bark, crackling eagerly.

  "What are your terms, d'Islerouge?" de Valloncaché asked in the suddenly silent room.

  “To the death."

  De Valloncaché bowed, and walked across the carpet to Saint-Germain. "The terms are—"

  "I heard." Saint-Germain turned, testing his dueling sword in his hand. "I accept, on one condition."

  "What condition?" d'Islerouge flung at him.

  "That if I should best and spare you, you will reveal who put you up to this," he met d'Islerouge's startled gaze with his steady, intent one. "Have I your word?"

  D'Islerouge looked about him again, this time rather wildly. "Yes, yes. Very well. You have my word.” He turned his back on Saint-Germain.

  "Have you any instructions for me?" de Valloncaché asked Saint-Germain, preparing to meet de la Sept-Nuit at the center of the room.

  "My man Roger knows what to do, if anything must be done. Speak to him." He knelt and made the sign of the cross. "For any transgressions in my life, may I be absolved."

  On the other side of the room, d'Islerouge burst out with derisive laughter.

  But already de Valloncaché had met de la Sept-Nuit, and they were exchanging a few words. De la Sept-Nuit nodded and said, "Gentlemen, to your positions. Saint-Germain, if you will, to the east. D'Islerouge, in the west." His dress sword pointed out the areas. "Very well, gentlemen. Do you draw back?"

  "No," snapped d'Islerouge.

  "Saint-Germain?"

  "No."

  "Eh bien." De Valloncaché held his dress sword crossed with de la Sept-Nuit's while the duelists saluted each other, and then, bringing their blades sharply upward, they sprang back, barely moving fast enough to escape d'Islerouge's ferocious attack.

  As d'Islerouge rushed forward, Saint-Germain moved his sword from his right to his left hand, turning to protect himself
, and forcing d'Islerouge to expose his right side as he closed with him. Seeing his danger, d'Islerouge brought his blade down viciously, the point set to rake Saint-Germain's thigh.

  There was a movement of Saint-Germain's wrist and d'Islerouge's blade glanced harmlessly away. Saint-Germain turned with the same controlled grace that was sometimes seen in Spanish bullrings. His hands were steady, and there was a set, sad smile on his mouth.

  When d'Islerouge moved in on him again, he was more circumspect, handling his blade warily, unused to a left-handed opponent. He feinted in tierce, and was parried and very nearly pinked by the fast response from Saint-Germain. He stepped back, breathing a little faster, and set himself in form for a long fight.

  Saint-Germain did not seem to press him, but d'Islerouge knew that he was losing ground. He did not have the eye or the skill of the older man, nor the strength of wrist. Saint-Germain fenced in the Italian manner, with subtlety and grace that might have awed d'Islerouge under other circumstances. Try as he would, he could not break through Saint-Germain's defenses. It was only a matter of time until Saint-Germain wore him down, exhausted him, and finished him.

  Desperate now, he looked for a chance, and saw it. He made a clumsy feint, pretending to stumble, and saw Saint-Germain fall back, his point dropping while d'Islerouge recovered himself. In that instant he reached for a chair and threw it across the room.

  It caught Saint-Germain at the shins, and brought out a cry of protest from the men who watched them.

  "No!" Saint-Germain ordered, and his voice had absolute authority. His point flew up and he moved closer to d'Islerouge, his white waistcoat ghostly in the pale light.

  D'Islerouge had struggled to his feet and he steadied himself to meet the attack. Steel scraped on steel and he was again driven back. He was sweating freely now, and he knew he stank of fear. Saint-Germain was still meticulous, and there was not even a slight moisture on his upper lip to betray his exertion.

  They closed again, and this time Saint-Germain met d'Islerouge's attack with a stunning display of the art of fence, all but forcing him into the fireplace before deliberately stepping back to allow d'Islerouge a moment to regain his breath.

  When the young man had somewhat recovered himself, Saint-Germain said, "I am willing to consider the matter settled between us, Baron."

  "No... no... To the death." He brought up his blade and saw that the point wavered.

  Saint-Germain sighed "As you wish. En garde." Apparently he had lost the zest of the game, for now he drove a ruthless, forceful attack on d'Islerouge, determined to end it

  That end came suddenly, Saint-Germain's blade slipped inside d'Islerouge's defenses, but instead of pinking him in the shoulder or driving the point home through his chest, Saint-Germain passed under d'Islerouge's arm.

  Startled, exhausted, d'Islerouge tried to follow this movement, and succeeded only in cutting a gash in Saint-Germain's white waistcoat before succumbing, to fall heavily on his back.

  As he looked up, he saw Saint-Germain standing over him, his sword point only a few inches from his neck.

  "I am satisfied, d'Islerouge. Are you?"

  Anger gagged his words as d'Islerouge glared up at his adversary. He spat.

  "I do not want to kill you," Saint-Germain said in an even tone. He held the foil steady, waiting.

  "Very well." The words were so quiet that even Saint-Germain was not sure he heard them. D'Islerouge slid away from the point of the sword. "I am satisfied," he declared, his face ravaged by the agony of capitulation.

  Saint-Germain stood back and offered his hand to d'Islerouge, who ignored it. In a moment he turned away and looked at the seconds. "I leave you gentlemen to see that my condition is met. One or the other of you may deliver the information to me before sundown."

  There was a rush of talk now, as all the pent-up tension released itself in an eruption of words.

  Saint-Germain walked slowly across the room, feeling very tired. "I'm too old for this sort of thing," he said quietly as he came up to de Valloncaché.

  "It certainly looked like it," de Valloncaché agreed with laughter. "That was the most beautiful match I have ever seen. Tell me, do you always fence left-handed?"

  "Not always." Saint-Germain sank heavily into a chair and cast an involuntary glance at the windows. The sky was now a pale lilac, touched with long gold fingers. "Not a moment too soon."

  De Valloncaché had walked away, and returned holding Saint-Germain's coat. He held it out, then muttered a word to himself.

  "What?" Saint-Germain roused himself from his thoughts.

  "Your waistcoat is ruined, Comte. That slash runs right down your ribs. It got the shirt, too. You're very lucky. He might have had you."

  Only now did Saint-Germain finger the huge rent in his waistcoat. "Impressive," he said dryly.

  This seemed to remind de Valloncaché of an earlier thought. "Whatever possessed you to wear a white waistcoat, Saint-Germain? You're always rigged out in black."

  Saint-Germain smiled slowly as he rose and pulled his coat over his shoulder like a cape. "It was to express my purity of purpose, Duc." He put the dueling foil down and began to walk toward the door, where seven men still waited to congratulate him.

  Excerpt of a letter from la Comtesse d'Argenlac to Mme. Lucienne Cressie, dated October 13, 1743; returned unopened to la Comtesse on January 11, 1744:

  ...My dear Lucienne, you do not know how much you and your superb music are missed by everyone. Last night Madelaine told me that she had been longing to hear you play at her fête, which is only four days away. This brings her entreaties as well as mine.

  ...We do not know how ill you have been. I am sorry to tell you that Achille tells us nothing, and try as I will, I can get no more from him than a certain confirmation that you are not well. If you will but allow it, I would willingly send my own physician to wait upon you. Custom may require that one consults a physician only with one's husband's consent, but I think we may agree that in your case this is a matter that is well beyond Achille's responsibility....

  It is quite true that Baltasard Aubert, Baron d'Islerouge is betrothed to Olympe de les Radeux. Her brother is furious, but Beauvrai, who wanted the match from the first, is, of course, delighted I remember you said these six months past that it would be so. You are always so acute an observer of us all, I wonder how you can bear not to receive visitors during your convalescence. I promise you the latest gossip would soon bring you out of yourself, and help you to good health once more.

  Saint-Germain has told us that he will not compose for the violoncello again until you are sufficiently recovered to play. Now, you must take pity on us. To be robbed of your presence and Saint-Germain's music is beyond anything. He has written a little opera for our fête which I know would delight you. Tonight he brings his musicians to rehearse it, and I am quite filled with anticipation. Do recover quickly, so you may hear this work. I know it would please you.

  ...When I think of you locked away in that house, I feel almost dizzy. That dreadful man—forgive me for saying it of your husband, but we both know that he has no more use for you than a mouse has for a terrier— will not allow us to speak of you, and when we ask of you, says nothing but commonplace things.

  You must write to your uncle, or your sister. You cannot stay under that roof any longer, my dear. It wrings my heart to think of you in such travail. If there is anything I may do for you, any friend I may approach on your behalf, say you will let me know. Someone must be willing to help you to free yourself from that hateful Achille.

  Come to me, my dear, and if you wish it so, you will never again return to hôtel Cressie. I offer you my hospitality for as long as you may need it. If you do not want to abide in Paris, or fear reprisal for your actions, I will plead with my brother. He has told me not to interfere, but he will change his mind when he hears of your circumstances. He must see that your plight is beyond that of marriage. Together we will convince him, if you will but give me the office t
o approach him.

  I am sending this by messenger, and he has my instructions to see that it is indeed taken into the house. He will wait for an hour for your answer. If you can contrive to give him a message or a billet, he will bring either to me as quickly as may be.

  Until I may see you for myself, my dear, believe me always

  Your most sincere and devoted friend,

  Claudia de Montalia

  Comtesse d'Argenlac

  PART THREE

  Le Baron

  Clotaire Odon Jules

  Valince Pieux

  de Saint Sebastien

  Excerpt from a letter from le Baron Clotaire de Saint Sebastien to le Chevalier Donatien de la Sept-Nuit One of a series dated November 1, 1743:

  ...For whose benefit did de Vandonne stage that little travesty yesterday morning at Hôtel Transylvania? You have sufficient wit to know that this kind of thing will not serve our purposes. And the murder of d'Islerouge was clumsily handled. No one will believe that poseur Saint-Germain killed d'Islerouge, not after that duel with some of the finest of our nobility as witnesses, and Saint-Germain wholly triumphant. It is far more likely to be thought that he was murdered to keep him from delivering the information he was in honor bound to reveal. That this is indeed the fact of the matter in no way lessens the stupidity every one of you has displayed in this business.

  ...Fast on the heels of that imbecilic duel came news that Lucienne Cressie has disappeared. Achille can offer no reasonable explanation for her disappearance, even after Tite and I asked him personal and forceful questions in private. If you should happen to call on Achille, you will find him abed, and his bruises may give you pause. Consider them carefully before you embark on any more foolishness.

  The sacrifice of La Cressie's maidservant in her mistress's place was at best a stopgap measure. You have consistently failed to fulfill your obligations to the Circle, my dear Donatien. If you would stay with us, you must do better in future. Those parts that make you a man are almost as acceptable a sacrifice as the blood and virginity of young women. I beg you to remember this. For if you, through your actions, fail to deliver Madelaine de Montalia to the Circle for sacrifice at the winter solstice, then you will take her place as that sacrifice. I promise you this: you will be emasculated, de la Sept-Nuit, and your body used as the Circle sees fit. No doubt you will recall what was done to Lucienne Cressie? Much the same may, in other ways, be done to you. And when the Circle has finished with you, I will myself flay you. Think of your skin hanging in tatters from your hands and feet, Chevalier, and do not bungle again.