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  When he was gone from the room, Claudia gave her full attention to Robert. "Where is she?"

  "At hôtel Saint Sebastien, I would guess. The letter came from there." He paused. "I was told that I would be killed if I tried to come after her, and that anyone who helped me would also be killed. I would not object, if Gervaise does not wish to accompany me."

  "And let you go alone among those dreadful people?" Claudia was incredulous. "Gervaise knows several of those men. They will not harm him, Robert. They know he is a gambler and often drinks too much. He represents no threat to them. You might, but you are not known in Paris, and few would miss you if you were to disappear. With Gervaise it is otherwise. If he were not to spend five days out of seven at Hôtel Transylvania or Hôtel de Ville, half of Paris would hear of it." She said the words in a flat bitterness that told Robert, more than ranting would, of the state of her life with Gervaise d'Argenlac.

  "Are you very unhappy?" he asked ruefully.

  "No, of course not. Perhaps a little," she amended, then added, "I daresay if we had children it would be otherwise. A man without heirs does not feel he has a great investment in his own future." She turned her thoughts from this unproductive route. "He will be good company for you, Robert. He can deal with Saint Sebastien. It may require money—"

  "I doubt it," Robert interpolated.

  "Or other payment, but it will be made." She crossed the room to the marble-fronted fireplace, realizing as she did so that she had become very cold. "I have some advice to give you, my dear, and I hope you won't despise it."

  "What is it?"

  "Send a lackey to Saint-Germain." She saw the distaste in her brother's face and hurried on. "Hear me out before you say no. Saint-Germain is not French, and he is almost wholly immune to scandal. He may not seem so, but I understand that he is formidable in a fight. He fought a duel last week that surprised half of the beau monde. He is fond of Madelaine, and I know would be willing to assist you."

  Robert strove for composure, and said to his sister in a forcibly contained voice, "It is demeaning enough to ask your husband to involve himself in this sordid affair. I will not ask someone outside of our family, let alone a foreigner, no matter how fond he is of Madelaine, to become involved in something that would surely disgust him." He licked his lips, as if cleaning a bad taste from them. "I am afraid I must leave you now if I am to reach Saint Sebastien in time. Pray that I do, Claudia."

  "With all my heart, Robert.” She resisted the urge to run to him and weep. With an effort, she kept herself by the fireplace, her face showing concern unmarred by doubts. "I will pray. Do bring Madelaine as swiftly as may be."

  "I will," Robert promised, then went to the door and was gone.

  Now that she was alone, Claudia let herself shed the tears she had held back. It was a ragged, tearing grief that was like a physical pain. She knew that her face was mottled red and white, and that her evening coiffure was quite ruined, but that did not matter. So lost was she in her despair that she did not hear the carriage pull away from hôtel d'Argenlac, nor, twenty minutes later, did she hear a single horse arrive.

  Her first awareness came when a well-known voice spoke from the doorway. "My dear Comtesse."

  Claudia raised her sorrow-filled face to the familiar stranger in the door. "Saint-Germain."

  "I must ask your forgiveness. I would not let the lackey announce me. I was afraid you would refuse me." He came across the room to her. She saw that he was dressed for riding, and wearing even more severely simple clothes than usual.

  "I... we... there was bad news earlier."

  "Madelaine," he said, and it was not a question.

  "Yes. She has been… detained.… And Robert has gone to fetch her—he and Gervaise…. They will be sorry to have missed you."

  "I doubt it." He dragged a chair near to her. "If Madelaine were merely detained, it would not take both her father and your husband to bring her home. And you, my dear," he added in a kinder tone, "would not be weeping. Tell me what it is."

  "Robert does not want—"

  "If your tiresome brother does not want help, then he is a greater fool than I thought." Saint-Germain took one of Claudia's hands in his. "My dear, believe me, I would not interfere if it were possible for le Marquis to save your niece alone. But it is not possible. They are determined to kill Madelaine, are they not? Saint Sebastien and his Circle?"

  She made a helpless gesture. "I don't know, Robert had a letter..."

  "A letter? Did he take it with him?"

  "I don't..." She looked up, some of her despondency dropping from her. "No. He threw it away. It should be..." She looked about the floor. "There. By the second tree of candles."

  Saint-Germain rose and retrieved the letter, flattening the crumpled sheets so that he could read their message. His face became more and more grim as he read. When he was finished, he handed the letter to Claudia. "Burn this," he said shortly. "Do not read it, just burn it." He took a turn about the room, his eyes smoldering, their darkness becoming more intense.

  Claudia obediently held the letter to the flame of one of the candles on the mantel. "Is it that serious, Saint-Germain?"

  "I am afraid it is." He stopped his pacing and studied her. "Saint Sebastien is planning to kill her. And that is the least of it."

  Claudia put her hand to her mouth. "But surely..."

  "And if you would help her, there are some things you must do."

  She nodded, finding this sudden authority in Saint-Germain disturbing. He had always been compelling, but she had told herself it was merely a trick of the eyes. But now she saw his force without the courtly facade, and she realized that he was much more formidable than ever she had thought. "Tell me, Comte. I will do anything I can for my niece."

  "Good. First you are to send a messenger to la rue de Ecoulè-Romain to a physician named André Schoenbrun. He is as accomplished as any in the medical arts, and he is very, very discreet. You may have his services as you require, and not worry about unpleasant rumors spreading."

  "Do you think Madelaine will need a physician?"

  "Very likely. She will also need a priest. Who is her Confessor?"

  "L'Abbé Ponteneuf. He is a cousin of ours."

  Saint-Germain frowned. "I have heard her speak of him. She does not like him, and is afraid that he tells things he should not We will require another. I leave it to you to find a priest, preferably a young one, with courage and excellent silence. There must be such a one in Paris."

  Claudia nodded numbly. "A priest," she echoed.

  He paused as he fastened his cloak again. "I cannot stay. Every minute I delay, there is greater danger. If you are correct, I will find your brother and husband alone with Madelaine at hôtel Saint Sebastien, and we will all return to you before midnight But if it is otherwise, you will not see us until after dawn, perhaps. If none of us have returned by nine of the clock, send word to my servant Roger. He has instructions from me."

  "I will," she said, her tone firmer than it had been when he arrived. "Godspeed, Saint-Germain."

  Saint-Germain lifted his brows. "Godspeed? Why not?" And then the door closed, and Claudia heard the firm, quick, tread as he left hôtel d'Argenlac.

  Text of a letter from the physician André Schoenbrun in answer to one from la Comtesse d'Argenlac, dated November 5,1743:

  The physician André Schoenbrun of la rue de Ecoulè-Romain sends his respectful compliments to la Comtesse d'Argenlac and wishes to inform her that he has received her note of the earlier evening requesting his presence at her hôtel as soon as is possible.

  The physician is pleased to agree to la Comtesse's kind request and will present himself to her in the hour before dawn. At that time, the physician would appreciate it if la Comtesse will provide him with more information on the nature and characteristics of the ill or ills he is to treat. Medical art being what it is, the physician is reluctant to proceed blindly.

  In the event that la Comtesse's fears prove ill-founded, the p
hysician will recommend a nurse of experience and pious disposition to watch over the victim she mentions. Oftentimes it is the soul that suffers more than the body, no matter how deeply abused the physical being may be. The physician has, on more than one occasion, seen how a man may die of fear or of despair that cannot be traced to a physical ill. Indeed, it is the opinion of the physician that the mind and soul alone bring about apoplexy and all its ills, for the physician has noted that such events most often occur when the victim is at his most choleric. It is otherwise with women. Women of the most submissive, meek, and mild temperaments alone are prey to apoplexy. Where overt hostility in the male brings on the apoplectic stroke, women succumb to the ill in the opposite case.

  But it is not the intent of the undersigned to dwell on matters that must be of no interest to la Comtesse. He craves her indulgence of his unseemly enthusiasm, and begs that la Comtesse will believe him to be

  Hers to command,

  André Schoenbrun, physician

  Chapter 8

  As her senses returned, each added its own unpleasant burden to Madelaine's fear. Her hands and feet tingled, and when she tried to flex them, she felt ropes binding her wrists and ankles, and realized that she was tied down on a cold stone surface. Her mouth grew drier as her muddled memory threw off the last of the drug. What had she done under the drug's influence, she wondered, that she had to be confined in this immodest and hideously uncomfortable manner? She opened her eyes, and a kind of dizziness seized her, so that she closed them once again to shut out what she had seen.

  "So you are awake," said the cultured, hated voice. "I am relieved."

  She felt his fingertips and nails as he drew them lightly over her abdomen. She said quite distinctly, "If you do that again, I will be sick."

  Saint Sebastien chuckled nastily. "You must not promise me such treats. You will make me too anxious." He touched her flesh again, this time tracing the arch of her ribs. "You are wonderfully firm. That means strength and health." He ran the end of his tongue over his lips. "No," he said rather breathlessly to himself. "No, not too soon. Now there is only anger, and there must be terror and capitulation before more is done. She must welcome her ravishers and her humiliation."

  Madelaine knew that she was meant to overhear this, and that Saint Sebastien intended that it should frighten her. She steeled herself against the words, swallowing down the bile that rose in her throat. Slowly she tested the bonds again, and found that they were only too secure.

  "My dear," Saint Sebastien murmured, "when you arch your lovely body and twist in that painful way, I can hardly resist succumbing to your charms." He paused long enough to draw his nails over her body from her neck to the soft cleft between her legs. "It is not time for that yet. There are other things I must do before that." Quite suddenly he pinched her skin at the hip, under her breasts, and on the upper arm.

  Madelaine's eyes stung with tears and outrage, but she bit back the sound that surged in her. When she was sure she could speak without screaming, she said, "May God damn you."

  Saint Sebastien spread his mouth in a soundless laugh and let himself respond at his most urbane. "You are a little late, my dear. As your father should have told you."

  "No." Madelaine blinked as against a threatened blow.

  "So you know something of his oath," Saint Sebastien said speculatively. "Who could have told you?"

  "What oath?" It was a clumsy distraction, and she knew it. Her heart seemed to solidify as she watched Saint Sebastien, hating herself for letting herself be so visibly eager for a denial of what Chenu-Tourelle had said.

  "The one he gave many years ago. Before you were born, my dear." He put his hand between her legs and played negligently with the delicate tissues. "He gave you to me,

  Madelaine, to be mine utterly." On the last word he brutally thrust three fingers deep inside her, smiling slowly as she shrieked and pulled futilely in her bonds, her thighs working to close against his casual, vile intrusion. "Not yet, not yet, my dear. Resign yourself to my will." He moved his hand and pain shuddered through her. "Not tonight, but tomorrow night, I will take your virginity. I will not be the only one to use you. And as the nights pass, our uses will grow with our imagination. You think that this hurts you?" He chuckled as her movement confirmed it. "This is the merest taste, Madelaine. Remember that." He moved back from her, leaving her panting, the sheen of sweat on her body though she shivered with fear and cold.

  'Tonight," he went on with a grand gesture, "you remain here with me some little while." He glanced around his study as if the room itself were a pleasant discovery. "At the dark of night, which comes in the third hour after midnight, we will join the others."

  "The others?" The words were hushed with dismay.

  "There are quite a few of them. You will find many familiar faces, Madelaine." He strode around the room, taking satisfaction that her eyes followed him wherever he moved. "Those who have desired you will be gratified. Those who despise you will find the means to vindicate themselves. In the next forty days we will take away your humanity, my dear. And when you are nothing, you will die for the forces of Satan, for whom destruction is pleasing." He tugged at a bell rope, and almost instantly the door was opened by a tall, large man of saturnine face and greedy eyes. He was wearing the dark-blue-and-red livery of Saint Sebastien's household. "This is Tite, my manservant. He is your guard, my dear. Do not think that your beauty or your anguish will rouse pity in him: he takes pleasure in hatred."

  Tite nodded, his eyes flicking over Madelaine's nakedness. "Five have arrived," he informed his master without taking his attention from her. "When will I have her?"

  "Tomorrow night, Tite. After I do. She will be yours for the rest of the night." He said this as if giving a child a sweet. "Bring the others in. And her maid."

  With a bow compounded of groveling and insolence, Tite withdrew.

  Saint Sebastien stood by the door for a moment, then went to a large closed case that stood against the far wall. He opened the case and selected a few items from its interior, closing it once more as he turned back to Madelaine. His sjambok was coiled around one arm, and he held a short device in his hand that looked like a bamboo whisk broom. He held up the latter, considering it critically. "I think this will be best," he said to her. "It does not generally break the skin."

  Madelaine felt a cringing fear begin, which she fought down. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her courage crumble. The marble table top felt even colder now.

  "Good," Saint Sebastien approved. "It would be a pity if you were broken too soon. It is your resistance that makes the final degradation so potent." He tapped the stubby bamboo whip against his hand.

  Once again the door opened, and five men came into the room. Madelaine gasped as she recognized them. There was de la Sept-Nuit, with an expression of lewd anticipation in his face; beside him. Châteaurose, who appeared nervously excited; with him was Achille Cressie, who showed Madelaine one contemptuous sneer before resuming his conversation with de les Radeux, who had come with his uncle, le Baron Beauvrai.

  Châteaurose ambled across the study to the heavy table where Madelaine was tied. "Well met, Mademoiselle," he said at his most respectful. "You have no idea how delighted I am to see you this way."

  "We're all delighted to see you this way," de la Sept-Nuit agreed. "And you cannot imagine how much I am looking forward to knowing you better." He, too, came to the table and looked down at her. "Charming, I protest," he said with insolent grace.

  Madelaine said nothing, but an angry flush mounted in her face and neck.

  A shocked cry from the door made her turn to see Cassandre, her maid, dragged into the room by Tite. "Oh, Merciful God and all the saints," she wailed.

  "Tite," Saint Sebastien rapped out, "silence her."

  "That I will," Tite said, and brought his huge hand down on Cassandre's neck. The blow was a heavy one, and Cassandre, middle-aged and exhausted with the appalling events of the day, slipped to
the floor in a heap without resistance or protest.

  The men had all gathered around the table where Madelaine lay now, and were silent, preparing for the task ahead of them.

  They had not long to wait, for shortly Saint Sebastien said with languor, "I think we must turn her over. This"—he showed them the bamboo whip—"works best on the buttocks and thighs. You, Donatien, take her arms, and you, mon cher Baron"—he gave Beauvrai a formal bow—"her feet. The rest may untie her bonds and retie them when we have her in place. Be careful when you turn her, as she is very likely going to fight."

  Achille had looked curiously at the bamboo whip, his interest piqued. "Is that a comb, Saint Sebastien?"

  "I am loathe to disappoint you, Achille, but we will not use the combs for a few days yet. And those must be employed only on the soles of the feet. No, this is quite different. Shall I show you what it does?"

  Though she had twisted, pulled, squirmed, and tried to bite, Madelaine had been ruthlessly turned prone and retied. Her head dangled over the end of the table, and her legs, still forced wide apart, were beginning to ache. She gritted her teeth as Saint Sebastien once again fondled her, promising the others that they would be allowed the same privilege after he had demonstrated the bamboo whip.

  "It is used thus—the strokes very fast and light, hardly more than taps. The rhythm should be even," he said as he used the bamboo on her buttocks. "You say that this is dull. But wait, in a few minutes you will see the excellence of this little Chinese whip. I have always found that the Chinese are a most ingenious people."

  Already Madelaine was feeling the effects of the bamboo. Blood rushed to her buttocks, and the skin started to swell, making each blow more agonizing than the last as the sensitivity increased.

  "Do you see?" Saint Sebastien asked. "Ten more minutes of this, and the skin would enlarge to twice its normal size, and she would experience the keenest agony if so much as a drop of water touched the skin, or a feather."