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  "It is a chapel, where he will kill Madelaine, and le Marquis. Oh, my sweet Madelaine!"

  "But where is this chapel? Did he say?"

  Again Cassandre fought down her grief. "It is... one that was used before, by Montespan's set."

  "Did they say where?"

  "No." Cassandre's face worked, and she did not stop the tears that wet her wrinkled face.

  Saint-Germain felt his hand harden, and he was about to leave, when another thought struck him. "Is there anyone left here, Madame? There is still a chance someone might know where Saint Sebastien has gone."

  Cassandre shook her head mutely, a thin wail escaping her tightened lips. Then she said in a shuddery voice, "No... wait. .. The stable... Le Marquis was taken to the stable... There may be something..."

  "Bon. You have done well, Madame." Saint-Germain took both Cassandre's hands in his, noting with concern that they were very cold. "Now I want you to listen to me. I am going to find Madelaine and her father. You have my word that I will send help to you, but it may not be for some little time yet. You are not to despair and you are not to be frightened." He leaned toward her. "You will rest now, Madame, for you have earned it. You will sleep easily, and your hurts will leave you. Your fear will be gone when you waken, and your heart will be light. Sleep now." He passed one of his small hands over her eyes, which closed obediently, and as he rose, he could hear her breathing become more regular. She would do well, he was certain.

  Before he left Saint Sebastien's study, he pulled down two of the velvet curtains and flung them over all that was left of Gervaise, le Comte d'Argenlac, and the manservant Tite.

  With only moderate precautions, he made his way to the stable, hoping that there would indeed be some clue as to where Saint Sebastien and his loathsome Circle had gone. He found the stables open to the night, and the horses moving restlessly in their stalls. No person lurked there, but the horses sweated with fright. Saint-Germain put his hand down on the flank of a big roan gelding in a box stall near the door. The horse sidled nervously, his ears lying back against his neck, whites showing in his eyes. All his attempts to quiet the horse were fruitless, and Saint-Germain began to wonder about this. Of all the horses in the stable, this one was the most restless. He was also stalled closest to the tack room.

  Determined to investigate that room, Saint-Germain left the box stall, but not a moment too soon, for the gelding lashed out at him with his hind feet. Saint-Germain paused only long enough to fix the brace across the stall door before entering the small door next to the stall that led to the tack room

  Harness and saddlery glowed in the feeble light emitted by one dying lantern. Fine leathers and polished metal, with their distinctive smell, combined with the warm scent of horses. Saint-Germain had always enjoyed that particular odor, and would have taken pleasure in it now if it were not for the man hanging from a singletree. He hurried across the tack room, hoping that this would not be another futile encounter, and that the man was, against all logic, alive.

  He came nearer, and saw that the face, though contorted now in fatal agony, was that of Le Grâce.

  Le Grâce moved slightly, the singletree swinging with his motion. He saw the dark-clothed figure at the far end of the tack room, and a hideous gurgling filled his throat. Much of Le Grâce's body was burned and torn, and several of the ugly wounds were wet.

  Saint-Germain paused about halfway down the tack room, realizing that he must not panic the sorcerer if he was to learn anything from him. "Le Grâce," he said at his most compelling. "Le Grâce, can you hear me?"

  Le Grâce whimpered.

  "Le Grâce, where have they gone? Where is Saint Sebastien?"

  "I won't... I can't..."

  "Le Grâce," Saint-Germain rapped out. "Le Grâce, this is Prinz Ragoczy. You will answer me. Where is Saint Sebastien?"

  For a moment Le Grâce's eyes were glazed with terror: then something of the authoritative air of Saint-Germain penetrated his dread-hazed mind. "Saint Sebastien... Saint-Germain. Saint-Germain..." He ended in a wheeze, and mercifully lapsed into unconsciousness.

  Saint-Germain stood still, feeling defeated. It was no use now. Saint Sebastien had outwitted him. He turned from the tack room, moving quickly to hide from himself his sense of failure. But he supposed it was to be expected. Le Grâce was mad with what he had endured. He would do no more than recognize the questions, and abject fear would engulf him.

  Saint-Germain stopped still in the door of the stables. Le Grâce did not know he was Saint-Germain. Le Grâce knew him only as Prinz Franz Josef Ragoczy. What Le Grâce had said was in reference to le Faubourg Saint-Germain, the suburb around l'Eglise de Saint-Germain-des-Près and le Boulevard Saint-Germain—the part of Paris in which Hôtel Transylvania stood.

  He paused for only a moment, then began to run toward the orchard and his waiting horse.

  Text of a note from le Comte de Saint-Germain to his manservant Roger, written in Latin, delivered by a link-boy at about two in the morning of November 5,1743:

  My faithful Roger:

  You will choose two trustworthy servants and dispatch them to hôtel Saint Sebastien. Its master has been busy, and there are several unpleasant matters to be dealt with. You might consider sending Domingo y Roxas with the servants, for he knows something of medicine and drugs that may be used against injury and pain. In the study; which may be discovered by its broken french door, there is Madelaine's maid, Cassandre, who is alive but very much injured, and the bodies of Saint Sebastien's personal servant and le Comte d'Argenlac, the latter two under velvet draperies.

  But this is not all. In the stable's tack room Le Grâce has been left hanging on a singletree. By the look of him, Saint Sebastien used the red-hot pincers so much favored by Torquemada's Inquisition. He must receive prompt attention if he is to live. I charge you to be swift in carrying out these orders.

  From what I have learned, I very much fear that Saint Sebastien may be going to the vaults under our Hôtel Transylvania. If he is not there, then he may go to the vaults under l'Eglise de Saint-Germain-des-Près, but that does not seem likely, for that is still holy ground, and I doubt if Saint Sebastien will set foot on it.

  When this arrives, I wish you to clear the building of all but the staff, and dismiss those lackeys who do not wish to stay. If you must find an excuse, you may say that there is some contagion suspected in the house, which is partially the truth.

  Do not attempt to help me. Prepare our belongings and await me with Hercule, who has been charged to have my traveling coach ready at a moment's notice. You will do me more service if you are there than if you become involved with this battle.

  You will also speak to Mr. Sattin and be sure that he and his Guild Brothers get safely away from Hôtel Transylvania. You may give them a cart so that they may carry their equipment and their athanor with them. You may be as frank with them as you think wise, but do not underestimate the danger in which they stand, if they remain.

  Should it be that we will not meet again, I trust that you will see my Will executed fully, and that my resting place will be marked in the way I have designated.

  Follow my orders as you have before, and you know you have my eternal

  Thanks

  Saint-Germain

  (his seal, the eclipse)

  Chapter 10

  Water darkened the stones of the tunnel, and on the uneven flags that served as flooring, there was a thin film of slime, making it difficult to walk. A pervasive fetid odor filled the close air, making even the torches seem dimmed by the stench.

  "Do not drop him!" Saint Sebastien ordered to the men who followed him through the tunnel.

  Achille Cressie, who bore the shoulders of Robert de Montalia, complained. "Why did you have to drug him? We should have bound him."

  "So that you could be entertained by his dear words, Achille?" Saint Sebastien's tone was poisonously sweet.

  This did not have the expected effect on Achille, who chuckled unpleasantly. "You
should have heard him in the tack room. How he despised himself when his flesh warmed to me."

  De les Radeux, who held de Montalia's legs, gave a deprecating sigh. "It is all very well for you to boast of your prowess, Achille, but you will not let anyone watch, or share." He slid on the watery ooze, cursing.

  "Pay attention!" Saint Sebastien barked out the order.

  "He is heavy," de les Radeux insisted, sulking.

  "All the more reason for you to keep your mind on what you are doing and away from your vain rivalry with Achille. If you cannot do as you are told, you are of no use to me."

  De les Radeux muttered an imprecation under his breath, but steadied his grip on the drugged Robert de Montalia, going the rest of the way into the vault in silence.

  The air was somewhat better there, not so close, and since the ancient stones were farther away from the river, the vault did not have that clammy cold that had made the tunnel so unbearable. Yet, it was a gloomy place. In the niches around the walls were the partially mummified remains of monks who had died five hundred years before. A closer look showed that most of the bodies had been profaned and that the crucifixes that had lain in their skeletal fingers had been replaced by phalluses, and that where consecrated oil had marked their foreheads as those belonging to God, there were now dried reddish stains in the symbol of Satan.

  Saint Sebastien held his torch higher, and went quickly through the vault, arriving at last at a thick door set in the wall. The door was somewhat out of place in the Romanesque setting, for its design was recent, the strong iron hinges and other fittings still showing traces of oil to prevent rust, and the carving on the door indicated to what perverse use the chapel beyond had been put.

  The door yawned open on nearly silent fittings, revealing the first area of the chapel beyond. Saint Sebastien sighed as he held the door for Cressie and de les Radeux. It would be an easy matter now. They had escaped detection, and there was no evidence that the chapel had been found and cleansed of the demonic presence.

  Saint Sebastien walked farther into the chapel, his torch bringing light to the crude murals that adorned the walls, showing all the excesses of Satanic worship. Saint Sebastien smiled at one particularly horrendous representation, then went to the altar, saying to the panting men behind him, "Here, I think. Strip him and tie him down. I do not want to have to subdue him again."

  De les Radeux said at his surliest, "I am honored to do this." He glared at the altar, at Saint Sebastien, at the man he carried. This was not at all what he had anticipated. He had been told that the ceremonies of the Circle were grand occasions. His uncle Beauvrai had dwelt lovingly on the complex gratifications that were offered for every desire as well as the opportunity to advance in power through these practices. But here he was in a cold stone room, under the ground, carrying le Marquis de Montalia and bowing and scraping to Saint Sebastien as if Saint Sebastien were king or archangel and he was the lowest peasant in France. To make matters worse, the damp had quite ruined his satin coat and fine white-silk hose. He wished now that he had had the foresight to keep his riding boots on.

  With a last grunt, de les Radeux and Achille Cressie hoisted Robert de Montalia onto the altar, and set about pulling his clothes off, a task that proved to be surprisingly difficult.

  It took Saint Sebastien about ten minutes to recite the required incantations as he lit the fifteen torches that lined the walls. The brightness grew, but the flickering of the torches made that brightness unsteady, a leaping, irregular illumination that gave weird life to the grotesque paintings on the walls.

  A noise beyond the door brought Saint Sebastien's attention to the task at hand. He called out the password and waited for a response. The proper words came back, and he went to open the door.

  Jueneport stood there, Madelaine in his arms. "Where do you want her?"

  Saint Sebastien studied the limp figure. "I think we must put her where she can watch what we do to her father. Perhaps there." He motioned to the inverted crucifix that hung over the altar.

  "It doesn't look safe to me," Jueneport said slowly. "She's strong enough to pull it out of the wall."

  "I see your point." Saint Sebastien considered for a moment longer. "We could tie her there. She would then see what is done to her father, and we would see what is her reaction. An excellent combination." He had pointed to the screen that had once guarded part of the sanctuary, when the chapel had been used by the monks and not the Circles who had come to own it.

  "It is strong," Jueneport agreed. "Very well. I imagine there are ropes available?"

  "Behind the altar. Take what you need."

  Jueneport nodded, then went to where de les Radeux and Achille Cressie worked to secure Robert de Montalia to the altar. Achille worked more slowly, pausing every now and then to run his hands over the nude body, an unpleasant light in his face as he said, "We could bind his organ as well. That way, his pain would be doubled, as would our sport."

  De les Radeux shot him a look of tolerant disgust. "Is your lust all that goads you to this, Achille? Have you no other desires?"

  The laughter that greeted these questions made Saint Sebastien turn, angered. "None of that, Achille, or I will forbid you to take part in the celebration."

  Achille pouted, then shrugged and negligently returned to his task.

  Now there was another knock at the door, and the passwords were once again exchanged. De la Sept-Nuit came in, his eyes searching for and finding the pathetic figure of Madelaine. He gestured to the bag he held. "These are the robes, mon Baron. They are all prepared, and need only your curse before we don them."

  Saint Sebastien traced the pentagram in the air and said a few syllables of backward Latin. "You may dress whenever you like. Make sure your own garments are out of the way."

  "I will." De la Sept-Nuit went away to a side alcove and returned several minutes later in the pleated silk robe of the Circle. It resembled a soutane, but the pleated silk clung to the body in a way no priestly garb did, and the neck opening ran the length of the robe to the hem, so that the material opened to reveal the body as de la Sept-Nuit walked across the chapel.

  "I have put your robe aside," de la Sept-Nuit said. "Yours is the red with the embroidery, is that not so?"

  "Yes. If you will take this torch and put it in place by the altar, I will invest myself. Are the bracelets there as well?"

  "Two of silver, one of black glass. They're with the robe. You will find them. They are still wrapped as you want them to be."

  "I am pleased to hear it. That is to your advantage."

  De la Sept-Nuit shook his head. "You know what reward I would most enjoy." He waved a languid hand toward Madelaine, whom Jueneport had finished binding to the heavy screen. She was naked, and bruises were beginning to show on her flesh.

  "Perhaps. With Tite dead, perhaps." He strolled away to put on his robes.

  When he returned, the rest of the Circle had arrived and were concluding the preparations for the first ceremony. Châteaurose was now a little the worse for drink, but he knew the motions well enough that he could complete them without hazard.

  "Have the sacrifices wakened yet?" Saint Sebastien asked as he came down the aisle toward the altar. He was gorgeous now in the heavy red silk which hung open showing his lean, hard body that had been only lightly touched by age. Gone was the polish that marked his public dealings, and in its place was a terrible mastery, made even stronger by the signs of office he wore around his neck, die sign of the pentagram and the obscene crucifix.

  "Not yet, though the woman is stirring."

  "They must be awake in twenty minutes. See to it that they are." He turned away and ignored the efforts of his Circle to force Madelaine and her father to be roused.

  Beauvrai strode over to Saint Sebastien. "Well, Clotaire, how is your revenge?" Out of his ridiculous court finery, he was no longer the foppish fool he often appeared to be. In the black-silk robe none of his absurdity remained, and only the malice in him shone at fu
ll force, no longer hampered by his outward trappings.

  "I have not tasted it yet. But soon. Soon."

  "What for Robert? Have you thought of it?"

  "Of course." He fingered the two medallions that hung halfway down his chest "It will please you, mon Baron."

  "I hope so." He turned aside, saying under his breath, "That nephew of mine is rather an ass, Clotaire."

  "He seemed so to me as well," Saint Sebastien replied at his most silky. "One would think he was too foolish to live."

  "My point precisely." He bowed to Saint Sebastien and walked off to take his place in the first rank of worshipers.

  At last Achille Cressie thought to bring two pails of water, and these he threw over Madelaine and Robert de Montalia. He was satisfied as he heard the woman stutter and her father gag. "I think we are ready," he said, very satisfied.

  "That is good. We are very near the hour." Saint Sebastien came forward and plucked painfully at Madelaine's breasts and her cheeks. This brought a quick cry in response, and Saint Sebastien was reassured. "Yes, my dear," he said softly, caressingly, "it is I. You have not fled me."

  Madelaine half-opened her violet eyes, and felt herself turn an icy cold that had little to do with the water that had drenched her. "Saint-Germain," she whispered in her desperation.

  Saint Sebastien achieved a magnificent sneer. "So you long for that hoaxing fop, do you?" He reached out and slapped her face. "It is not that impostor who has you now." He turned away from the fury in her face and walked to the altar.

  "He is awake," Achille told Saint Sebastien. "You have only to touch him to see the disgust in his face." He demonstrated this in superb imitation of Saint Sebastien's grand and evil manner.

  "You have done well, Achille. I may let you enjoy yourself again before we dispatch Robert." He put one insolent hand on Robert's cold flesh. "How sad, my friend, that I cannot offer you a blanket. But you have my promise that I will see that you are warmed in other ways. You know that I always keep my promises."