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  ...Your inquiry of the 8th, regarding Madelaine's religious devotions: l am honoured to tell you that you have no reasons to fear for her soul in any way. She is good, chaste and kind. She attends Mass on the Lord's Day and on Friday, and makes her Confession on Wednesday or Saturday. Her devotions are genuine and her faith sincere, even as you told me.

  Your concern over Saint-Germain would also appear to be groundless. When questioned about him, Madelaine said that she found his attentions flattering, and certainly an asset to her socially, but that an alliance with a man of his age and background was out of the question. To be doubly sure, I talked to Saint-Germain himself. He was generous in praise of Madelaine, complimenting her on her singing and her excellent mind. But there was nothing of the lover about him. Indeed, I have not seen him show her any particular attention greater than what he shows to other ladies, except in the matter of music, which is easily understood. He was equally attentive to Mme. Cressie until she fell ill a short while ago. Be certain, my dear cousin, that your daughter is not on her way to losing her head to Saint-Germain, nor he his over her. Your daughter has superior good sense, and you need not fear she will give her heart against the wishes of her family. In our conversations, when I have sought to school her in the ways of the world, she has made it plain that she perceives her duty and does not shrink from it. Of course you would want her to respect the man who will be her husband, and to regard him with affection. Madelaine has the presence of mind to be aware of these necessities, and has assured me that she will bestow her hand circumspectly.

  Let me, mon cher Robert, again plead with you to make peace with God and the Church, for the days of men are few, and your life is short and full of sorrow. Your errors are long past, and your repentance is profound. Do not despair of the Infinite Mercy of God and Holy Mother Church. Dearer to God is he who has sinned and repented, who has lost the way and come again to it with a full heart, than those who are without error the whole of their lives. Confess, my cousin, and make your Act of Contrition, so that you may again take Communion and be among those who taste the Body and Blood of Christ. Pray to the Virgin for intercession. You have said that your sin is great, for you denied the Lord. But Peter did even as you have done, and he knows glory in Heaven. What God will forgive in Peter who was His friend, He will forgive in you. Give me your promise that you will go at last and make confession....

  You may be certain that I am always watching over your daughter, and that I will be swift to chastise her for error if she surrenders to temptation. She has always the lives of Saints and Martyrs to guide her, and my exhortations.

  In the Name of the Lord, in Whose eyes all men are His children and each other's brothers, I send you my blessings and the assurance that you are ever in my prayers. For the Redeemer came for us all, mon cousin, and in His name I have the honor to be

  Your most devoted cousin

  l'Abbé Alfonse Reynard Ponteneuf, S. J.

  Chapter 1

  When the pen sputtered for the third time, Madelaine flung it down in disgust.

  "What is it, my dear?" her aunt asked her from her seat at the window. They were in the largest of the withdrawing rooms, a good-sized salon of slightly old-fashioned design, where six high windows gave the north and western prospect that in most instances was pleasant, but today was marred by a thin, persistent trickle of rain that lacked the gentle grandeur of a good downpour and at the same time gave all its disadvantages.

  La Comtesse had had her embroidery-frame moved nearer to the windows so that she could make full use of what little light there was. She looked up now, tugging absentmindedly on a strand of wool. "What is the trouble, my dear?'

  "This pen!" Madelaine shook her head vehemently. "I will never get all the directions written, never." She glared at a stack of sealed notes of fine cream-laid paper. "That's only fifty-seven. There are over three hundred of them."

  "Well," Claudia said reasonably as she set another petit point stitch, "you may summon Milane and give the task over to him. You," she pointed out, "were the one who said you wanted to help with the fête."

  "I must have been mad." She pushed away from the little table where she worked. "Oh, aunt, never mind. I have a headache. That visit from le general this morning has put me in a bad temper. As if anyone cared about the Austrian Succession. What does it matter if the Elector of Bavaria or Fredrick is on the throne?"

  "Well," her aunt explained as she worked her tapestry, "you see, Madelaine, while Fleuiy was alive, we had years and years of peace, which the generals hated." She was busy for a moment with her yams, then went on. "Now Fleury is dead, and the King's mistress is in favor of war—very foolish of her, I think. It will cost her His Majesty's affections one day, you mark my words. We all have learned to despise Maria Theresa of Austria, and now that the English support her, it is obvious that there must be war."

  "It's stupid. It's stupid and wasteful!" Madelaine had gone to the windows and stood looking out. She was very pretty in that wan light, her dark hair showing the fine warm color of her flawless skin to perfection. She was simply dressed in flowered taffeta over a simple petticoat of eyelet linen. Her panniers were very moderate, even for morning at-home wear. A wide sash of rose satin circled her narrow waist, and because it was cold in this great house, she had draped a Spanish fringed shawl around her shoulders and tied it below her bosom. A ribbon of the same rose satin as the sash was threaded through her hair, catching up the long curls in an artless cluster.

  "The King wishes the world to know that he will govern for himself, as did his great-grandfather. Oh, it is foolish, for there are able men around him who thrive on such work, and he, poor man, does not truly enjoy the tedium of government. Dear me," she added, breaking off. "I did not mean to sound disrespectful of his Majesty, who, naturally, is a glorious monarch." She turned her attention to her needlework for several minutes, and then said, in quite another voice, "Do not worry, Madelaine. The fête will be a success. You will be overwhelmed with compliments and attention, and will very likely spend the next day abed, recovering from all your gaiety."

  "Oh, aunt. I did not mean it. I am out of sorts. I think it must be the weather. I was promised to ride this morning, but this rain..." She turned abruptly from the windows and walked back toward the table.

  "It is hard to stay indoors when it would be delightful to be outside," Claudia allowed as she carefully selected another length of yarn, holding it against her canvas. "How vexatious," she said in a different voice. "They may say what they will, but these hanks came from two different dye lots. Well, I suppose I must work on the background until I have the time to consult with the dyer." She sighed and pulled a long twist of light-blue yarn from her needlework box.

  Madelaine, who was busy trimming a new pen, did not hear most of this. She looked critically at the ink in the standish, and tipped a little water into it. "It might have been this," she said to the air. "The ink is getting dreadfully thick."

  There were six more addressed invitations in the stack when the door opened and le Comte d'Argenlac strolled into the room, his fashionable dress revealing that he had arrived some little time before, and had put off his traveling clothes. He was a good-looking man in his thirty-ninth year, but in his wife's company he had the manners of a sulky boy.

  "Gervaise," his wife said, rising cordially.

  He kissed her hand with more form than interest. "Good day, Claudia. I see you are well." He turned to Madelaine. "I see you are both busy. I hope you are still enjoying Paris, Mademoiselle." His tone said he would like nothing better than for her to go away.

  "I find Paris delightful. But the rain does not please me." She had given him the curtsy that good manners required, and was mildly affronted when he did not return her so much as a nod of the head.

  "Gervaise, dear husband, you must not behave so. Here is my niece, very correctly acknowledging you, and you act as if she were made of air." She smiled as she said it, but Madelaine saw le Comte set his jaw.
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  "I beg your pardon for my lamentable behavior," he said, with a bow that would have been more appropriate for a Duchesse.

  "Comte," said his Comtesse with disastrous candor, "it is not Madelaine who annoys you, but me. I would prefer that we talk in private. And if you want to vent your spleen, do so at me when we are alone, my dear. Involving my niece in our petty quarrels only serves to make matters worse."

  Madelaine was already at the door. "Excuse me, aunt. I see that you and your husband have much to talk about, and I will leave you alone. You may send to the library for me when you want me."

  Her aunt gave her a harassed smile and said, "Yes. Very well. It is unfortunate, but you are right, my dear. I must talk to my husband alone for some little while. I know you enjoy reading, so will not apologize for isolating you in this way." She had her hand on the door, and as soon as Madelaine's skirt had rustied through it, she closed the door firmly and turned with a sinking heart to face her husband.

  "My compliments, Madame," le Comte said, his almost handsome face flushed. "You cannot even greet me without disgracing me."

  Claudia reluctantly crossed the room toward him. "It was not I who insulted Madelaine. But let that go. It is not what is bothering you." In spite of herself, she extended her hands to him. "Ah, Gervaise, why did you not trust me? Why did you not tell me long ago how it is with you?"

  "So that you would pity me, and gloat? No, thank you, Claudia. Give me credit for more pride than that." He chose one of the old-fashioned chairs by the fire and sank down onto it.

  "Certainly you have pride," his wife said in a slightly exasperated tone. "And it must be painful indeed for you, who have never had the least need to study economy, to be forced to do so now. But you must understand that you are in very serious trouble."

  "No more." He held up his hand. "How I handle my affairs is no concern of yours."

  She approached him again and dropped to her knees beside him, looking up to him with sad hazel eyes. "But it is my concern, Gervaise. If you cannot settle your debts, and your fortune is exhausted, the King will require that my fortune be used to that purpose."

  Le Comte nodded savagely. "Now we have it. Now we have it. Your precious fortune would be used. It doesn't mean anything to you unless your fortune is involved." He pushed her hand away.

  "That is not so," she said in a low voice, and felt herself precariously near tears. "Gervaise, please. You cannot want to bring ruin on us. Only consider what that means. It is not just your estates and this house we would lose..."

  "You would like it if we lost the estates, would you not?" He pulled his hand from her. "You have always wanted me to come to ruin. That way, you will make me stop at home, and be at your beck and call, like some despicable lapdog." He pushed out of the chair. "No more tears, Madame, if you please."

  "Very well," Claudia said as she got slowly to her feet. "Here you have been home less than an hour—it is less than an hour, is it not—and already we are quarreling, and over such senseless matters." She pressed her hands together and forced herself to stop trembling. "Do you know what it would mean to be poor, Gervaise?" she said in a moment. "Do you have any idea how we would have to live? In what circumstances we would find ourselves? No?"

  "You are being melodramatic, Claudia," he snapped, but without conviction.

  "I saw Lorraine Brèssin last spring," she said rather remotely. "I saw where she lived. It was not bad enough that Brèssin bankrupted them. When he killed himself, he made certain that his family would have nothing to do with Lorraine. She and I are the same age, and she looks fifty. Her hair is grizzled, she dresses in worse gowns than my chambermaid. Her two daughters—do you remember them? They had no skills but their looks and pretty speech, and they were taken by brothel keepers. The daughters of le Vicomte de Brèssin are common whores, Gervaise," she said with a stifled sob.

  "Well, you need not worry yourself about that, Madame. We have no daughters, or sons for that matter, to be sold to brothels. So if we lose my fortune and yours, we will hurt none but ourselves." He strode to the door. "Control your tears, Claudia. It is bad enough having you rescue me. To have you weep is more insult than I can bear." He pulled the door open and stood for a moment, watching his Comtesse. "I suppose you must be thanked for paying my debts. But I will be grateful if, in future, you let me handle my own affairs!"

  She nodded, standing very straight. "As you wish, Gervaise," she said in a strangled voice.

  "I am going out. Do not expect me to dine with you." He had the satisfaction of seeing her composure break. Claudia covered her face with her hands and wept. "Good day, Madame."

  Once outside of the withdrawing room, Gervaise strode down the long hall toward the stable room. He had taken great satisfaction from his conversation with his wife, but now he felt certain doubts. He did not, in fact, know how he was going to rescue the pitiful remains of his fortune. He had had some very disturbing letters from his man of business, but he refused to admit that perhaps Claudia had been right to pay what she could of his debts for him. He swore, and paused as he heard a lackey call to him.

  "What is it, Scirraino?" he demanded impatiently as the servant came up to him.

  Scirraino bowed and said, "There is a person to see you, master."

  Gervaise started, thinking that perhaps it was about his debts. His man of business had warned him about that possibility. "Did he give his name?" He said the words more loudly than he had intended, revealing his nervousness. He glanced over Scirraino's shoulder. "Where is he?" Again the words were too loud, and he grimaced, glancing at the door to the library, which he suddenly realized was ajar. He opened the door, stepping quietly into the room.

  Madelaine was sitting at the desk by the fireplace, a branch of candles giving light to the old leather-bound book she was reading. She leaned on her elbow, her hand against her neck, rubbing idly at the skin. There was a secret smile in her violet eyes.

  "Mademoiselle," Gervaise said rather sharply.

  Madelaine looked up sharply, somewhat confused, and rose to bob a curtsy to her host. "What is it, sir?" she asked, seeing the desperate light in his eyes.

  "Nothing. Nothing." He looked around the library as if he had never seen the room before. Then he turned back. "What are you reading?"

  Madelaine glanced down at the book. "Latin poetry. Here, let me read this to you." She picked up the book and twisted so that her own shadow did not fall across the page.

  "Jucundum, mea vita, mihi proponis amorem

  Hunc nostrum internos perpetuumque fore.

  Di magnifacite ut vere promittere possit

  Atque id sincere dicta et ex animo

  Ut liceat mobis tota perducere vita

  Aeternum hoc santusfoedus amicitiae.

  Isn't that beautiful? To promise love for eternity, and friendship."

  This was a turn of events Gervaise had no idea of how to handle. His own scholarship was shaky, and anything in Latin roused him to panic. Now, to stand in his own library and have his wife's niece quote poetry to him, and that in Latin, was beyond his tolerance. "Very pretty," he said as he turned to the doorway, prepared to make his excuses and bolt.

  But his lackey Scirraino was back, and leading another lackey, this one outfitted in deep blue with red lacings on his livery. "I have a message for you, sir. For your ears alone."

  "Yes, yes, of course," Gervaise agreed quickly, glad to escape from Madelaine. He sketched a bow in her direction, saying, "Do not let me interrupt your reading, Mademoiselle. The library is yours for your stay, if you like." As he got to the door, he turned his attention to the lackey.

  "My master sends you greetings," said the lackey, and Madelaine, only half-listening, thought she heard Jueneport's name mentioned, but she was not sure, and soon turned her attention to Catullus, thinking that the good Sisters of Sainte Ursule who had educated her would be shocked if they knew to what worldly use she put her Latin. Softly she read the words. " 'Da mi basia mille, deinde centum, dein mille alte
ra, dein secunda centum, deinde usque altera mille, deinde centum... "'To have a thousand kisses, and a hundred, until they were without reckoning. She closed her eyes and remembered Saint-Germain's touch, and his kisses.

  Several minutes later she was shocked out of her reverie by the sound of Gervaise d'Argenlac calling for his coach, and the burst of activity his order provoked. She realized the library was cold, and, rather guiltily, that she had stayed away from her aunt much longer than she had planned.

  With a sigh she closed the volume of Catullus and left the room.

  Text of a letter from the sorcerer Beverly Sattin to Prinz Ragoczy, written in English, dated October 17, 1743:

  To His Highness, Franz Jermain Ragoczy, Prinz of Transylvania,

  B. Sattin sends his most Urgent Greetings. The Egg and Nest of the Black Phoenix are missing. BlueSky has been Beaten, and is near to Perishing. Oulen is missing, with the Treasure mentioned. We have searched, but there is no sign of it.

  I Pray that Your Highness will lend your Assistance to the Guild in this Calamity. If it is Possible, come to us at the Place where we met before, at Your Highness' Earliest Convenience.

  Yours, etc., in haste,

  B. Sattin