"How many are attending tonight?" Saint-Germain asked.
"Our totals, without counting the consort of musicians or the Bohemian poet, are fifty-nine men and twenty-two women attending. We have engaged nine extra servants for the evening, beyond the Residence staff. Your colleague, van Hoek, will attend, as I'm sure you know." She smiled as she saw a look of curiosity cross Saint-Germain's attractive, irregular features. "And the Czar and his Marfa, of course. We don't count them with the rest."
"So over eighty guests. A very respectable number, given the size
of the Foreign Quarter," he said, and bowed to her again. "I look forward to seeing you at the second hour before sunset, at the English Residence on Nevsky Street. I will bring my wrenches for tuning the instrument at that time."
"Nevsky Prospekt," she corrected him. "The Czar has ordered that the embankments be stone-covered by this time next year, and a proper promenade be made in stone at the top of them. He has declared that it will be renamed to suit his plan for it, and we are to start giving it its new name at once. Just as well that you have wrenches for the clavichord--I doubt the Czar has a set."
Saint-Germain kept his opinion to himself; he withdrew to the door and paused long enough to say, "I wish you every degree of good fortune possible this evening, Ksiezna."
She dipped a curtsy to him. "Thank you, Hercegek. I know I may depend upon you to do your part." Her wave of dismissal was abrupt.
Leaving Zozia's house, Saint-Germain stepped out into the glistening sunshine of an early autumn afternoon. The air was clear, the sky an improbable blue, the streets busy as the people of the Foreign Quarter hurried to make the most of this pleasant day; servants hastened to the market-squares to secure meat and poultry for the coming months, when both would be in short supply; merchants bustled through the markets as well, making themselves aware of the goods on display, and seeing that their own products were available and attractive. It appeared that most of the people could feel the last warmth of autumn slipping away. Taking his time along the street, Saint-Germain seemed to be enjoying his short walk; all the while he was covertly scanning the crowd, searching for any man whose presence troubled him, anyone who seemed too interested in him. The fellow in the hat might be in the crowd, but Saint-Germain could not see him; with all the care he could muster, he could detect no one who might be following him, but he could not rid himself of the sensation of being watched; long experience had taught him to lend credence to such impressions, and he bore that lesson in mind as he arrived at the care-house, for he lingered in the small vestibule long enough to have a thorough look at the street before he entered the
main room, where he found Heer van Hoek deep in conversation with Brother Gilarye.
"Oh, Hercegek," he said, cutting into his exchange with the monk. "May I have a word with you?" Since he spoke in Dutch, it was apparent he did not want their conversation understood by the patients.
"If you like," said Saint-Germain, almost certain he knew what van Hoek wanted to discuss.
"I have been using that sovereign remedy you provided me, and I am pleased to say that two of the most stubborn cases of Swamp Fever are finally showing signs of improvement. I hope to have encouraging news on the new patients, as well." He stopped abruptly, and took a moment before continuing.
When the silence grew, Saint-Germain said, "But--?"
Van Hoek locked his hands together. "But we have another condition developing among our patients; Brother Gilarye has been telling me of its distinctions, so that I and Madame Svarinskaya may be more alert to its presence." He rubbed his hands together as if to rid them of something unpleasant. "From what Brother Gilarye and I have been able to determine, it is a kind of rash on the skin, circular in appearance, about as large as the palm of my hand, and I fear it may be contagious, for it has spread among them."
"A rash on the skin?" Saint-Germain asked, giving van Hoek his full attention. "Have the bed-linens been boiled weekly?"
"When I can persuade Klavdye and Jascha to do it, yes. But with the weather turning so damp and wet, they aren't as willing to boil the washing as they were in the summer. They claim it chaps their hands and damages the sheets to boil them."
"It probably does lead to chapping, but it is still important. Have the sheets checked for bed-bugs and boil any that have them; it may not be much, but it could decrease the problem. Also, have the horses and dogs examined for signs of the rash; sometimes such conditions are shared by men and beasts alike," said Saint-Germain, feeling more alarmed than he allowed himself to reveal; he moved toward the stairs. "You will attend the salon, as I understand. You finally made up your mind to go."
"Either Madame Svarinskaya or I must, according to the Czar, and since Ludmilla has night-duty here ..."
"And a woman by herself at such a function might attract unwelcome attention," said Saint-Germain, voicing a worry that had beset Ludmilla from the time the invitation arrived. "None of us wants that."
"She would have to speak only to other women, as well, if she went alone," said van Hoek. "Do you think I should offer to escort her? For an hour or two?"
"Why not ask her? But keep in mind that you would be ill-advised to depart the salon before the Czar and Madame Skavronskaya do, and that could run into very late hours." Saint-Germain started up the stairs. "Would you like me to make an ointment for Klavdye and Jascha to lessen the chapping?"
"If you would, it may help. I would also appreciate your opinion on the rashes the patients are suffering. I know bed-bug rashes, but this hasn't the look of them. You've seen a great many diseases in your travels, and you may be able to advise me." It was obvious he disliked asking for such help.
"Of course." He stopped on the fourth step up. "Would you like me to attend to them now, or tomorrow? Whatever treatment I may have to offer, you are welcome to it."
"If you can spare the time to prepare the concoction this afternoon, we may take steps to halt the spread tonight." He flung up one hand in exasperation. "It is always something, isn't it? I suppose we should be grateful that matters are no worse."
"So it would seem." He resumed his climb and found Hroger waiting for him, prepared to lay out his clothing for the salon.
"You've heard about the rash?" he asked as Saint-Germain came into his quarters. "Kyril says it is becoming prevalent among the work-gangs."
"Van Hoek just told me," he answered. "Have you seen it?"
"I have. It is like that condition you saw in Poland before you were summoned to the Court of Karl-lo-Magne."
Saint-Germain swung around to look at Hroger. "You mean those
eruptions called skin mushrooms?" He frowned. "I hope you are wrong, old friend."
"So do I," said Hroger with more emotion than he usually revealed. "But it has that kind of appearance. You should look for yourself."
"Yes; I told van Hoek I would," Saint-Germain said to him. "So I suppose I should don a smock and go downstairs." He went to take a clean smock from its peg. "I assume Madame Svarinskaya is resting for her night duties."
"Actually, no, she has gone to the butcher to order smoked pork and pickled beef while both can be had. She says she'll rest later today." He paused. "She holds you in high regard."
"As I do her," said Saint-Germain.
"I'm aware of that," said Hroger with almost no inflection.
"For some reason, you have reservations," said Saint-Germain, perplexed by this uncharacteristic stance.
"Not about Madame Svarinskaya, but about the Ksiezna, who seems to be a woman most reluctant to share anything she deems to be hers."
"Such as myself?" Saint-Germain shook his head, his dark eyes distant. "It is unlikely to come to that."
"But if it does, you will need to be extremely careful, for Ludmilla's sake as well as your own; the Ksiezna would not use half-measures in such circumstances; she expects you to obey her commands." Abruptly he changed the subject. "Would you like to see the men with the rashes now?"
"Yes. Then I will need to dress, since I must go to tune the clavichord in a while." He held up his hand. "Zozia has requested I wear the spruce-blue satin. I leave you to choose waistcoat, chemise, neckcloth, and leg-hose; you know which shoes I will wear."
"I will," said Hroger.
"Do any of our patients on this floor have the rash you spoke of?" Saint-Germain asked. "I am assuming you've checked."
"I have, and none show signs of it yet. One or two have developed a cough, but at this time of year with the weather turning cold--" He shrugged his conclusion.
"Then I'll go down and have van Hoek show me." He turned, ready to descend. "Is there anything else I should be aware of?"
"Heer van Hoek has asked to borrow your microscope, since it is more powerful than his."
Saint-Germain considered his answer. "So long as he uses it in my quarters, I have no objection."
"Because of the monks," Hroger said.
"Precisely," said Saint-Germain. "They persist in believing that the atomies the microscope shows are devils, not instruments of disease. I will not be long." He was as good as his word, returning in less than half an hour, his face somber. "You were right: it is skin mushrooms. All the bedding will need to be boiled with urine, and the men with the rash will have to be separated from the others." He went to his trestle-table and took out a sheet of foolscap from its case, and reached for his writing materials. "I'll write this out for van Hoek." He set actions to words, sanding and clearing the sheet as he tucked up his cuff-ruffles. "If you will see he has this?"
"Of course," said Hroger. "I will set out your clothing while you finish your report."
"Thank you, old friend." He wrote two more lines, then added, "If you would, tell Ludmilla what we have discovered about the rash."
"I will do so, when she is awake." He left Saint-Germain to finish writing his report to van Hoek.
It was not quite two hours later when Saint-Germain left the care-house, bound for the English Residence. He was magnificently dressed in the spruce-blue satin coat and knee-britches; his waistcoat was of pinkish-tan faille with an edging of seed-pearls, his chemise was pale blue-gray, his neck-cloth edged in Belgian lace, as were his cuffs. Leg-hose of spruce-blue silk and black Florentine leather shoes with ruby-studded silver buckles completed his ensemble; he wore his best wig and carried a handkerchief in one hand, along with a fashionable tall cane, and his case of sheet music in the other. Traffic on the street had lessened from what it had been at mid-day, and now he reached his destination in about five minutes without undue haste.
"Welcome, Hercegek," said Drury Carruther as he opened the door of the Residence to him. "You come in good time."
"Better than to rush at the last moment," said Saint-Germain, stepping into the small entry-porch. "How are our wives?" The whole of the Residence smelled of roasting venison and beef, and there were servants hurrying to finish setting out glasses and the buffet that would be offered. Four large tubs filled with ice had been well-stocked with bottles and jars of beer, and a two-colored fountain offered red and white wine to the thirsty. There was even a large pitcher of lavender ratafia for the ladies.
"Busy. Perhaps a bit overwhelmed, what with the Resident laid down on his bed."
"His gout is still bothering him," said Saint-Germain with certainty.
"More than you know," said Carruther. "Perhaps you will call on him tomorrow, to administer some of that decoction of yours."
"Of course," said Saint-Germain.
"Your efforts will be much appreciated." He led Saint-Germain through the main room to one of the side-rooms where a group of musicians were setting up their chairs and stands. "The clavichord is in the corner. I'll have the servants bring a tree of candles for you."
"Thank you," said Saint-Germain, nodding to the other musicians. "I will try not to interpose my tuning with theirs."
"They'll appreciate that, I'm sure," said Carruther. "Shall I ask a servant to bring you anything to drink?"
"No, thank you," said Saint-Germain, a bit distantly.
"Oh, that's right. The scars--I remember. You don't drink wine, do you? Or eat." He smiled. "The better to tune on pitch, I suppose. Would you like anything else from me, other than silence?"
"Silence is helpful for tuning," said Saint-Germain; he bowed to Carruther. "I thank you for your kind offer."
"I'll leave you to it, then," said Carruther, and took a few steps backward, nearly tripping over the Italian tuning his viola da gamba; he muttered something as he escaped from the room.
Saint-Germain laid out his wrenches on the instrument's music
stand and began the long process of bringing all the strings into tune, starting at the base A and making his way upward. He was so engrossed by what he was doing that he hardly noticed when one of the Resident's English servants brought a tree of wax candles and stood it next to the instrument, then lit the candles and went away. Undistracted, Saint-Germain worked calmly and steadily, sounding nuances of pitch as he created octaves, then fifths, then thirds in true harmony with one another; it was a keyboard of three octaves and a fifth, so the tuning could not be done rapidly.
"You've a good ear," said one of the three violinists; he spoke in French. Like the other musicians, he was dressed in dark-gray with the simplest of waistcoats and neck-cloths, and a wig with a single pigeon's wing over each ear. "Clavichords are the very devil to tune, aren't they?"
"They can be. We will see how well this one holds pitch." Saint-Germain played a chromatic run up the keyboard, wincing at a few of the notes. "More work to do yet."
