Hotel Transylvania (15 page)

I think so often, dear father, of the strictures you have laid on me concerning the hollowness of court life, and being here only reinforces your wisdom Most of the people here are shallow, unaware of the world beyond them, unwilling or unable to rise above their surroundings and see the variety of their people. De la Sept-Nuit, who my aunt says might offer for me, is not an evil man, I think, but thoughtless and consequently cruel. He has no concern for any other than himself, because he was never taught to regard the feelings of those other than himself. And it appears that the life in Paris only makes this worse. He has fortune, education of a sort, is pleasing of face, and of the first style, but he would ride past a starving child without ever hearing its pitiful cry, or seeing its emaciated state. No wonder you shun these people as you do.

But consider this: you are an example to them, as well, and if you hide forever in Provence, what can they learn of you, but that you are a recluse with your head in the clouds? I am sending you an invitation to the fête in November, and I pray that you will come. It would delight me to have you at my side, so that you should see how I go on in this vast ocean of society.

In the time I have been here I have come to see many things which I did not understand before. Reflection on the teaching of the Sisters has brought me to a new sense of faith, at a depth which I had not known until this time. We are not in a world of life and death only, my father. There is a compassion that transcends the brevity of life, and makes bearable our pitiful mortality.

If my mother has returned from her brother's estates, I hope you will tender her my duty for me, and commend me to her. For yourself, you have my filial respect and devotion, and my willing obedience to your orders and affections. With this continuing assurance, I am always

Your devoted daughter,

Madelaine Roxanne Bertrande de Montalia

Chapter 3

The lackey in deep-blue livery with red lacing bowed as he opened the door to the little salon, announcing as he did, "Le Comte d'Argenlac, Baron Saint Sebastien."

Saint Sebastien looked up from his reading and nodded curtly as Gervaise d'Argenlac came uncertainly into the room. "Baron Saint Sebastien?" he said uncertainly. "You wanted to see me?"

"Yes, d'Argenlac, I did." He rose from his deep chair and regarded his guest with hooded eyes. "I am, as you may perhaps know, a friend of Jueneport."

Gervaise had almost cringed at the mention of Jueneport, and Saint Sebastien felt a surge of inward satisfaction. Evidently the interview of two days before had badly frightened d'Argenlac.

"You need not worry, Comte," Saint Sebastien said smoothly, setting his book aside on a small rosewood table. The salon had three such tables, and its high ceilings were decorated with murals showing a disturbingly realistic
Rape of the Sabines.
At the far end of the room a low fire burned, for though the rains had stopped, there was a crisp bite to the air, which chilled the bright sunlight pouring through the high windows.

"I am not worried, Baron," Gervaise lied. He still held his tricorne and cane, and seemed uncertain of what to do with them. "I confess," he said, turning from Saint Sebastien's contemptuous gaze, "I cannot think why you would want to speak with me."

"You may call it a whim, Comte. Perhaps you would like to sit down." He motioned to a chair, and waited while Gervaise sat, his tricorne clutched over his knees.

Saint Sebastien strolled to the windows and let Gervaise wait.

"I... I found it curious, Baron," Gervaise said at last, his voice unnaturally high, "that one of your lackeys should have brought me a message from Jueneport."

"You did?" He turned slowly and was glad to see that le Comte d'Argenlac was squirming like a schoolboy. "I meant for you to wonder."

"But why? What interest do you have in me?" He wished now that he had had the foresight to wear his full formal scarlet satin coat with the rose-and-gold embroidery on the cuffs instead of the simple light-blue traveling suit of English superfine wool. He felt like a peasant beside the luxurious lounging robe Saint Sebastien wore. An unpleasant thought crossed his mind. "I don't owe you money, do I?"

His host let out his breath in a long, satisfied sigh. "If you mean did you lose money to me, no, d'Argenlac, you did not. But it may surprise you to learn that you do, in fact, stand in my debt. De Vandonne had had need of ready cash and was willing to sell me a few of your notes of hand." He went to one of the small tables and opened the shallow drawer, taking a sheaf of paper from it. He made a show of thumbing through these, saying at last, "My dear Comte, do you always bet for such tremendous sums? I would think, in your position, you would not want to be so profligate."

Gervaise felt color rising in his face. "You mistake, Baron. I do not play to lose."

"Do you not?" Saint Sebastien's voice was tinged with polite disbelief. "I would not have thought it." He put the notes down again.

"Well?" Gervaise said after a few moments of silence.

"Oh, I was simply wondering when you would find it convenient to redeem them."

This time the silence was noticeably longer, and when Gervaise spoke, it was with considerable difficulty. "I have not... a great amount of... ready money by me... just at present...." He fingered his neat neck cloth, which was suddenly much too tight. "My man of business... will have to arrange... matters. It might take a few days."

"I would not think you could arrange it at all," Saint Sebastien said pleasantly. "I was under the impression that all your real property is heavily mortgaged. Perhaps I am wrong, but that was what Jueneport led me to believe." He toyed with his elegant snuffbox as he spoke, but did not open it or offer any to his miserable guest.

"There are mortgages," Gervaise admitted at last. "But I fancy I can find sufficient funds to redeem those." He pointed to the notes on the table.

"You mean that you can force your wife to pay them," Saint Sebastien said with obvious distaste.

The expression of chagrin and disgust on Gervaise's face told Saint Sebastien more than he realized. "Yes, that is what I mean. And she will pay them. You need not fear."

Saint Sebastien took a leisurely turn about the room, his face inscrutable. "I see you dislike using your wife's fortune," he said as he stopped by the hearth.

Gervaise shrugged

"If it were possible," Saint Sebastien went on, looking into the fire, "if there were a way for you to pay off your debts without your wife's help, would you be willing to take it?"

"There is no such way." The desolation of these words brought a smile to Saint Sebastien's eyes, but Gervaise did not see it.

"Tell me," Saint Sebastien mused, "your wife's niece, the de Montalia girl..."

"She's a pert-tempered child!" Gervaise snapped.

"Very possibly. The de Montalia line is at all times unpredictable. But I understand your wife is giving a fête in her honor?"

"Yes, on the third of November." He was faintly curious. "Do you want to come?"

"I? Certainly not. Not yet." He turned to face Gervaise now, his eyes almost expressionless. "I have only thought that you might do me a favor as regards her—"

"Madelaine?" Gervaise interrupted, very puzzled now.

"Yes, Madelaine. Robert's first and only bom child."

"What do you want with her?" Alarm pricked at Gervaise's neck, but he steadfastly ignored it. He felt no particular partiality for Madelaine; in fact, he thought her far too bright and self-possessed for her own good.

"I want to discharge an obligation of her father's. I trust she will be able to do this."

"To do what?" He did not quite like the way Saint Sebastien's face looked, the reptilian cast to the eyes and the unpleasant sneer in his smile. He sat a little more forward on his chair. "Le Marquis de Montalia has been invited to the fête. You may discharge your obligation to him."

"Indeed?" Saint Sebastien clicked his tongue, and strode to the windows. "Robert is coming to Paris, after all these years. Who would have thought it."

"I do not understand you," Gervaise complained.

"This does not concern you." He moved back to the fire, a restless light in his face now. "It is an old, old matter, Comte, of personal interest only." He tapped his hands on the mantel and then murmured, "There is much less time, then. We must handle this otherwise." He turned to Gervaise, speaking briskly. "Your debts: would you like to discharge them?"

Gervaise made a gesture of despair, and confessed, "It is impossible, Baron. I have not the resources to do it."

Saint Sebastien seized on this. "Suppose it were possible. Suppose I could make it possible? Would you do one small service in return for me?"

Suddenly Gervaise felt the full force of his alarm, and his hands grew clammy. He found he could not meet the ferocity of Saint Sebastien's cold eyes. "What service?"

"A minor one, Comte. Very minor," he soothed. "You have a small estate not far from Paris. It is called Sans Désespoir, appropriately enough. If you are willing to do this little thing for me, Comte, you should be truly without despair for as long as you are wise in games of chance." He regarded d'Argenlac cynically, knowing that for Gervaise gambling was like an illness, a possession, and that it would not be long before he once again depleted his fortune and was forced to turn, resentfully, to his wife.

"What am I to do? What do you offer me?" He wished his need were less acute, as he sensed that he might be able to realize far more from Saint Sebastien, had he time to bargain.

"Sans Désespoir is surrounded by a large park, I believe, and shares hunting preserves with two other nearby estates?" He let the plan come together in his mind. He thought it would work, and would put Madelaine de Montalia into his hands before her father arrived in Paris.

"Yes. Le Duc de Ruisseau-Royal is to the north, and on the east le Baron du Chaisseurdor. Our families have hunted there together for six hundred years." He put his hands out in front of him and was startled to see they were trembling. He thrust them back into his pockets. "I do not hunt much, myself. I have no taste for the sport."

"But La Montalia does. I have heard that she is a daring horsewoman who has been heard to complain that she misses the long gallops she had at home. And with the rigors of the fête before her, she might very well find a few days in the country a treat. You will make up a party, Comte. Very select, and most attractive. You may allow your Comtesse to make up the list, as long as de la Sept-Nuit is included. He has expressed great admiration for the girl, and I want to give him an opportunity to know her better."

"I see," Gervaise said eagerly, needing desperately to know that he would not be doing anything where he might be held at fault.

"Of course, there will be hunting. Not the most vigorous of chases, for we don't want to see the girl exhausted before her triumph. A few runs in the afternoon, and pleasant evenings away from the demands and bustle of the city—it is just what she will find most enjoyable. And your Comtesse will agree. Be sure of that."

Gervaise thought this over, and saw that it would indeed put him in good odor with Claudia. But a nagging doubt clung to him. "How will this benefit you, Baron? And why should you pay me for extending my hospitality to the young lady?"

"Ah, that is my concern. Only see that de la Sept-Nuit is there, and that they hunt together. It will more than satisfy me.

One ugly thought came to his mind. "I do not want the girl compromised under my roof. If de la Sept-Nuit wants to seduce her, let him do it here, in Paris."

Saint Sebastien achieved a sly laugh. "No, that is not what de la Sept-Nuit wants. I can safely promise you that he will not seduce her." There was nothing reassuring in the bland smile he gave Gervaise. "Only let her hunt with him in the country, Comte, and you will be amply rewarded."

"Why?" He knew he had to ask the question, and he rose as he said the word.

"I have made that clear. De la Sept-Nuit wishes to know her better, and I have promised that I will help him to make the match if he can." Saint Sebastien rummaged in his pocket and at last retrieved what he searched for. "Here, Comte, a token of my good faith."

"What is it?" Gervaise stepped back and looked suspiciously at Saint Sebastien's closed, extended hand.

"Partial payment. Come, Comte, take it. You will find it of use, believe me."

Gervaise took a few reluctant steps forward and held out his hand, half-expecting to have something loathsome dropped into it.

"There. You will find that Guillem of Le Hollandais will be able to cut it for you." He dropped the uncut diamond into Gervaise's hand, and smiled a little at the joy in his face, which was quickly followed by fright. "It is genuine, Comte. I would guess that it will bring a sizable sum."

Gervaise's hand closed convulsively around the gem. "I do not understand," he muttered.