Hotel Transylvania (26 page)

She laughed aloud. "And I thought your shoes were thicker because you were vain! I was certain that you wanted to be taller!" Alarmed by her outburst, the mare tossed her head and almost broke into a trot. Madelaine controlled herself and gave her mount's neck a reassuring pat to quiet her.

He laughed, too, and much of his somber mood fell away. "Madelaine, my heart, you are a minx."

"If I am truly your heart, then it matters not to me what else I am." Her sudden intensity forced him to look up at her, and to see the passion in her eyes. "When will you come to me again? When, Saint-Germain?" She waited for an answer, and when one did not come, she went on in a low voice. "You must come to me, Saint-Germain. I couldn't bear it if you did not come to me. Say you will. Say it."

Saint-Germain studied the rein in his hand as if he had never seen it before. "Madelaine, I have warned you what might happen. It is not just the blood, though that is part of it, but the closeness. If I taste of you again so soon..." The words stopped.

"Then let me drink yours. Please, Saint-Germain, as you love me."

He had closed his eyes as if in pain, and at last said, "No," very softly.

"Why not?" Impatiently she pulled her legs free of her saddle and slid to the ground beside him, turning to him with her demand. "What you give me is ecstasy. Do not forbid me to share that with you."

His words were louder, and harsher. "Yes, I forbid it."

"Why?" She stood at the crest of the bridge, blocking his way. "Why?"

"Very well," he capitulated. "If you were to taste my blood, Madelaine, you would most certainly become a vampire. You would be as I am." He turned to look over the river, feeling a certain vertigo that he always experienced when crossing water.

"Is that so terrible a thing to be?" She came closer to him and looked into his face. "Can you tell me that it is terrible?"

"It is very lonely." He found it hard to return her gaze, knowing what he would see in her eyes. If she were not so willing, he would not be vulnerable to her. Not since Demetrice, more than two hundred years before, had a woman caused such tumult in his life. Often in the past, he had been either their dreams, as he had for Lucienne Cressie, or a hated thing, to be avoided. Yet Madelaine knew him, knew what he was, and did not shrink from him. She sought his embrace wideawake, and met his desire with her own. He dreaded the loss of her, and at the same time wished to protect her from the consequences of his passion. "And you are very young."

The river ran under the bridge, clattering against the ancient stones like an impatient officer knocking for admittance. In the chill waters the gray sky was muted by the ripples spreading over the surface like gooseflesh. The two horses were reflected with the bridge and a dark-haired young woman. But of Saint-Germain there was no sign on those rushing waters.

"Is that all? Just loneliness?" She put her hand on his arm and smiled inwardly when he did not pull away. She stepped closer still.

Still he did not turn. "It is very dangerous. We are hated as much for our immortality as for our... feeding."

"And is it any more dangerous for you than it is for me to live now as I do? Was I in less danger at Sans Désespoir than I am with you? Does my mortality guard me against Saint Sebastien? Saint-Germain?" Gently she turned him toward her. "Can not you believe in my love for you? Does it mean so little to you that you will shut me away from you?"

He hesitated only a moment, then pulled her into his arms, holding her against him. He made a last desperate attempt to turn her from him. "You are not the first, Madelaine. Nor the last. No matter what happens between us."

Her eyes yearned up at him. "I know."

Gently he touched her mouth with his, the kiss almost chaste. He felt her body quiver with emotion, and he relented. "No, I do not mean that. What I feel is only for you. You do not have my love exclusively, Madelaine, but uniquely."

She rested her forehead against the firm line of his jaw. "I am glad," she said, and could not help giving a satisfied chuckle.

Looking back along the bridle path, he said with regret, "Your aunt and her husband will be along shortly." He tightened his arms around her.

"Isn't there time?"

"No." With one hand he touched her face. "I will come to you, Madelaine, since you will have me. After your fête, I will come to you."

She caught his hand in one of hers. "Promise!"

There was mild surprise in his face as he raised his brows. "I have said it, my heart. My Word is sufficient."

She seemed about to insist on the promise, but something in his manner gave her pause. Lifting his hand to her lips, she kissed it once on each small finger. Then quickly she stepped back from him, pulling her horse around to remount.

He stood beside her. "Here. Give me your foot." He waited until she had readied herself, then tossed her up onto the saddle.

"Thank you," she said, her formality returning again.

"Ah. Look there," he said, pointing toward two riders who had appeared around the gentle bend in the bridle path. "La Comtesse and her Comte. Not a moment too soon." He vaulted into the saddle without recourse to the stirrups.

"They have seen us," Madelaine said, waving. She let her mare walk off the bridge, turning to say to Saint-Germain, "I am glad we have had this time alone. It would have been dreadful to have remained uncertain."

"You were uncertain?" He pulled his stallion alongside her mare. "Mademoiselle, I will fear you are trifling with me if you say such things."

She spoke the next words softly, but he heard them. "I was never uncertain of myself. I only feared that perhaps you would not want me, or would tire of me after the first time. I know I am very young... particularly to you. It would have broken my heart if you had been seeking sensation. I could have borne outright rejection better than that."

He let his intense gaze rest on her for a moment. "You need not fear: the last time I sought sensation that way, Heliogabalus was Caesar. I lost my taste for such sport more than a thousand years ago." He turned his horse's head toward the approaching riders, and went on, in quite another voice, 'The opera for your fête is to be a surprise, my dear, and I will not tell you more than that."

"Madelaine! Saint-Germain!" La Comtesse d'Argenlac had raised her riding crop to wave.

They returned her salutation, Saint-Germain remarking to Madelaine as le Comte and la Comtesse came abreast of them, "I am looking forward to meeting your father, Mademoiselle. I understand that he is to arrive tonight."

Grateful for this deft turn to their talk, Madelaine said, "Yes, that is when we expect him. He has not been in Paris since before I was born. It will be delightful to watch him discover the city all over again. I hope I may prevail upon you to take him to those places where it would not be appropriate for me to go."

"Oh, I can do that," Gervaise offered with a swift, challenging glance at his wife. "I suppose you will allow that, Claudia."

La Comtesse turned away, speaking in a somewhat muffled tone. "You must do as you think best, Gervaise. If you wish to be helpful to me in entertaining my brother, what can I be but grateful to you for your interest?" She took an unsteady breath and turned to Saint-Germain. "I must thank you for escorting Madelaine, Comte. I am sure our conversation would have bored her. So much contention for so little a matter! One would think that we had nothing better to do than displease each other to no purpose."

"So little a matter," Gervaise said with a certain malice in his smooth voice. "But now we are in perfect accord. Are we not, my love?"

"Certainly," la Comtesse agreed, too promptly. She gave the horizon a furtive glance, then said at her brightest, "Why, I did not realize how far advanced the day is. If we are to be at our hôtel when my brother arrives, I fear we must turn back now. I hope you do not mind, my dear niece. I do not want to take you from your pleasure."

Madelaine encountered a quelling look from Saint-Germain, and said tactfully, "Why, to see my father must be the greatest pleasure I may have. If it is acceptable to you, let me set the pace back to your hôtel. Saint-Germain," she said over her shoulder, "I would be happy for your company, but I know I must not keep you. I will look for you at the fête. And I promise I will not spy on your rehearsal of the opera."

Saint-Germain bowed low in his saddle, his tricorne over his heart. "Thank you, Madelaine. It has been an enchanting afternoon. Comte, Comtesse, your most obedient." He wheeled his stallion and set him for the bridge. "Until tomorrow, then."

But he waited on the far side of the bridge for some little time, watching Madelaine as long as he could see her, a brave figure leading her troubled aunt and her husband back toward their hôtel at a smart trot.

Only when she was completely gone did he cross the bridge again, and follow after them.

Excerpt from a letter from l'Abbesse Dominique de la Tristesse de les Anges to her sister's unknown benefactor, dated November 2, 1743:

...The physician who was good enough to accompany my poor Lucienne to this convent has told me that with good nursing and the help of God she may well be restored to her reason and some portion of her health.

I cannot thank you enough for your kindness on her behalf. That you sent her violoncello with her, so that she might have the solace and consolation of her art in this retreat, reveals the goodness of your soul. If you have aught to fear of God at the Last Judgment, you may be sure that your efforts on my sister's behalf will mitigate in your favor. No one, learning of her suffering, could have done more for her, or with greater care for her protection and good name. That you have rescued her without scandal shows how great is your concern for her.

Schoenbrun told me that you do not desire to be known, as much for Lucienne's benefit as for your humility. It is no doubt true that if it were known by anyone near her husband, efforts would be made to compel you to speak, thereby exposing her to punishment by the law and to forced obedience to her husband. I know that it is the duty of a wife to accept the judgments of her husband, and to submit meekly to his bidding. Yet, from what I have heard from Lucienne, her husband has been an adulterer in unnatural ways, and has eschewed the company of women, including his wife. No doubt this is not a marriage in the Eye of God, and even the Holy Virgin does not ask that those not in her service deny the flesh, but rather admonishes women to pray for the blessings of children, and bring fruits of their marriage to God in testament of their mutual respects and affections.

Be assured that I and the good nuns here will guard my sister and keep her safe until she is ready to go again into the world. If she should prefer not to return to Paris, we will be at pains to be sure she lives in a manner suited to her rank and station. Already I have written to our cousin, who is Cardinal Glaivefleur. He lives in Rome, and is a man of the most excellent repute. I am certain he would willingly be guardian to Lucienne and give her the sanctuary of his house as well as the setting for her to realize her talents in a most congenial atmosphere. Perhaps you will agree that it will be best if she does not see Achille Cressie again.

The Good Virgin, Who is our help and font of intercession before the Majesty of God, will think on you kindly, and will hold you in Her mercy for the delivering of my sister from the mouth of hell. You will always be in my prayers, for though I do not know your name, the God of us all reads our hearts and sees you as beloved among His children.

I must not be long at this letter, for I wish to send it with the physician Schoenbrun, who returns to Paris within the hour. I have had that good man's promise that should I wish to reach you, a letter to him will find you. I will take the liberty of informing you of Lucienne's progress from time to time, so that you may be certain of her recovery and salvation.

From the bottom of my heart and with the blessing and gratitude of my soul, in this world and the next, in pious gratitude

Believe me your most devoted in spirit,
 

Dominique de la Tristesse de les Anges Abbesse,
 

la couvent de la Miséricorde et la Justice de le Rédempteur

Chapter 2

Rain had been falling steadily for more than two hours when the coach pulled up at last before the side entrance of hôtel d'Argenlac. The horses were steaming, and the wheels and crested side panels of the coach were heavily spattered with mud. A shout from the coachman brought lackeys running from the hôtel, and in a few moments lanterns were brought to illume the wet, blustery night.The door of the coach opened, and the steps were let down for a staid, middle-aged servant in green livery. He held a long cane in one hand, prepared to give it to the other man about to descend.