The Saint-Germain Chronicles (9 page)

“It seems eminently reasonable, Mister Tree,” Saint-Germain told him as he indicated the chair James had occupied before.

“Good,” James responded uneasily.

Saint-Germain drew up his chair; the firelight played on his face, casting sudden shadows along his brow, the line of his straight, aslant nose, the wry, sad curve of his mouth. Though his expression remained attentive, his eyes now had a sad light in them. “Mister Tree, how badly were you hurt?”

James was more disquieted now than ever and he tugged at the cuffs of his jacket before he answered. “It must have been pretty bad. But I walked here, and I figure it’s more than forty, maybe fifty miles from… where it happened.” He ran one large hand through his silver hair. “Those cuts, though. Jesus! And I felt so… detached. Bleeding does that, when it’s bad, or so the medics told me. But I got up…”

“Yes,” Saint-Germain agreed. “You got up.”

“And I made it here…” With a sudden shudder, which embarrassed him, he turned away.

Saint-Germain waited until James was more composed, then said, “Mister Tree, you’ve had a shock, a very great shock, and you are not yet recovered from it. It will take more than a few minutes and well-chosen words of explanation to make you realize precisely what has occurred, and what it will require of you.”

“That sounds ominous,” James said, forcing himself to look at Saint-Germain again.

“Not ominous,” Saint-Germain corrected him kindly. “Demanding, perhaps, but not ominous.” He stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles. “Mister Tree, Madelaine led me to understand that you were told about her true nature. Is this so?” Privately, he knew it was, for Madelaine had confided all her difficulties with James over the years, and Saint-Germain was aware of the American’s stubborn disbelief in what he had been told.

“A little. I heard about the aristocratic family, and looked them up.” His square chin went up a degree or two. “She made some pretty wild claims…”

Saint-Germain cut him short “Did you bother to investigate her claims?”

“Yes,” James admitted, sighing. “I had to. When she told me… those things, I had to find out if she had been making it up out of whole cloth.” He rubbed his hands together, his nervousness returning.

“And what did you discover?” Saint-Germain’s inquiry was polite, almost disinterested, but there was something in his dark eyes that held James’ attention as he answered.

“Well, there was a Madelaine de Montalia born here in the eighteenth century. That was true. And she did… die in Paris in 1744. She was only twenty, and I read that she was considered pretty.” He paused. “The way Madelaine is pretty, in fact.”

“Does that surprise you?” Saint-Germain asked.

“Well, the same family…” James began weakly, then broke off. “The portrait looked just like her, and she kept saying it was her.” These words were spoken quickly and in an undervoice, as if James feared to let them have too much importance.

“But you did not believe her,” Saint-Germain prompted him when he could not go on. “Why was that?”

“Well, you should have
heard
what she said!” James burst out, rising from the chair and starting to pace in front of the fireplace. “She told me… Look, I know that you were her lover once. She didn’t kid me about that. And you might not know the kinds of things she said about herself…”He stopped and stared down at the fire, thinking that he was becoming more famished by the minute. If he could eat, then he would not have to speak. Unbidden, the memories of the long evenings with Madelaine returned with full force to his thoughts. He pictured her dining room with its tall, bright windows, Madelaine sitting across from him, or at the corner, watching him with delighted eyes as he ate. She never took a meal with him, and he had not been able to accept her explanation for this. As he tried to recall the taste of the sauce Claude had served with the fish, he nearly gagged.

“I know what she told you,” Saint-Germain said calmly, as if from a distance. “She told you almost twenty years ago that she is a vampire. You did not accept this, although you continued to love her. She warned you what would happen when you died, and you did not choose to believe her. Yet she told you the truth, Mister Tree.”

James turned around so abruptly that for a moment he swayed on his feet. “Oh, sure! Fangs and capes and graveyards and all the rest of it. Madelaine isn’t any of those things.”

“Of course not.”

“And,” James continued rather breathlessly now that he was started, “she said that you were… and that you were the one who changed her!” He had expected some reaction to this announcement, but had not anticipated that it would be a nod and a stern smile. “She said…” he began again, as if to explain more to Saint-Germain.

“I’m aware of that. She had my permission, but that was merely a formality.” He sat a bit straighter in his chair as the significance of his words began to penetrate James’ indignation. “She and I are alike in that way, now. It is correct: I did bring about her change, as she brought about yours.” His steady dark eyes were unfaltering as they held James‘.

“Come on,” James persisted, his voice growing higher with tension. “You can’t want her to say that about you. You can’t.”

“Well, in a general way I prefer to keep that aspect of myself private, yes,” Saint-Germain agreed urbanely, “but it is the truth, nonetheless.”

James wanted to yell so that he would not have to listen to those sensible words, so that he could shut out the quiet, contained man who spoke so reasonably about such completely irrational things. “Don’t joke,” he growled, his jaw tightening.

“Mister Tree,” Saint-Germain said, and something in the tone of his voice insisted that James hear him out: the American journalist reluctantly fell silent. “Mister Tree, self-deception is not a luxury that we can afford. I realize that you have been ill-prepared for… recent events, and so I have restrained my sense of urgency in the hope that you would ask the questions for yourself. But you have not, and it isn’t wise or desirable for you to continue in this way. No,” he went on, not permitting James to interrupt, “you must listen to me for the time being. When I have done, I will answer any questions you have, as forth-rightly as possible; until then, be good enough to remain attentive and resist your understandable inclination to argue.”

James was oddly daunted by the air of command that had come over le Comte, but he had many years’ experience in concealing any awe he might feel, and so he clasped his hands behind his back and took a few steps away from the fire as if to compensate for the strength he sensed in Saint-Germain. “Okay; okay. Go on.”

Saint-Germain’s smile was so swift that it might not have occurred at all—there was a lift at the corners of his mouth and his expression was once again somber. “Madelaine took you as her lover sometime around 1920, as I recall, and it was in 1925 that she tried to explain to you what would become of you after you died.” He saw James flinch at the last few words, but did not soften them. “Like Madelaine, you would rise from death and walk again, vampiric. As long as your nervous system is intact, you will have a kind of life in you, one that exerts a few unusual demands. You have some experience of them already. You are hungry, are you not? And yet you cannot bring yourself to eat. The notion of food is repulsive. We’re very… specific in our nourishment, Mister Tree, and you must become accustomed to the new requirements…”

“You’re as bad as she is,” James muttered, looking once toward the door as if he wanted to bolt from the room. He wanted to convince himself that the other man was a dangerous lunatic, or a charlatan enjoying himself at James’ expense, but there was undoubted sincerity in Saint-Germain’s manner, and a pragmatic attitude that was terribly convincing.

“Oh, I am much worse than Madelaine, Mister Tree. It was I who made her a vampire, back in the autumn of 1743.” He frowned as James turned swiftly, violently away. “Your change was assured possibly as early as 1922, but Madelaine was so fearful of your hatred that it took her over two years to gather her courage to explain the hazard to you. You see, she loves you, and the thought of your detestation was agony for her. She could not leave you unprepared, however, and eventually revealed…”

“This is crazy,” James insisted to the ceiling; he could not bring himself to look at Saint-Germain. “Crazy.”

“Do you appreciate the depth of her love?” Saint-Germain went on as if he had not heard James’ outburst. “Your protection was more important to her than your good opinion. She risked being loathed so that you would not have to face your change in ignorance.” He folded his arms. “And you make a paltry thing of her gift by refusing to admit that the change has happened.”

James threw up his hands and strode away from the fireplace toward the farthest corner of the room. “This doesn’t make any sense. Not any of it. You’re talking like a madman.” He could hear the unsteadiness of his voice and with an effort of will lowered and calmed it. “I remember what she told me about being a vampire. I didn’t believe it then, you’re right. I don’t believe it now. And you keep talking as if something has happened to me. True enough. My jeep was shot out from under me, I’ve lost a lot of blood and I’ve been wandering without food for over three days. No wonder I feel so… peculiar.”

Slowly Saint-Germain got out of the chair and crossed the room toward James. His compelling eyes never left James’ face, and the quiet command of his well-modulated voice was the more authoritative for its lack of emotion. “Mister Tree, stop deluding yourself. When that jeep turned over, when you were thrown through the air, you suffered fatal injuries. You lay on the ground and bled to death. But death is a disease to which we are, in part, immune. When the sun set, you woke into… Madelaine’s life, if you will.” He stopped less than two strides from James. “Whether you wish to believe it or not, you are a vampire, Mister Tree.”

“Hey, no…” James began, taking an awkward step back from Saint-Germain.

“And you must learn to… survive.”

“
NO
!” He flung himself away from le Comte, bringing his arms up to shield his face as if from blows.

“Mister Tree…”

“It’s
crazy
!” With an inarticulate cry, he rushed toward the door.

Before he could reach it, Saint-Germain had moved with remarkable speed and blocked James’ path. “Sit down, Mister Tree.”

“I…” James said, raising one hand to threaten the smaller man.

“I would advise against it, Mister Tree,” Saint-Germain warned him gently, with a trace of humor in his expression that baffled James anew. “Sit down.”

The impetus which had driven James to action left him as quickly as it had possessed him, and he permitted himself to be pointed in the direction of the chair he had just vacated. He told himself that he was in the presence of a lunatic, and that he ought to go along with him; but deeper in his mind was the gnawing fear that against all reason, Saint-Germain might be right. He moved stiffly, and as he sat down, he drew back into the chair, as if to protect himself. “You’re…”

“I’m not going to hurt you, if that is what concerns you,” Saint-Germain sighed. When James did not deny his fear, Saint-Germain crossed the room away from him, and regarded him for two intolerably long minutes. “Madelaine loves you, Mister Tree, and for that alone, I would offer you my assistance.”

“You were her lover once, if you’re who I think you are.” He had summoned a little defiance into his accusation.

“I have told you so. Yes, she and I were lovers, as you and she were.” There was an eighteenth century lowboy against the wall, and Saint-Germain braced himself against it, studying James as he did.

“And you’re not jealous?” James fairly pounced on the words.

“In time, we learn to bow to the inevitable. My love for Madelaine has not diminished, Mister Tree, but for those of our nature, such contact is… shall we say nonproductive?” His tone was sardonic; his face was sad. “No, I am not jealous.”

James heard this out in disbelief. “You want me to believe that?”

“I would prefer that you did,” Saint-Germain said, then shrugged. “You will discover it for yourself, in time.”

“Because I’m a vampire, like you two, right?” The sarcasm James had intended to convey was not entirely successful.

“Yes.”

“Christ.” James scowled, then looked up. “I said Christ. If I’m a vampire, how come I can do that? I thought all vampires were supposed to blanch and cringe at holy words and symbols.” He was not enjoying himself, but asking this question made him feel more comfortable, as if the world were sane again.

“You will find that there are a great many misconceptions about us, Mister Tree. One of them is that we are diabolic. Would you be reassured if I could not say God, or Jesus, or Holy Mary, Mother of God? Give me a crucifix and I will kiss it, or a rosary and I will recite the prayers. I will read from the Torah, the Koran, the Vedas, or any other sacred literature you prefer. There is a Bible in the library—shall I fetch it, so that you may put your mind at rest?” He did not conceal his exasperation, but he mitigated his outburst with a brief crack of laughter.

“This is absurd,” James said uncertainly.

Saint-Germain came a few steps closer. “Mister Tree, when you accepted Madelaine as your mistress, you knew that she was not entirely like other women. At the time, I would imagine that lent a thrill to what you did. No, don’t bristle at me. I’m not implying that your passion was not genuine: if it was not, you would not have been given her love as you have.” He fingered the lapel of his jacket. “This is rather awkward for me.”

“I can see why,” James said, feeling a greater degree of confidence. “If you keep telling me about…”

“It’s awkward because I know how you love Madelaine, and she you. And how I love her, and she me.” He read the puzzled look that James banished swiftly. “Ycu will not want to relinquish what you have had, but…”

“Because you’re back, is that it?” James challenged, sitting straight in the overstuffed chair.

“No. After all, Madelaine is on a dig, so her choice, if one were possible, is a moot point at best. I am afraid that it is more far-reaching than that.” He came back to his chair, but though he rested one arm across the back, he did not sit. “For the sake of argument, Mister Tree, accept for the moment that you have been killed and are now a vampire.”