“I BEG YOUR PARDON, my dear sir.”
The woman’s voice jarred him out of his tortured daze.
He turned to see a bizarre herd of jovial revelers standing before him. Their expressions ranged from giddy to confused. An older woman nearing sixty in a ballooning sheep’s costume gingerly inched forward from among them. Something about her sent shards of distress cutting through him. She studied him with a curious, perplexed expression on her round face before extending her hand and introducing herself as Madame de Fontenay. The name drove the shards in deeper. He masked his unease as he gave her a slight bow and took her hand.
“My dear count,” she asked, flustered with nervous excitement, “would you have the kindness to tell me whether a close relative of yours was in Rome around forty years ago? An uncle, perhaps, or even”—she hesitated—“your father?”
The false count smiled effusively with practiced insincerity. “Quite possibly, madame. My family seems encumbered with an insatiable will to travel. As for my father, I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you for certain. It was hard enough for me to keep up with his touring when I was a child, and I’m afraid I am completely in the dark as to his movements before my birth.” The small herd chuckled loudly and far more generously than St. Germain’s remark merited. “Why, if I may,” he added, “do you ask?”
The curious look in her eye hadn’t dulled. “I knew a man at the time. He paid me court, you see. I still remember our first encounter,” she reminisced. “We sang a few barcaroles of his composing together, and…” A serene glimmer lit up her eyes as her mind seemed to wander back to that time. “His features, his hair, his complexion…even his carriage. He had the impress and the nobility that one only finds in the great.” She seemed genuinely startled. “I see the same, all of it, in you.”
St. Germain bowed with false modesty. “You are far too generous, madame.”
The woman waved away his words. “Please, Count. I beseech you to think about it and let me know if I was indeed in the presence of a relation of yours. The similarity is simply too uncanny to discount.”
St. Germain moved to put an end to his discomfort. He beamed at his inquisitor. “Madame, you are most kind to pay me such a compliment,” he gushed. “I will not rest until I have conjured up the identity of my illustrious relation who so impressed you.” He gave the woman a concluding half-bow, his body language coaxing her to move on, but she would not budge. She just stood there, transfixed by him.
“Most intriguing,” she muttered to herself, before asking, “I am told you also play the piano divinely, Count. Perhaps you were taught by the man I remember.”
He smiled at her, but his smile was having trouble reaching his eyes. He was about to answer when he noticed a familiar face watching him from beside the little menagerie. The woman—Thérésia de Condillac—seemed to be enjoying his little quagmire.
“Ah, there you are,” she finally exclaimed as she stepped forward, a knowing gleam in her eye. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
Courteous bobs and bows and hasty introductions were exchanged before the woman hooked her arm into St. Germain’s and—with the briefest of apologies—brazenly whisked him away from his stymied tormentor.
“I hope you don’t mind my taking you away from such an ardent admirer, monsieur,” she commented as they disappeared into the crowd.
“I’m not sure I would have used the word ardent. Senile, perhaps?”
“You mustn’t be so unkind, Count.” She laughed. “Judging from her rosy countenance, she might well lead you to some half brothers you weren’t aware of.”
They made their way to the gardens, which were lit up by torches and more spinning Catherine wheels. Wisps of smoke from the pyrotechnics hung low, obscuring the nearby riverbank. Elephants, zebras, and an array of monkeys, brought in from the royal menagerie at Versailles, were on display in the sprawling gardens, symbols of omnipotence to their royal owners, who were blissfully oblivious to the metaphors of slavery and oppression the less fortunate associated with the caged animals.
They found a quiet bench that sheltered under a chestnut tree and overlooked the quay, by the river’s edge. They’d met a few weeks earlier, at Thérésia’s uncle’s house. St. Germain had sought the man out after hearing of his reputation as a keen orientalist who had a substantial collection of manuscripts from the region. They’d met again in the salon of Madame Geoffrin—coincidentally, he’d first thought, although, as the evening had progressed and her questions had become more personal, he’d been less certain of that. Not that he minded. Thérésia de Condillac was a much desired woman. She was blessed with a radiant femininity and was a childless, moneyed widow who didn’t lack suitors and who didn’t shy away from their advances.
They watched the army of revelers from a distance and exchanged pleasantries, occasionally at the expense of the more garishly costumed guests. Thérésia’s costume was as minimalist as St. Germain’s in its ambition: It consisted simply of a shawl of white feathers, which, thrown over her simple white ball dress, imbued her with the ethereal—and distinctly un-jungle-like—guise of a dove. St. Germain, wigless and head to toe in black, looked even less like the panther he claimed to be.
“My uncle tells me you’ve become a regular visitor to his house,” she eventually mentioned. “He’s most impressed by your knowledge of the Levant. He yearns to return to Constantinople, you know.”
He turned to her. She seemed to be studying his face for his response. “I can understand his missing it. There is great comfort to be had from its”—he paused as he took in the surreal scene in the distance—“simplicity.” And then, suddenly, as if to mock his very words, a fleeting image in the distance jolted him.
Through the mist from the fireworks, among the crowd of pastiche gorillas and ostriches, a pair of eyes materialized, staring straight at him, the eyes of a young man, his cheeks and forehead painted over heavily with streaks of gold and brown, his head covered by a curly blond wig that was pierced by animal ears, a thick mane of fur draped around his neck. He was peering out from among the throng like a tiger eyeing its prey through the thick blades of an African savanna.
The predator was there for only the briefest of moments before a small gaggle of guests obscured him. An instant later, after they’d passed, he was gone.
St. Germain blinked his eyes and scanned the distance, but there was no sign of the tiger. With the din from the crowd and the orchestra still pounding his senses, he asked himself if he’d even seen it in the first place. He shook the image away and focused on his companion again.
Thérésia seemed to notice his eyes wander, but didn’t react to it. “Possibly,” she just replied. “Then again, I suspect it may have more to do with his craving for some mariage à la cabine,” she joked, referring to a form of temporary marriage that was practiced there, kabin, in which Christian women could be hired by the month. “Which,” she added with a pique of seriousness in her tone, “is something that I imagine would appeal to you too, if I’m not mistaken.”
Her candor caught him out. “I imagine it would appeal to most men,” he replied.
“Yes, but something about the impersonal, noncommittal nature of it—it seems particularly suited to you.”
Her comment went to the heart of him. Not that it was unexpected. He’d cultivated the reputation of someone who valued his independence and his privacy and who, while he enjoyed the occasional intimate dalliance, had no appetite for attachment. But the way she said it, that slight knowing, sardonic edge in her voice, in her eyes—it was as if she could see through him. Which unsettled him.
“I’m not sure if I should take that as a compliment or as a rebuke,” he countered cautiously.
“I’d say it’s neither,” she said playfully. “Just a passing comment from an intrigued observer.”
“An observer? Am I to take it that I’m being studied, like one of these poor beasts?” he asked, waving at the nearest cage. Against his better judgment, he
found himself scanning the crowd again for any sign of the prowling tiger. There was none.
“Hardly, my dear count,” she reassured him. “Although I imagine anyone intrigued by you would find it intolerably frustrating, given your fondness for evasive replies to even the most basic of questions. I wonder, does anyone really know you, in the true sense of the word?”
He smiled at her question. He wanted to answer that he didn’t really know himself, not anymore, and—oddly—he felt an urge to actually say those very words to her. But his instinctive shutters came back down at the mere hint of the thought. “Where would my allure be if I were an open book?” he said instead.
“Oh, I think your allure can withstand some measured disclosure. I just wonder if it’s really a fear of scaring off your admirers, or rather, a fear of letting anyone in?”
He didn’t rush to answer. Instead, he just held her gaze and basked in it, unsure about how to react.
After that dinner at Madame Geoffrin’s salon, he’d inquired, discreetly, about Thérésia. She had a reputation of enjoying the company of men—men of her choosing—but lately, something had changed. She hadn’t been romantically linked to any of her suitors for months. St. Germain wasn’t conceited enough to think it had anything to do with him. Her retreat from promiscuity had taken place well before they’d first met. And while he’d had advances, too many to remember—the aristocracy in Paris was particularly debauched—this felt different. It felt less frivolous, somehow. More substantial.
Which was a problem.
St. Germain desperately wanted to be with her. There was something undeniably desirable about Thérésia de Condillac, but the very reasons he felt drawn to her were the same ones that made her too dangerous to invite into his life.
“I think you paint my life with far more flourish than it deserves,” he finally replied.
Thérésia leaned in closer. “Why don’t you tell me what secrets lurk in that impenetrable fortress of yours and let me be the judge of that?”
St. Germain shrugged. “I wouldn’t presume to bore you with the banalities of my tiresome existence. But…” His voice drifted off. As alluring as her face was, he couldn’t stop his eyes from sidetracking off into the distance, where, through the parade of gaudy costumes, he spotted the tiger again. As before, the man stood there, immobile behind the haze of moving revelers, staring unwaveringly at him. And, as before, he disappeared from view almost instantly.
A surge of unease swept through him. He suddenly felt exposed, endangered.
This time, Thérésia reacted to it. “Is everything alright, Count?”
St. Germain’s tone didn’t waver. “Of course. It’s just that it’s late, and I’m afraid I must excuse myself.” He took her hand and kissed it.
She seemed slightly confounded by his leaving and gave him a wry smile. “Pulling the drawbridge up again, Count?”
“Until the siege is lifted,” he replied as he gave her a half-bow, then walked away, feeling her gaze following him as he melted into the crowd.
HE MOVED HURRIEDLY through the guests, his eyes darting left and right, his mind reeling from the surreal, beastly costumes that swirled around his every step, and headed straight for the main gate. He could feel his pulse racing in his ears as he exited the palace and waved to his coachman, who stood with a few other drivers by a small bonfire. The man ran off to fetch his carriage, and moments later they were heading east, down the Rue St.-Honoré, towards St. Germain’s apartment on the Île de la Cité.
He sank back into the comfort of the coach’s velour seat and shut his eyes. The rhythmic clatter of the horse’s hoofbeats soothed him. He thought back and chided himself for the stab of panic that now seemed somewhat unwarranted. He wondered if his instincts hadn’t been perturbed by Thérésia’s presence, and somehow, thinking about her pushed away his unease and helped settle his tired mind. He realized he had to see her again. It was unavoidable. He turned towards the window and let the cool night air rush over his face.
The carriage turned right on Rue de l’Arbre Sec, and they were soon driving across the Pont Neuf. St. Germain had chosen the older Cité district over the other, newer neighborhoods of the city and had rented smart rooms that overlooked the river and the quays of the right bank. He found the flowing water comforting, despite the skim of floating detritus that befouled its surface. The breeze, which came down the Seine most days and nights, also helped lessen the stench from the household garbage and human waste that was habitually thrown straight out into the streets in the distasteful tradition of tout à la rue.
St. Germain looked out to his left as they crossed the bridge. It was a crisp autumn night, and the moon, which was almost at its fullest, suffused the city in a cool silvery glow. He loved the view from the bridge, especially after nightfall, when the tradesmen and the peddlers had packed up their wares and the strollers had turned in. The northern quay that stretched upstream was crowded with idle skiffs and sailboats and dotted by irregular bonfires. Farther on, the slate roofs of the row of buildings that squatted across the Pont Notre Dame shimmered in the moonlight, the faint light of taper candles twinkling from their windows. And beyond, the sublime Notre Dame loomed over the island, its spireless twin towers stretching up impossibly into the canopy of stars above, an edifice to the greatness of God that was, with each passing day, gaining acceptance as further proof of the genius of man.
They reached the western tip of the island and turned onto the Quai de l’Horloge, a narrow lane with a row of houses on one side and a low wall overlooking the river on the other. St. Germain’s rooms were in a whitewashed building at the far end of the terrace. They were still fifty yards or so away from its entrance when he heard the coachman call out to his horse and pull on the brake. The carriage lurched to a premature halt.
St. Germain leaned out of his window, calling out to his driver, “Roger? Why are we stopped here?”
The coachman hesitated before answering. “Up ahead, Monsieur le Comte. Our path is blocked.” His voice had an unfamiliar tremble in it.
St. Germain heard the neigh of a horse and looked down the road. The streets of Paris were lit that month, and in the dim glow of a suspended oil lantern, blocking the lane perhaps thirty yards ahead of the stopped carriage, were three horsemen. They just stood there, side by side, immobile.
He heard more hoofbeats approaching from the direction of the bridge and spun around to look back. Another horseman was coming down the quay, and as he passed under another lantern, St. Germain glimpsed the gold and black tiger’s streaks painted across the rider’s face, more threatening now under a flowing black cloak.
St. Germain turned in alarm at the horsemen blocking his route. His eyes scrutinized the darkness, filling in the shadowy features of the middle rider from the dark recesses of his memory. He’d barely managed to fully form the image when the familiar voice came bellowing out across the night.
“Buona sera, Marquese.” Di Sangro’s voice was just as St. Germain remembered it. Dry, sardonic, and raspy. “Or perhaps you’d prefer me to call you gentile conte?”
St. Germain rapiered a glance back at the approaching rider cutting off his retreat, whose masked face suddenly came alive in his mind’s eye. He realized why the young man had unsettled him and remembered glimpsing him before, in a Paris café in recent weeks, as well as where they’d first met. In Naples. Years earlier. Briefly, upon visiting di Sangro’s palazzo.
He was di Sangro’s son. The deferential teenager, though, was gone, replaced by a young man who reeked of menace.
St. Germain slid a glance at his coachman, who was looking to him nervously. “Drive, Roger,” he ordered him fiercely, “go through them.”
The coachman yelled and whipped the horse, which burst into a gallop and charged forward. Looking out the window, St. Germain saw the horses blocking their path rear slightly backwards before one of the riders brought up something that glinted ominously in the moonlight. It took a split second for St. Germain to re
alize it was a crossbow, and before he could shout it down, the rider took aim and fired. The small arrow sliced the air with a sharp whisper and struck the coachman squarely in the chest. He let out a pained moan before slumping to one side and tumbling off the advancing carriage.
The riders spread out and edged forward, yelling and waving their arms at the confused horse that weaved erratically from side to side but kept charging ahead. The carriage rattled down the uneven paving, with St. Germain hanging on to the edge of its window, his mind racing through possible moves just as he glimpsed the rider on di Sangro’s other flank raise another crossbow and fire at the horse.
From the sharp, pained whinny of the horse, St. Germain knew the arrow had buried itself deep into its flesh. The horse reared up, sending the carriage careening sideways unevenly. A wheel must have gotten hooked on the edge of a paving stone because St. Germain found himself hanging onto the window ledge as the light carriage bounced upwards and rolled heavily onto its side, sliding a few yards before grinding to a halt.
St. Germain shook himself back to consciousness and unfolded himself, his senses alert to the movement outside. The street had gone silent, the only noise disturbing the deathly stillness coming from the hooves of his attackers’ horses as they slowly closed in around him. With his back to the blocked door under him, he curled his legs and kicked the opposite door open, then pulled himself out, aching and bruised from the tumble. He dropped to the ground and glanced up the street. The body of his coachman just lay there, immobile. St. Germain felt his anger swell up as he straightened his bruised body and stood up.
Up ahead, the three riders were now joined by di Sangro’s son. “Bravo, ragazzo mio,” di Sangro congratulated him. “Sei stato grande”—you did well. He then turned to face St. Germain.
The four of them now stood there before him, bearing down on him, backlit by the grim lantern that swayed feebly overhead.
Di Sangro prodded his horse forward a few steps, his eyes locked on his prey. “That’s quite a life you’ve made for yourself, Marquese. Paris will be sad to lose you.”
The Sanctuary Page 20