". . . who have changed, don't tell me!" James burst out and lurched out of the chair. "If you keep this up, you'll have me believing it, and then I'll start looking for a padded cell and the latest thing in strait-jackets." He paced the length of the room once, coming back to stand near Saint-Germain. "You're a smooth-tongued bastard, I'll give you that, Saint-Germain. You are Saint-Germain, aren't you?"
"Of course. I thought you remembered me from that banquet in Paris," came the unperturbed answer.
"I did. But I thought you'd look . . ."
"Older?" Saint-Germain suggested. "When has Madelaine looked older than twenty? True, you have not seen her for more than six years, but when she came to America, did she strike you as being older than the day you met her?"
"No," James admitted.
"And she looks very little older now than she did the day I met her in 1743. You are fortunate that age has been kind to you, Mister Tree. That is one of the few things the change cannot alter." Abruptly he crossed the room and opened the door. "I trust you will give me an hour of your time later this evening. Roger should be back by then and then you will have a chance to . . ."
"Has he gone for food?" James demanded, not wanting to admit he was famished.
"Something like that," le Comte answered, then stepped into the hall and pulled the door closed behind him.
The Bugatti pulled into the court behind the stables and, in a moment, Roger had turned off the foglights and the ignition. He motioned to the woman beside him, saying, "I will get your bag, Madame, and then assist you."
"Thank you," the woman answered distantly. She was not French, though she spoke the language well. Her clothes, which were excellent quality, hung on her shapelessly, and the heavy circles under her eyes and the hollows at her throat showed that she had recently suffered more than the usual privations of war. Automatically she put her hand to her forehead, as if to still an ache there.
"Are you all right, Madame?" Roger asked as he opened the passenger door for her. In his left hand he held a single, worn leather valise.
"I will be, in a short time," she responded, unable to smile, but knowing that good manners required something of the sort from her.
Roger offered her his arm. "You need not feel compelled, Madame. If, on reflection, the matter we discussed is distasteful to you, tell me at once, and I . . ." He turned in relief as he saw Saint-Germain approaching through the night.
"You're back sooner than I expected," Saint-Germain said with an inquiring lift to his brows.
"I had an unexpected opportunity," was the answer. "Just as well, too, because there are Resistance fighters gathering farther down the mountain, and they do not take kindly to travelers."
"I see," Saint-Germain responded.
"A number of them wished to . . . detain Madame Kunst, hearing her speak . . . and ..." Roger chose his words carefully.
"I am Austrian," the woman announced a bit too loudly. "I am. I fled." Without warning, she started to cry with the hopelessness of an abandoned child. "They took my mother and my father and shot them," she said through her tears. "And then they killed my uncle and his three children. They wanted me, but I was shopping. A neighbor warned me. It wasn't enough that Gunther died for defending his friends, oh no."
Saint-Germain motioned Roger aside, then held out his small beautiful hand to Madame Kunst. "Come inside, Madame Kunst. There is a fire and food."
She sat passively while her tears stopped, then obediently took his hand, and for the first time looked into Saint-Germain's penetrating eyes. "Danke, Mein Herr."
"It would be wiser to say 'merci' here," Saint-Germain reminded her kindly. "My experience with the Resistance in this area says they are not very forgiving."
"Yes. I was stupid," she said as she got out of the Bugatti and allowed Saint-Germain to close the door. In an effort to recapture her poise, she said, "Your manservant made a request of me as he brought me here."
Roger and Saint-Germain exchanged quick glances, and Saint-German hesitated before saying, "You must understand, this is not precisely the situation I had anticipated. Did my manservant explain the situation to you clearly? I do not want to ask you to do anything you think you would not wish to do."
She shrugged, shaking her head once or twice. "It doesn't matter to me. Or it does, but it makes no sense."
"How do you mean?" Saint-Germain had seen this lethargic shock many times in the past, but long familiarity did not make it easier to bear. He would have to make other arrangements for James, he thought; this woman clearly needed quiet and time to restore herself. She had had more than enough impositions on her.
"It's all so . . ." She sighed as Saint-Germain opened the side door for her and indicated the way into the chateau. "No man has touched me since Gunther, and I was content to be in my father's house, where the worst seemed so far away. When I thought those men might force me, I screamed, but there was no reason for it anymore."
"You have nothing to fear from anyone at Montalia," Saint-Germain told her quietly.
She nodded and let Roger escort her into the breakfast room off the kitchen. There was a low fire in the grate and though the striped wallpaper was faded, in the flickering light it was pleasant and cozy. As Saint-Germain closed the door, she sat in the chair Roger held for her and folded her hands in her lap. Her age was no more than thirty, but the gesture was that of a much younger person. "Gunther died six months ago. I didn't find out about it at first. They don't tell you what's happened. The SS comes and people go out with them and don't come home again—and no one dares ask where they have gone, or when they will return, for then the SS might return. It was the local judge who told me—and he was drunk when he did."
Roger bowed and excused himself to prepare a simple meal for Madame Kunst.
"When did you leave Austria, Madame?" Saint-Germain asked her as he added another log to the fire.
"Not many days. Eight or nine, I think. It could be ten." She yawned and apologized.
"There is no need," Saint-Germain assured her. "The fare here is adequate but not luxurious. If you are able to wait half an hour, there will be soup and cheese and sausage. Perhaps you would like to nap in the meantime?"
She thought about this, then shook her head. "I would sleep like the dead. I must stay awake. There are too many dead already." She fiddled with the fold of her skirt across her lap, but her mind was most certainly drifting. "I ate yesterday."
Saint-Germain said nothing, but he could not repress an ironic smile, and was relieved that he had attended to his own hunger a few days before. The matter of nourishment, he thought, was becoming ridiculously complex.
"You did what?" James exclaimed, outraged. He had come back to the sitting room some ten minutes before and had tried to listen in reserved silence to what Saint-Germain was telling him.
"I saw that she was fed and given a room. I'm sorry that this adds so many complications. Had Roger been able to reach Mirelle, the problem would not have arisen." He was unruffled by James's outburst.
"First, you send your valet out to get a cooperative widow for me, and when that doesn't work because he can't get through to the village, he brings a half-starved Austrian refugee here as a weird kind of substitute, never mind what the poor woman thinks, being half-kidnapped. Second, you think I'll go along with this impossible scheme. Third, you're telling me that you bring women here the way some cooks rustle up a half a dozen eggs and I'm supposed to be grateful?" His voice had risen to a shout, as much to conceal the guilty pleasure he felt at the prospect of so tantalizing a meeting.
"Mister Tree, if there were not a war going on, all this would be handled differently. It may surprise you to know that I am not in the habit of 'rustling up,' as you say, cooperative widows or anyone else, for that matter. However, your situation will be critical soon if something is not done, and I had hoped to find as undisruptive a solution as possible."
"Well, you sure as hell botched it," James said, taking secret pleasure in seei
ng this elegant stranger at a loss.
"Lamentably, I must concur." He thrust his hands into his pockets and started toward the door.
James could not resist a parting shot. "You mean you were going to lay out a woman for me, like a smorgasbord, so I could . .."
Saint-Germain's mobile lips turned down in disgust. "What do you take me for, Mister Tree? Mirelle knows what I am and finds it most satisfying. She would enjoy the . . . variety you would offer her. Good God, you don't believe that I would expose a woman like Madame Kunst to what we are, do you? She understands there is a man here suffering from battle fatigue, and is prepared to make allowances. It is dangerous and unwise to spend time with those who are repelled by us. If you are to survive in this life, you must learn to be circumspect." He reached for the door, then added, "Roger found the two boxes of earth from Denver, and that will afford you some relief, but not, I fear, a great deal."
"Earth from Denver?" James echoed.
"Of course. When Madelaine knew that you would walk after death, she arranged to have two cartons of your native earth shipped here, in case it was needed." It was said lightly, but the significance did not escape James. "She had stored it in the stables, and Roger did not find it until late afternoon."
"Earth from Denver. I can't believe it." There would have been comfort and denial in laughter, but James could not summon any.
"She cares what happens to you, Mister Tree. It was not whim but concern for your welfare that made her get those two boxes." He opened the door wide and stepped into the hall. His face was clouded with thought and he made his way slowly to the kitchen.
Roger looked up as Saint-Germain came quietly through the door. "She's bathed and gone to bed."
"Good. Did you learn anything more?" He was frowning slightly; there was an indefinable restlessness about him.
"Nothing significant. She's twenty-nine, comes from Salzburg. She used to teach school; her husband..."
"Gunther?"
"Yes. He was an attorney, I gather." He finished tidying the clutter in the kitchen and turned to bank the coals in the huge wood-burning stove.
"Do you believe her?" Saint-Germain asked quietly.
"That she was a teacher and her husband an attorney, yes. The rest, I don't know." Roger closed the fuel box and wiped his hands on a rag, leaving blackened smudges on the worn cloth.
"Nor do I," Saint-Germain admitted. "It may only be shock, but. . . . But."
Roger blew out one of the kerosene lanterns. "Is she what she seems?"
"Superficially, no doubt," Saint-Germain said meas-uredly. "And everything she has told us may be true. If that's the case, she might be blackmailed. If she has children, and they are held by the SS, she might undertake almost anything to save them. Because if she is what she claims to be and she wants to be out of Austria and away from the war, why didn't she stop in Switzerland? That's a neutral country."
"She might not feel safe there," Roger suggested.
"And instead she feels safe in France?" Saint-Germain countered in disbelief. "You know what the French want to do to the Germans these days. Why should she leave the comparative haven Switzerland offers for this?"
"Is it espionage?" Roger asked, taking the other lantern and starting toward the door.
"We will doubtless soon find out. But we must be very cautious. Al! the Resistance would need is an excuse to come here hunting German spies and matters might suddenly become unpleasant for us." He accompanied Roger out of the kitchen and toward the tower, the oldest part of the chateau. "I'm afraid I've scandalized Mister Tree again," Saint-Germain remarked as the reverberations of their footsteps clattered away into the eerie darkness. "He's accused me of pimping."
Roger gave a snort of amusement. "How charming. Did he say it directly?"
"Not quite. That would mean he would have to see too clearly what has become of him. It is unfortunate that you did not reach Mirelle. She would have put an end to all this nonsense and the worst of his anxiety would be over by now. He's badly frightened; the thing that could not possibly happen to him has happened. Mirelle would tease him out of it. It's a pity she does not want to be one of my blood in the end. She would do well." They reached a narrow, uneven stairway that led into the upper rooms of the tower, and Saint-Germain stood aside for Roger so that he could light his way. The lantern was unnecessary for Saint-Germain, but his manservant required more illumination.
"It's best that she should know her mind now," Roger said, picking his way up the hazardous stairs. "Later, it might be inconvenient."
"True enough," Saint-Germain murmured. "Which room are the boxes in?"
"The second, where the trunks are stored. I stumbled on them by chance." They were halfway up the stairs now, and Roger paid particular attention to this stretch, for he knew that the one short trip stair was located here.
"To hide a box, put it with other boxes," Saint-Germain said, paraphrasing the maxim. "I have always applauded Madelaine's cleverness."
Roger got past the trip stair and moved faster. "Both boxes are unmarked, but there is the stencil design of an oak on both of them, which was what alerted me."
"How very like her," le Comte chuckled. They were almost at the landing, and he smiled his anticipation.
"He'll be more at ease with this."
"Perhaps, perhaps not," Roger responded with a shrug. On the landing, he pointed to the door. "That one. There's a stack of boxes in the north corner. They're on the top of it."
As he opened the door and stepped into the room, Saint-Germain said over his shoulder, "You know, it is inconvenient that our scars can't be altered. Plastic surgery might change any number of things. Mister Tree is going to have some distinctive marks on his arms and thighs that will make identification simple. If there were a way to remove them, it might be easier to go from alias to alias. Well, that time may come." He looked around for the stack Roger had described. "Ah. There. If you'll give me a hand getting them down, I will take them to Mister Tree's room."
James woke at sunset feeling more restored than he had since his accident. He stretched slowly, oddly pleased that there were no aches to hamper his movements. He was healing, he insisted to himself. When he rose from the bed, there was the first hint of an energetic spring in his step. He dressed carefully, noticing that his clothes had been pressed sometime during the day. The only things that he could not find were his shoes. After a brief hunt for them, he shrugged and settled for a pair of heavy boots he had worn years before when he and Madelaine had gone tramping over the rough hillsides together. As he laced them up, he thought how comfortable they were and hoped that le Comte would not be too offended by them.
When at last he ventured down to the sitting room, he found Madame Kunst finishing the last of her tea, a few crumbs left on the Limoges plate beside her cup and saucer. He hesitated, then came into the room. "Good afternoon."
She looked up suddenly, guiltily, then smiled as best she could. "Good afternoon, though it is more evening, I think. You are. . ."
"The American suffering from battle fatigue, yes," he said with the same directness he had used to disarm politicians and industrialists for more than two decades. "You needn't worry, Madame. I am not precisely out of control, as you can see." To demonstrate this, he took a chair and arranged himself casually in it.
"I'm glad you're feeling .. . better?" This last change of inflection caught his attention and he leaned forward to speak to her.
"Yes. I'm much revived, thanks." He had deliberately chosen a chair that was far enough away from her that she would not be too much disturbed by his presence.
"You're an officer?" she asked when she had poured herself another cup of tea. She pointed to the pot in mute invitation, saying, "If you like, I could ring for another cup."
"That would be . . ." He broke off, finding the thought of tea distasteful. "Very good of you, but it would be wasted on me," he finished, frowning a bit.
"Is anything the matter?" she inquired apprehensively
.
"No, not really." He decided to answer her question. "I'm not an officer, or a soldier, I'm afraid. I'm a journalist. I've been covering the action toward Lyons, but it hasn't been what I expected."
Madame Kunst smiled politely. "I'd think not." She sipped her tea. "What is your impression? Or would you rather not discuss it?"
"You must know the answer to that better than I," James suggested blandly, the habits of caution exerting themselves.
"Only what we are told," she said with a degree of sadness.
"But there must be raids and ..." he said, hoping she would take up his drift.
"We hear about them, naturally, but Salzburg is not as important as other places. It is not important to shipping or the offensive, so we do not know how the rest of the country is going on." She finished the tea and reluctantly set the cup aside. "They have real butter here, and the milk is fresh."
The mention of food made James queasy, but he was able to nod. "Yes. There are shortages everywhere. Back home, there are ration cards used for meat and other necessary items. The government encourages everyone to grow their own vegetables." He knew it was safe to mention this, because it was common knowledge and there were articles in the newspapers which any enemy spy who wished to could read.
"There isn't much opportunity to grow vegetables in a city flat," she said.
"True enough. I have a cousin who always sends me canned goods at Christmas. She has quite a garden and thinks I need her food." He wanted to get off the subject, but did not quite know how.
Madame Kunst spared him the trouble. "How long have you been in France, Herr . . . ? I believe I was not told your name."
This time he could not avoid giving his name. "Tree, Madame Kunst. You see, I have been told who you are. I'm James Emmerson Tree. I've been in France a little more than a year."
"So long, with the war and all." She waited patiently for him to answer.
"Reporters go where the story is, and this is the biggest story around," he said with a shrug that did not completely conceal his disillusion with his work. "I'd been in France before, in the Twenties, and it made me the logical candidate to come back to cover this." He ran his hand through his hair. "You'll have to forgive me, Madame Kunst. I must be disconcerting company. These clothes aren't the latest; I haven't done anything much about my hair or shaving, but don't be alarmed." He touched his chin tentatively and felt a slight roughness, as if he had shaved the evening before.
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