Hotel Transylvania

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  "I saw what happened." The man had knelt beside him now, oblivious of the dirt in the road. "I would like to help you, sir, if you would allow."

  "Leave me alone."

  "Were I to do that," the manservant said carefully, "you would be dead within the hour. A coach would crush you, or some of the ruffians who prey on unfortunate travelers would stone you in order to rob you of your clothes." He paused and touched the coachman's shoulder. "What is your name? I am Roger."

  He hated to answer, but the manservant would not go away. "I am Hercule."

  "Very well, Hercule," Roger said. "I am going to send for the lackeys of my household. We will carry you to our master, and he will surely do all he can for you. You need not fear. He is highly skilled in the use of medicinals."

  Hercule scoffed through his pain. "What master would help me? I am a coachman without legs."

  There was a wise, old smile in Roger's faded eyes. "My master has often surprised me. I know of one case when he sheltered a runaway bondsman at great risk to himself, and later made sure that the bondsman achieved the revenge he desired."

  "He lies." The words came out in shouts.

  "Ah, no. I was the bondsman, you see." He rose. "I will be gone for a short while, Hercule. Do not despair."

  Hercule was about to throw Roger's kindness in his face, but the aged valet had already walked away. And now that Roger was gone, Hercule felt desolate. It had been easy to reject the old manservant and his master when Roger knelt beside him, but now, lying alone, listening for the approach of thieves and highwaymen, Hercule grew frightened. He was in sight of the gates of Paris, and there were buildings less than a quarter of a mile away. But the travelers who had seen him beaten were gone, and there was no one to help him now that Roger had gone off in a small trap.

  As his fright grew, so did his hatred for Saint Sebastien. He felt the acid of it bum in his mind, and he took satisfaction from it. Hatred was stronger and more constant than courage, and it gave him the tenacity to resist the hurt in his legs long enough to pull himself to the side of the road.

  The afternoon sun baked down on him, and only the cool autumn breeze brought him respite. He felt the blood drain from him as he lay beside the road, and thought of the smile he had seen in Saint Sebastien's eyes when the first red stain had soaked through his breeches.

  Hercule was lying semiconscious a little later when one of the finest coaches he had ever seen came bowling down the road at a smart pace. It was pulled by four matched grays, and even in his agony, Hercule saw that the horses were superb animals. He felt a muzzy bemusement when the coach pulled up where he lay, and the steps were let down.

  First out of the coach was Roger, who came directly to him. "Have you been hurt more?" he asked as he neared Hercule.

  "No," Hercule answered, finding his tongue unwieldy. "Crawled."

  "Crawled?" said the man behind Roger as he came down from the coach. He was of medium height, of stocky but trim build. His elegant, fashionable clothes were black but for fine white lace at his throat and wrists. On his small feet were black shoes with jeweled buckles. His dark hair was unpowdered and confined at the nape of his neck with a neat black bow. Intelligence marked his attractive face, made even more interesting by a strong nose that was slightly askew. He dropped to his knee by Hercule, as if unaware that the dust and filth would ruin his silken garments. "My good man, who did this to you?"

  "Saint Sebastien." Hercule whispered, suddenly struck by the gentleman's intense, compelling eyes.

  "Saint Sebastien," the gentleman repeated, "Saint Sebastien." Then he turned to his manservant. "Roger, you did well. Bring this man to the Hôtel. I am sure we will find something for him to do. I will attend to him later. See that the wounds are bathed, but apply no bandages. There may be shards of bone in the wounds, and they must, on no account, be pressed."

  "Who is he?" Hercule asked Roger as he was lifted gently into the coach.

  Roger's master heard the question and answered it. "For the most part, I am le Comte de Saint-Germain, this century."

  Excerpt from a letter written by la Comtesse d'Argenlac to her brother, le Marquis de Montalia, dated October 11, 1743:

  ...We attended a salon last night, so that Madelaine would not be overtired from the fête of la Duchesse de Lyon of the night before. At the salon, Madelaine was a great success. Saint-Germain had written some airs for the violoncello and a singer. La Cressie had received her new instrument, and the composer prevailed upon Madelaine to be the vocalist. The works were charming, my dear brother. There was nothing in them even so strict a moralist as you could object to. Madelaine sang very sweetly, and Mme. Cressie said

  afterward that she had found the duets delightful, and begged Madelaine to sing with her more often. I believe they both requested Saint-Germain to write new airs for them. He said that he felt it would be a shame to deprive the world of their music, and so he supposed he must.

  You may imagine, following this lovely evening, what a shock it was to learn that Lucienne Cressie has fallen gravely ill. At least, that is what Achille has given out. I must tell you that I am suspicious of him. He has been even more in Saint Sebastien's company, and in Beauvrai's. There was some gathering at Cressie's late on the 9th. Some are saying that it was only Achille 's usual vice being practiced, but I am not so sure, particularly since Lucienne has not been seen since that night. You may call me a fool, brother, but you know what sort of monster Saint Sebastien is, and it is my belief that he is attempting once again to gather together his followers of Satan. Rest assured I will do all that I can to be certain that none of these men so much as talks to Madelaine.

  We go tomorrow night to Hôtel Transylvania. Do not fret, for I will not allow Madelaine to gamble. But there is to be a fête, with dancing, and a ballet and a little opera in the Italian style performed, as well as the usual fare. Rumor has it that the Hôtel wishes to rival the Hôtel de Ville. I do not know if this can be done, but it will make for a wonderful entertainment, and all the world goes.

  I must congratulate you on your daughter. She is a delight. Her manners are pleasing, she has wit and conversation, and she has an excellent mind. Occasionally she quite astounds me with her erudition. When Saint-Germain was regaling us at supper with his droll stories, she rallied him when he had begun a tale of vampires, saying that to fear them was the greatest folly, since any blood would appease them. All one would have to do was offer them a lamb, or a horse, and the matter was settled. You should have seen the amazement on Saint-Germain's face. He kissed her hand and told her he conceded the match.

  Later that night we drank a glass of wine with le Baron and la Baronne de Haute-Misou, and le Baron was recounting some tale he had read by one of the Florentines about the sculptor Michelangelo. Immediately, Madelaine identified the painting in question— the good Sisters who taught her will be pleased to know that the work in question is that in the Sistine Chapel—and told the history of the piece. Le Baron was enchanted. He said that it was rare to find a young woman with erudition to match herface. Madelaine said—and you must not scold her for this, my dear brother, for she was only bantering—that if more women were educated as she had been, le Baron must be enchanted every hour of his life.

  I thank you a thousand times for sending my niece to me. I trust you will be satisfied of the good work we make of her time in Paris. Commend me well to your Marquise, and assure her that her daughter is well and that she goes often to Mass. Do not think that because Madelaine's social success is great that I allow her to neglect her religious duties. She is obedient and sincere in her exercises of faith, and her Confessor has told me that her soul is chaste. This good man our cousin is noted for his piety, and has, as I understand it, your approval to minister to her spiritual needs.

  I will bid you farewell for the moment, my dear brother. No doubt you will have a letter from me again before too many days pass. May God keep you and your Marquise and give you peace of mind. With all due respect and profoun
d affection, I remain

  Your sister,

  Claudia de Montalia

  Comtesse d'Argenlac

  P.S.I have taken the liberty of purchasing a fine Spanish mare for Madelaine to ride. She is a splendid mount, and Madelaine has shown herself to be an excellent equestrienne. Even as I write this, she is with a party, gone to Bois-Vert for the afternoon.

  Chapter 5

  Donatien de la Sept-Nuit held the stirrup leather and gallantly assisted Madelaine to mount her new Spanish mare. Around them the other members of the party were climbing back into their saddles for their return to Paris.

  Madelaine settled herself onto her saddle, adjusting the bottle-green skirt so that it flowed gracefully down the side of her mare. 'Thank you," she said after a moment, with the flicker of a frown in her eyes.

  De la Sept-Nuit made a profound bow. "It is always a pleasure. If so little service deserves your thanks, I would willingly perform great deeds, were the rewards commensurate."

  She did not answer at once, but had her hands full when her mare sidled under her as the reins were brought up too tightly. "Pray, no more ridiculous compliments, Chevalier. I begin to feel the fool."

  Le Chevalier bowed again and made his way back to his big bay gelding. In a moment he had flung himself into the saddle and was moving with a few of his friends. Château- rose called to him as he came up. "How fares it with La Montalia?"

  "More thorns than roses," de la Sept-Nuit admitted as the bay scampered and bucked playfully.

  "I've a mind to try for her myself," Châteaurose said as he watched Madelaine bring her mare up beside the snowy- white Andalusian ridden by la Baronne de Haute-Misou.

  "It's useless. This time Saint Sebastien is wrong." De la Sept-Nuit lowered his voice to say this and cocked an eyebrow to the other young men in the party.

  Around them, the woods were alive with the golds and russets of autumn. The leaves drifted and crackled on the road, and flitted like butterflies when the wind blew. It was a beautiful, burnished day, full of sunlight that dappled the party with topaz brilliance as they rode under the trees.

  "It was a tiresome matter," la Baronne was saying to Madelaine, who listened with a fraudulent air of attention. "The gown was ruined, of course, and there was nothing to do but to give it to the housemaid."

  "A difficult matter, certainly." Madelaine schooled her face to gravity and held her mare to a strict trot.

  "Well, what can you do? If the cooks will put so much wine into their sauces, we must accept the stains. To be sure, the sauces make the meal, but it is a shame to ruin good satin because beef demands an appropriate dressing."

  "Perhaps a special gown to wear at dinner..." Madelaine suggested before she had time to consider.

  "A gown for eating? For eatingV la Baronne almost squealed.

  "Why not?" Madelaine asked innocently, developing her theme. "You could have a special dining dress for the occasion of the meal. You could serve a Roman banquet, and everyone could dress in togas and recline on couches. I think that's what the Romans did," she said, frowning a little, then waved to a familiar figure. "Saint-Germain! Did the Romans recline on couches?"

  "What is this?" he called. "What about Romans?" He cantered his smoke-colored stallion over to them, and when he was abreast of them, bowed slightly and asked again, "What is this about Romans?"

  "Oh, I was suggesting to la Baronne that she might have a Roman banquet with guests in togas and lying on couches. But then I couldn't remember if it was Greeks or Romans who did that."

  "Foreign," said la Baronne, and the condemnation in that word was absolute.

  "Do not say so," Saint-Germain protested, "when the present King's great-grandfather tried so hard to restore Rome's gloiy to France."

  "Louis the Fourteenth was a glorious monarch," la Baronne announced, looking suspiciously at Saint-Germain.

  "Undoubtedly," Saint-Germain agreed, at his most bland. He shot a wicked glance of amusement at Madelaine. "Are you equally admiring of the former King?"

  It was la Baronne who answered this question. "Surely there are aspects of the man we must deplore, but it is wise to remember that his second marriage restored much of the tone of the court."

  "And the vice and diabolism you despise vanished utterly at the King's command?" Saint-Germain asked gently. "How fortunate for France."

  La Baronne said nothing, and it might have been an accident that she dropped behind Madelaine and le Comte, who rode together for a while in companionable silence. Ahead of them, the young men raced their horses in impromptu competition, and behind them came the older members of the party on sedate animals. The sun shone down through the trees in long shafts that brought new shadows and light with every movement.

  "I like your horse," Madelaine said after a while. "I don't think I have ever seen one like him."

  Saint-Germain patted the graceful neck. "He was given me in Persia. Not many of his kind have been seen in Europe. I believe they are sometimes called Barbs." He patted the broad neck again.

  Madelaine nodded, then said playfully, "I believe this is the first time I have not seen you in black, Saint-Germain. What is the leather you wear?"

  "Elk hide. The tooling shows the story of Saint Hubert and the Stag." He fingered the dark-claret leather that set off the muslin neck cloth he wore. "It is somewhat old- fashioned. The cuffs are sadly narrow by modern standards, but I have had it for some time, and it was made for me in Hungary. I cannot bear to part with it." He raised his brows slightly. "What is troubling you, my dear? You did not call me to your side to discuss Romans or horse-flesh. Was la Baronne boring you to tears?"

  "Oh, no," she said brightly.

  "Then perhaps you were not pleased by de la Sept-Nuit's advances?" He saw her wince as he asked, and knew he had hit home.

  "My aunt tells me that I cannot expect much happiness from marriage, and that I would be wise to be practical. I understand that de la Sept-Nuit is rich and on the lookout for a wife. His mother has given my aunt to understand that he thinks I would do him great credit."

  "Oh, no." He laughed. "And you do not want to be a credit to de la Sept-Nuit?"

  "It may be funny to you, Comte, but I find it demeaning." She gave an angry toss of her head so that he would not see the sudden tears in her eyes. "I feel like a very elegant slave for sale to the highest bidder."

  "Madelaine," he said very quietly, and she turned to look at him, pulling her mare back to a slower trot. "Your aunt means kindly by you. It is all she knows to do."

  Her throat tight, Madelaine agreed. "She explained what women should expect. But, oh, Saint-Germain, I want more."

  He smiled sadly at this outburst. "I know."

  She looked at him challengingly. "I have heard that you have been many places, and done things and seen things. I wish I could go many places and do many things."

  There was a curious light in her eyes. "Such a life is very lonely, Madelaine."

  Now her face was becomingly flushed, and she spoke in a fierce undertone. "Do you think being married to de la Sept-Nuit would not be lonely? Do you think being married to any of them"—she flung one hand toward the roistering young men farther down the road—"would be other than lonely? At least there is interest in your life."

  After a moment he nodded. "Yes, I suppose my life is, in a way, interesting."

  "Well, like last night," she said, changing the subject so that she could restore her calm. "You were talking about using steam to power ships. But you were not like Beauvrai, who wants such things because they bring attention to him, though he does not comprehend one jot about such engines. I could tell when you talked about steam engines that you had thought about them. Saying that as the water pushes a mill wheel, so it could be made to push the water, if the power were in the mill. And using boiling water to move those tubes in circles. I don't see why everyone said it was impossible. I thought it looked very simple."

  Saint-Germain grinned, showing neat white teeth. "That is because
you have not spent a life learning what cannot be done."

  The light left her face. "You are wrong, Comte. And I am learning rapidly."

  "Shush, shush, Madelaine." He rode a little closer to her, so that his stirrup leather almost touched the girths of her sidesaddle. "Are you so unhappy, my dear?"

  "Yes... no... I don't know." She did not look at him, afraid that there might be too much compassion in his eyes, and she might betray herself to him. "I know I am expected to marry, and in time I shall grow bored enough and frightened enough that I will." She looked back over her shoulder at the older group of riders. "See where all the women ride, Comte, even the young women? They are old already." She wrenched her eyes away. "In time, I will be like them and think even of you with cynical amusement." "Madelaine."

  "Do not speak to me in that kind way. I cannot abide it. You give me hope and there is no hope." She dug her spur into her mare's flank, and swayed gracefully as her mount bounded ahead.

  Saint-Germain rode after her, close enough to catch her if the mare should bolt in earnest, but far enough back so that she could pretend she did not know he was there.

  Excerpt from a letter from the physician André Schoen-brun to le Comte de Saint-Germain, dated October 12,1743:

  ...The physician wishes to assure le Comte that whatever mobility is left in the knees must come from the prompt and expert care that was rendered to the man Hercule. At least movement will be retained in the knees, although it may not be possible for him to walk again. The physician is pleased that le Comte did not order the knees bandaged, as that is what saved the mobility. The manservant accompanying the patient informed the physician that it was le Comte who gave instructions to leave the knees unbandaged, and the physician commends him.

  In regard to le Comte's inquiry about work. So long as the man Hercule does not put any weight on his legs, there is no reason he cannot leave his bed as soon as he is fit. His fever has broken, so it should not be long before such gentle exercise as can be done with arms and hands might be undertaken. The physician understands that le Comte is in possession of syrup of poppies, and recommends the administration of such to the man Hercule for pain if that pain is too severe. But the physician warns le Comte not to use it too often, and prays le Comte to remember that the physician has observed that the prolonged use of such medication can result in dependence upon it, which is not desirable.