Saint-Germain 21: Borne in Blood: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Von Ravensberg did not say anything about the sound; he shook his head. “You cannot understand. It is not in your blood. You have no grasp of our nimiety in the eyes of the public—”

  “I know that riches and possessions are often envied by those in less advantageous circumstances,” Ragoczy interjected.

  “Then you know the resentment we suffer on that account. Despite your wealth, as an exile, you are unable to comprehend the manner in which we will have to ameliorate—”

  “Because I do not see that making a sacrifice of an insane child will rehabilitate your family name? Given her history, no, Graf, I do not understand; I am baffled by your posture in regard to her,” Ragoczy kept his temper in check, asking in his most reasonable tone, “How can you be indifferent to her plight?”

  “This from you? How many times did she stab you?” Von Ravensberg folded his arms. “I was told it was eleven times.”

  The actual count was twenty-three times, and every wound she inflicted still ached. “Something along those lines,” he answered in as unflustered a voice as he could. “She was raving when she did it.”

  “You find that an excuse?” von Ravensberg asked. “I would have thought you, of all people, would hold her accountable for her actions.”

  “Because she stabbed me?” Ragoczy shook his head. “She is not the first who has, and she will not be the last.” Over the centuries he had received many dire wounds, but the only one that had left a mark on him was the scars that crossed his abdomen, tokens of the evisceration that had killed him almost four thousand years ago; since his death no injury, no matter how hideous, had left a lasting scar.

  Von Ravensberg nodded twice. “That is what I meant. Her attack on you—a man of rank equal to mine—cannot be allowed to go unpunished. I am surprised that you are not demanding retribution more vehemently than I. She concealed her acts, which shows that they were purposeful, not impulsive, as true madness is known to be. That you had to seek her out and withstand her attempts on your life … And that is not all: she has maimed your companion. Madame von Scharffensee will walk with a limp and her face will never recover from the marks she made on it; you’ve said so yourself.”

  “That is more difficult to pardon, but I doubt that Madame von Scharffensee will be restored because Hyacinthie is dead.”

  “A philosophy of weakness and concession!” von Ravensberg declared. “You will not find such pap in the veins of Austrians.”

  “I doubt you will find character in the blood at all,” said Ragoczy, his reserve becoming more marked.

  “Blood is blood; it carries the national vigor, and the heritage of every man alive. Even you cannot deny that. One day I shall demonstrate it beyond cavil, no matter how little you may think it possible. What is borne in blood is the measure of the man,” von Ravensberg said.

  “No, Graf: what is borne in blood is the incarnation of the soul,” Ragoczy responded quietly.

  “Soul?” von Ravensberg scoffed. “You know very little about it: I have devoted my life to its study.”

  “I know it is the sum total of the uniqueness of the person who possesses it. Nothing is more personal, more essential, to any living human.”

  “That is what I seek to demonstrate: blood is our heritage, a thing to be measured and certain, not some foolish romantic notion of the supernatural,” von Ravensberg said emphatically. “Every nation has its character that is given at birth. Austrians and Germans are the descendants of the Franks. More than the French, we bear the heritage of Charlemagne.”

  Ragoczy recalled the very tall, big-shouldered, strong-willed leader of the Franks from a thousand years before, and the men he gathered around him. “They were ambitious barbarians—as were almost all peoples in Europe then.”

  “You tell me my niece is a barbarian because she is Austrian? Barbarian! Hardly. Not that any man of education would believe that of Charlemagne: he was the founder of our civilization, a great man of vision.” Von Ravensberg tapped his toe impatiently, his eyes snapping with annoyance.

  Ragoczy refused to be distracted by von Ravensberg’s self-congratulatory claim. “I tell you that Hyacinthie is Hyacinthie and no one else; her blood is unique to her, far beyond being Austrian. Heritage she may have, as do all people, but she is inimitable, as is everyone else.” He paused, thinking that he would never want to taste her blood no matter how great his need, then continued, “Whatever inclined her to such fury did not come from her blood, it came from what life has imposed upon her.”

  “That inclines you to defend my niece?” Von Ravensberg’s countenance was filled with incredulity.

  “It is certainly part of it,” Ragoczy said.

  “She has done so much to you,” von Ravensberg said in astonishment as he regarded Ragoczy with an expression that combined shame with contempt. “Yet you would not execute her.”

  “And you would.” Ragoczy turned the full weight of his dark, enigmatic eyes on von Ravensberg.

  The Graf did his best not to flinch. “I have been taught that if we, the leaders, abuse the law, bend it to our fancy and make it lax, we cannot be surprised when our lessers do the same. It for us to set the example, to endorse the actions of the courts, and to support the Magistrates in their duties. You bewilder me. Comte: you say you are of an ancient House, and yet you would spare her life.”

  “Hyacinthie is mad. I cannot hold her responsible when she cannot be held capable of distinguishing the nature of her acts.”

  “One of those humanists, are you? a follower of Rousseau and the rest of those foolish idealists? Do you glorify the common man and the state of nature?” von Ravensberg asked, as if finally satisfied to know what prompted Ragoczy’s stance. “A man of your rank should have more sense. Those so-called reformers are our enemies. You aid them, but they would destroy you.”

  Ragoczy did not respond to the rebuke. “I have said it already: she is your niece, and you must share some responsibility for her actions. You did not see her at the mill, or felt the strength her anger gave her. She learned her fury somewhere. You have guided her steps: where she has gone you have sent her.”

  “I?” He gave Ragoczy an incredulous stare. “How can you make such a claim? You say her blood is singular in character, and so must she be.”

  Two high, yowling wails reverberated through the Schloss, another reminder that Hyacinthie was still within the walls.

  “I say all of the human species has the capacity to do violence, and the capacity for compassion. Like you, I have studied the human condition for many, many years, and I have seen everything that humanity can do.” He disliked this kind of intellectual fencing, but he was seeking answers, and was prepared to continue until he had them.

  “So you do fancy yourself a philosopher.” Von Ravensberg did not make any effort to hide his contempt.

  “Nothing so presumptuous,” said Ragoczy. “But I have some little understanding of the nature of blood: it is blood that shapes much of what becomes of anyone but it is only a potential: life imposes upon us all; how the impositions are met is found in the blood, unless the exigencies of life go beyond the capacity of blood.” He thought of Acanna Tupac, of Leocadia, and Csimenae, all driven by events beyond the limits of their character into desperate acts. “You have been responsible for Hyacinthie as a youngster, and so her upbringing, her education, and her training have been in your hands. You have molded her character to suit your own purposes, as many guardians do. She has been under your protection for most of her life, and yet it seems that you had no notion of the state of her mind. You—a man of science, who prides himself on his observations—you had no apprehension that your ward, your niece, was in such desperate straits that she succumbed to madness. I cannot help but wonder why this should be so.”

  “I assumed she was … excited at the thought of her coming marriage. It is a great thing to be promised in marriage, especially for an orphan like her, who has only the portion I grant her to bring to the union. Many girls experience some trep
idation when contemplating nuptials.” Von Ravensberg started toward the door again. “It is what I thought when she seemed a bit … flighty.”

  “Marriage was the only cause of her mercurial frame of mind?” Ragoczy asked; he tapped the book on the table at his side. “Her journals suggest otherwise.”

  “Her journals?” Von Ravensberg went white about the mouth. “What journals?”

  “Did you not know she kept them?” Ragoczy offered him a mirthless smile. “Another thing it appears you do not know about Fraulein Hyacinthie.”

  Von Ravensberg gave a fussy tug to the sash of his dressing-gown. “What journals do you mean?”

  “The ones Frau Schale had Fraulein Hyacinthie keep since she became your ward’s governess. I came across them in one of the lower shelves, behind an atlas of Europe.” Ragoczy picked up the volume and riffled its pages. “This one is for 1811. It is most illuminating.”

  “Why should you call it that?” Von Ravensberg shrugged, but his stance was more tense than it had been. “The ravings of a child approaching insanity. Nothing in her journals can be believed by sensible men.”

  “You say that, yet you do not know what they contain,” Ragoczy observed.

  “I know she must have written of incidents that led to her madness, or revealed its presence. They can have no bearing on reality. Any competent man of learning will know this, and take it into account if he should read any of her writings.”

  Ragoczy picked up the journal. “But the records must be presented, you know; there are witnesses to her allegations.”

  Von Ravensberg gave a derisive hoot. “Witnesses? I’m sure!”

  “They are identified in the journals.” Ragoczy leveled his gaze at von Ravensberg again.

  “Who? Who would speak against—”

  “Against you? It is you she condemns, as I suppose you must have guessed. Why should she not speak against you, when it appears you have forgot your duty to her and used her most dreadfully?” Ragoczy asked. “You shall discover this has bearing on her case when the Magistrate hears my account of Medoc’s death.”

  “You would do this, in my own house?”

  “Others will second me. Your niece is not as alone as you assume she is, and there are those who know what she has endured at your hands. I have no wish to expose anyone to your displeasure, and I assure you that insofar as it is possible, I will limit my revelations to the Magistrate and no one else. You cannot be charged, in any case. The law protects you.” He rose and went to a stack of leather-bound books set out on the trestle table under the south window.

  “I will bring an action for slander against you if any hint of my niece’s demented fantasies is bruited about.” Von Ravensberg was shocked and outraged, but he conducted himself as a man of rank must. “My niece lies.”

  “You say that when I have not yet told you what she describes,” Ragoczy mused aloud. “You deny something you purport not to know: I find that a curious posture for an innocent man.” He ran his finger along the spines of the journals. “I have read all but the last two journals, and what they contain …”

  “—is lies! How many times must I tell you.” Von Ravensberg clapped his hands to punctuate his outburst.

  “Why do you say that, when you say you do not know what the journals contain? Why do you persist in denying her reports?” Ragoczy laid his small hand on the journals. “I have taken the liberty of copying out some of the more significant passages—in case any of these journals should be damaged or lost.” His voice was bland but his dark eyes burned.

  “What are you telling me?” Von Ravensberg took three hasty steps toward Ragoczy. “Do you say I would destroy the ravings of my niece?”

  “You could be tempted,” said Ragoczy. “Few men want to have their private transgressions, and the wickedness of their families, revealed.”

  “Do you accuse me of this?” von Ravensberg demanded, all signs of politesse gone. “You, who have eaten my food and accepted my hospitality now reward me with this calumny?”

  “I am concerned about what I have read,” said Ragoczy.

  “You believe what you have read? How can you?”

  “I do not disbelieve it,” said Ragoczy. “This troubles me, which is why I have undertaken to discover the truth of her claims.”

  “What temerity!” Von Ravensberg was rigid with rage.

  “I believe I owe a full report to the Magistrate,” said Ragoczy.

  “And you admit this to my face, yet remain on my estate? You insult me and my House, here, within my Schloss?” Von Ravensberg’s face was flushing, and his mouth was square with anger. “What manner of man are you, that you would treat me with such disrespect?”

  “If you insist, I can remove to the nearest posting inn, as I have proposed to do,” Ragoczy suggested, “but that might draw more attention to you, Graf, at a time you say you want as little notoriety as possible.”

  “You are insolent.” He turned on his heel. “No better than a peasant.”

  Ragoczy chuckled. “Dueling is against the law, even for men of our rank. I will not be provoked, nor will you; you will not put yourself at legal risk.” He touched the journals again. “I only wish you could be held accountable for what you have done, but the law spares you that.”

  Von Ravensberg made a visible effort to bring his temper under control. “If your companion were not still in danger, I would have my servants expel you from the Schloss. As it is, I want nothing more to do with you. You exist for me as a tolerated thief, and only for two days more at most. Then whether your companion is ready to travel or not, you must depart.” He strode to the door. “I will withdraw my book from Eclipse Press, of course, and you can pay me for those sales of which you have deprived me.” Satisfied that he had preserved his dignity, von Ravensberg slammed out of the room, leaving Ragoczy alone.

  Half-an-hour later, Rogier found Ragoczy still in the library, the stack of journals on the table next to his chair. “I am sorry to disturb you, my master, but Gutesohnes has asked me to inquire if it is true that the Magistrate is coming this afternoon.” His unfailingly correct manner removed any hint of his opinion of the request.

  “I have been informed that he is,” said Ragoczy.

  “Then Gutesohnes says he would like the opportunity to speak with the Magisrate. He wants to give his account of Medoc’s death.” Nothing in his demeanor revealed his opinion of this intent, but Ragoczy had known him since the reign of Vespasianus, and could interpret Rogier’s silences.

  “Tell him to present himself to me in an hour and I will arrange it.” He studied Rogier’s face. “What is it, old friend?” he asked in Byzantine Greek.

  Rogier answered in the same tongue. “Madame von Scharffensee is fretting. Serilde has told me that she has twice tried to remove the bandages on her face, and she doesn’t want to have any more syrup of poppies rubbed on her mouth where her teeth are broken. She got the bandages off her hand.”

  “Ah.” Ragoczy reached for the journals. “If you will carry these to the Rose Room, I will visit Hero and do what I can to reassure her.”

  Rogier gathered up the journals. “Where would you like me to put these?”

  The shriek this time was long and ululating; neither man spoke until it had faded.

  “So long as you keep them with you, within sight, you may put them where you choose,” said Ragoczy. “I will present them to the Magistrate later today.”

  “They have bearing on the case?” Rogier asked, although he felt certain they did.

  “I must hope they do,” said Ragoczy as he left the library with Rogier, his thoughts already on Hero and what he would say to her, knowing the truth would provide her no comfort.

  Text of a decision handed down by Magistrate Schmidt of Eichenbrucke, and entered into the records of the court there.

  From the Magistrates’ Court of Eichenbruke, under the seal of this office on the 9thday of April, 1818

  Having reviewed the case of the violent death of Herr Const
anz Medoc of Trier, killed at Ravensberg Schloss on the 4thof this month, I hereby give my findings:

  That Herr Medoc was killed by his fiancée, Fraulein Hyacinthie Theresa Katerina Sieffert von Ravensberg while of unsound mind,

  That Madame Hero Iocasta Ariadne Corvosaggio von Scharffensee was kidnapped and violently assaulted by said Fraulein von Ravensberg, suffering many disfiguring wounds as a result,

  That Saint-Germain Ragoczy, Comte Franciscus, was also injured in the attempt to detain Fraulein von Ravensberg,

  That the groundsman Heller Wegbruden suffered a sprained ankle and bruised arms from his efforts to detain Fraulein von Ravensberg.

  Therefore I hold that Fraulein Hyacinthie Theresa Katerina Sieffert von Ravensberg is responsible for the death and the injuries stipulated above, and for which the most severe penalty possible is death.

  In mitigation, I have received evidence and testimony that indicates:

  That Fraulein von Ravensberg, ward of Wallache Gerhard Winifrith Sieffert, Graf von Ravensberg, has been subjected to the lascivious attentions of her guardian and uncle, from the age eight until she was fourteen. These incidents are recorded in the journals of Fraulein Hyacinthie von Ravensberg, and are corroborated by testimony from Frau Jakobine Schale, who has served as governess and tutor to Fraulein Hyacinthie von Ravensberg since the Fraulein was first taken into care by her guardian, and Idune Ulme, the maid who has served Fraulein von Ravensberg for six years, and the girl Hedda for one.

  That these repeated forced seductions worked upon Fraulein von Ravensberg’s mind until she was incapable of discerning right behavior from wrong. This is supported by accounts given under oath by Comte Franciscus, his coachman, Otto Gutesohnes, who participated in the capture of Fraulein von Ravensberg, and Arndt Lowengard, Graf von Ravensberg’s man-of-business, who has observed Fraulein von Ravensberg for as long as Frau Schale has, and who has made notes in his diary of instances of unacceptable conduct by Fraulein von Ravensberg.