by Paula Guran
“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 … Mad-elaine’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. “You 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.”
James chuckled. “All right: I’m a vampire. But according to you, so is Madelaine, as well as you.”
“Among vampires,” Saint-Germain went on, not responding to James’ provocation, “there is a most abiding love. Think of how the change was accomplished, and you will perceive why this is so. But once we come into our life, the expression of that love … changes, as well. We hunger for life, Mister Tree. And that is the one thing we cannot offer one another.”
“Oh, shit,” James burst out. “I don’t know how much of this I can listen to.”
Saint-Germain’s manner became more steely. “You will listen to it all, Mister Tree, or you will come to regret it.” He waited until James settled back into the chair once again. “As I have told you,” he resumed in the same even tone, “you will have to learn to seek out those who will respond to … what you can offer. For we do offer a great deal to those we love, Mister Tree. You know how profoundly intimate your love is for Madelaine. That is what you will
have to learn to give to others if you are to survive.”
“Life through sex?” James scoffed feebly. “Freud would love it.”
Though Saint-Germain’s fine brows flicked together in annoyance, he went on with hardly a pause. “Yes, through, if you take that to mean a route. Sex is not what you must strive for, but true intimacy. Sex is often a means to avoid intimacy—hardly more than the scratching of an itch. But when the act is truly intimate, there is no more intense experience, and that, Mister Tree, is what you must achieve.” He cocked his head to the side. “Tell me: when you were with Madelaine, how did you feel?”
The skepticism went out of James’ eyes and his face softened. “I wish I could tell you. I can’t begin to express it. No one else ever …”
“Yes,” Saint-Germain agreed rather sadly. “You will do well to remember it, in future.”
On the hearth one of the logs crackled and burst, filling the room with the heavy scent of pine resin. A cascade of sparks flew onto the stone flooring and died as they landed.
James swallowed and turned away from Saint-Germain. He wanted to find a rational, logical objection to throw back at the black-clad man, to dispel the dread that was filling him, the gnawing certainty that he was being told the truth. “I don’t believe it,” he whispered.
Saint-Germain had seen this shock so many times that he was no longer distressed by it, but merely saddened. He approached James and looked down at him. “You will have to accept it, Mister Tree, or you will have to die the true death. Madelaine would mourn for you terribly, if you did that.”
“‘Die the true death.’” James bit his lower lip. “How …”
“Anything that destroys the nervous system destroys us: fire, crushing, beheading, or the traditional stake through the heart, for that matter, which breaks the spine. If you choose to die, there are many ways to do it.” He said it matter-of-factly enough, but there was something at the back of his eyes that made James wonder how many times Saint-Germain had found himself regretting losses of those who had not learned to live as he claimed they must.
“And drowning? Isn’t water supposed to …” James was amazed to hear his own question. He had tried to keep from giving the man any credence, and now he was reacting as if everything he heard was sensible.
“You will learn to line the heels and soles of your shoes with your native earth, and will cross water, walk in sunlight, in fact live a fairly normal life. We are creatures of the earth, Mister Tree. That which interrupts our contact with it is debilitating. Water is the worst, of course, but flying in an airplane is … unnerving.” He had traveled by air several times, but had not been able to forget the huge distance between him and the treasured earth. “It will be more and more the way we travel—Madelaine says that she had got used to it but does not enjoy it—but I must be old-fashioned; I don’t like it. Although it is preferable to sailing, for brevity if nothing else.”
“You make it sound so mundane,” James said in the silence that fell. That alone was persuading him, and for that reason, he tried to mock it.
“Most of life is mundane, even our life.” He smiled, and for the first time there was warmth in it. “We are not excused from the obligations of living, unless we live as total outcasts. Some of us have, but such tactics are … unrewarding.”
“Maybe not death, but taxes?” James suggested with an unhappy chuckle.
Saint-Germain gave James a sharp look. “If you wish to think of it in that way, it will answer fairly well,” he said after a second or two. “If you live in the world, there are accommodations that must be made.”
“This is bizarre,” James said, convincing himself he was amused while the unsettling apprehension grew in him steadily.
“When you came here,” Saint-Germain continued, taking another line of argument, “when did you travel?”
“What?” James made an abrupt gesture with his hand, as if to push something away. “I didn’t look about for public transportation, so I can’t tell you what time …”
“Day or night will do,” Saint-Germain said.
“Why, it was da …” His face paled. “No. I … passed out during the day. I decided it was safer at night, in any case. There are fewer patrols, and …”
“When did you decide this? Before or after you had walked the better part of one night?” He let James have all the time he wanted to answer the question.
“I walked at night,” James said in a strange tone. “The first night it was … easier. And I was so exhausted that I wasn’t able to move until sundown. That night, with the moon so full, and seeing so well, I figured I might as well take advantage of it …”
“Mister Tree, the moon is not full, nor was it two nights ago. It is in its first quarter.” He was prepared to defend this, but he read James’ troubled face, and did not press his argument. “Those who have changed see very well at night. You may, in fact, want to avoid bright sunlight, for our eyes are sensitive. We also gain strength and stamina. How else do you suppose you covered the distance you did with the sorts of wounds you sustained to slow you down?”
“I … I didn’t think about it,” he answered softly. “It was … natural.”
“For those …”
“…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 straight 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 further down the mountain, and they do not take kindly to travel
ers.”
“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-Germain 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.”