Charles L. Grant (ed), page 17
“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 1,” 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. 1 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 1 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.
“We do what we can in these times,” she said, trying to appear at her best. “I have two dresses—and the other is worse than this one.”
There was a tap at the door, and then Roger entered. “Excuse me, Madame Kunst, but if you are finished with your tea, I will remove the tray for you.”
“Yes, I am, thank you,” she replied, a trifle more grandly than she had addressed James. “It was very good.”
“There will be a supper in two or three hours. Served in the breakfast room, as it is easiest to heat.” He picked up the tray and started toward the door. “Mister Tree, le Comte would appreciate it if you could spare him a moment of your time.”
James scowled. “When?”
“At your convenience. In the next two hours, perhaps?” He gave a little bow and left the room.
“My aunt had a butler like that, years ago,” Madame Kunst said wistfully when Roger had gone.
“He’s very efficient,” James admitted grudgingly, deciding that Roger was a bit too efficient.
“Servants aren’t like that anymore.” She smoothed the skirt of her dress and looked over at James. “How did you find the situation in France when you arrived?”
“Chaotic,” James answered. “It’s apparent that this war has taken a dreadful toll on the country.”
“On all Europe,” Madame Kunst corrected him.
“Sure. But I’ve been covering France, and this is where I’ve had to look for the damage, the ruin, and the destruction. I’ve heard about conditions in Russia and I’m appalled. Italy is supposed to be having very bad troubles, and the Netherlands and Scandinavia are suffering, too, but France, in many ways, is taking the brunt of it. When I was in London, I was shocked, but when I came to France, I was horrified.” He sensed that he was talking too much, but was no longer able to stop himself. “The First World War was ruinous, but this is something a lot worse. And the rumors we keep hearing make it all sound a lot worse than we think it is. There’s nothing as bad as trench warfare going on, and no mounted cavalry against tanks, as there was before, but the cities are burning and the country is laid waste, and there doesn’t seem to be any end in sight. What can anyone think? It can’t go on endlessly, but there is no way to end it.”
“At home, we all pray that it will end,” she said softly, her large brown eyes turned appealingly toward him. “Don’t you think the Americans could do something? If your President would insist that we stop, all of us at once, then it could not go on. Without the Americans, the British and the French could not continue this insanity.”
“The Americans don’t see it that way, Madame Kunst,” James said rather stiffly, feeling disturbed by her afresh.
“But what are we to do if it goes on and on? Everyone in my family is dead but myself, and no one cares that this is the case. Down the street from where my family lived, there is a widow who had lost four sons—all of them flyers killed in air battles. She is like a ghost in her house. And there are hundreds, thousands like her.”
“As there are in France and Italy and England and Holland, Madame Kunst.As there are in Chicago and Montreal and Honolulu.” He got up. “Excuse me, but it might be best if I talk to le Comte now, rather than later.”
Her face changed. “Have I offended you? Please, don’t think me heartless or uncaring of the sufferings of others. That is why I spoke to you about a resolution to this terrible war, so that there need not be such women ever again.”
“I’m not offended,” James said, knowing that he was and was uncertain why. As he left the room, he passed near her chair, and for one moment, he was caught and held by the sound of her pulse.
“She gave me a lecture on pacifism,” James said at last when Saint-Germain had asked him for a third time what he and Madame Kunst had found to talk about. “She wants me to end the war so no more widows will lose sons. God knows, I don’t want to see any more deaths, but what’s the alternative?”
“Capitulation?” Saint-Germain suggested.
“Oh no. You’ve seen the way the Germans have treated every foot of land they’ve taken. And they say there’s worse things going on. One of the Dutch reporters said that there were cattle cars full of people being taken away. If they’re doing that in Germany to Germans, what would they do to the rest of us?” He gestured once. “That could be propaganda about the cattle cars, but if it isn’t…”
“I do see your point, Mister Tree. I am not convinced that you see mine. Montalia is isolated and splendidly defensible. A person here, or in one of the houses in, shall we say, a ten-kilometer radius, with a radio receiver and a reasonable amount of prudence, might provide the Germans with extremely useful information.” He watched James as he said this, expecting an argument.
“But what good would it be?” James objected, taking his favorite role of devil’s advocate. “You said yourself that the chateau is isolated, and God knows, this part of Provence is damned remote. What could anyone find out here? There’s nothing very strategic in your ten-kilometer radius unless you think that they’re going to start last-ditch battles for the smaller passes.”
“We’re very close to Switzerland. As many secrets as gold are brokered through Geneva and Zurich. With a listening post here, a great deal could be learned.” Saint-Germain raised one shoulder. “I may be feinting at shadows, but it worries me.”
“If they want a listening post for Switzerland, why not in Switzerland?” James asked.
“The Swiss take a dim view of the abuse of their neutrality. Certainly there are monitoring posts in Bavaria and Austria, but it is not as easy to watch Geneva and Lausanne. The Resistance have found men and women doing espionage work in these mountains before. Last year, it was a gentleman claiming to be a naturalist hoping to preserve a particular bird; he climbed all over the mountains and stayed in the old monastery on the next ridge. He might have accomplished his task, whatever it was, if one of the Resistance men did not become suspicious when he saw the supposed naturalist walk by a nest of the bird in question without a second look. It may be that Madame Kunst is nothing more than an Austrian refugee in a panic, but I am not going to assume anything until she has shown me I have no reason to be concerned.”
James chuckled. “And where do you fit into this?”
“1 don’t want to fit into it at all,” was Saint-Germain’s short rejoinder. “War ceased to amuse me millen … years ago.” He shook his head. “Apparently you haven’t considered our position. We are both foreigners in a country at war. If we are imprisoned, which could happen—it has happened before—our particular needs would make a prolonged stay … difficult.” He recalled several of the times he had been confined and each brought its own burden of revulsion. “You would not like prison, Mister Tree.”
“I wouldn’t like it in any case,” James said at once. “I knew a reporter who was shot by the Spanish for trying to file an uncensored story. He’d done it before and they caught him trying the same thing again.”
Saint-Germain lifted his head and listened. “Ah. That will be Mirelle. We will continue this at a later time, Mister Tree.”
“What?” James cried, remembering the woman’s name all too clearly. Now he, too, could hear an approaching automobile.
“You do have need of her, Mister Tree,” Saint-Germain said quietly. “More than you know now.”
James came off the sofa to round on le Comte. “It’s monstrous. I’ve gone along with some of what you’ve told me, but 1 draw the line at this!”
“Perhaps you should wait until you have a better idea of what ‘this’ is,” Saint-Germain said, a touch of his wry humor returning. “She is looking forward to this evening. It would be sad if you were to disappoint her.”
“Come on,” James protested.
This time, when Saint-Germain spoke, his voice was low and his eyes compassionate. “Mister Tree, you will have to learn sometime, and we haven’t the luxury of leisure. Mirelle wants to have the pleasure of taking your vampiric virginity, and you would do well to agree. We are rarely so fortunate in our first … experiences. You will spare yourself a great deal of unpleasantness if you will set aside your worry and pride long enough to lie with her. Believe this.”
“But …” James began, then stopped. He could feel his hunger coiled within him, and he knew without doubt that it was hearing the beat of Madame Kunst’s heart that had sharpened it. “Okay, I’ll try. If nothing else,” he went on with a poor attempt at jauntiness, “I’ll get a good lay.”
Saint-Germain’s brows rose. “It is essential that she have the … good lay. Otherwise you will have nothing Mister Tree. Males of our blood are like this.” He was about to go on when there was a quick, emphatic step in the hall and the door was flung open.
Mirelle Bee was thirty-four, firm-bodied, and comfortably voluptuous. She did not so much enter the room as burst into it with profligate vitality. Drab clothes and lack of cosmetics could not disguise her sensuality. Her hair was a dark cloud around a pert face that was more exciting than pretty—and when she spoke, it was in rapid, enthusiastic bursts. “Comte!” she called out and hastened across the room to fling her arms around him. “You’ve kept away so long, I ought to be annoyed with you, but I could never do that.”
Saint-Germain kissed her cheek affectionately. “I have missed seeing you too, Mirelle.”
As she disengaged herself from his embrace, she pointed dramatically at James. “Is this the baby? Comte, you are a bad, bad man. You did not tell me he was so beautiful.” To James’s embarrassment, Mirelle gave him a thorough and very appraising looking over. “Oh, this is very promising,” she declared as she approached him. “I do like the white hair. It is distinguished, is it not?” As James tried not to squirm, she laughed aloud and reached for his hand. “You are shy? But how delightful.” Over her shoulder, she added to Saint-Germain, “How good of you to offer him to me. I am going to enjoy myself tremendously.”
“But, Madame, we …” James said in confusion, trying to find some way to deal with her.
“Have not been introduced, is that what concerns you? 1 am Mirelle, and you, I have been told, are James. So. We are introduced now. It remains only for you to show me which room is yours.”
James had had experience with many women, but this one took him wholly aback. Yet even as he tried to separate himself from her, he felt the draw of her and his much-denied hunger responded to her. “Madame .. .”
“No, no, no. Mirelle. You are James. 1 am Mirelle. It is more friendly that way, is it not?” She drew his arm through hers. “You will tell me how you come to be here as we walk to your room.”
“1 am not sure that …” James began with a look of mute appeal to Saint-Germain which he studiously avoided.
“But I am. Let us go, James.” She waved to le Comte and went quickly to the door, taking the ambivalent James with her.
“Christ, I’m sorry,” James muttered sometime later. They were in a glorious tangle on his bed, with the covers in complete disarray. “If you give me a little time, Mirelle. … I must be more worn out than I knew.”
Mirelle gave a sympathetic laugh. “It is not fatigue, James; it is what you are.” She trailed her fingers over his chest. “Weren’t you told?”
