Charles L. Grant (ed), page 18
“I’ve been told all kinds of things the last couple days,” he sighed in disgust.
“But this—this is different,” Mirelle said generously. “For a man, this is more important, is it not?” She snuggled closer to him, pressing her body to his. “It is not the same when one changes. But there are compensations.”
“For this? I’ve never been impotent before,” James said, a note of distress creeping into his voice.
“It is not impotent,” Mirelle assured him. “You are more than ready to make love to me, yes? And you are not repelled by me. So this is another matter.”
“You don’t know what it is that I … almost did.” He felt suddenly miserable; he wanted to shut out the drumming of her heart that was loud as heavy machinery in his ears.
Mirelle laughed deeply. “But of course I know what you almost did. You are the same as le Comte. You wanted to put your lips to my neck and taste …”
“For God’s sake!” James interrupted her, trying to move away from her but not succeeding.
“Well,” Mirelle said reasonably, “it is what I expected of you. But you have not entirely got the way of it. You are judging yourself by your earlier standards— and they do not apply, my cabbage.”
James rolled onto his side and rested his hand on the rise of Mirelle’s hip. “Look, you’re being very nice about this and 1 appreciate it, but …” He wanted to shrug the incident off, to promise her another hour when he was feeling a bit better, but he could not find a gracious way to do so. He loved the feel of her skin under his hand and her nearness was oddly intoxicating, so that he could not bring himself to leave the bed or ask her to leave it.
“You are discouraged, but you need not be, James. You have not gotten used to your new ways. You don’t have to worry. Let me show you. I love showing.” Her hazel eyes took on a greenish shine of mischief. “You must learn how to satisfy me. It is not too difficult, ami, and when it is done, you will do well enough for yourself.” She wriggled expertly. “Now, your hand there, if you please. That is a good beginning.”
Dazed, James did as he was told, letting her instruct him as if he were a boy of fourteen. At first, he could not get the memory of the long nights with Madelaine out of his thoughts, but then, as his passion grew in answer to Mirelle’s, he responded to her, and only to her, and this time, though he did not love her as he had supposed he would, he had no reason to apologize.
Roger escorted Madame Kunst to her room, and listened quietly to her protestations that she was reluctant to remain at Montalia. “I have those I wish to meet. It isn’t wise for me to remain here.”
“But there is fighting, Madame, and you would not be safe, should you venture out into the world as it is now.” Roger had received Saint-Germain’s instructions several hours before to be solicitous of the Austrian woman.
“They said that there would be a boat at Nice that would take me to Scotland. I must reach that boat. I must.”
“My master will make inquiries on your behalf, Madame. It would not be pleasant for you to suffer any more mishaps.” Roger was unfailingly polite and slightly deferent, but gave no indication that he would accommodate her.
“He has some influence, this Comte? Could he help me?” Her voice pleaded, but her wary eyes were hard.
“That is for him to decide, Madame Kunst. I will mention what you have told me.” The hallway was dark where the glow of the lantern did not shine. “You have enough candles in your room?”
“There are plenty, thank you,” she answered abruptly. Again she grasped the handle. “I must leave. I must go to Scotland. Can you explain that?”
“I will tell my master what you have said.”
Her hands came up to her chin in fists. “Oh, you stupid man!” she shouted in her frustration, and then was at once quiet and restrained. “Forgive me. I must be more … tired than 1 realize.”
“Of course, Madame Kunst.” He lifted the lantern higher. “You can see your way?”
She did not entirely take the hint. “That woman,” she said as she paused on the threshold. “1 suppose she is necessary?”
Roger gave her no response whatever and there was a subtle sternness about his mouth that indicated he would not indulge in speculation about his master or Mirelle Bee.
“Well, such things happen, I suppose.” She gave a polite shrug to show it made no difference to her if those in the house wanted to be immoral. “The highborn live by their own rules, do they not?”
“Good night, Madame Kunst,” Roger said, and stepped back from her doorway. When he was satisfied that the door was firmly closed, he turned away from it and made his way back toward the sitting room where he knew that Saint-Germain waited for him. His sandy head was bent in thought and his face was not readable.
Shortly before sunrise, Saint-Germain found James walking in the overgrown garden. He came up to the American silently and fell into step beside him, letting James choose the path they were to take.
“She showed me,” James said after a long while.
“Aft.”
Their feet, as they walked, crunched on the unraked gravel that led between the abandoned flower beds. James reached out and pulled a cluster of dried, faded blossoms off a trailing branch as it brushed his shoulder. “It wasn’t what I expected.” The paper-crisp husks of the flowers ran between his fingers and fell.
“But tolerable?” Saint-Germain inquired as if they were discussing nothing more important than the temperature of bath water.
“Oh yeah.Tolerable.” He laughed once, self-consciously. “Tolerable.”
Saint-Germain continued his unhurried stroll, but pointed out that the sun would be up in half an hour. “You are not used to the sun yet, Mister Tree. Until you are, it might be wisest to spend the day indoors., if not asleep.”
“Uh huh.” He turned back toward the chateau, saying with some awkwardness, “Mirelle told me she’d be back in three or four days. But she didn’t… Oh Christ! this is difficult.”
“She will be here for you, Mister Tree. My need is not great just now.” He answered the unasked question easily, and sensed James’s relief.
“That’s what she hinted.” James looked sharply at the shorter man. “Why? Is it because you’re after that Austrian woman?”
“What an appalling notion! No, of course I’m not.” He expressed his indignation lightly, but decided that he had better explain. “Oh, if I were determined to … use her, I could wait until she was asleep and visit her then and she would remember little more than a very pleasant dream. It is something we all learn to do in time and it has its advantages upon occasion. But Madame Kunst is a bit of a puzzle. Her purpose for being here is not known to me and it would not be sensible or wise to … be close to her. If she learned or guessed what I am, and wished me ill, she would have me at a distinct disadvantage. The Resistance might not mind taking off time from hunting Nazis and Nazi sympathizers to hunt a more old-fashioned menace. You must not forget that is how most of the world sees us—as menaces. I would not like to have to leave Montalia precipitously just now.” There had been many times in the past when he had had to take sudden flight in order to save himself; it was not a thing he wished to do again. “We must be circumspect, James.”
This was the first time Saint-Germain had addressed him by his Christian name and it startled him. “Why do you call me James? Is it because of Mirelle?”
“Don’t be absurd.” Saint-Germain’s wry smile was clear in the advancing light.
“You’ve been calling me Mister Tree since I arrived here.” The tone of his statement was stubborn and James was plainly waiting for an answer.
“And you have not been calling me anything at all,” was Saint-Germain’s mild reply.
James faltered. “It’s that … I don’t know what to call you.”
“Is it.” Saint-Germain gestured toward the side door that led into the pantry. “This is the quickest way.”
As James was about to go in, there came the drone of planes overhead. He looked up, searching the sky, and at last, off to the north, saw a formation of shapes headed west. “I can’t tell whose they are,” he said quietly.
“American or British bombers back from their nighttime raids. They’re keeping to the south of Paris, for reasons of caution.” He held the door for James.
“This far south?” James wondered aloud, already stepping into the shadow of the doorway.
“It is possible, James. They have done it before. You have been here very little time, and until last night you were not paying much attention to the world around you.” There was no rebuke in what he said, and he felt none.
“True enough,” James allowed, and waited while Saint-Germain closed the door behind them and latched it. “Why bother?”
“The farmers around here are very insular, careful folk, like all French peasants. They respect and admire Madelaine because she is the Seigneur. Don’t look so surprised, Mister Tree. Surely you can understand this. The peasants are proud of their estate and they are protective of Montalia. Most of them think it is a great misfortune that the line has passed through females for so long, but that makes them all the more determined to guard Madelaine. They know what she does—or part of it. They would beat their daughters senseless for taking lovers, but the Seigneurs are different—and her adventures provide them endless entertainment.”
They had come into the kitchen, where Roger was cutting up a freshly killed chicken. He looked up from his task and regarded the two men quizzically. “I didn’t know you were outside.”
“James was taking the air and I was coming back from checking the gatehouse,” Saint-Germain said. “You might want to purchase some eggs from the Widow Saejean. Her boy told Mirelle that times are hard for them just now.”
Roger nodded. “This afternoon.” He bent and sniffed the chicken. “They’re not able to feed them as well as they did.”
“We could purchase a few of ours now, if that would help,” Saint-Germain suggested, but Roger shook his head.
“Better to buy them. If we bring chickens here, we won’t be able to feed them much better than the rest do, and they would resent it. We are still the foreigners, and it would not take much to have them remember it.” He began to cut up the bird with a long chef’s knife, letting the weight of the heavy blade do much of the work.
“About Madame Kunst …” Saint-Germain prompted.
“Nothing more, my master. I have not been able to touch her valise, which is locked, in any case. But I do know that it is heavy, heavier than it ought to be, considering her story.” Roger looked down at the chicken parts and smiled.
“Very good.” Saint-Germain motioned to the American. “Come, James. Let’s permit Roger to enjoy his breakfast in peace.” He indicated the passage toward the main hall and waited for James to accompany him.
Once they were out of the kitchen, James said, “I don’t mean to sound stupid, but I thought Roger was …”
“A vampire?” Saint-Germain finished for him. “No.”
Apparently needing to explain himself, James went on. “It’s only that you seem to be so … used to each other.”
Saint-Germain turned toward the front reception room, where tall windows gave a view of the rising mountains behind the promontory where Montalia sat. “I did not say that he is … unchanged, simply that he is not a vampire. Do sit down, if you wish, and be at ease. No,” Saint-Germain said, resuming his topic, “Roger is not like us, but he has died and recovered from it. You were right; we are old friends. We met some time ago in Rome.”
“If he’s died and … what is he?” James knew that he ought to be bothered by these revelations or admit he was in the company of madmen, but after his night with Mirelle, he could not bring himself to accuse Saint—Germain of anything.
“He is a ghoul,” Saint-Germain responded matter-of-factly. He saw James blink. “Don’t imagine him back there tearing that poor fowl’s carcass to bits with his teeth. There is no reason for it. He eats neatly because it is easier and more pleasant. The only restrictions his state imposes on him is that the meat—for he only eats meat—be fresh-killed and raw.”
James shuddered and looked away. “1 see.”
“I’m not certain of that,” Saint-Germain said quietly.
Eager to change the subject, James asked, “Why was he trying to look at Madame Kunst’s valise?”
“Because she guards it so zealously,” he answered at once. “I am curious about a woman who says that she avoided arrest by being out shopping when the rest of her family were taken—and yet carries a large valise. Did she take it shopping with her? Then for what was she shopping? If she picked it up later, why that bag, rather than another? She says that she only has two dresses. Good. But where did they come from? Did she buy a dress while shopping and take it with her when she fled? Did she buy it later? If Roger says that the valise is heavy, then you may believe him. In that case, what is in it?”
“Maybe she went back to her house and grabbed the only valise she could find, stuffed clothes into it, and something of value, say, silver candlesticks, so that she could pay for her passage. She wants to go to Scotland, and 1 don’t know if it would be safe to pay for her trip in marks.” James turned the questions over in his mind as he answered, enjoying the process. “What if she got as far as Zurich, had to buy some clothes, but could only afford to buy a cheap valise? If she’d gone to the train…”
“And where did she get her travel permit?” Saint-Germain inquired evenly. “Whether she is going to Scotland or Poland, she would have to have the proper papers or she would not be able to get a ticket, let alone come this far.”
“But if she didn’t come by train? If she had a car …” He thought this over. “She would require proper documents to get over the border, that’s true, and if her family was arrested, her name would probably be on a detain list.”
“Yes. And where does that leave Madame Kunst?” With a shake of his head, Saint-Germain drew up a chair. “You are a journalist, James, and you are used to examining persons and facts. If the occasion should arise and you are able to draw out Madame Kunst, I would appreciate your evaluation. Don’t force the issue, of course, because I don’t want her alarmed. If she is truly nothing more than a refugee, determined—for reasons best known to herself—to get to Scotland, it would be a shame to cause her any more anguish. If she is not that, it would be foolish to put her on her guard.”
“Are you always such a suspicious bastard?” James asked with increased respect.
“I am not suspicious at all. If I were, I should not have allowed her to come here. But I have seen enough treachery in my … life to wish to avoid it.” He studied the tall American. “You would do well to develop a similar attitude, James. It spares us much inconvenience.”
James gave this a reserved acceptance, then inquired, “What if she is an agent? What will you do then?”
“Inform the Resistance leaders. Yes, there are ways I can do this—and I will, if it is necessary. I hope that it is not; I do not want to live under constant surveillance, as I have told you before.” He got up. “I have a few tasks to attend to. If you will excuse me?”
As he started toward the door, James called after him. “What tasks?”
Saint-Germain paused. “I like to spend some time in my laboratory each day. It’s a bit makeshift, but better than nothing.”
“Laboratory? What do you do there?” James was somewhat intrigued, for although he had no great interest in scientific experimentation, he was curious about how Saint-Germain occupied his time.
“I make gold, of course.” With James’s indulgent laughter ringing in his ears, Saint-Germain left the reception room.
That afternoon James discovered Madame Kunst to be a fairly good—if impatient—cardplayer. They had begun with cribbage and had graduated to whist. As Madame Kunst put down her cards, she said, “After I have my supper, let us play another rubber. You have some skill, it seems.”
James, who was used to thinking of himself as a very good cardplayer, was piqued by her comment. “Perhaps, after you have your meal, I will have forgotten my good manners, Madame.”
She smiled widely and insincerely. “I do not believe that you have been deliberately allowing me to win— you aren’t that shrewd in your bidding, for one thing.” She looked around the room. “It is getting dark. How unfortunate that there are no electric lights here.”
“But there are,” James said impulsively, remembering Madelaine’s pride at having them. “There is not enough gas to run the generator to power them. If the cars are going to be driven, it must be kerosene and candles here.”
“But there is a generator? Curious.” She smiled at James. “Have you seen this chateau when it is alight?”
“Yes,” James said, not entirely sure now that he should have told her about the generator. But where was the harm, he asked himself, when a quick inspection of the old stables would reveal the generator and the allotted fuel for Montalia?
“It must be quite impressive,” Madame Kunst said quietly. She was wearing one of her two dresses, an elegantly knitted creation of salmon pink with a scalloped hem and long, full sleeves. There were travel stains on the skirt and it would have been the better for cleaning and blocking. Madame Kunst fidgeted with the belt, putting her fingers through the two loops at either side of the waist. It was much more a nervous than a provocative gesture, but James could comprehend that in a lanky, high-strung way she might be attractive.
“It is,” he said, taking the deck and shuffling it methodically. “After your meal, we can try again.”
“Are you not going to join me?” she asked him.
“No, thank you.” Then he recalled what Madelaine had said to him the first time he had dined at Montalia and he paraphrased her words. “I have a condition which severely restricts my diet. It’s simpler for me to make private arrangements for my meals.”
“This is the oddest household. Roger tells me that le Comte dines privately in his rooms; you have a … condition. If it were fitting, I would suggest to Roger that we both eat in the kitchen, but he won’t hear of it,” She gave a tittery laugh, then left the room.
