The Saint-Germain Chronicles (10 page)

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 this 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 fairly normal lives. 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 that 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 fee! 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 travelers.”

“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.”

She shrugged, shaking her head once or twice. “It doesn’t matter to me. Or it does, but it makes no sense.”

“How do you mean?” Saint-Germain had seen this lethargic shock many times in the past, but long familiarity did not make it easier to bear. He would have to make other arrangements for James, he thought: this woman clearly needed quiet and time to restore herself. She had had more than enough impositions on her.

“It’s all so…” She sighed as Saint-Germain opened the side door for her and indicated the way into the chateau. “No man has touched me since Gunther, and I was content to be in my father’s house, where the worst seemed so far away. When I thought those men might force me, I screamed, but there was no reason for it any more.”

“You have nothing to fear from anyone at Montalia,” Saint-Germain told her quietly.

She nodded and let Roger escort her into the breakfast room off the kitchen. There was a low fire in the grate and though the striped wallpaper was faded, in the flickering light it was pleasant and cozy. As Saint-Germain closed the door, she sat in the chair Roger held for her and folded her hands in her lap. Her age was no more than thirty, but the gesture was that of a much younger person. “Gunther died six months ago. I didn’t find out about it at first. They don’t tell you what’s happened. The SS comes and people go out with them and don’t come home again, and no one dares ask where they have gone, or when they will return, for then the SS might return. It was the local judge who told me, and he was drunk when he did.”

Roger bowed and excused himself to prepare a simple meal for Madame Kunst.

“When did you leave Austria, Madame?” Saint-Germain asked her as he added another log to the fire.

“Not many days ago. Eight or nine, I think. It could be ten.” She yawned and apologized.

“There is no need,” Saint-Germain assured her. “The fare here is adequate but not luxurious. If you are able to wait half an hour, there will be soup and cheese and sausage. Perhaps you would like to nap in the meantime?”

She thought about this, then shook her head. “I would sleep like the dead. I must stay awake. There are too many dead already.” She fiddled with the fold of her skirt across her lap, but her mind was most certainly drifting. “I ate yesterday.”

Saint-Germain said nothing but he could not repress an ironic smile, and was relieved that he had attended to his own hunger a few days before. The matter of nourishment, he thought, was becoming ridiculously complex.

“You did
what
?” James exclaimed, outraged. He had come back to the sitting room some ten minutes before and had tried to listen in reserved silence to what Saint-Germain was telling him.

“I saw that she was fed and given a room. I’m sorry that this adds so many complications. Had Roger been able to reach Mirelle, the problem would not have arisen.” He was unruffled by James’ outburst.

“
First
, you send your valet out to get a cooperative widow for me, and when that doesn’t work because he can’t get through to the village, he brings a half-starved Austrian refugee here as a weird kind of substitute, never mind what the poor woman thinks, being half kidnapped.
Second
, you think I’ll go along with this impossible scheme.
Third
, you’re telling me that you bring women here the way some cooks rustle up a half a dozen eggs, and I’m supposed to be grateful?” His voice had risen to a shout, as much to conceal the guilty pleasure he felt at the prospect of so tantalizing a meeting.

“Mister Tree, if there were not a war going on, all this would be handled differently. It may surprise you to know that I am not in the habit of ‘rustling up,’ as you say, cooperative widows or anyone else, for that matter. However, your situation will be critical soon, if something is not done, and I had hoped to find as undisruptive a solution as possible.”