The Saint-Germain Chronicles (17 page)

Ragoczy’s dark eyes lingered on her, warm with his affection for her. “I have missed you, my heart.”

“Yes. And I have missed you. But unless there are… it is not so painful when I am busy with my work, or I have a new lover, or… any number of things.” She could not go on, and it took her a little time to recover. “Why can’t we try?”

“Because it’s not possible.” He was speaking very carefully now, and in French. “We do not have…”

“Life? Must we have life?” She sighed. “Tell me what is happening with you. Or I will go on asking you fruitless questions.”

He nodded, at once relieved and saddened to be free of the demand. “I have been told that the Americans want to find out about me, as part of their new concern for security. They are afraid, apparently, that the grapes at my vinyard may be sympathetic to communists. At least, that is the excuse. And the Baronessa has, I think, been charged with the task of the initial drawing out. I am considering telling her that one Franchot Ragoczy escaped from Russia by the skin of his teeth—what an apt expression—in 1917. That may give them an idea that the Ragoczy family is not likely to admire Stalin. As Austro-Hungarian nobility, it is not typical to favor Spartacists. If she hears that, she will probably filter it back to her brother, Chester, and he to his superiors in America, and perhaps my vintners will be left alone.” He shook his head. “Oh, Madelaine, how complex it has become. I keep a waxwork of myself so that I may provide them with photographs for passports and visas and all the rest of those documents they love so. How do you manage?”

“I go many places where they care little for such things, but occasionally I have difficulty with photographs. They are always blurred, no matter what is done.” She laughed and shook her head. “You are well known and wealthy. That creates demands, as I need not remind you.” There were amethyst drops in her ears which he had sent her as a gift many years ago.

“I suppose I can disguise some of my holdings, but creating new identities is getting trickier.” He smiled ruefully. “But if I am to live in this world, I will learn to accommodate it.” He looked up. “Your Signor Athanasios…”

“He is not
my
Signor Athanasios,” she put in with disgust.

“… appears to be making headway with the Baronessa. She likes tall men, or so she tells me.” He looked around as the five well-mannered, unobtrusive bells sounded to recall the audience to the hall. “Are you staying with Bianca? May I call on you tomorrow?”

“Yes, to both. I wish we did not have to…” Madeline’s wish was interrupted by the return of Alexis dalla Piaggia who signaled to Ragoczy in a hurried way.

“Francesco,” she said urgently as he approached her. “This is very difficult,
but I don’t know any other way to…” She gave him a flustered smile and touched
her honey-brown hair where one of the carefully ordered waves was beginning to
droop. “I have had the most… Mister Athanasios has asked me to go off to dinner
with him. Now. Of course, I am with you, and I told him that I must not behave
so badly to you, nor should he leave the Professor.” She cast a quick,
inquisitive glance at Madelaine, and then hurried on. “I don’t know how she would feel, but do you think… You
do
seem to know her, and…”

“Italo isn’t often so conveniently away, Alexis?” Ragoczy said easily. “It would be boorish to ruin a rare opportunity.”

“You’ve got every right to be sarcastic, but, honestly, Francesco,” she protested as the returning crowd jostled them. “You aren’t
that
set on me, are you? And if the Professor is your friend… Look, come to dinner next Wednesday night, and meet Chester. It’s awful of me, I know…” She looked up sharply as the second warning sounded. “
Please
, Francesco.”

“Very well. If that is what you want, what can I be but honored to comply?” Ragoczy said, and kissed her hand. “I look forward to seeing you Wednesday evening. Shall we say nine? At your villa?” He watched the color come back into her face. “I hope that your evening lives up to your expectations, my dear. And I mean that most sincerely.”

She studied his dark eyes for a moment. “I think you really do,” she said slowly, then spun away from him, saying as she did, “You
will
explain it to the Professor, won’t you?”

“It will be my pleasure.” He had been attempting to resist the pull of the crush of people returning to the concert hall, but now he let them carry him to the alcove which formed a kind of eddy out of the flood where Madelaine waited.

“What was that about?” Madelaine asked, laughter in her violet eyes.

Ragoczy reached down and took her hand in his. It was a familiar intimate gesture, more loving than the kiss he had bestowed on Alexis’ hand. “I think this is what the Americans call being stood up, or something of that nature.” V

“What?” The lights in the lobby were dimming as a last, unsubtle hint to those few who remained there.

“We have use of the Baronessa’s box, if you like. She has gone off for the evening with your handsome Greek, and hopes that we will understand.” As he spoke, he led her toward the mirrored-and-gilt hallway at the back of the boxes.

“And what of the investigation?” Madelaine asked, her concern genuine.

“I’ve arranged for it to continue next Wednesday night. She can meet that brother of hers with a clear conscience. At least on my account,” he added, shaking his head. “What is it about women like her?” he asked Madelaine as they stepped into the box and dropped the curtain behind him. “She hungers, and gorges on that which leaves her the more famished.”

“Perhaps she doesn’t know the difference between appetite and nourishment,” Madelaine suggested, only to be firmly hushed by one of the unseen persons in the adjoining box.

Ragoczy put his finger to his lips as he sat down. “Perhaps,” he whispered, and then began to applaud as the mezzo-soprano sailed magnificently onto the stage.

Auf Flügeln des Gesanges

Herz leibchen trag
’
ich dich fort,

Fort nach den Fluren des Ganges

Dort weiss ish den schönsten Ort.

As the lovely, languid melody filled the concert hall, Ragoczy once again took Madelaine’s hand in his: their touch was so much more than most of the world knew, and so much less than he wished they had.

Text of a letter from le Comte de Saint-Germain to James Emmerson Tree.

Via San Gregorio

Milano, Italia

17 February, 1965

Okanagan Road

Ewings Landing, British Columbia, Canada

Dear James:

First, yes,  I have had word from Madelaine. She sent a telegram from Omdurman, saying that her work had gone well and that she would be returning to France at the end of the month. She has promised to call from Cairo when she has completed her travel arrangements.

How remarkable that seems to me: a hundred years ago she might have been able to telegraph from Cairo that she had returned, and then there would be a train or a ship to carry her home. A hundred years before that, there would have been the ship but not the telegraph and her message would have moved as slowly or as rapidly as she herself. With telephones and satellites, it seems the world is quite transformed, and shrunk to the size of a child’s marble. Most of what is commonplace today would have dazzled the world a century ago and stunned it into shock before that. There are times I am tempted to believe that this heralds that promised new age that will unite the entire human race in brotherhood. But then, on the television I see the same brutality and want and neglect and rapacity that has plagued humanity from the beginning and I fear we are not changed at all, but have only acquired new and more sophisticated toys to titillate and exhaust us. You see that I say “us”, for in this, we are much the same as the rest of mankind, and while our particular needs keep us from being seduced entirely by the marvels around us, still we are none of us entirely immune from them.

And what toys they are! Think how the Gallic Wars might have gone if there had been television coverage. Or what crimes would have been revealed with current forensic skills. Or what the Inquisition might have accomplished with a computer and data bank at its disposal: mixed blessings indeed.

While I am on the subject of detection, let me recommend that you establish a few more aliases if you can. With the spread of dossiers and police records and tax files the world over, it is becoming increasingly difficult to move about in privacy. Passports, fingerprints, and all the rest of it, are making matters awkward at best. Your New Zealand sheeprun should stand you in good stead, and the house you’ve bought in Mexico is helpful. Tempting though it is, avoid settling in countries where the government is too oppressive, for it may be that foreigners will be singled out with little warning for more investigation than you would like to have. I have been through several such experiences and I do not recommend them. You are an intelligent man and have learned a great deal.. With a little reasonable care, you should do very well.

It was easier once; at most you carried a letter of authorization and perhaps knew a code phrase which would indicate that you were genuine. Certainly there were hazards, and often travelers would drop out of sight without anyone learning for certain what had become of them. There were abuses of strangers which were grim at best. But is this obsessive identification so great an improvement? Those of us who have changed have sufficient difficulties hampering our movements without these added inconveniences. In time we will become accustomed to them, and it may be that you will accomplish this adaptation more easily than I. No matter, so long as it is done.

You may be interested to know that I have been doing spectrographs analyses of earth, in the hope that I might be able to isolate those elements that make native earth, wherever it is, unique, and provide a concentrated chemical compound that would provide the same protection and strength that we now require of the earth itself. Should I have success, I will let you know at once. How much more convenient to carry a few bottles of powder and solution instead of sacks and crates of earth. But that is for later. For now, my most cordial regards.

Saint-Germain

his seal, the eclipse

Text of a letter from le Comte de Saint-Germain to his manservant Roger.

Villa Veneto

Ragusa, Jugoslavia

8 March, 1969

Mr. Rogers

Adams Hotel

Phoenix, Arizona

U. S. A.

Roger;

I have your letter of December 10th at last, and from what you describe, the location is near perfect. Proceed with the purchase plans, using the American bank accounts for most of the monies. Offer them seventy percent in cash and the rest financed for a reasonable time
—
no more than twenty years. It would be best, I think, to use the name Balletti for this one. Italian names are not as conspicuous as others might be, such as Ragoczy
.

My travel plans have not changed. I will be back in Italy before May and will leave for the United States toward the end of summer. I will let you know the precise date shortly.

Apparently we will have little or no chance to reclaim any of the losses incurred in the Balkans. Those holdings must count as lost. How the losses add up
—
buildings, lands, possessions, all gone, faded in rubble and dust; the rest, the people who are vanished, that is a greater emptiness for which I know no remedy
.

As always, you have my gratitude, old friend.

Saint-Germain

his seal, the eclipse

«
^
»

J
ILLIAN
had lucked out. TWA had too many passengers in coach, and so she—she almost giggled as she came down the aisle of the huge plane—had to ride in first class, jeans, muslin shirt and all. She found her seat by the window and shoved her camera bag that doubled as a purse under the seat, then dropped gratefully into the wide, padded chair. This was great, she thought as she fastened her seat belt, and reached down to pull a couple of paperback books out of her bag, then settled back to read.

She had just got into the story when a voice spoke beside her. “Excuse me.”

Marking her place with her finger, she looked up and smiled a little at what she saw. The man was short, dark-haired, and dark-eyed, with the look of early middle age about him. His clothes were very simple and obviously expensive. His black three-piece suit was a wool and silk blend, superbly tailored to his trim but stocky figure. His shirt was lustrous white silk against a black silk tie, just the right width, and secured with an unadorned ruby stickpin. Jillian noticed with amusement that his shoes were thick-soled and slightly heeled. “Excuse me,” he said again in his pleasant, melodic voice. “I believe that is my seat.”

Julian’s face sank. This couldn’t happen, not after she had been so lucky. She fumbled in her pockets for her boarding pass. “This is the pass they gave me,” she said, holding it out to him.

A stewardess, attracted by the confusion, approached them. “Good morning. Is there some trouble?”

The man turned an attractive, wry smile on the woman. “A minor confusion. Your excellent computer seems to have assigned us the same seat.”

The stewardess reached for boarding passes, frowning as she read them. “Just a moment. I’m sure we can correct this.” She turned away as she spoke and went toward the galley.

“I’m sorry,” Jillian said apologetically. Now that she had had a moment to watch the man, she found him quite awesome.