The Saint-Germain Chronicles (7 page)

“And that’s all there was to it? Charles, you disappoint me,” Dominick remarked.

“That is not quite all. There is still the matter of the glass,” Whittenfield pointed out.

“Ah, yes, the glass,” the sixth guest murmured.

“The Count escorted Sabrina back to his house where she had lived for almost three years, and as they walked, he inquired why it was that she had come. She admitted that she feared for him and did not want him to come to hurt. He told her that was highly unlikely, but did not explain further until she asked if it were an alchemical secret that protected him. Again he gave her an equivocal answer, saying that it was something of the sort. Before they entered his house, she confessed to him that she would not refuse him if he wished to pass what remained of the night with her. He told her that he was much moved by this, for women did not often make that request of him, which, in her journal, Sabrina finds amazing, for according to her the Count was a pleasing man, of middle height and compact body, with attractive, slightly irregular features, who was most fastidious about his person and somber in his elegance. Once in the house, the Count led her to the laboratory and lit a branch of candles, then opened a small red-lacquered cabinet which seemed to be of great age, and removed the glass. It was not in the frame it has now, as I believe I mentioned, but it was rimmed with silver. The Count gave this to Sabrina, telling her that when she could see the spider in the glass, he would come for her. She did not believe this, but he assured her there was the image of a jeweled spider set in the very center of the glass, and that when one stood directly in front of it, under special circumstances, it could be seen.”

“Very neat,” Dominick approved with a jeering toast of his glass. “I must try that myself, one day.”

“Did the poor woman believe that?” Lord Graveston demanded with a shake of his head. “And you have kept that worthless piece of glass?”

“There’s a bit more to it,” Whittenfield remarked. “Apparently that night, the Count did spend some time with Sabrina, and though she does not record what passed between them…”

“It’s not difficult to guess,” Hamworthy said with marked disapproval.

“I gather that it was not precisely what Sabrina expected. She mentions that the glass was put by the bed and lit with the branch of candles…”

“Really!” Twilford’s expression was livid with disapproval.

“Decadent foreigner!” Hamworthy ejaculated.

“And,” Whittenfield went on, giving them little attention, “Sabrina says in her journal that for one joyous, incomprehensible moment, she could see the spider—that it sat in a fine diamond web, a creature of ruby and garnet and tourmaline. And she was elated at the sight, though she says in a later entry that she does not expect to see it again. She left it to Cesily with the admonition that it be kept in the family as a great treasure.”

“A woman’s whim for a trinket!” Dominick scoffed.

“It may be. But, as you see, it is still in the family, and no one is willing to part with it. Serena had great faith in it, and she was not given to superstition. I remember her standing here, saying that if it had brought such good fortune to Sabrina that we would be fools to be rid of it. My mother wanted to put it away, but it never happened, and I admit that I’m so used to it that I would miss having it. And every now and again I stare at it, hoping to see the spider.”

“Oh, Charles,” Dominick sneered. “Did you see anything?” Everard asked. “Only my face. If there is a spider in it, only a man who casts no reflection could see it.” Whittenfield leaned forward and put his glass down.

“Do you mean that after sitting here for well nigh two hours, you have the effrontery to offer us nothing more than a third-rate ghost story?” Hamworthy demanded.

“Well, that
is
the story of the glass, as it’s put down in Sabrina’s journal. She returned to England and set herself up well, saying that she had been given a legacy that made this possible. And you will admit that whoever her Count was, he was something of an original.”

“If you look into it, you’ll find he was just another charlatan,” Lord Graveston said with confidence. “Generous, it seems, but nonetheless, a charlatan.”

“Why do you believe that?” the sixth guest asked him. There was no challenge in the question, just a certain curiosity.

“It’s obvious,” Lord Graveston said, rising. “Well, if that’s all you’re giving us, Whittenfield, I’ll take myself off to bed. Excellent port and brandy.” He made his way through the room and out the door.

Peter Hamworthy groaned as he got to his feet. “The hour is very late and I like to rise early. I had no idea how long this would be. It’s what comes of telling stories about females.” As he went to the door he made a point not to look in the direction of the Spider Glass.

“I’m for the billiard room, if anyone cares to join me,” Dominick said, staring at Everard. “You may come and do your best to… beat me, if you like.”

Everard was suddenly nervous. “I… in a moment, Dominick.” He turned toward his host. “I thought it was a good tale. I don’t understand about the mirror, but…” On that inconclusive note he left the room in Dominick’s wake.

“Whittenfield, that was the damnedest farrago you spun us,” Twilford admonished him. “Why did you begin it?”

“You asked about the glass, that’s all.” Whittenfield had got to his feet and stood, a little unsteadily, beside his Queen Anne chair.

“Then I was an ass to do so.” He turned on his heel and stalked majestically from the room.

The sixth guest turned his dark, ironic eyes on Whittenfield. “I found your story most… salutary. I had no idea…” He got up and went toward the old mirror as if compelled to do so. He touched the glass with his small, beautiful hand, smiling faintly.

Glistening in the mirror, the spider hung in its jeweled web. The body was red as rubies or fresh blood. The delicate legs were garnet at the joints and tourmaline elsewhere. It was delicate as a dancer, and though the mirror had faded over the years, the Count could still take pride in his work. Beyond the image of the spider the muted lamps of the Oak Parlor shone like amber in the glass.

For, of course, le Comte de Saint-Germain had no reflection at all.

Text of two letters from le Comte de Saint-Germain to Charles Whittenfield, written 25 years apart.

Mindre Län

Nr. Südertalje

Svensk

9 January, 1911

The Honorable Charles K. O. E. Whittenfield

Ninth Earl of Copsehowe

Briarcopse

Nr. Evesham

England

Charles;

Has it really been ten years since we last saw each other? How swiftly the time goes. I have fond memories of Briarcopse and hope that one day I might return there. However, 
I fear that it will not be possible for some time yet. My stay in Sweden is necessarily short, brought about by the need to expand some of my ventures in Russia. Conditions in that country are unstable enough that it would be most prudent for me to return there as soon as I can arrange transportation. It is not only my financial interests that concern me, but the welfare of those in my employ.

I admit that I share your worries for Europe. Too many diplomatic schemes have become deadlocked. You mention your son, and fear that he may have to fight, should there be a war. The boy, as I calculate, is only twelve. How young that seems to me. Surely no country fights wars with children, not in these times.

Since you asked for my recommendation, I will give it. Doubtless the Germans are more advanced in chemical and electrical research, but that would be of little benefit to you if war breaks out. If you are interested in foreign investment, then I would consider America. Their commerce is expanding and while they do not have the quality of research establishments to be found in Europe and England, their current policies would favor investments of the sort you have in mind. A Canadian company could negotiate for you, if you believe there still exists prejudice toward the British.

Let me thank you again for the hospitality you have so graciously extended to me. Perhaps another time, when the world is more settled.

Saint-Germain

his seal, the eclipse

Avenida de las Lagrimas

Cádiz, España

12 July, 1936

The Honorable Charles K. O. E. Whittenfield

Ninth Earl of Copsehowe

St. Amelia’s Hospital

London, England

My dear Charles:

Your grandson told me of your illness last week, and  I am truly sorry to learn of it. While it is true that you have had a long life, I fully understand your sense of brevity. Ancient though 
I am, I share your feeling.

Unfortunately, I cannot share the enthusiasm of your Mister Shaw. Your grandson said that he is confident that the changes in Germany are all to the good, but it does not seem that way to me. There are deep, abiding wounds left from the Great War, and a generation is not enough to heal them. Some, 
I fear, will never heal. No one touched by that war can forget it, or the abuses that followed. Let those blind idealists say what they will, the power of the NSDAP will exact vengeance for the Versailles Treaty. I know. I have seen for myself what they can do.

Enough of that. A man attempting to recuperate from a stroke does not need to be reminded of such grim matters. Let me only say that I am more distressed than you know that I did not visit you before now. I had planned to come some years ago, but events did not permit me to leave the Continent.

Nor will they for a while. My manservant, Roger, is a native of Cádiz and for that reason, I will remain here for a little longer. Then 
I plan to stay for a time with an old friend in the south of France.

Let me hear from you. It is shameful, the way I have neglected my old friends. Perhaps, though it is late, I may remedy this in part now, by sending you my sincerest wishes for your speedy recovery and the assurance of my gratitude for your continuing goodwill, little though I have done to deserve it.

Saint-Germain

his seal, the eclipse

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W
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bloodied hands, James pulled the ornate iron gates open and staggered onto the long drive that led to the château. Although he was dazed, he made sure the gates were properly shut before starting up the tree-lined road. How long ago he had made his first journey here, and how it drew him now. He stared ahead, willing the ancient building to appear out of the night as he kept up his dogged progress toward the one place that might provide him the shelter he so desperately needed.

When at last the stone walls came into view, James was puzzled to hear the sound of a violin, played expertly but fragmentally, as if the music were wholly personal. James stopped and listened, his cognac-colored eyes warming for the first time in three days. Until that moment, the only sound he had remembered was the grind and pound of guns. His bleary thoughts sharpened minimally and he reached up to push his hair from his brow. Vaguely he wondered who was playing, and why, for Montalia had an oddly deserted look to it: the grounds were overgrown and only two of the windows showed lights. This was more than war-time precaution, James realized, and shambled toward the side door he had used so many times in the past, the first twinges of real fear giving him a chill that the weather had not been able to exert.

The stables smelled more of motor oil than horses, but James recognized the shape of the building, and limped into its shadow with relief. Two lights, he realized, might mean nothing more than most of the servants had retired for the night, or that shortages of fuel and other supplies forced the household to stringent economies. He leaned against the wall of the stable and gathered his courage to try the door. At least, he told himself, it did not appear that the château was full of Germans. He waited until the violin was pouring out long cascades of sound before he reached for the latch, praying that if the hinges squeaked, the music would cover it.

In the small sitting room, Saint-Germain heard the distant whine of an opening door, and his bow hesitated on the strings. He listened, his expanded senses acute, then sat back and continued the
Capriccio
he had been playing, letting the sound guide the solitary intruder. He gave a small part of his attention to the unsteady footfalls in the corridor, but for the most part, he concentrated on the long pattern of descending thirds of the cadenza. Some few minutes later, when he had begun one of the Beethoven
Romanzas
, a ragged figure clutching a kitchen knife appeared in the doorway and emerged uncertainly from the darkness into the warmth of the hearthlight and the single kerosene lantern. Saint-Germain lowered his violin and gave the newcomer an appraising stare. His dark eyes narrowed briefly, then his brows raised a fraction as he recognized the man. “You will not need that knife, Mister Tree.”

He had expected many things, but not this lone, elegant man. James shook his head, his expression becoming more dazed than ever. “I…” He brought a grimy, bruised hand to his eyes and made a shaky attempt at laughter which did not come off. He coughed once, to clear his voice. “When I got here, and heard music… I thought that… I don’t know what.” As he spoke he reached out to steady himself against the back of one of the three overstuffed chairs in the fine stone room, which was chilly in spite of the fire. “Excuse me… I’m not… myself.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Saint-Germain said with gentleness, knowing more
surely than James how unlike himself he was. He stood to put his violin into its
velvet-lined case, then tucked the loosened bow into its holder before closing
the top. This done, he set the case on the occasional table beside his chair and
turned to James. “Sit down, Mister Tree. Please.” It was definitely a command
but one so kindly given that the other man complied at once, dropping gratefully into the chair which had been supporting him. The knife clattered to the floor, but neither paid any attention to it.