WITH bloodied hands, James pulled the ornate iron gates open and staggered onto the long drive that led to the chateau. 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 chateau 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.
"It's been... a while," James said distantly, looking up at the painting over the fireplace. Then his gaze fell on Saint-Germain, and he saw the man properly for the first time.
Le Comte was casually dressed by his own exacting standards: a black hacking jacket, a white shirt and black sweater under it, and black trousers. There were black, ankle-high jodhpur boots on his small feet, the heels and soles unusually thick. Aside from a silver signet ring, he wore no jewelry. "Since you have been here? More than a decade, I would suppose."
"Yes. "James shifted in the chair, his movements those of utter exhaustion. "This place... I don't know why." Only now that he had actually arrived at his goal did he wonder what had driven him to seek it out. Indistinct images filtered through his mind, most of them senseless, one or two of them frightening.
"On Madelaine's behalf, I'm pleased to welcome you back. I hope you will stay as long as you wish to." He said this sincerely, and watched James for his response.
"Thanks. I don't know what... thanks." In this light, and with the abuses of the last few days, it was not possible to see how much the last ten years had favored James Emmerson Tree. His hair had turned from glossy chestnut to silver without loss of abundance; the lines of his face had deepened but had not become lost in fretwork or pouches, so that his character was cleanly incised, delineated in strong, sharp lines. Now, with smudges of dirt and dried blood on him, it was not apparent that while at thirty he had been good looking, at fifty he was superbly handsome. He fingered the tear on his collar where his press tag had been. "I thought... Madelaine might have been..."
"Been here?" Saint-Germain suggested as he drew one of the other chairs closer to where James sat. "I am sorry, Mister Tree. Madelaine is currently in South America."
"Another expedition?" James asked, more forlorn than he knew.
"Of course. It's more circumspect to stay there than go to Greece or Africa just now, or wouldn't you agree?" He spoke slowly, deliberately, and in English for the first time. "I would rather be assured of her safety than her nearness, Mister Tree."
James nodded absently, then seemed at last to understand what Saint-Germain had said, for he looked up sharply and said in a different voice, "God, yes. Oh, God, yes."
"I had a letter from her not long ago. Perhaps you would care to read it later this evening?" He did not, in fact, want to share the contents of Madelaine's letter with James; it was too privately loving for any eyes but his, yet he knew that this man loved her with an intensity that was only exceeded by his own.
"No," James said after a brief hesitation. "So long as she's okay, that's all that matters. If anything happened to her, after this, I think I'd walk into the path of a German tank." His mouth turned up at the corners, quivered, and fell again into the harsh downward curve that had become characteristic in the last month. He looked down at his ruined jacket and plucked at one of the frayed tears.
Saint-Germain watched this closely, then asked, "Has the fighting been very bad?"
"What's very bad? Some days we kill more than they do, and some days they kill more. It sickens me." He turned toward the fire and for a little time said nothing; Saint-Germain respected his silence. Finally James sighed. "Is there anyone else here at Montalia?"
"My manservant Roger, but no one other than he." Again Saint-Germain waited, then inquired, "Is there something you require, Mister Tree? I would recommend a bath and rest to begin with."
This time James faltered noticeably. "It's funny; I really don't know what I want." He gave Saint-Germain a quick, baffled look. "I wanted to be here. But now that I am, I'm too tired to care." His eyes met Saint-Germain's once, then fell away. "It doesn't make much sense."
"It makes admirable sense," Saint-Germain told him, shaking his head as he studied James.
"I'm probably hungry and sore, too, but, I don't know..." He leaned back in the chair, and after a few minutes while Saint-Germain built up the fire, he began to talk in a quiet, remote ramble. "I went home in thirty-one; Madelaine might have mentioned it."
"Yes," Saint-Germain said as he poked at the pine log; it crackled and its sap ran and popped on the dry bark.
"It was supposed to be earlier, but what with the Crash, they weren't in any hurry to bring one more hungry reporter back to St. Louis. So Crandell-he was my boss then-extended my assignment and when he died, Sonderson, who replaced him, gave me another eighteen months before asking me to come back. It was strange, being back in the States after more than thirteen years in Europe. You think you know how you'll feel, but you don't. You think it will be familiar and cozy, but it isn't. I felt damn-all odd, I can tell you. People on the street looked so-out of place. Of course the Depression was wrecking everything in the cities, but it was not only that. What worried me was hearing the same old platitudes everyone had been using in 1916. I couldn't believe it. With everything that had happened there was no comprehension that the world had changed. It was so different, in a way that was so complete that there was nothing the change did not touch. People kept talking about getting back to the old ways without understanding that they could not do that ever again..."
"They never can," Saint-Germain interjected softly. He was seated once again in the high-backed overstuffed chair.
"... no matter what." He broke off. "Maybe you're right," he concluded lamely, and stared at the fire. "I've been cold."
"In time you will be warm again, Mister Tree," Saint-Germain said, and rose to pick up a silver bell lying on the table beside his violin case. "Would you like to lie down? You could use rest, Mister Tree." His manner was impeccably polite but James sensed that he, would do well to cooperate with the suggestion.
"Sure," was James' quiet response. "Sure, why not."
"Excellent, Mister Tree." He rang the bell, and within two minutes a sandy-haired man of middle height, middle build, and middle age came into the room. "Roger, this is Madelaine's great good friend, James Emmerson Tree. He has gone through an... ordeal." One of Saint-Germain's brows rose sharply and Roger recognized it for the signal it was.
"How difficult for him," Roger said in a neutral voice. "Mister Tree, if you will let me attend to you..."
James shook his head. "I can manage for myself," he said, not at all sure that he could.
"Nonetheless, you will permit Roger to assist you. And when you have somewhat recovered, we will attend to the rest of it."
"The rest of it?" James echoed as he got out of the chair, feeling horribly grateful for Roger's proffered arm.
"Yes, Mister Tree, the rest of it." He smiled his encouragement but there was little amusement in his countenance.
"Yeah, I guess," James responded vaguely, and allowed himself to be guided into the dark hallway.
The bathroom was as he remembered it-large, white tiled and old fashioned. The tub stood on gilt crocodile feet and featured elaborate fixtures of the sort that had been in vogue eighty years before. James regarded it affectionately while Roger helped to take off his damaged clothing. "I've always liked that tub," he said when he was almost naked. "It is something of a museum piece," Roger said, and James was free to assume he agreed.
The water billowed out of the taps steaming, but James looked at it with an unexpected disquiet. He was filthy, his muscles were stiff and sore, and there were other hurts on his body which he thought would welcome the water, but at the last moment he hesitated, suppressing a kind of vertigo. With care, he steadied himself with one hand and said to Roger, who was leaving the room, "I'm worn out, that's what it is."
"Very likely," the manservant said in a neutral tone before closing the door.
As he stretched out in the tub, the anticipated relaxation did not quite happen. James felt his stiff back relax, but not to the point of letting him doze. He dismissed this as part of the aches and hurts that racked him. When he had washed away the worst of the grime, he looked over the damage he had sustained when he was thrown from the jeep. There was a deep weal down the inside of his arm. "Christ!" James muttered when he saw it, thinking he must have bled more than he had thought. Another deep cut on his thigh was red but healing, and other lacerations showed no sign of infection. "Which is lucky," James remarked to the ceiling, knowing that he could never have come the long miles to Montalia if he had been more badly hurt. The other two reporters had not been so fortunate: one had been shot in the crossfire that wrecked the jeep and the other had been crushed as the jeep overturned.
This was the first time James had been able to remember the incident clearly, and it chilled him. How easy it would have been to have died with them. One random factor different and he would have been the one who was shot or crushed. With an oath he got out of the tub, and stood shaking on the cold tiles as the water drained away.
"I have brought you a robe," Roger said a few minutes later as he returned. "Your other garments are not much use any longer. I believe that there is a change of clothes in the armoire of the room you used to occupy."
"Hope I can still get into them," James said lightly in an attempt to control the fright that had got hold of him.
"You will discover that later, Mister Tree." He helped the American into the bathrobe he held, saying in a steady manner, "It's very late, Mister Tree. The sun will be up soon, in fact. Why don't you rest for now, and my master will see you when you have risen."
"Sounds good," James answered as he tied the sash. He wanted to sleep more than he could admit, more than he ever remembered wanting to. "I... I'll probably not get up until, oh, five or six o'clock."
"No matter, Mister Tree," Roger said, and went to hold the door for James.
James woke from fidgety sleep not long after sunset. He looked blankly around the room Madelaine had given him so many years before, and for several minutes could not recall how he had got there, or where he was. Slowly, as if emerging from a drugged stupor he brought back the events of the previous night There at the foot of the bed was the robe, its soft heavy wool familiar to his touch. Memories returned in a torrent as he sat up in bed: how many times he had held Madelaine beside him through the night and loved her with all his body and all his soul. He felt her absence keenly. At that, he remembered that Saint-Germain was at Montalia, and for the first time, James felt awkward about it. It was not simply that he was jealous, although that was a factor, but that he had never properly understood the man's importance in Madelaine's life.
He got out of bed and began to pace restlessly, feeling very hungry now, but oddly repulsed at the thought of food. "Rations," he said to the walls in a half-joking tone, "that's what's done it." Telling himself that he was becoming morbid, he threw off the robe, letting it lie in a heap in the nearest chair, and dressed in the slightly old-fashioned suit he had left here before returning to America. The trousers, he noticed, were a little loose on him now, and he hitched them up uneasily. He had neither belt nor suspenders for it, and might have to ask for one or the other. The jacket hung on him, and he reflected that he had not gone in for much exercise in the last few years until he had come back to Europe four months ago. He looked in vain for a tie and recollected that he had disdained them for a time. He would have to find something else.
At last he found a roll-top pull-over at the bottom of one of the drawers, and he gratefully stripped off jacket and shirt to put it on. It was of soft tan wool, with one or two small holes on the right sleeve where moths had reached it, and it felt lovely next to his skin. With shirt and jacket once more donned, James felt that he presented a good enough appearance to venture down into the main rooms of the chateau.
He found his way easily enough, although the halls were dark. His eyes adjusted readily to this, and he told himself that after all the nights when he and Madelaine had sought each other in the dim rooms and corridors, he should be able to find his way blindfolded. For the first time in several days, he chuckled.
"Something amuses you, Mister Tree?" said Saint-Germain from behind him, his tone lightly remote as he approached. "I heard you come down the stairs a few minutes ago. I'm pleased you're up. I thought you might be... hungry."
"I was. I am," James said, turning to face the other man. "But there's..." He could not continue and was not certain why.
"For whatever consolation it may be to you, I do sympathise, Mister Tree," le Comte said slowly, looking up at the tall American. "It may surprise you to learn that it will be a while before you become used to your... transition." As he said this, his dark eyes met James' uncompromisingly. "Transition?" James repeated with a bewildered smile. "I don't understand."
"Don't you?" Le Comte de Saint-Germain gave James another steady look and said cautiously, "Mister Tree, are you aware of what has happened to you?"
James laughed uneasily. "I think I've been hurt. I know I have. There are cuts on my arms and legs, a couple pretty serious." He cleared his throat nervously. "There were three of us in the jeep, and there was an ambush. No one bothered to find out if we were press, but I don't blame them for that. I don't know which side did it, really." He shook himself self-consciously. "Someone must have walked over my grave."
"Very astute, Mister Tree," Saint-Germain said compassionately.
"I don't remember much more than that. It does sound lame, doesn't it? But I don't."
"You recall being injured." He motioned toward the tall, studded doors that led to the small sitting room where James had found him the night before. "That is a start."
James fell into step beside the smaller man and was mildly startled to find that he had to walk briskly to keep up with Saint-Germain. "Actually, it's all muddled. I remember the crossfire, and the jeep turning over, and being tossed into the air, but the rest is all... jumbled. I must have passed out, and didn't come to until after dark. I can't tell you what made me come here. I guess when you're hurt, you look for a safe place, and I've been here before, so..." He heard Saint-Germain close the door behind them and stopped to look about the sitting room.
"It seems eminently reasonable, Mister Tree," Saint-Germain told him as he indicated the chair James had occupied before.
"Good," James responded uneasily.
Saint-Germain drew up his chair; the firelight played on his face, casting sudden shadows along his brow, the line of his straight, aslant nose, the wry, sad curve of his mouth. Though his expression remained attentive, his eyes now had a sad light in them. "Mister Tree, how badly were you hurt?"
James was more disquieted now than ever and he tugged at the cuffs of his jacket before he answered. "It must have been pretty bad. But I walked here, and I figure it's more than forty, maybe fifty miles from... where it happened." He ran one large hand through his silver hair. "Those cuts, though. Jesus! And I felt so... detached. Bleeding does that, when it's bad, or so the medics told me. But I got up..."
"Yes," Saint-Germain agreed. "You got up."
"And I made it here..." With a sudden shudder, which embarrassed him, he turned away.
Saint-Germain waited until James was more composed, then said, "Mister Tree, you've had a shock, a very great shock, and you are not yet recovered from it. It will take more than a few minutes and well-chosen words of explanation to make you realize precisely what has occurred, and what it will require of you."
"That sounds ominous," James said, forcing himself to look at Saint-Germain again.
"Not ominous," Saint-Germain corrected him kindly. "Demanding, perhaps, but not ominous." He stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles. "Mister Tree, Madelaine led me to understand that you were told about her true nature. Is this so?" Privately, he knew it was, for Madelaine had confided all her difficulties with James over the years, and Saint-Germain was aware of the American's stubborn disbelief in what he had been told.
"A little. I heard about the aristocratic family, and looked them up." His square chin went up a degree or two. "She made some pretty wild claims..."
Saint-Germain cut him short "Did you bother to investigate her claims?"
"Yes," James admitted, sighing. "I had to. When she told me... those things, I had to find out if she had been making it up out of whole cloth." He rubbed his hands together, his nervousness returning.
"And what did you discover?" Saint-Germain's inquiry was polite, almost disinterested, but there was something in his dark eyes that held James' attention as he answered.
"Well, there was a Madelaine de Montalia born here in the eighteenth century. That was true. And she did... die in Paris in 1744. She was only twenty, and I read that she was considered pretty." He paused. "The way Madelaine is pretty, in fact."
"Does that surprise you?" Saint-Germain asked.
"Well, the same family..." James began weakly, then broke off. "The portrait looked just like her, and she kept saying it was her." These words were spoken quickly and in an undervoice, as if James feared to let them have too much importance.
"But you did not believe her," Saint-Germain prompted him when he could not go on. "Why was that?"
"Well, you should have heard what she said!" James burst out, rising from the chair and starting to pace in front of the fireplace. "She told me... Look, I know that you were her lover once. She didn't kid me about that. And you might not know the kinds of things she said about herself..."He stopped and stared down at the fire, thinking that he was becoming more famished by the minute. If he could eat, then he would not have to speak. Unbidden, the memories of the long evenings with Madelaine returned with full force to his thoughts. He pictured her dining room with its tall, bright windows, Madelaine sitting across from him, or at the corner, watching him with delighted eyes as he ate. She never took a meal with him, and he had not been able to accept her explanation for this. As he tried to recall the taste of the sauce Claude had served with the fish, he nearly gagged.
"I know what she told you," Saint-Germain said calmly, as if from a distance. "She told you almost twenty years ago that she is a vampire. You did not accept this, although you continued to love her. She warned you what would happen when you died, and you did not choose to believe her. Yet she told you the truth, Mister Tree."
James turned around so abruptly that for a moment he swayed on his feet. "Oh, sure! Fangs and capes and graveyards and all the rest of it. Madelaine isn't any of those things."
"Of course not."
"And," James continued rather breathlessly now that he was started, "she said that you were... and that you were the one who changed her!" He had expected some reaction to this announcement, but had not anticipated that it would be a nod and a stern smile. "She said..." he began again, as if to explain more to Saint-Germain.
"I'm aware of that. She had my permission, but that was merely a formality." He sat a bit straighter in his chair as the significance of his words began to penetrate James' indignation. "She and I are alike in that way, now. It is correct: I did bring about her change, as she brought about yours." His steady dark eyes were unfaltering as they held James'.
"Come on," James persisted, his voice growing higher with tension. "You can't want her to say that about you. You can't."
"Well, in a general way I prefer to keep that aspect of myself private, yes," Saint-Germain agreed urbanely, "but it is the truth, nonetheless."
James wanted to yell so that he would not have to listen to those sensible words, so that he could shut out the quiet, contained man who spoke so reasonably about such completely irrational things. "Don't joke," he growled, his jaw tightening.
"Mister Tree," Saint-Germain said, and something in the tone of his voice insisted that James hear him out: the American journalist reluctantly fell silent. "Mister Tree, self-deception is not a luxury that we can afford. I realize that you have been ill-prepared for... recent events, and so I have restrained my sense of urgency in the hope that you would ask the questions for yourself. But you have not, and it isn't wise or desirable for you to continue in this way. No," he went on, not permitting James to interrupt, "you must listen to me for the time being. When I have done, I will answer any questions you have, as forth-rightly as possible; until then, be good enough to remain attentive and resist your understandable inclination to argue."
James was oddly daunted by the air of command that had come over le Comte, but he had many years' experience in concealing any awe he might feel, and so he clasped his hands behind his back and took a few steps away from the fire as if to compensate for the strength he sensed in Saint-Germain. "Okay; okay. Go on."
Saint-Germain's smile was so swift that it might not have occurred at all-there was a lift at the corners of his mouth and his expression was once again somber. "Madelaine took you as her lover sometime around 1920, as I recall, and it was in 1925 that she tried to explain to you what would become of you after you died." He saw James flinch at the last few words, but did not soften them. "Like Madelaine, you would rise from death and walk again, vampiric. As long as your nervous system is intact, you will have a kind of life in you, one that exerts a few unusual demands. You have some experience of them already. You are hungry, are you not? And yet you cannot bring yourself to eat. The notion of food is repulsive. We're very... specific in our nourishment, Mister Tree, and you must become accustomed to the new requirements..."
"You're as bad as she is," James muttered, looking once toward the door as if he wanted to bolt from the room. He wanted to convince himself that the other man was a dangerous lunatic, or a charlatan enjoying himself at James' expense, but there was undoubted sincerity in Saint-Germain's manner, and a pragmatic attitude that was terribly convincing.
"Oh, I am much worse than Madelaine, Mister Tree. It was I who made her a vampire, back in the autumn of 1743." He frowned as James turned swiftly, violently away. "Your change was assured possibly as early as 1922, but Madelaine was so fearful of your hatred that it took her over two years to gather her courage to explain the hazard to you. You see, she loves you, and the thought of your detestation was agony for her. She could not leave you unprepared, however, and eventually revealed..."
"This is crazy," James insisted to the ceiling; he could not bring himself to look at Saint-Germain. "Crazy."
"Do you appreciate the depth of her love?" Saint-Germain went on as if he had not heard James' outburst. "Your protection was more important to her than your good opinion. She risked being loathed so that you would not have to face your change in ignorance." He folded his arms. "And you make a paltry thing of her gift by refusing to admit that the change has happened."
James threw up his hands and strode away from the fireplace toward the farthest corner of the room. "This doesn't make any sense. Not any of it. You're talking like a madman." He could hear the unsteadiness of his voice and with an effort of will lowered and calmed it. "I remember what she told me about being a vampire. I didn't believe it then, you're right. I don't believe it now. And you keep talking as if something has happened to me. True enough. My jeep was shot out from under me, I've lost a lot of blood and I've been wandering without food for over three days. No wonder I feel so... peculiar."
Slowly Saint-Germain got out of the chair and crossed the room toward James. His compelling eyes never left James' face, and the quiet command of his well-modulated voice was the more authoritative for its lack of emotion. "Mister Tree, stop deluding yourself. When that jeep turned over, when you were thrown through the air, you suffered fatal injuries. You lay on the ground and bled to death. But death is a disease to which we are, in part, immune. When the sun set, you woke into... Madelaine's life, if you will." He stopped less than two strides from James. "Whether you wish to believe it or not, you are a vampire, Mister Tree."
"Hey, no..." James began, taking an awkward step back from Saint-Germain.
"And you must learn to... survive."
"NO!" He flung himself away from le Comte, bringing his arms up to shield his face as if from blows.
"Mister Tree..."
"It's crazy!" With an inarticulate cry, he rushed toward the door.
Before he could reach it, Saint-Germain had moved with remarkable speed and blocked James' path. "Sit down, Mister Tree."
"I..." James said, raising one hand to threaten the smaller man.
"I would advise against it, Mister Tree," Saint-Germain warned him gently, with a trace of humor in his expression that baffled James anew. "Sit down."
The impetus which had driven James to action left him as quickly as it had possessed him, and he permitted himself to be pointed in the direction of the chair he had just vacated. He told himself that he was in the presence of a lunatic, and that he ought to go along with him; but deeper in his mind was the gnawing fear that against all reason, Saint-Germain might be right. He moved stiffly, and as he sat down, he drew back into the chair, as if to protect himself. "You're..."
"I'm not going to hurt you, if that is what concerns you," Saint-Germain sighed. When James did not deny his fear, Saint-Germain crossed the room away from him, and regarded him for two intolerably long minutes. "Madelaine loves you, Mister Tree, and for that alone, I would offer you my assistance."
"You were her lover once, if you're who I think you are." He had summoned a little defiance into his accusation.
"I have told you so. Yes, she and I were lovers, as you and she were." There was an eighteenth century lowboy against the wall, and Saint-Germain braced himself against it, studying James as he did.
"And you're not jealous?" James fairly pounced on the words.
"In time, we learn to bow to the inevitable. My love for Madelaine has not diminished, Mister Tree, but for those of our nature, such contact is... shall we say nonproductive?" His tone was sardonic; his face was sad. "No, I am not jealous."
James heard this out in disbelief. "You want me to believe that?"
"I would prefer that you did," Saint-Germain said, then shrugged. "You will discover it for yourself, in time."
"Because I'm a vampire, like you two, right?" The sarcasm James had intended to convey was not entirely successful.
"Yes."
"Christ." James scowled, then looked up. "I said Christ. If I'm a vampire, how come I can do that? I thought all vampires were supposed to blanch and cringe at holy words and symbols." He was not enjoying himself, but asking this question made him feel more comfortable, as if the world were sane again.
"You will find that there are a great many misconceptions about us, Mister Tree. One of them is that we are diabolic. Would you be reassured if I could not say God, or Jesus, or Holy Mary, Mother of God? Give me a crucifix and I will kiss it, or a rosary and I will recite the prayers. I will read from the Torah, the Koran, the Vedas, or any other sacred literature you prefer. There is a Bible in the library-shall I fetch it, so that you may put your mind at rest?" He did not conceal his exasperation, but he mitigated his outburst with a brief crack of laughter.
"This is absurd," James said uncertainly.
Saint-Germain came a few steps closer. "Mister Tree, when you accepted Madelaine as your mistress, you knew that she was not entirely like other women. At the time, I would imagine that lent a thrill to what you did. No, don't bristle at me. I'm not implying that your passion was not genuine: if it was not, you would not have been given her love as you have." He fingered the lapel of his jacket. "This is rather awkward for me."
"I can see why," James said, feeling a greater degree of confidence. "If you keep telling me about..."
"It's awkward because I know how you love Madelaine, and she you. And how I love her, and she me." He read the puzzled look that James banished swiftly. "Ycu will not want to relinquish what you have had, but..."
"Because you're back, is that it?" James challenged, sitting straight in the overstuffed chair.
"No. After all, Madelaine is on a dig, so her choice, if one were possible, is a moot point at best. I am afraid that it is more far-reaching than that." He came back to his chair, but though he rested one arm across the back, he did not sit. "For the sake of argument, Mister Tree, accept for the moment that you have been killed and are now a vampire."
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."
"Well, you sure as hell botched it," James said, taking secret pleasure in seeing this elegant stranger at a loss.
"Lamentably, I must concur." He thrust his hands into his pockets and started toward the door.
James could not resist a parting shot. "You mean you were going to lay out a woman for me, like a smorgasbord, so I could..."
Saint-Germain's mobile lips turned down in disgust "What do you take me for, Mister Tree? Mirelle knows what I am and finds it most satisfying. She would enjoy the... variety you would offer her. Good God, you don't believe that I would expose a woman like Madame Kunst to what we are, do you? She understands there is a man here suffering from battle fatigue, and is prepared to make allowances. It is dangerous and unwise to spend time with those who are repelled by us. If you are to survive in this life, you must learn to be circumspect." He reached for the door, then added, "Roger found the two boxes of earth from Denver, and that will afford you some relief, but not, I fear, a great deal."
"Earth from Denver?" James echoed.
"Of course. When Madelaine knew that you would walk after death, she arranged to have two cartons of your native earth shipped here, in case it was needed." It was said lightly, but the significance did not escape James. "She had stored it in the stables, and Roger did not find it until late afternoon."
"Earth from Denver. I can't believe it." There would have been comfort and denial in laughter, but James could not summon any.
"She cares what happens to you, Mister Tree. It was not whim but concern for your welfare that made her get those two boxes." He opened the door wide and stepped into the hall. His face was clouded with thought and he made his way slowly to the kitchen.
Roger looked up as Saint-Germain came quietly through the door. "She's bathed and gone to bed."
"Good. Did you learn anything more?" He was frowning slightly; there was an indefinable restlessness about him.
"Nothing significant. She's twenty-nine, comes from Salzburg. She used to teach school, her husband..."
"Gunther?"
"Yes. He was an attorney, I gather." He finished tidying the clutter in the kitchen and turned to bank the coals in the huge, wood-burning stove.
"Do you believe her?" Saint-Germain asked quietly.
"That she was a teacher and her husband an attorney, yes. The rest, I don't know." Roger closed the fuelbox and wiped his hands on a rag, leaving blackened smudges on the worn cloth.
"Nor do I," Saint-Germain admitted. "It may only be shock, but. But."
Roger blew out one of the kerosene lanterns. "Is she what she seems?"
"Superficially, no doubt," Saint-Germain said measuredly. "And everything she has told us may be true. If that's the case, she might be blackmailed. If she has children, and they are held by the SS, she might undertake almost anything to save them. Because if she is what she claims to be, and wants to be out of Austria and away from the war, why didn't she stop in Switzerland? That's a neutral country."
"She might not feel safe there," Roger suggested.
"And instead she feels safe in France?" Saint-Germain countered in disbelief. "You know what the French want to do to the Germans these days. Why should she leave the comparative haven Switzerland offers for this?"
"It is espionage?" Roger asked, taking the other lantern and starting toward the door.
"We will doubtless soon find out. But we must be very cautious. All the Resistance would need is an excuse to come here hunting German spies and matters might suddenly become unpleasant for us." He accompanied Roger out of the kitchen and toward the tower, the oldest part of the chateau. "I'm afraid I've scandalized Mister Tree again," Saint-Germain remarked as the reverberations of their footsteps clattered away into the eerie darkness. "He's accused me of pimping."
Roger gave a snort of amusement. "How charming. Did he say it directly?"
"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 which 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 some time 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 Lyon, 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 I," 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. I 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 I 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 any more." 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 more awful 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 has 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?"
"I 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.