Raymond Khoury - The Sanctuary

“Hardly, my dear count,” she reassured him. “Although I imagine anyone intrigued by you would find it intolerably frustrating, given your fondness for evasive replies to even the most basic of questions. I wonder, does anyone really know you, in the true sense of the word?”

He smiled at her question. He wanted to answer that he didn’t really know himself, not anymore, and — oddly — he felt an urge to actually say those very words to her. But his instinctive shutters came back down at the mere hint of the thought. “Where would my allure be if I were an open book?” he said instead.

“Oh, I think your allure can withstand some measured disclosure. I just wonder if it’s really a fear of scaring off your admirers, or rather, a fear of letting anyone in?”

He didn’t rush to answer. Instead, he just held her gaze and basked in it, unsure about how to react.

After that dinner at Madame Geoffrin’s salon, he’d inquired, discreetly, about Thérésia. She had a reputation of enjoying the company of men — men of her choosing — but lately, something had changed. She hadn’t been romantically linked to any of her suitors for months. St. Germain wasn’t conceited enough to think it had anything to do with him. Her retreat from promiscuity had taken place well before they’d first met. And while he’d had advances, too many to remember — the aristocracy in Paris was particularly debauched — this felt different. It felt less frivolous, somehow. More substantial.

Which was a problem.

St. Germain desperately wanted to be with her. There was something undeniably desirable about Thérésia de Condillac, but the very reasons he felt drawn to her were the same ones that made her too dangerous to invite into his life.

“I think you paint my life with far more flourish than it deserves,” he finally replied.

Thérésia leaned in closer. “Why don’t you tell me what secrets lurk in that impenetrable fortress of yours and let me be the judge of that?”

St. Germain shrugged. “I wouldn’t presume to bore you with the banalities of my tiresome existence. But…” His voice drifted off. As alluring as her face was, he couldn’t stop his eyes from sidetracking off into the distance, where, through the parade of gaudy costumes, he spotted the tiger again. As before, the man stood there, immobile behind the haze of moving revelers, staring unwaveringly at him. And, as before, he disappeared from view almost instantly.

A surge of unease swept through him. He suddenly felt exposed, endangered.

This time, Thérésia reacted to it. “Is everything alright, Count?”

St. Germain’s tone didn’t waver. “Of course. It’s just that it’s late, and I’m afraid I must excuse myself.” He took her hand and kissed it.

She seemed slightly confounded by his leaving and gave him a wry smile. “Pulling the drawbridge up again, Count?”

“Until the siege is lifted,” he replied as he gave her a half-bow, then walked away, feeling her gaze following him as he melted into the crowd.

He moved hurriedly through the guests, his eyes darting left and right, his mind reeling from the surreal, beastly costumes that swirled around his every step, and headed straight for the main gate. He could feel his pulse racing in his ears as he exited the palace and waved to his coachman, who stood with a few other drivers by a small bonfire. The man ran off to fetch his carriage, and moments later they were heading east, down the Rue St.-Honoré, towards St. Germain’s apartment on the Île de la Cité.

He sank back into the comfort of the coach’s velour seat and shut his eyes. The rhythmic clatter of the horse’s hoofbeats soothed him. He thought back and chided himself for the stab of panic that now seemed somewhat unwarranted. He wondered if his instincts hadn’t been perturbed by Thérésia’s presence, and somehow, thinking about her pushed away his unease and helped settle his tired mind. He realized he had to see her again. It was unavoidable. He turned towards the window and let the cool night air rush over his face.

The carriage turned right on Rue de l’Arbre Sec, and they were soon driving across the Pont Neuf. St. Germain had chosen the older Cité district over the other, newer neighborhoods of the city and had rented smart rooms that overlooked the river and the quays of the right bank. He found the flowing water comforting, despite the skim of floating detritus that befouled its surface. The breeze, which came down the Seine most days and nights, also helped lessen the stench from the household garbage and human waste that was habitually thrown straight out into the streets in the distasteful tradition of tout à la rue .

St. Germain looked out to his left as they crossed the bridge. It was a crisp autumn night, and the moon, which was almost at its fullest, suffused the city in a cool silvery glow. He loved the view from the bridge, especially after nightfall, when the tradesmen and the peddlers had packed up their wares and the strollers had turned in. The northern quay that stretched upstream was crowded with idle skiffs and sailboats and dotted by irregular bonfires. Farther on, the slate roofs of the row of buildings that squatted across the Pont Notre Dame shimmered in the moonlight, the faint light of taper candles twinkling from their windows. And beyond, the sublime Notre Dame loomed over the island, its spireless twin towers stretching up impossibly into the canopy of stars above, an edifice to the greatness of God that was, with each passing day, gaining acceptance as further proof of the genius of man.

They reached the western tip of the island and turned onto the Quai de l’Horloge, a narrow lane with a row of houses on one side and a low wall overlooking the river on the other. St. Germain’s rooms were in a whitewashed building at the far end of the terrace. They were still fifty yards or so away from its entrance when he heard the coachman call out to his horse and pull on the brake. The carriage lurched to a premature halt.

St. Germain leaned out of his window, calling out to his driver, “Roger? Why are we stopped here?”

The coachman hesitated before answering. “Up ahead, Monsieur le Comte. Our path is blocked.” His voice had an unfamiliar tremble in it.

St. Germain heard the neigh of a horse and looked down the road. The streets of Paris were lit that month, and in the dim glow of a suspended oil lantern, blocking the lane perhaps thirty yards ahead of the stopped carriage, were three horsemen. They just stood there, side by side, immobile.

He heard more hoofbeats approaching from the direction of the bridge and spun around to look back. Another horseman was coming down the quay, and as he passed under another lantern, St. Germain glimpsed the gold and black tiger’s streaks painted across the rider’s face, more threatening now under a flowing black cloak.

St. Germain turned in alarm at the horsemen blocking his route. His eyes scrutinized the darkness, filling in the shadowy features of the middle rider from the dark recesses of his memory. He’d barely managed to fully form the image when the familiar voice came bellowing out across the night.

“Buona sera, Marquese.” Di Sangro’s voice was just as St. Germain remembered it. Dry, sardonic, and raspy. “Or perhaps you’d prefer me to call you gentile conte ?”

St. Germain rapiered a glance back at the approaching rider cutting off his retreat, whose masked face suddenly came alive in his mind’s eye. He realized why the young man had unsettled him and remembered glimpsing him before, in a Paris café in recent weeks, as well as where they’d first met. In Naples. Years earlier. Briefly, upon visiting di Sangro’s palazzo.