Raymond Khoury - The Sanctuary

They circled each other like jungle cats, their eyes locked on each other, the clanging of their swords now replaced by their labored breathing. A leering smile curled up the sides of the young man’s fine lips, and he slid a glance at his father, who gave him a pleased and approving nod. St. Germain saw an unguarded cockiness in the young man and a mirrored pride in his father as he felt the blood trickling down the inside of his sleeve. The wound was going cold, and with it, the pain would be getting more intense and the muscles would stiffen. He had to move fast, even though he knew he wasn’t going to defeat all four men.

He knew where he had to strike.

He summoned all the energy he could muster and struck out at the prince’s son with renewed vigor, lashing his blade at him from all sides and forcing him back a few steps until he was trudging through the central gutter and its pile of sludge. The young man seemed taken aback by St. Germain’s determined attack, and as he fought back the deluge of demented lunges and swings, he shot a doubting glance at his father, as if looking to him for reassurance. St. Germain saw the split second of weakness and attacked. His blade plunged into the young swordsman’s side, making him howl with pain.

The prince’s son stumbled backwards with a shocked, almost disbelieving look as he touched his wound and brought up his bloodied hand. Di Sangro saw his son stagger through the filth and raced forward to him, calling out his name, “Arturo.” His son shook his pain away and stayed him by holding up his hand and turned to St. Germain. He raised his sword, but his legs faltered as he took a step forward.

Di Sangro yelled out, “Prendetelo,” to his men — get him — and rushed to his son’s aid. St. Germain watched as the two riders dismounted and converged on him, cutting off both ends of the street. Their crossbows blinked at him through the darkness. He looked behind him — the low wall edging the lane was within reach. He bolted and, reaching it, flung his sword over and clambered onto it. Flames of pain shot through his shoulder as he pulled himself onto the ledge. He righted himself and stood up.

Below him was the Seine, cold and littered with detritus, only this time, the water, flowing slowly and shimmering under the moonlight, wasn’t comforting. It made him dizzy. He sucked in some night air and turned back to face the street. Di Sangro saw him standing there. Their eyes locked for a brief moment, and St. Germain saw the pain, the anger, and the utter desperation radiating from di Sangro, who then yelled out, “Don’t be foolish, Marquese —”

But before the prince could do or say anything else, St. Germain just turned away, closed his eyes, and stepped off the ledge, letting himself drop into the river.

He hit the water hard and sank deep into its murky darkness. Tumbling over himself, he was momentarily disoriented and couldn’t tell which way was up. His arms flailed as he spun over himself aimlessly, his ears throbbing from the changing pressure, his lungs aching for air. He tried to calm himself, but the cold was biting into him and he could feel his head going woolly. As he spiraled down, he caught a glimpse of what he thought could be a reflection on the surface and decided to head for it, but the weight of his clothes was pulling him down. He reached down and managed to pull off his sodden shoes, but his clothes were locked in place by rows of buttons, layer upon layer of the finest material, breeches, shirt, cravat, waistcoat, and justaucorps that now clung tightly to his skin and inhibited his movements.

He felt as if the devil himself were reaching up and dragging him down to his death, and in that brief moment, he felt a perverse relief at ending it all, here and now, but something made him fight to stay alive and he thrashed away with his limbs, pushing against the water desperately until he made it back to the surface.

He broke through and found himself floating down the Seine among scattered pieces of timber and rotten fruit. He had drifted away from the Île de la Cité and was in the middle of the river, moving slowly back in the direction of the Tuileries. He fought against the tide, swallowing up big gulps of filthy water and coughing it up, his drenched clothes still weighing him down, his arms hitting blindly against floating debris and garbage. He fought as he’d never fought before, struggling to stay alive, to stay afloat, all the time trying to edge closer to the right bank, to dry land. Inch by inch, the bonfires of the homeless, scattered along the quays to his right, drew nearer, and by the time he grabbed a rusted iron ring that stuck out from the stone pier along the riverbank, he’d lost all track of time.

He dragged himself out of the water and lay on his back, sucking in grateful gulps of air, letting his drained body regain some semblance of life. He didn’t know if it was minutes or hours later, but it was still dark when he heard a voice he thought he recognized calling out to him. He thought he was dreaming when, moments later, Thérésia’s angelic face came beaming down at him from among the stars, muttering words that he couldn’t quite comprehend.

He felt his battered body being lifted under the shoulders by a man, and aided by Thérésia, he soon found himself wrapped in a thick blanket and ensconced in the cushioned comfort of a great carriage that whisked him away from the rats and the brigands and burrowed into the dark streets of the city of light.

As they drove to Thérésia’s apartment, questions swamped St. Germain, and his confused mind struggled to process the answers she gave him.

She told him that she had noticed that something seemed to have unnerved him at the ball, and that as he had headed out of the palace, she had spotted a man dressed as a tiger shadowing him. She had left the ball soon after them, having lost interest, and her coachman had told her that the man had indeed followed the count out and trailed his carriage. She had headed off after them, sensing trouble, and had witnessed the fight from the bridge, too afraid to intercede. After St. Germain had jumped into the river, she’d thought he had drowned. Her coachman had spotted him floating down the middle of the river and, ultimately, brought her to him.

The words didn’t fully register with St. Germain, but he didn’t mind. For now, he was happy to be alive and happy to be with her. Deep down, he knew this would only be temporary, but he didn’t want to think about that right now. He just let himself drift away into the comfort of her arms and tried to shut the world out for as long as he could.

She took him to her apartment, in the newly fashionable Marais district, and had her maid draw up a hot bath. She helped him out of his clothes and into the tub, and later, after she’d dressed his wound and fed him, they put out all the candles save for a solitary one by the bed and made love with ravenous abandon.

He woke up with the first hints of sunlight and watched her sleeping by his side. His shoulder still hurt, but at least the wound had stopped bleeding. He ran his hand gently down to the small of her back, relishing the smoothness of her skin under his fingers, and dreading the inevitable reinvention that he’d soon have to undertake.

Watching her breathing peacefully by his side, his mind escaped to a sunnier life where he didn’t have to live a lie, and where he could take pleasure in the ever-dwindling time he had left. He found himself asking himself the same question that had been tormenting him of late, wondering again about the validity of the quest he had devoted his life to, about whether it was time to finally give it all up and retreat into a blissfully mundane existence.

As he pondered the journey of his life, he also found himself doubting what he would ultimately achieve even if he did succeed in finding what he was looking for.