The Sanctuary

Chapter 32

The false count navigated wearily through the hot, suffocating ballroom, his head pounding from the haughty chatter, the garish laughter, and the incessant, relentless music, his eyes assaulted by the sparks from the spinning Catherine wheels and the gloriously outlandish costumes of giraffes, peacocks, and other exotic animals that paraded before him.

It was on nights like these that he missed the Orient most. But he knew those days were long, long gone.

He cast his tired eyes around the great room, feeling every inch the impostor that he was. Papier-mâché animal heads sitting precariously on powdered wigs stared down at him and tall feathers tickled at his nostrils as, all around him, the guests at the Palais des Tuileries mingled and danced with abandon. Pearls and diamonds ensnared his gaze everywhere he turned, shimmering under the light of hundreds of candles that carelessly soiled the carpets with mounds of molten wax. It wasn’t his first ball, nor would it be his last. He knew he would suffer many more evenings like tonight’s bal de la jungle, the jungle ball — more dreadful displays of unbridled pomp, more throwaway conversations, more unabashed flirtations. It was all part of the new life he’d created for himself, and his presence was expected — anticipated, even — at occasions like these. He also knew the pain wouldn’t end here: In the days and nights to come, he would have to endure endless, giddy retellings, in countless salons, of the evening’s public glories and of its more private, salacious goings-on.

It was a price he had to pay for access, and access was what he needed if he was ever to succeed, although, with each passing year, that success seemed more and more remote.

It was, truly, an impossible task.

Often, as tonight, he would find himself wandering, lost in his thoughts, trying to remember who he really was, what he was doing here, what his life was really about.

It didn’t always come to him that easily.

More and more frequently, he was finding it hard to keep his creation at bay and not fully lose himself in his false persona. The temptation hounded him at every step. Each day, he passed scores of poor folk in the streets, men and women who would give their right arm for the life he enjoyed — the life they believed he was enjoying. He wondered if he hadn’t struggled enough, if he hadn’t hidden enough, if he hadn’t been alone long enough. He felt tempted to abandon his quest and relinquish the role that had been entrusted to him in that dungeon in Tomar all those years ago, and to embrace his outwardly fortunate position, settle down, and live out the rest of his days in pampered comfort and — more important — in normalcy.

It was a temptation that was getting harder and harder to dispel.

His journey to Paris had been anything but straightforward.

He’d managed to slip away from Naples, but he knew he wasn’t safe anywhere, certainly not in Italy, and that di Sangro would not rest until he found him. He had seen it in the prince’s eyes; he also knew the prince had the money and the manpower to track him down. And so he set out to muddy his trail, establishing new identities wherever he went before moving on and leaving behind confusing fabrications as to their backgrounds and their movements.

He had carefully seeded deceptions in Pisa, Milan, and Orléans on his way to the great city, taking on new names as he traveled forth: the Comte Bellamare, the Marquis d’Aymar, the Chevalier Schoening. More names would — some justly, others falsely — come to be associated with him in the years to come. For now, however, he was comfortably settled into his Paris apartments and his new persona, that of the Comte de St. Germain.

Paris suited the count. It was a huge, bustling city — the largest human settlement in Europe — and it attracted plenty of travelers and adventurers, the boisterous as well as the discreet. His appearance there would be diluted by those of countless others. Here he could meet other travelers, men who, like him, had been to the Orient and who may have come across the symbol of the tail-eater in their travels. It was also a city of learning and discourse, and a repository of great knowledge, with rich libraries and untold collections of manuscripts, books, and relics, including the ones that were of particular interest to him: those pilfered from the Orient during the Crusades, and those confiscated after the suppression of the Templars almost five centuries earlier. The ones that could house the missing piece of the puzzle that had ambushed his life all those years ago.

He arrived in Paris at a time when the great city was in transition. Radical thinkers were challenging the twin tyrannies of monarchy and Church. The city was bubbling with contradiction and upheaval, with enlightenment and intrigue — intrigue that St. Germain put to good use.

Within weeks of his arrival, he managed to befriend the king’s minister of war and with his help, he insinuated himself into the king’s orbit. Impressing the aristocrats wasn’t hard. His knowledge of chemistry and physics, gleaned from his years in the East, were enough to regale and hoodwink the debauched buffoons. His familiarity with foreign lands and his mastery of numerous languages — his French in Paris was as impeccable as his Italian was in Naples, to add to his fluent mastery of English, Spanish, Arabic, and his native Portuguese — were cautiously wielded if and when his notability needed an additional boost. He was soon comfortably ensconced in the king’s coterie of pampered acolytes.

With his credentials established, he was able to resume his quest. He smooth-talked his way into the great houses of the nobility and into the most private of collections. He ingratiated himself with the clergy in order to delve through the libraries and crypts of their monasteries. He also read extensively, immersing himself in the travelogues of Tavernier, the studies of pathology of Morgagni, the medical treatises of Boerhaave, and other great works that were appearing at the time. He’d studied Thomas Fuller’s Pharmacopoeia Extemporanea and Luigi Cornaro’s intriguing Discourses on the Temperate Life in great detail — the man had died a vibrant ninety-eight-year old. And while he gained a great wealth of knowledge from these works, he was no closer to a solution to his impossible quest.

The symbol of the tail-eater was nowhere to be found, nor did there seem to be any medical or scientific clues to overcoming the critical deficiency of the substance.

He hovered between enthusiasm and despair. New leads would excite him, and then, with each dead end, the doubts about his mission would resurface and further undermine his resolve. He wished he could share his burden with someone else, draft someone to help him and perhaps even take over from him, but after seeing how even the vaguest smell of it had turned di Sangro into an obsessed predator, he couldn’t bring himself to risk approaching anyone else.

Many nights, he’d wonder whether ridding himself of the substance and of its demonic formulation would release him from its slavery. He managed to go without it a few times, but never for more than a week or two. And then a renewed sense of destiny would overcome him, and he’d resign himself to the only life he knew.

“I beg your pardon, my dear sir.”

The woman’s voice jarred him out of his tortured daze.

He turned to see a bizarre herd of jovial revelers standing before him. Their expressions ranged from giddy to confused. An older woman nearing sixty in a ballooning sheep’s costume gingerly inched forward from among them. Something about her sent shards of distress cutting through him. She studied him with a curious, perplexed expression on her round face before extending her hand and introducing herself as Madame de Fontenay. The name drove the shards in deeper. He masked his unease as he gave her a slight bow and took her hand.

“My dear count,” she asked, flustered with nervous excitement, “would you have the kindness to tell me whether a close relative of yours was in Rome around forty years ago? An uncle, perhaps, or even”—she hesitated—“your father?”

The false count smiled effusively with practiced insincerity. “Quite possibly, madame. My family seems encumbered with an insatiable will to travel. As for my father, I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you for certain. It was hard enough for me to keep up with his touring when I was a child, and I’m afraid I am completely in the dark as to his movements before my birth.” The small herd chuckled loudly and far more generously than St. Germain’s remark merited. “Why, if I may,” he added, “do you ask?”

The curious look in her eye hadn’t dulled. “I knew a man at the time. He paid me court, you see. I still remember our first encounter,” she reminisced. “We sang a few barcaroles of his composing together, and…” A serene glimmer lit up her eyes as her mind seemed to wander back to that time. “His features, his hair, his complexion…even his carriage. He had the impress and the nobility that one only finds in the great.” She seemed genuinely startled. “I see the same, all of it, in you.”

St. Germain bowed with false modesty. “You are far too generous, madame.”

The woman waved away his words. “Please, Count. I beseech you to think about it and let me know if I was indeed in the presence of a relation of yours. The similarity is simply too uncanny to discount.”

St. Germain moved to put an end to his discomfort. He beamed at his inquisitor. “Madame, you are most kind to pay me such a compliment,” he gushed. “I will not rest until I have conjured up the identity of my illustrious relation who so impressed you.” He gave the woman a concluding half-bow, his body language coaxing her to move on, but she would not budge. She just stood there, transfixed by him.

“Most intriguing,” she muttered to herself, before asking, “I am told you also play the piano divinely, Count. Perhaps you were taught by the man I remember.”

He smiled at her, but his smile was having trouble reaching his eyes. He was about to answer when he noticed a familiar face watching him from beside the little menagerie. The woman — Thérésia de Condillac — seemed to be enjoying his little quagmire.

“Ah, there you are,” she finally exclaimed as she stepped forward, a knowing gleam in her eye. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Courteous bobs and bows and hasty introductions were exchanged before the woman hooked her arm into St. Germain’s and — with the briefest of apologies — brazenly whisked him away from his stymied tormentor.

“I hope you don’t mind my taking you away from such an ardent admirer, monsieur,” she commented as they disappeared into the crowd.

“I’m not sure I would have used the word ardent. Senile, perhaps?”

“You mustn’t be so unkind, Count.” She laughed. “Judging from her rosy countenance, she might well lead you to some half brothers you weren’t aware of.”

They made their way to the gardens, which were lit up by torches and more spinning Catherine wheels. Wisps of smoke from the pyrotechnics hung low, obscuring the nearby riverbank. Elephants, zebras, and an array of monkeys, brought in from the royal menagerie at Versailles, were on display in the sprawling gardens, symbols of omnipotence to their royal owners, who were blissfully oblivious to the metaphors of slavery and oppression the less fortunate associated with the caged animals.

They found a quiet bench that sheltered under a chestnut tree and overlooked the quay, by the river’s edge. They’d met a few weeks earlier, at Thérésia’s uncle’s house. St. Germain had sought the man out after hearing of his reputation as a keen orientalist who had a substantial collection of manuscripts from the region. They’d met again in the salon of Madame Geoffrin — coincidentally, he’d first thought, although, as the evening had progressed and her questions had become more personal, he’d been less certain of that. Not that he minded. Thérésia de Condillac was a much desired woman. She was blessed with a radiant femininity and was a childless, moneyed widow who didn’t lack suitors and who didn’t shy away from their advances.

They watched the army of revelers from a distance and exchanged pleasantries, occasionally at the expense of the more garishly costumed guests. Thérésia’s costume was as minimalist as St. Germain’s in its ambition: It consisted simply of a shawl of white feathers, which, thrown over her simple white ball dress, imbued her with the ethereal — and distinctly un-jungle-like — guise of a dove. St. Germain, wigless and head to toe in black, looked even less like the panther he claimed to be.

“My uncle tells me you’ve become a regular visitor to his house,” she eventually mentioned. “He’s most impressed by your knowledge of the Levant. He yearns to return to Constantinople, you know.”

He turned to her. She seemed to be studying his face for his response. “I can understand his missing it. There is great comfort to be had from its”—he paused as he took in the surreal scene in the distance—“simplicity.” And then, suddenly, as if to mock his very words, a fleeting image in the distance jolted him.

Through the mist from the fireworks, among the crowd of pastiche gorillas and ostriches, a pair of eyes materialized, staring straight at him, the eyes of a young man, his cheeks and forehead painted over heavily with streaks of gold and brown, his head covered by a curly blond wig that was pierced by animal ears, a thick mane of fur draped around his neck. He was peering out from among the throng like a tiger eyeing its prey through the thick blades of an African savanna.

The predator was there for only the briefest of moments before a small gaggle of guests obscured him. An instant later, after they’d passed, he was gone.

St. Germain blinked his eyes and scanned the distance, but there was no sign of the tiger. With the din from the crowd and the orchestra still pounding his senses, he asked himself if he’d even seen it in the first place. He shook the image away and focused on his companion again.

Thérésia seemed to notice his eyes wander, but didn’t react to it. “Possibly,” she just replied. “Then again, I suspect it may have more to do with his craving for some mariage à la cabine,” she joked, referring to a form of temporary marriage that was practiced there, kabin, in which Christian women could be hired by the month. “Which,” she added with a pique of seriousness in her tone, “is something that I imagine would appeal to you too, if I’m not mistaken.”

Her candor caught him out. “I imagine it would appeal to most men,” he replied.

“Yes, but something about the impersonal, noncommittal nature of it — it seems particularly suited to you.”

Her comment went to the heart of him. Not that it was unexpected. He’d cultivated the reputation of someone who valued his independence and his privacy and who, while he enjoyed the occasional intimate dalliance, had no appetite for attachment. But the way she said it, that slight knowing, sardonic edge in her voice, in her eyes — it was as if she could see through him. Which unsettled him.

“I’m not sure if I should take that as a compliment or as a rebuke,” he countered cautiously.

“I’d say it’s neither,” she said playfully. “Just a passing comment from an intrigued observer.”

“An observer? Am I to take it that I’m being studied, like one of these poor beasts?” he asked, waving at the nearest cage. Against his better judgment, he found himself scanning the crowd again for any sign of the prowling tiger. There was none.

“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.

He was di Sangro’s son. The deferential teenager, though, was gone, replaced by a young man who reeked of menace.

St. Germain slid a glance at his coachman, who was looking to him nervously. “Drive, Roger,” he ordered him fiercely, “go through them.”

The coachman yelled and whipped the horse, which burst into a gallop and charged forward. Looking out the window, St. Germain saw the horses blocking their path rear slightly backwards before one of the riders brought up something that glinted ominously in the moonlight. It took a split second for St. Germain to realize it was a crossbow, and before he could shout it down, the rider took aim and fired. The small arrow sliced the air with a sharp whisper and struck the coachman squarely in the chest. He let out a pained moan before slumping to one side and tumbling off the advancing carriage.

The riders spread out and edged forward, yelling and waving their arms at the confused horse that weaved erratically from side to side but kept charging ahead. The carriage rattled down the uneven paving, with St. Germain hanging on to the edge of its window, his mind racing through possible moves just as he glimpsed the rider on di Sangro’s other flank raise another crossbow and fire at the horse.

From the sharp, pained whinny of the horse, St. Germain knew the arrow had buried itself deep into its flesh. The horse reared up, sending the carriage careening sideways unevenly. A wheel must have gotten hooked on the edge of a paving stone because St. Germain found himself hanging onto the window ledge as the light carriage bounced upwards and rolled heavily onto its side, sliding a few yards before grinding to a halt.

St. Germain shook himself back to consciousness and unfolded himself, his senses alert to the movement outside. The street had gone silent, the only noise disturbing the deathly stillness coming from the hooves of his attackers’ horses as they slowly closed in around him. With his back to the blocked door under him, he curled his legs and kicked the opposite door open, then pulled himself out, aching and bruised from the tumble. He dropped to the ground and glanced up the street. The body of his coachman just lay there, immobile. St. Germain felt his anger swell up as he straightened his bruised body and stood up.

Up ahead, the three riders were now joined by di Sangro’s son. “Bravo, ragazzo mio,” di Sangro congratulated him. “Sei stato grande”—you did well. He then turned to face St. Germain.

The four of them now stood there before him, bearing down on him, backlit by the grim lantern that swayed feebly overhead.

Di Sangro prodded his horse forward a few steps, his eyes locked on his prey. “That’s quite a life you’ve made for yourself, Marquese. Paris will be sad to lose you.”

“And Paris’s loss will be Naples’s gain, is that it?” St. Germain spat back.

Di Sangro smiled and dismounted. “Maybe not all of Naples’s, but certainly mine.” His son followed suit, while the other two riders remained on their mounts. The prince stepped closer to St. Germain, scrutinizing him as if for the first time. “You look well, Marquese. Extremely well, in fact. Could it simply be that this filthy Paris air suits you so?”

St. Germain said nothing. His eyes darted tensely from di Sangro to his son and back. The resemblance was strong, especially in the eyes, even more so now that the boy had turned into a man. Di Sangro himself had noticeably aged in the intervening years: heavier, paler, the skin on his face and neck sagging and lined. He cursed himself for not making the connection sooner, for not realizing who the young man was the minute he first laid eyes on him in that café. He’d always expected di Sangro to catch up with him at some point, and he’d had several years of peaceful, if guarded, anonymity. He knew his life in Paris was now over, but, more immediately, he needed to do something if he was going to have any chance of setting up another existence.

His mind frantically processed his options, but there weren’t many. A thought, however, blazed through the bleak scenarios like a beacon, a simple realization that colored his reactions in the various confrontations with di Sangro that he’d played out in his mind over the years: Di Sangro needed him alive. The threats of revelation or death were hollow: He knew di Sangro would do his best to keep him alive and use all the methods at his disposal, however grisly and for as long as it took, to wring the truth out of him.

It was, however, a double-edged sword. Alive was only an attractive option as long as he was free. Captivity, and torture, were far less desirable. Especially given the doubts he harbored about how long his resolve would resist.

He was boxed in. The two riders had stationed themselves to either side of their master, blocking both routes of escape. Behind him was the wall of the building, its entrance door beyond shuttered up since sundown. And facing him, behind di Sangro and his son, was the low wall and the river.

St. Germain took a deep breath and pulled out his sword. “You know I can’t go with you,” he told di Sangro flatly. “And there is nothing here for you.”

Di Sangro smiled coldly and waved at his men. “I don’t think you have much choice, Marquese.” He drew his sword and held it up to St. Germain, as did his son. From the corner of his eye, the count noted that the riders with the crossbows had also reloaded.

St. Germain edged sideways, keeping the prince and his son at bay with the tip of his sword. Much as he felt tired and weary from the burden he had carried across the continents, this wasn’t the release he was looking for. He couldn’t accept the idea of capture, not by this man. He was ready to resist it with his every breath, although he knew that if he died, the secret, as far as he knew, would die with him. He wondered if that would be, on balance, a good thing — or did he owe it to the world to keep the knowledge alive, even if it was in the hands of a maniacal and selfish man such as di Sangro?

No, he had to stay free. He had to stay alive. He wasn’t ready to die. And, he now also realized, he couldn’t keep it to himself anymore. It was too dangerous. If he managed to get away this time and continued with his quest, he had to enlist others, regardless of the dangers involved. He just had to choose better.

A fierce determination raced through his veins, and he lunged ferociously at the two men. As their swords clashed noisily in the deserted street, he noticed that di Sangro had slowed a bit since their last encounter, but his son had more than taken up the slack. The young man was a gifted swordsman. He countered St. Germain’s swings with surgical efficiency and seemed to predict the count’s moves unerringly. The prince edged back, content with acting as a barrier to St. Germain’s escape, as his son took over, lunging and swinging his blade at the count. The son’s cloak had slipped off his head, and in the feeble light of a nearby suspended lantern, the tiger markings streaked across his face now looked positively demonic, heightening the predatory scowl in his eyes and unnerving St. Germain.

The son’s blade was now slicing the air faster and more viciously, with St. Germain struggling to parry and block the onslaught. As they stomped through the central gutter and its filthy slush, St. Germain scuttled to his side to avoid another big swing and his shoe caught on a paving stone, throwing him off-balance. Di Sangro’s son grabbed the opening and bolted forward, lunging at St. Germain. The count recovered his footing and darted to his right, but couldn’t fully avoid the blade, which cut into his left shoulder and sent a burning pain searing through him. He raised his sword back in time to deflect his attacker’s next swing and stepped back to regroup.

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.

Finding it was one thing.

Announcing it, revealing it to the world, and making sure that it was available and shared by all…that was a far more insurmountable challenge.

The world wasn’t ready for it, so much was certain. Powerful forces would be aligned to smother it, to keep it from altering — and empowering — mankind. Immortality — spiritual, individual immortality, that is — was a gift only religion was allowed to bestow. Nothing else could be allowed to alleviate the dread of the specter of death’s inevitable and irresistible invitation. The gift he was pursuing was sacrilegious, unthinkable. The Church would never allow it. Who was he to overcome such venomous hostility?

Confusion flooded his mind. Countering his weariness and his feelings of despair was the observation that, despite everything, the future held promise. With every passing year, he felt the winds of change blowing through the cities of men around him. Salons and coffeehouses were brimming with new ideas that were challenging ignorance, tyranny and superstition. Religious dogma and persecution were being undermined. Rousseau, Voltaire, Diderot, and others were feverishly working while warding off the suppression of their works by the ever-present Jesuits. People were finding themselves lifted and inspired by the words of great thinkers who believed that man was essentially good, and that happiness in this earthly life, achieved through social fraternity and advances in sciences and in arts, was a far more sensible and noble aspiration than hoping to reach paradise through penitence.

They were beginning to dare to value their lives more than their afterlives.

But there was still a lot to overcome. Poverty and sickness, chiefly. Premature death lurked around every corner, and the most brilliant minds were still trying to understand what the human body was made of and how it worked. This would be a huge distraction to their work, and it could have disastrous effects. And beyond all that was the seemingly intractable issue of man’s greed, his innate propensity to covet and amass. As St. Germain had witnessed, firsthand, in di Sangro.

St. Germain looked at the sleeping silhouette by his side. He reached out and stroked her naked shoulder. He studied her face, radiant even in sleep, and saw promise and inspiration in its finely sculpted lines, and it tormented him. Something deep within him tore.

He felt exhausted.

Perhaps it was all unattainable. Perhaps it was time to be selfish.

Perhaps it was time to give up.

The thought brought him comfort. But there were more pressing problems to solve.

Either way, he’d have to leave. He had the ability to travel and reinvent himself. He’d undertaken a couple of sensitive missions for the king, who, in another misguided attempt to assert himself, had instituted le Secret du Roi, the “king’s secret,” a covert effort of agents he would send abroad to pursue objectives that were mostly opposed to his publicly announced policies, such as seeking peace with the British. St. Germain could make use of the system to slip away and resettle in secret.

With a heavy heart, he knew it was the only option.

As if reading his mind, Thérésia stirred beside him and stretched awake. Her face beamed with a luminous smile as she curled her body into his.

She seemed to read the expression on his face, and her face darkened for a quiet moment, before she asked uncertainly, “You’re going to leave Paris, aren’t you?”

He couldn’t bring himself to lie, not to her. He simply nodded without taking his eyes off her.

She held his gaze, then leaned in and gave him a languorous kiss. When she finally pulled back, she simply said, “I want to go with you.”

He looked at her and smiled.