Chapter 45
XLV
The suite we had been given contained only one bedroom and only one bed, and the butler had apologized profusely when it became apparent that Antoine and I would have to share it. We had made a show of awkward acceptance and I resolved right away that we would put it to good use later that night.
I will not bore you with the afternoon’s long and arduous toilette.
Neither of us was traveling with appropriate dinner attire, and there was no question of us dining in our hunting clobber.
The publican sent manservants to iron, fit and tailor a pair of simple gray ditto suits for us.
They bore the marks of several prior alterations and I suspected that we would not be the last to make use of them.
This laborious task was mixed with the interminable work—conducted by still more manservants—of bathing and shaving and fingernail-trimming and hair-styling.
Finally, just as the dinner bell was ringing, we were ready.
I was, if not quite dashing, then at least respectable in my refashioned formalwear.
I was not entirely prepared to see Antoine so changed, however.
He winked at me in the mirror as he caught me staring.
Smooth-cheeked and freshly groomed, he was utterly transformed from the pampered lordling I had met in the courtyard at Chateau d’Ocerne, back in the spring.
There was little danger he would again be mistaken for yet another frivolous young rake of the French nobility.
There was something keener about him, a newly honed edge that had not been there before.
Had so much changed in such a short space of time?
Perhaps it was simply that I knew him better now, and I could see the determination behind the devilish spark in his eye, and the clear-sighted leader inside the irrepressible young libertine.
Yes indeed, I was hopelessly smitten.
“Sebastian, I am starving,” said Antoine, following the last of the manservants through the open door. “I feel like I haven’t eaten a decent meal in six months.”
“As your personal chef for most of those months, I shall try not to take offense,” I replied.
We nearly collided with a trio of footmen at the top of the stairs.
They bore all the necessities for a sumptuous dinner service, carried carefully on silver trays.
I noted with interest the lone glass chalice and the full, single set of silverware resting on the napery beside it.
The food itself was covered in a silver dome, and it left a delectable aroma in its wake.
My curiosity turned into deep suspicion as the footmen took the meal to the gilded doors of the Royal Suite and then disappeared inside.
“One of our fellow guests will not be joining us for dinner, it seems,” I remarked to Antoine.
“He must be very important or very rich. Probably both. The Dauphin1 himself has stayed in that room,” he replied, his eyes narrowed.
“Whoever he is, he’s remarkably concerned about his privacy. I am intrigued.”
I closed my eyes for a moment.
Anything?
Sarmodel swiftly parsed the soft sounds and various airborne compounds in the hallway.
Fungus. Boiled bird. Roots. Animal fat. Some plants. Deer meat. Offal.
Delicious, thank you. Can you hear anything?
Voices. He’s a man. I can’t tell anything else, not with your ears. I interpreted a small mental spasm as a grimace. There’s also perfume. A lot of perfume.
Interesting.
The dinner bell rang for the second time and Jean Chastel’s cane rapped impatiently over the parquetry. We went downstairs to join our host at the grand table.
Dinner was a surprisingly enjoyable affair. There were twelve of us in total, though there were still many empty seats at the table. We were in any case far outnumbered by the staff, who hovered around us like mosquitoes, ready to respond to every cleared throat and cocked eyebrow.
Bauterne was the last to join us. Sarmodel hardened in my mind—a sensation like teeth set on edge—as the Archangel’s wings unfurled above the table in a clear staking of territory.
“Monsieur Enneval is unwell and sends his apologies,” Bauterne said as he took his seat.
Monsieur Enneval’s intermittent screaming from the upstairs suite did not sound at all apologetic.
He’s still alive? For the love of—I thought I was quite explicit, I said to Sarmodel.
Perhaps we should take care of it ourselves, he suggested.
I hate to admit it, but you may be right.
The young lady we had met earlier introduced herself as Rosalie Mimet, the daughter of one of the barons of Velay.
She was traveling to meet her cousin, a baronet somewhere to the west, to whom she was betrothed.
Her forest-green gown with its stomacher of embroidered gold silk was no doubt intended for her presentation to him.
The red-haired man who accompanied her was her uncle and chaperone, and he seemed to take the latter role very seriously.
He seated himself purposefully between Antoine and Rosalie, the better to obstruct any attempts at conversation.
I noticed with some amusement that, while the other guests dined with the lodge’s engraved silverware, my place had been set with tarnished pewter cutlery, no doubt from the staff kitchen.
Jean Chastel glared at me from the head of the table, his eyes daring me to protest. I simply smiled and inclined my head.
Oh, I like him, chuckled Sarmodel.
You always like the military ones.
Sarmodel’s olfactory portrait of the meal was (more or less) accurate.
In spite of the winter dearth, Chastel’s kitchen staff had produced a delectable banquet.
We began with a duet of mushroom cream and pheasant bouillon, followed by roasted carrots and pumpkins, heavily buttered, with a juicy haunch of venison and sautéed liver.
As I suspected, the choicest cuts had already been taken to the mysterious guest in the Royal Suite.
I don’t remember the names of the remaining dinner guests.
They seemed to me all different versions of the same young man—wealthy, educated, stylish and patently ill-suited to hunting.
I suspected their noble parents had sent them to join the hunt for Gévaudan’s Beast as a sort of Enlightenment gap year.
With their labored wit and conspicuous aping of Versailles manners, they were like trained ornamental pets.
I even marked them as such in my mind: Messieurs Dog, Ferret, Cat, Hare and Finch.
Bauterne surprised me throughout the meal by being consummately charming with the young nobles, who clearly idolized him.
He entertained their questions and indulged them with a few stories of his exploits, some of which were even interesting.
He was arrogant and condescending, but he did it with wit and passion.
I saw for the first time the charismatic hero who had so fascinated the people of Gévaudan.
As the only woman at the table, Rosalie Mimet held court alongside Bauterne.
Her exquisite etiquette and artful conversation were in the manner of a skilled performance.
2 She discussed her favorite Greek poetry with one young man and shared intriguing political insights with the next.
Her uncle’s duty as chaperone was no easy task; she had every man at the table in the palm of her hand before we even finished the soup.
There was nonetheless an ominous quality to the occasion.
The heavy wooden window shutters, closed against the storm, thumped alarmingly in the gale.
The shouted expletives from the upstairs suite continued to interrupt the conversation, the challenge for each guest being to demonstrate how staunchly they could certainly not hear anything untoward.
As the meal finished with a course of wafers, cheese, candied ginger and brandy, Sarmodel sharpened in my mind.
Sebastian! Can you hear that?
I smiled politely as Monsieur Ferret recounted his (entirely fabricated) version of the Saint-Julien massacre.
You’ll need to be more specific.
Sarmodel progressively suppressed my hearing, shutting out first the drivel in my immediate surroundings, then the rest of the dining room.
I was left with the tapestry of environmental sounds which would otherwise have gone unremarked: the rushing of the storm, the hubbub of the kitchen and the faint, terrified howling of the dogs in the kennels outside.
And somewhere below us, howling of a very different kind.
I stiffened in my chair. In the cellar of the Bow and Brace, something raged.
Sarmodel. Is that what I think it is?
Oh yes.
I feigned great interest in the preposterous story being told at the dinner table, while redoubling my efforts to hear the muffled sounds coming from beneath the floor.
The animal’s baying was very deep; it was much larger than an ordinary hound. Its hungering cries were punctuated with a piteous hacking and choking, hinting at some greater struggle.
Soeur. My God, Bauterne still has her. Has he lost his mind?
It would seem so, answered my Guest.
I listened to the pitiable sounds for a few moments longer. I fear we’ve got a busy night ahead of us, my love. It’s too dangerous to leave her down there—
“—something to add, surely, Professor Grave?”
The sounds of the dining room returned in a rush.
Rosalie Mimet was looking at me, her mouth curved in a quizzical smile. The conversation around the table had stopped, and my fellow guests had turned expectantly in my direction.
“I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle, but I did not hear your question over the storm,” I said.
Rosalie smiled charmingly. “Our companions—even the good lieutenant—have each said the Beast must be some unholy monster sent by the Devil himself. I must object. Such superstition surely has no place in serious discussions.”
“Mademoiselle, the creature has killed hundreds,” interjected Monsieur Finch. “It cannot be any natural beast.”
She shook her head. “I still assert that there must be another explanation. My question, Professor, was whether you, as a man of science, had something to offer the discussion.” She raised an eyebrow, teasingly. “Or must we entertain, in seriousness, speculation about witchcraft and devilry?”
“Yes indeed, let us hear the words of the scientist!” said Chastel. There were two spots of color in his cheeks from the brandy and a hint of genuine amusement in his eyes.
I ignored Antoine’s smirk and began one of my favorite monologues.3
“An excellent question, Mademoiselle. I have indeed slain monsters, and each was a monster in reputation only. Just as the products of science are often mistaken for supernatural phenomena, so are ordinary beasts mistaken for fantastical creatures. I have found that with the application of reason and scientific principles—”
“How can you say so, sir?” I was fiercely interrupted by Bauterne.
“How? You were at Saint-Julien. You saw what it is. The thing that murdered half the village—that decimated our packs—that creature was not a product of reputation.” He turned to the young lady.
“Mademoiselle, be assured that we will not be served by ‘scientific principles’ in this fight. The Lord Almighty is our only hope against such an abomination. And He fights alongside us, have no fear.”
Rosalie looked thoughtful. “Though I do not share it, your faith is reassuring, sir,” she said.
Looking around the table, I realized with no small degree of irritation that she was right. Bauterne’s faith was reassuring, to everyone except me. The man’s supreme confidence in the providence of the Divine put others at ease in his presence. It was no doubt why the Archangel had selected him.
I chose my words carefully.
“Perhaps the two might work together, then. There are any number of difficulties afflicting our brothers and sisters4 in Gévaudan which the Lord Almighty has not yet seen fit to remedy,” I replied. “A little assistance from the sciences might benefit us all, don’t you agree, Monsieur Bauterne?”
As though to underline my point, Enneval the Elder unleashed a fresh flood of profanity from the room above.
Bauterne simply glared at me in silence while I laboriously cut a piece of cheese with my pewter knife.
“Perhaps a backgammon tournament in the grand salon to pass the evening?” suggested Monsieur Cat brightly, breaking the impasse. “We have the numbers to make it quite a competition!”
“A wonderful idea!” agreed Rosalie, rising from her seat, and we were all suddenly committed.
1. Not an actual dolphin, the Dauphin of France was the title given to the heir apparent.
2. If this whole affair sounds like an elaborate pantomime, that’s because in many ways, it was.
The social tenets of the ancien régime were incredibly complex, and entire fortunes were built on reputation alone.
Occasions like dinner parties were positively simmering with subtext, innuendo and petty pageantry, all delivered through discussions about fashion or philosophy.
3. Maintaining the “man of science” facade was a necessary part of my survival for centuries. The patronizing half smile, the understanding nod, the aversion to layman’s terms—it was all second nature to me by this point.
4. Note that “Soeur” is the word for “sister,” making this statement both very witty and exquisitely petty. I am still proud of it.