come across since the Spanish Inquisition.
“There are some things I want to show you,” Saint Cloud said, putting a cold arm around
Magnus’s shoulders.
“Absolutely wonderful things!”
One thing Saint Cloud and Magnus had in common was a rich appreciation for mundane fashion, furniture, and art.
Magnus tended to buy his, or receive them as payment. Marcel traded with the revolutionaries—or with the street people who had raided great houses and taken the pretty things from inside. Or his darklings handed over their possessions. Or things just arrived in his house. It was best not to ask too many questions but simply to admire, and admire loudly. Marcel would take offense if Magnus didn’t praise every item.
Suddenly, a chorus of voices from an outside courtyard was calling for Saint
Cloud.
“Something seems to be going on,”
Marcel said. “Perhaps we should investigate.”
The voices were high, excited, and giddy—all tones Magnus didn’t want to hear at a vampire party. Those tones meant very bad things.
“What is it, my friends?” Marcel said, walking toward the front hall.
There was a tangle of vampires standing at the foot of the front steps, with Henri at the head. A few of them were holding a struggling figure. She made high-pitched squeals from a mouth that sounded covered, though it was impossible to see her in the throng.
“Master . . .” Henri’s eyes were wide.
“Master, we have found . . . You will not believe, Master . . .”
“Show me. Bring it forward. What is it?”
The vampires ordered themselves a bit and threw the human into the cleared space on the ground. It was all Magnus could do not to make a sound of alarm, or give away anything at all.
It was Marie Antoinette.
Of course, the glamour he had applied did not affect the vampires. The queen was exposed, her face white with shock.
“You . . . ,” she said, addressing the crowd in a shaky voice, “what you have done . . . You will—”
Marcel raised a silencing hand, and to
Magnus’s surprise, the queen stopped speaking.
“Who brought her?” he asked. “How did this happen?”
“It was I, monsieur,” said a voice. A dapper vampire named Coselle stepped to the front. “I was on my way here, coming down the rue du Bac, and I absolutely could not believe my eyes.
She must have gotten out of the
Tuileries. She was just on the street, monsieur, looking panicked and lost.”
Of course. The queen would not have been accustomed to being out on the streets on her own. And in the dark it was easy to go the wrong way. She had made a wrong turn and crossed the Seine somehow.
“Madame,” Marcel said, walking down the stairs. “Or should I say ‘Your
Majesty’? Do I have the pleasure of addressing our beloved and most . . . illustrious queen?”
A low snicker from around the room, but aside from that no noise at all.
“I am she,” the queen said, rising to her feet. “And I demand—”
Marcel put up his hand again, indicating silence. He descended the rest of the steps and walked to the queen, stood in front of her, and examined her closely. Then he gave a small bow.
“Your Majesty,” he said. “I am thrilled beyond words that you could attend my party. We are all thrilled beyond words, are we not, my friends?”
By now, all the vampires who could fit had crowded into the doorway. Those who could not were leaning out of the windows. There were nods and smiles, but no reply. The silence was terrible.
Outside Marcel’s courtyard wall, even
Paris itself seemed to have fallen silent.
“My dear Marcel,” Magnus said, forcing a laugh. “I do
As this statement appeared to be plainly and glaringly false, Marcel and the others remained silent, waiting to hear more. Magnus walked down the steps, trying to look like he was amused by this turn of events.
“She’s very good, isn’t she?” he said.
“I cater to many tastes, much like you.
And I happen to have a client who wishes to do to the queen what she has been doing to the French people for many years. I was hired to do a complete transformation. And I must say, at the risk of sounding immodest, that I have done an excellent job of it.”
“I have never known you to be modest,” Marcel said without a hint of a smile.
“It’s an overrated quality,” Magnus replied with a shrug.
“Then how do you explain the fact that this woman claims she is, in fact, Queen
Marie Antoinette?”
“I am the queen, you monster!” she said, her voice now hysterical. “I am the queen. I am the queen!”
Magnus got the impression that she was saying this not as a way of impressing her captors but as a way of assuring herself of her own identity and sanity. He stepped calmly in front of her and snapped his fingers in front of her face. She fell unconscious at once, slumping gently into his arms. “Why,” he said, calmly turning toward Marcel, “would the queen of France be wandering down this street, unattended, in the middle of the night?”
“A fair question.”
“Because she wasn’t. Josette was.
She had to be complete in every way. At first my client wanted her only to look like the queen, but then he insisted on the entire package, as it were. Appearance, personality, all of it. Josette absolutely believes she is Marie Antoinette. In fact, I was doing a bit of work on her in this very regard when she became afeared and escaped from my apartments.
Perhaps she followed me here.
Sometimes my talents get the better of me.”
He set the queen gently on the ground.
“It also appears she has a light glamour on her,” Marcel added.
“For mundanes,” Magnus said. “You can’t have a woman who looks exactly like the queen passing through the streets. It’s quite a light one, like a summer shawl. She was not supposed to leave the house. I was still working.”
Marcel squatted down and took the queen’s face in his hand, turning it from side to side, sometimes looking at the face itself, sometimes at the neck. A long minute or two passed in which the entire assembled group waited for his next utterance.
“Well,” Marcel said at last, standing back up. “I must congratulate you on an excellent piece of work.”
Magnus had to brace himself in order that his sigh of relief would not be seen.
“All of my work is excellent, but I accept your congratulations,” he said, flicking a careless hand in Marcel’s direction.
“A marvel such as this, it would be such a success at one of my gatherings.
So I really must insist that you sell her to me.”
“Sell her?” Magnus said.
“Yes.” Marcel leaned down and traced his finger down the queen’s jawline. “Yes, you must. Whatever your client paid you, I’ll double it. But I really must have her. Quite stunning.
Whatever you like, I will pay.”
“But, Marcel . . .”
“Now, now, Magnus.” Marcel slowly waggled a finger. “We all have our weaknesses, and our weaknesses must be indulged if they are to flourish. I will have her.”
It wouldn’t do to imply that this fictional client was more important than
Marcel.
