once, dropping gratefully into the chair which had been supporting him. The knife clattered to the floor, but neither paid any attention to it.
“It’s been … a while,” James said distantly, looking up at the painting over the fireplace. Then his gaze fell on Saint-Germain, and he saw the man properly for the first time.
Le Comte was casually dressed by his own exacting standards: a black hacking jacket, a white shirt and black sweater under it, and black trousers. There were black, ankle-high jodhpur boots on his small feet, the heels and soles unusually thick. Aside from a silver signet ring, he wore no jewelry. “Since you have been here? More than a decade, I would suppose.”
“Yes. “James shifted in the chair, his movements those of utter exhaustion. “This place … I don’t know why.” Only now that he had actually arrived at his goal did he wonder what had driven him to seek it out. Indistinct images filtered through his mind, most of them senseless, one or two of them frightening.
“On Madelaine’s behalf, I’m pleased to welcome you back. I hope you will stay as long as you wish to.” He said this sincerely, and watched James for his response.
“Thanks. I don’t know what … thanks.” In this light, and with the abuses of the last few days, it was not possible to see how much the last ten years had favored James Emmerson Tree. His hair had turned from glossy chestnut to silver without loss of abundance; the lines of his face had deepened but had not become lost in fretwork or pouches, so that his character was cleanly incised, delineated in strong, sharp lines. Now, with smudges of dirt and dried blood on him, it was not apparent that while at thirty he had been good looking, at fifty he was superbly handsome. He fingered the tear on his collar where his press tag had been. “I thought … Madelaine might have been …”
“Been here?” Saint-Germain suggested as he drew one of the other chairs closer to where James sat. “I am sorry, Mister Tree. Madelaine is currently in South America.”
“Another expedition?” James asked, more forlorn than he knew.
“Of course. It’s more circumspect to stay there than go to Greece or Africa just now, or wouldn’t you agree?” He spoke slowly, deliberately, and in English for the first time. “I would rather be assured of her safety than her nearness, Mister Tree.”
James nodded absently, then seemed at last to understand what Saint-Germain had said, for he looked up sharply and said in a different voice, “God, yes. Oh, God, yes.”
“I had a letter from her not long ago. Perhaps you would care to read it later this evening?” He did not, in fact, want to share the contents of Madelaine’s letter with James; it was too privately loving for any eyes but his, yet he knew that this man loved her with an intensity that was only exceeded by his own.
“No,” James said after a brief hesitation. “So long as she’s okay, that’s all that matters. If anything happened to her, after this, I think I’d walk into the path of a German tank.” His mouth turned up at the corners, quivered, and fell again into the harsh downward curve that had become characteristic in the last month. He looked down at his ruined jacket and plucked at one of the frayed tears.
Saint-Germain watched this closely, then asked, “Has the fighting been very bad?”
“What’s very bad? Some days we kill more than they do, and some days they kill more. It sickens me.” He turned toward the fire and for a little time said nothing; Saint-Germain respected his silence. Finally James sighed. “Is there anyone else here at Montalia?”
“My manservant Roger, but no one other than he.” Again Saint-Germain waited, then inquired, “Is there something you require, Mister Tree? I would recommend a bath and rest to begin with.”
This time James faltered noticeably. “It’s funny; I really don’t know what I want.” He gave Saint-Germain a quick, baffled look. “I wanted to be here. But now that I am, I’m too tired to care.” His eyes met Saint-Germain’s once, then fell away. “It doesn’t make much sense.”
“It makes admirable sense,” Saint-Germain told him, shaking his head as he studied James.
“I’m probably hungry and sore, too, but, I don’t know …” He leaned back in the chair, and after a few minutes while Saint-Germain built up the fire, he began to talk in a quiet, remote ramble. “I