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.There are deep, abiding woundsleft from the Great War, and a generation is not enough to heal them.Some,I fear, will never heal.No one touched by that war can forget it, or theabuses that followed.Let those blind idealists say what they will, the powerof the NSDAP will exact vengeance for the Versailles Treaty.I know.I haveseen for myself what they can do.Enough of that.A man attempting to recuperate from a stroke does notneed to be reminded of such grim matters.Let me only say that I am moredistressed than you know that I did not visit you before now.I had plannedto come some years ago, but events did not permit me to leave the Continent.Nor will they for a while.My manservant, Roger, is a native of Cádiz andfor that reason, I will remain here for a little longer.Then I plan to stay fora time with an old friend in the south of France.Let me hear from you.It is shameful, the way I have neglected my oldfriends.Perhaps, though it is late, I may remedy this in part now, bysending you my sincerest wishes for your speedy recovery and the assuranceof my gratitude for your continuing goodwill, little though I have done todeserve it.Saint-Germainhis seal, the eclipseRENEWAL« ^ »ITHW bloodied hands, James pulled the ornate iron gates open and staggered ontothe long drive that led to the château.Although he was dazed, he made sure thegates were properly shut before starting up the tree-lined road.How long ago hehad made his first journey here, and how it drew him now.He stared ahead, willingthe ancient building to appear out of the night as he kept up his dogged progresstoward the one place that might provide him the shelter he so desperately needed.When at last the stone walls came into view, James was puzzled to hear thesound of a violin, played expertly but fragmentally, as if the music were whollypersonal.James stopped and listened, his cognac-colored eyes warming for the firsttime in three days.Until that moment, the only sound he had remembered was thegrind and pound of guns.His bleary thoughts sharpened minimally and he reachedup to push his hair from his brow.Vaguely he wondered who was playing, and why,for Montalia had an oddly deserted look to it: the grounds were overgrown and onlytwo of the windows showed lights.This was more than war-time precaution, Jamesrealized, and shambled toward the side door he had used so many times in the past,the first twinges of real fear giving him a chill that the weather had not been able toexert.The stables smelled more of motor oil than horses, but James recognized theshape of the building, and limped into its shadow with relief.Two lights, herealized, might mean nothing more than most of the servants had retired for thenight, or that shortages of fuel and other supplies forced the household to stringenteconomies.He leaned against the wall of the stable and gathered his courage to trythe door.At least, he told himself, it did not appear that the château was full ofGermans.He waited until the violin was pouring out long cascades of sound beforehe reached for the latch, praying that if the hinges squeaked, the music would coverit.In the small sitting room, Saint-Germain heard the distant whine of an openingdoor, and his bow hesitated on the strings.He listened, his expanded senses acute,then sat back and continued the Capriccio he had been playing, letting the soundguide the solitary intruder.He gave a small part of his attention to the unsteadyfootfalls in the corridor, but for the most part, he concentrated on the long patternof descending thirds of the cadenza.Some few minutes later, when he had begunone of the Beethoven Romanzas, a ragged figure clutching a kitchen knife appearedin the doorway and emerged uncertainly from the darkness into the warmth of thehearthlight and the single kerosene lantern.Saint-Germain lowered his violin andgave the newcomer an appraising stare.His dark eyes narrowed briefly, then hisbrows raised a fraction as he recognized the man. You will not need that knife,Mister Tree.He had expected many things, but not this lone, elegant man.James shook hishead, his expression becoming more dazed than ever. I& He brought a grimy,bruised hand to his eyes and made a shaky attempt at laughter which did not comeoff.He coughed once, to clear his voice. When I got here, and heard music& Ithought that& I don t know what. As he spoke he reached out to steady himselfagainst the back of one of the three overstuffed chairs in the fine stone room, whichwas chilly in spite of the fire. Excuse me& I m not& myself. Yes, I can see that, Saint-Germain said with gentleness, knowing more surelythan James how unlike himself he was.He stood to put his violin into itsvelvet-lined case, then tucked the loosened bow into its holder before closing thetop.This done, he set the case on the occasional table beside his chair and turned toJames. Sit down, Mister Tree.Please. It was definitely a command but one sokindly given that the other man complied at once, dropping gratefully into the chairwhich had been supporting him.The knife clattered to the floor, but neither paidany attention to it. It s been& a while, James said distantly, looking up at the painting over thefireplace.Then his gaze fell on Saint-Germain, and he saw the man properly for thefirst time.Le Comte was casually dressed by his own exacting standards: a black hackingjacket, a white shirt and black sweater under it, and black trousers.There wereblack, ankle-high jodhpur boots on his small feet, the heels and soles unusuallythick.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. Thisplace& I don t know why. Only now that he had actually arrived at his goal did hewonder what had driven him to seek it out
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