Hotel Transylvania Read Online Free Page B

skill, and was pleased when his fingers came away with only the faintest dusting of powder. He nodded slightly to himself, and reflected that each age had had its own absurdities of fashion, and surely powdered hair in France was no worse than perfumed cones of fat in long-vanished Thebes. He dismissed the thought and asked La Cressie, "Is the aspic to your taste, Madame?"
    She looked up at him through her thick, fair lashes. "Excellent, as you would expect of this Hôtel. You were right about the food itself making me hungry." She obviously felt self-conscious, for she said softly, "I fear I am very poor company, Comte."
    "No, Madame, I assure you. It is a joy to see you at table." That was no less than the truth. "It brings some of the color back to your cheeks."
    "That may be the wine I have drunk," she said archly.
    "It becomes you." He rose as another supper party came near, as courtesy dictated, and made a bow.
    One or two of the new party returned this salutation, and then a small man with bandy legs and the airs of an exquisite stepped forward, staring. He wore a ridiculous wig, with three pigeon's wings over each ear. His coat was of peach satin with gold lacings, and the skirt was stiffly whaleboned. The waistcoat was puce silk embroidered with butterflies, his small clothes the same peach satin as the coat, bringing undue attention to spindly legs, and this was not decreased by mauve silken hose accented with peach clocks. His old- fashioned shoes had high red heels, so that he minced like a woman as he walked. The triple-tiered lace at his throat rose with indignation, and the shine of topazes caught in the light. "Damnation!" he swore in a voice that was raspy from the over-use of snuff, and too loud.
    Saint-Germain looked at the man. "Sir?"
    "You're the charlatan!" he cried, tugging on the arm of one of his companions. "I've never seen such effrontery. He's here. Next thing, he'll tell you he owns the place!"
    A shy smile pulled at Saint-Germain's mouth. "I beg your pardon, but I am certain I do not own this Hôtel."
    "Be sarcastic with me, will you?" The man stamped forward, and the skirts of his coat swayed. "I say it to your face, you scoundrel: you're a hoax and a liar."
    Mme. Cressie dropped her fork with a clatter and flashed a frightened look at Saint-Germain. He was no longer smiling. His dark, enigmatic eyes rested on the painted, ugly face before him. "Baron Beauvrai," he said pleasantly, "you are determined to force a quarrel on me for no reason. I have done nothing to offend you. You have chosen to single me out to fling baseless insults on me." He paused to see what attention they were attracting, and was annoyed to find that not only had the guests at supper stopped eating to watch, but also that several of the elegant gentlemen stood in the door to the card room, a certain barbaric eagerness in their faces.
    "If you swallow that insult, you're a coward as well as a fake!" Beauvrai pulled back smugly and waited.
    For a moment Saint-Germain resisted the urge to reach out and throttle the old roué. Pitching his magnificent voice to carry to all parts of the room, he said, "I have always been taught that when in a foreign country a man should behave as a guest, and be willing to respect his host. Certainly it would be both rude and ungrateful to start a brawl here, Baron Beauvrai. I would have thought that a man in your position, with so much scandal behind you, would not want to bring this unpleasant attention to himself. But then, I am not French, as you have pointed out." He felt the hostile reaction to his words, and took advantage of it. "I came here because I had heard fine French taste, culture, and learning praised all over the world. It would be a pity if such as you were to tarnish that splendid reputation."
    "Sa-sa!" said one of the men in the doorway, and mimed a fencer's salute.
    "I won't be put off!" Beauvrai insisted, but by this time he had lost his momentum. One of his company touched