In The Face Of Death by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Read Free Book Online Page A

between them, and sought for something she could give him, as he had offered her his name. “Let us share secrets, as friends do,” she suggested impulsively. “If you like, I will tell you how old I am.”
    “That is a wonderful secret for a lady to share with a friend, and quite an admission for any woman to make.” He laughed once, then looked grave. “Very well. On my honor I swear I will never repeat it,” he told her somberly.
    “You had best not,” said Madelaine, and plunged ahead, telling herself that surprise was an advantage with this man. “For I was born November 22nd, 1724, at Montalia, my family estate, in the far south of France.”
    For several seconds, Sherman was silent. Then he chuckled. “1724, not 1824. That would make you more than a century old, Madame.”
    “I am,” she said, beginning to worry.
    He turned toward her, trying hard to keep the incredulity out of his voice. “All right. I deserved that. For the sake of argument, we will say you are ancient, a veritable crone. You are one hundred thirty-one years old, or will be in November.” His chuckling continued, rich and easy, the hard lines in his face relaxing so that he, himself, now appeared younger than he was. “And how did you attain this great age without looking older than a girl just out?”
    “Because I died August 4th, 1744. I was just out,” she replied, trying to keep her voice from trembling, though she could not disguise the chill that seized her, making her quiver.
    “August 4th, 1744,” he repeated, as if hearing the words again would change them. His chuckle turned to coughing, and he took a minute to bring his breathing under control. He lay back on the pillows, willing himself not to cough. “You don’t expect me to believe this, do you?”
    “Why not?” she answered, fighting the desolation that swept over her. She was afraid her teeth would chatter. “Tecumseh, you know when I am lying. I am not lying now, am I? This is the truth.”
    “The truth?” he scoffed. “Well, Madame, you sure look mighty pretty for a corpse.” He rolled on his side, propped himself on his elbow and stared at her. “How can you claim to exchange confidences and then tell such bald-faced. . . .” The words straggled; when he spoke again, he was awed. “You are telling the truth, aren’t you?”
    “Yes,” she answered as if from a great distance.
    “But how? . . . ” He touched her face with one long finger; he did his best to comprehend the implications of what she said. “Dear God, Madelaine, how?”
    She gave him Saint-Germain’s answer. “I drink the Elixir of Life. And I do not die. I cannot die.”
    “Then tell me something of your youth.” His steel-colored eyes grew sharp. “Who was ruling France then?”
    “When I came to Paris, Louis XV was King,” she answered calmly, though she continued to shiver as much from the strength of her memories as from apprehension about Sherman. “That was in the fall of 1743. I went to my aunt so that she could introduce me into society.”
    “What sort of fellow was he, Louis XV?” demanded Sherman, making her answer a test. “I warn you, I know something about the man, and will not be fobbed off with vague answers.”
    “Venal, luxury-loving, indolent, handsome, over-indulged, manipulative. In a word, spoiled.” She stared at him, surprised when he took her hands in his. “I escaped the Terror, which is just as well.”
    “A lovely corpse without a head, that would be difficult,” agreed Sherman in ill-concealed excitement.
    “A corpse is all I would have been. Those who taste the Elixir of Life are not proof against all death. Madame la Guillotine is as deadly to me as to you. So is fire.” She looked directly into his eyes. “In the time I have lived, can you imagine the number of times I have said good-bye?” And how many more times I will, she added silently. She thought of Trowbridge then, his devotion which had cost him his life to save hers, and