The crowd in the theater grew larger and more boisterous as the playgoers made for their seats and boxes. It was slightly more than fifteen minutes later that the play began; as the audience hushed, the curtain rose, revealing Hyppolytus and Theramenes in a Greek colonnade, discussing the missing Theseus.
By the time the cognac was delivered to Theron at the end of the second act, the lackeys had replaced most of the tapers in the sconces and there were splashes of wax all through the theater; a few of the candles in the massive chandeliers had guttered, but not enough to darken the hall.
“What do you think of it so far?” da San-Germain asked Theron when the footman had left the box.
“It’s better than I thought it would be,” Theron said, unaware of the shock he had caused his host. “It’s actually quite good.”
Da San-Germain studied Theron’s countenance, asking quietly, “Why did you expect something less … satisfactory?”
“Oh, you know … commedia players attempting Racine.” He sipped at the cognac. “This is really fine. I wonder how they came by it?”
“Most gracious,” said da San-Germain, a hint of irony in his words.
“Well, in these days, I know there may be problems with getting genuine cognac out of France—along with many other things, of course.” He stared out at the curtain that concealed the activity on the stage, but the sound of hammers revealed the work going on. “They rehearsed thirteen days?”
“Yes.”
“Then this is more impressive. Madame d’Auville is to be commended for what she has accomplished.”
“I hope you will tell her that,” said da San-Germain; chimes sounded for the third act.
“Three more acts to go,” said Theron with satisfaction, his words underscored by a soft grumble of thunder.
At the end of the play, the audience applauded enthusiastically; each actor was greeted with hurled bouquets as well as cries for the last act to be repeated, accompanied by the first purr of rain.
Photine was beaming as she stepped to the edge of the stage to address the people who had seen the performance; speaking in Italian, she began, “You are too kind, all of you, and we are grateful to you for your attention.” Her beautiful voice silenced the audience. “My players and I are thrilled to know that you have enjoyed this magnificent work of Racine’s, which is dear to our hearts for its own sake, as well as a crown of the French theatre. Perhaps in future we will be invited to perform for you again?” This brought a loud cheer of support that blended with the increasing din of the breaking storm. “For now, we must leave the stage and return to our lives, as you must leave the hall and return to yours. We thank you for your generous reception, and we look forward to another evening with you in this splendid hall.” She curtsied deeply and stepped back to join her troupe.
“Nicely done,” Theron approved as the actors moved upstage and the curtains closed for the last time, accompanied by a low, thunderous growl from the waxing storm.
Da San-Germain said nothing as he donned his cloak and went out of the box to join the rest of the audience making for the exits; his face was thoughtful as he struck out for the loggia, looking for his modified Berlin in the crush of carriages clustered around the main entrance.
Feo, covered in a heavy coat of boiled wool, was waiting near the head of the line of carriages; Remo came off the rear of the Berlin, his hat dripping, to open the door and let down the steps as da San-Germain and Theron hurried up to them; Theron had pulled one side of his cloak up over his head; da San-Germain had not bothered.
“Take us back to the mansion,” da San-Germain called out to the coachman as he settled onto the leather squabs, taking comfort in his native earth that lined both the floor and the upholstery of the vehicle, lessening the discomfort from the thrashing rain.
Theron sat back as the coach moved forward, their way brightened by the reflection of the lantern-lights on the pelting rain. “Quite a downpour,” he observed; as thunder rattled the clouds, the team faltered, then resumed the slow trot through the streets. “I’m glad you didn’t decide that we should walk to your mansion.”
“I’ll have to send Feo back to the hall, to bring the troupe home,” said da San-Germain, more to himself than to Theron.
“They’re actors. They must be used to enduring the weather,” said Theron dismissively.
“It doesn’t follow they should have to when relief is available.” He glanced at Theron. “It will not interfere with our discussion with the couriers.”
“I didn’t mean that,” said Theron, though it was obvious that was precisely what he meant; the rain increased, drumming on the sides of the coach so that it sounded as if the vehicle were a drum.
“Do not think unkindly of Photine’s troupe, Theron. They may be the only way that Madelaine can leave France.”
“And you’d trust them?” Theron was scandalized. “They’re actors! They cannot be depended upon.”
Da San-Germain regarded Theron for a long, silent moment, then said, “I will do you the courtesy of forgetting you said anything so uncharitable.”
“Uncharitable?”
“If Photine and her troupe are willing to risk their lives for Madelaine’s deliverance, then surely they deserve more esteem than you begrudge them.” He spoke levelly, but there was a disquieting light in his enigmatic gaze.
Theron shifted on his seat and looked away from the Conte. “You are placing too much trust in them, if you think they will do such a thing.”
“I’m willing to rely on you, and you are a poet,” da San-Germain pointed out.
“That’s different. I love Madelaine.” He straightened up, pulling his cloak more firmly about him.
“And you suppose that because the players don’t know her, they will see no sense in trying to get her out of the country? You know they love drama, and what greater drama could there be than such a rescue?” He managed a self-deprecatory cough. “At least, that is the argument I intend to use with them when I address them tomorrow morning.”
The coach swayed as it rounded a corner, and a small rivulet ran in at the edge of the door, spreading out between their feet.
“You believe they will accept your offer?” Theron moved enough to keep his feet from getting any wetter.
“I hope they will,” said da San-Germain.
“Ha! You have reservations about them, as well!”
“Hardly reservations,” said da San-Germain, and went on to explain, “I want those who would rather not join us to stay here in Padova. Our undertaking will be dangerous. No one will be forced to accompany us.”
Theron thought this over. “If you’re so certain that some of them will take this chance, then I look forward to you putting it to the test.” He folded his arms and leaned away from the small trickle of water, retreating into silence until they arrived at da San-Germain’s mansion and left the carriage for the snug warmth of the main hall.
“Do you want to wait on supper, and see the couriers first?” da San-Germain asked as they gave their cloaks to Petronio.
“If it is agreeable to you,” said Theron, worried that he had offended his host.
“I have said that it is,” da San-Germain reminded him with an urbane half-smile. “I’ll ask Giorgio to keep your supper warm for you.” He signaled to Petronio, and repeated his request. “Tell Giorgio Signore Heurer will dine with the players when they return.” He ignored Theron’s indignant exclamation as he went down the corridor toward the withdrawing room where the couriers waited.
* * *
Text of a letter of agreement between Ragoczy Ferenz, il Conte da San-Germain, and Photine Therese d’Auville, recorded in Padova on the 17th day of August, 1792.
On this day in the Palazzo Comunale di Padova, it is agreed between Ragoczy Ferenz, il Conte da San-Germain, a foreigner resident of Padova, and Photine Therese d’Auville, theatrical manager, French subject, to wit:
That il Conte da San-Germain will pay the theater manager d’Auville the amo
unt of two hundred louis d’or in order that theater manager d’Auville may prepare her troupe for a Commedia del’Arte tour of French cities, performing such works as il Conte da San-Germain should require of her company. That amount is a separate payment from the individual fees paid to the actors and other members of the company and is payable on the signing of this agreement, and which is counted and the full amount verified by the Treasurer of the Palazzo Comunale di Padova as a condition of this signing.
That the tour specified herein shall commence no later than three days after this agreement is signed and registered; should the tour not commence in that time, Photine d’Auville will forfeit half her payment in gold, and will be denied patronage by il Conte da San-Germain.
That il Conte da San-Germain shall accompany the tour, with his manservant, Roger, and the French poet, Theron Baptiste Heurer, who, along with il Conte da San-Germain, shall prepare texts and scenarios for the troupe to perform, and shall assist in such performances in any capacity designated appropriate by the theater manager and manager of the troupe, Photine Therese d’Auville.
That all charges and provisioning for il Conte da San-Germain, his manservant, and Theron Baptiste Heurer shall be borne by il Conte da San-Germain, as will any legal fees, taxes, duties, or other charges levied against any of these three.
That il Conte da San-Germain shall cover all expenses of the actual venture, including costumes, sets, properties, food for all the company, and such lodging as travel may require. He will also provide wagons, horses, feed, and a farrier for the tour, and for any legal fees, taxes, or tolls incurred on the tour.
That il Conte da San-Germain will provide a patronage to the troupe, on the completion of the tour, for five years that will include housing, meals, reasonable amounts for clothing, a stipend for usual expenses to all members of the company, rehearsal space, and such transportation as the troupe may require.
That the terms of this agreement may be redefined or canceled upon one week’s notice by either party, at anytime of the tour, and that negotiation of modified terms at such time is mandatory. As long as the tour commences within the time designated herein above, the sum of two hundred louis d’or will not be diminished if this agreement is renegotiated in any way, but shall remain wholly the treasure of Photine Therese d’Auville; all other charges and expenses are subject to adjustment, modification, or cancellation upon mutual accord of the parties who are signatory to the agreement.
That this is the whole understanding of this agreement, that it does not violate the laws of the city or the Church, and is registered in the Palazzo Comunale as such on this, the 17th day of August, 1792.
Enrico Euginio Albergese
Recording Clerk
Palazzo Comunale
Padova
(the official seal of the Recording Clerk)
Ragoczy Ferenz, il Conte da San-Germain Photine Therese d’Auville
(his sigil, the eclipse)
5
“It would probably be wisest to go into France from Switzerland,” Gabriello Donat said to da San-Germain and Photine as they poured over the unrolled map of western Europe on the trestle table in da San-Germain’s laboratory. “It’s the long way around, I realize, for where you want to go, but it’s not as chanceful as the southern roads are. Everyone I spoke to said the southern routes are the more dangerous, and slower. You’ll be lucky to do more than seven leagues a day, with the wagons and carts, and hardly more than ten riding with remounts and without vehicles. Those entering France from any Italian state are likely to be detained.” He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, then sniffed noisily. “There is still great fear among the Revolutionary Courts that the Church will send in spies and priests to subvert the Revolution.” He straightened up, blinking.
“Which supposition, I suspect, is well-founded,” said da San-Germain.
“It seems so; everyone’s looking for priests, to inform on them or to hide them, or both,” said Donat, sighing; the afternoon was turning hot, and he was still tired from his journey into France. “From what I saw in Lyon, many strangers from Italy and Spain were hauled before the Revolutionary Court and accused of plotting with the Church against the Revolution. There’s more of that kind of thing in the north than in the south. Marseilles simply disposes of anyone they don’t like the look of, or so I was told; they imprison or kill them. Lyon goes through a sham of a trial before they kill you, unless you’re an aristo or a religious, and all they do is a denouncement and a sentence.” Because he was ruddy-haired and fair-skinned, as many from Venezia were, he had not been subjected to the kind of indignities that could lead to execution. “My German is convincing enough that I escaped notice.”
“You were fortunate, if half the rumors are true,” said Photine, her finger following the road from Verona into Switzerland. “If we go north and enter France from Switzerland, how hard would the journey be? How long might it take? This road looks like it could be difficult to traverse. Is it steep, or narrow?”
“In places it is both, but it is well enough traveled to demand maintenance, and should not be too arduous a journey.” Donat rubbed his eyes again. “Your pardon, but they itch.”
Da San-Germain gave him a quick scrutiny. “I have an ointment that should relieve you, if you will permit me to give it to you.”
“Grazie,” said Donat, with a flourish of his hand.
“The inns and monasteries along the way—are they still taking in travelers, or must we make other plans?” Photine asked.
“They are, at least until you cross into France; then you will be best served by finding a farmer or a village if you need a place to stay. Some of the smaller villages have inns still open, but you may prefer something less exposed. For you, your wagons should be shelter enough for you, and safer than the towns and cities.”
“That seems ominous,” said Photine, her face going pale.
“You’re French, so you and your people shouldn’t be in too much danger. And players are still very welcome in France, even in the cities, so long as the people like the performances and there are no official complaints.” He sneezed suddenly, and pulled his handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his face and blow his nose.
“Campo said much the same thing the other night,” da San-Germain remarked. “When you tendered your first reports, he said that many of the people don’t look upon the executions as entertainment, though some do, but that many attend the killings so that they will be seen to support the actions of the Revolutionary Court. They’re eager to be amused in other ways.”
“That’s what I saw, as well. Lyon is a bloody place these days—don’t go there unless you must. The Revolutionary Court there is being vengeful, and those loyal to Paris are at odds with the Girondais. There are rumors that other Courts will be using Lyon’s services to speed along the work of the Revolution, which is likely to mean more slaughter.” Donat pointed to the road up the Rhone Valley. “There are places to stay along here, but there are many spies in the region, and some of the towns are said to be controlled by gangs, not true revolutionaries. I’d keep to the south, but not so far as Marseilles.”
“We’re bound for Provence,” said Photine, studying the map. “I thought we would go from Padova to Verona, to Milano, to Torino, and from there, cross the French frontier on one of the three roads leading to Avignon. That is much closer to Montalia, isn’t it, than going over the mountains into Switzerland, and then back south into Provence?”
“It is a short distance beyond Saint-Jacques-sur-Crete, which is east of Avignon,” da San-Germain said as he pointed to the location on the map.
“There—you see? It is closer.” Photine studied the map, her lower lip caught in her teeth as she thought. “It might also be faster still to go from Milano to Genova and along the coast, enter France at Nice, and take the road to Saint-Andre-les-Alpes. That could bring us quite near to Saint-Jacques-sur-Crete. It looks possible to me.”
Donat shrugged. “Then you’d best tal
k to Campo. He went to Avignon; I was sent farther north.” Donat wiped his eyes again.
“Wait a moment,” said da San-Germain, and went down the room to an old red-lacquer chest. He took out a small jar and brought it back to Donat. “Put some of this on your eyelids. The itching should stop.”
Donat took the jar, opened it, and smelled the ointment, then took a little of the substance onto his finger, closed his eyes, and smeared it on. “It feels … cool.” He handed the jar back to da San-Germain, who screwed the lid back in place.
“It should do,” said da San-Germain. “If you want more, you have only to ask.”
“You’re most … most considerate, Conte.” He turned his attention to the map. “I went through Grenoble on my way to Lyon, and the place was in turmoil. There were many travelers seeking to leave France, and trying to reach Switzerland, or Italy, for that matter, and the officials in Grenoble are charged with the task of making sure no enemies of the French Revolution are allowed to escape. In France the people may be filled with Revolutionary zeal, but there are many who are afraid of what may become of them now that the Revolutionary Courts are meting out justice as they see fit. Everyone says that all that’s needed is an envious neighbor to inform the Committees for Public Safety, and it’s as good as a death sentence.”
“Tell me, would it be safer to go through Switzerland and turn south, or enter France through Italy, and travel west? I have more remounts stabled on the northern road than the western one.” Da San-Germain indicated the long road through the Maritime Alps. “Or should I ask Campo?”
Donat shifted uncomfortably, finally saying, “Yes. Ask Campo. He’ll know better than I. All I have to offer is rumors for the south.” He clicked his tongue. “Having your own horses along the way may speed your travel—it did mine.” Then he blinked twice. “My eyes are improving. The itch is nearly gone. What did you give me, Conte?”
“The ointment is an anodyne mixture.” It was one he had learned in China, more than twelve hundred years ago; he looked over at Photine. “So, what is your preference?”
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