She continued to stare at the map, saying as she did, “Well, if this Montalia estate is your goal, I think going to Torino and west toward Avignon would get us where you want to be more quickly than using the Swiss roads, although they’re better, and probably safer. But there are hazards everywhere, aren’t there? Would Savoie or Piedmont make a better point of entry, do you think?” Her face brightened. “If we come down from the north, we’ll have more chances to perform, of course. There are more towns along the Rhone than in the mountains. It would mean inns and market-towns, which gives us more opportunities than camping in open fields.”
“True enough,” said da San-Germain. “And it is still my hope that we can leave tomorrow. What do you say?”
“The day after would be better. I realize now that we’ll have to carry more than I thought we would. We may even need a fourth wagon.” She beamed at him. “That’s provided for in our agreement, isn’t it?”
“It is,” he said.
“Splendid,” she declared. “A fourth wagon, with the necessary horses, driver, feed, and anything else that I can determine we may need.”
Da San-Germain nodded, saying, “But we will have to leave early on that day. You understand that, don’t you?”
She stood a little more stiffly. “I do grasp the terms of our agreement, Conte, and I know what I must do. Never doubt it, and never doubt that I will fulfill my obligations. But it would be injudicious of me not to take into account the conditions we will encounter, at least so far as we can determine them, and prepare accordingly.”
“An excellent point,” said da San-Germain. “Very well, you may have your fourth wagon and one extra day.”
“Merci bien,” said Photine with a slight curtsy.
Donat sneezed again. “Do you need me any longer, Conte, or may I—?” He gestured toward the door.
“You may go. And, if you would, ask Campo to come up.” He watched Donat leave the laboratory, then said to Photine, “Are you willing to take the road to Avignon?”
“I believe we must,” she said, still contemplating the map. “If time is pressing, we would do better to take the straighter course. I can see the advantage of going as far as Grenoble, to make ourselves known as entertainers and lessen any reservations about the company, but it would mean we wouldn’t reach Provence until the autumn was upon us. For the sake of our mission, we should keep to the south. Unless,” she went on in a more speculative manner, “what we learn from Campo informs us that that would be too dangerous.”
“On that we are in accord,” he said, moving to the other side of the table. How many times he had crossed from Italy to France, and France to Italy! How many different names had been used on borders that rarely remained the same for more than half a century! With a little shake of his head, he banished his memories, intent on choosing the most expedient road for them to travel, he put his attention on the map. “How are your preparations coming?”
She stepped back from the table. “Giorgio has been most helpful in our planning. He has provided us with cheese and sausage and pickles enough to feed us for a month, I think, and has given me a list of items to purchase as we travel.”
“How practical of him. For you may yet tire of cheese and sausage and pickles, you know, and want a chicken or lamb,” said da San-Germain, doing his best to decide what she expected him to say about their plans.
“Oh, we certainly will. And when that happens, you will purchase meals for us, or a goose or two for our cooking pots.” She offered him a kind of smirk. “Do you intend for most of us to sleep in or under the wagons?”
“That will depend upon the weather. There are four drop-beds in three wagons, and we can bolt another two or three into the fourth wagon.” He paused. “I can provide tents for up to eight, if that’s necessary. In hot weather, the tents are more comfortable than the enclosed wagons are.”
“That’s so.” She might have said more, but Salvatore Campo knocked on the door.
“Enter,” da San-Germain called out.
Salvatore Campo came in promptly; he was brown-haired and blocky of build, with a large nose, big hands, and heavy brows that would one day be shaggy; he moved with a steadiness of purpose that gave him the same demeanor as many military men possessed. He nodded to da San-Germain, saying, “You wanted to see me, Conte?”
“I do. Madame d’Auville and I are trying to decide which way her commedia troupe should go into France; there are a great many options, and we must choose one by tomorrow. We will leave the day after.” Da San-Germain saw Campo nod, and Photine offer a grateful smile. “We want as little fuss as possible, so we would like to know what you encountered on your trip to Avignon, what problems you observed, and what caught your attention.” He put his hand on the map. “Anything you tell us will be most useful.”
“Well,” Campo said as he came over to the table to examine the map. “The coast road is dangerous—robbers and pirates and smugglers and who-knows-what in every bay and inlet. I spoke to three merchants who had been robbed on that road in the last two months. If you go that way, go well-armed.”
“We’re going here,” said da San-Germain, putting his finger near the spot that marked Saint-Jacques-sur-Crete.
“Then, were it me who was making the trip, I’d go from Milano to Cuneo and take the road west from there, the one that goes through Barcelonnette. There’s been some trouble in the region—peasant uprisings, for the most part—but that area of the mountains is so remote that there shouldn’t be much to contend with, except the occasional robber, and you ought to be able to deal with such fellows. The people in the region are weary of fighting and might be glad of seeing a commedia troupe.” He stood in thoughtful silence. “Two nights ago—I mentioned that the killing is increasing in Marseilles, didn’t I? I’d stay away from there.”
“You did, in your preliminary report,” said da San-Germain.
“Thought so; I wasn’t tired enough to forget that,” Campo said. “The border will be the most risky place in your tour. The men at those posts have strict orders to stop all those who might be against the Revolution.” He addressed Photine. “You will want something very captivating and new to perform, or they’ll be likely to forbid you permission to enter France. It can be outrageous, maybe shocking, so long as it’s new. Anything old-fashioned, no matter how trivial, or how grand, for that matter, is considered dangerous, or reactionary.”
“My players aren’t trivial,” Photine announced.
“I didn’t say they were.” Campo pulled at his short beard. “But to many of the Revolutionary Guards, a clown could be seen as a subversive if he was too classical in his style: the same thing for actors playing courtly dramas.” He coughed delicately. “I saw a juggler—an African—chased from the border-crossing by dogs. They said he was a spy because it was said that he’d performed for the Duc d’Orleans.”
Da San-Germain was not surprised to hear this, but Photine was appalled. “How do you mean, chased by dogs?”
“You know: guard dogs, big ones. The Revolutionary Guards let them savage the juggler before calling them to order. The juggler lost a hand and an eye, they say.” Campo shook his head. “Have something new to show the guards at the border or be prepared to be turned back. They will probably require you to perform without charge—you should expect many such demands. The Revolutionary Guards are not the only ones who expect favors from travelers.”
“Would it be wiser to choose a smaller town for crossing than a big one?” da San-Germain inquired as if the answer were not especially significant.
“It depends,” Campo answered after taking several seconds to frame his answer. “There are fewer guards at small crossings than larger ones, but they can be more peremptory than guards at more active stations.”
“So tell me,” Photine began archly, “if you were going to Saint-Jacques-sur-Crete, which way would you choose?”
“I would probably take one of the roads that goes from Cuneo to Avignon, and hope that the gua
rds at the border are reasonable men. Or that you can bribe them handsomely. You will need to have money for that, or favors of other sorts.” His grin was mirthless, his smoke-colored eyes cynical.
“Do you think that we would be able to get there in good time? Some of the mountain roads are in poor repair,” da San-Germain observed.
“So they are,” said Campo. “The same can be said for the main roads in these days.” He rubbed the back of his neck as if easing strain. “Getting out might be more difficult than getting in. You’ll want to use a different route out than the one you came in by.”
“Why is that?” da San-Germain asked.
“The guards will be suspicious of a troupe of actors keeping to only one road coming and going, and that could mean being detained and questioned.” He shook his head twice. “Find a different road out.”
“Very well,” said da San-Germain, and added to Photine, “You may get to perform in more places than you thought you would.”
She curtsied, her face revealing only that she had heard. “Which way would you leave, Signore Campo?”
“I would depart by going to Digne, then following the Durance north until it reaches the Torino Road. There is a small garrison at Briançon, where you should have no trouble leaving the country. From there, it is simply a matter of following the road to Torino.” He paused a moment. “You should be able to cover eight leagues a day, if all goes well, and the weather is with you. Otherwise, you will need to find a place to wait out storms and landslides.”
“But Briançon is in the heart of the mountains,” Photine exclaimed.
“My point, Madame,” said Campo. “Most of those trying to escape France want to avoid the mountains, making instead for easy crossings and safe harbors, which is where the spies gather to find them, and where the Revolutionary Courts are most arbitrary.” He put his hand on the map. “The mountain towns are isolated, and will be glad of your troupe coming to play for them; you should not encounter too many questions.”
“Should not?” she echoed.
“There is always the chance that the mood of the people will change once more, and then, well, who can say?”
“Who, indeed,” da San-Germain said quietly. He stared down at the map. “I can see the wisdom of your advice, Campo. I thank you for what you’ve said.”
“And I thank you, as well,” said Photine.
Campo ducked his head. “Pleased to be of service,” he said automatically. “You’ve paid me very well.”
This candid admission made Photine smile. “Truly,” she said.
“If you will remain here in Padova until tomorrow, I’ll increase your payment: we may need to consult you again,” da San-Germain said to Campo. “For now, Donat may return to Venezia, if he wishes. Unless you’d rather travel together?”
“I’ll stay until tomorrow,” said Campo. “So will Donat, I’d guess.”
“As you like. For now, leave us to determine our actions.” Da San-Germain indicated the door. “Take your riposino; and when you waken this evening there will be a feast for you and the players.”
“Grazie,” said Campo, turning and leaving the room without any further comment.
The laboratory was silent for a few minutes while Photine studied the map, her brows drawn down in concentration. At last she raised her head and looked at da San-Germain. “Very well; we can agree on a plan, and an alternative.” She touched the map. “It seems to me that going north would only serve to slow us down in reaching Montalia, so traveling to Cuneo and learning which road west is the one that is likely to be the least trouble is probably going to bring us to the place more quickly.” She smiled in anticipation. “Would you agree?”
“I would,” he said.
“Are you planning to take one of the couriers with us?” Photine asked. “In case we should need to get messages back to Padova or Venezia?”
“I hadn’t thought of it, but it is a good notion,” he said. “If either is willing to go.”
“And what about the weather? Snow comes early in the mountains. Do you think we should prepare for snow as well as robbers and Revolutionary Guards?”
“If all goes well, we should be in Padova again before October is very old.”
“Ah, but if all does not go well, Conte—what then?” She tapped the mountains on the map. “I wouldn’t want the company to be stranded for the winter.”
“Nor would I,” da San-Germain agreed.
“So the southern route will be our choice, and if we are delayed, we will have to select another road for our return.” She thought as the clock on the end of the trestle table chimed one.
“Oh, dear. I’ll be late for dinner, and Giorgio will be annoyed.”
“You needn’t linger on my account. Go eat. We can resume our planning when the riposino is over.” He took her hand and kissed it. “You are being most diligent in your readying for travel.”
“We’ve toured enough, my troupe and I, to know that preparations are necessary, and without having plans in place, there is much that can become—”
“Difficult?” he suggested. “Dangerous?”
“True hardships,” she said, and moved away from the table. “Before I lie down for the afternoon, I’ll speak to Feo about a fourth wagon, and all that must go with it, including a driver.” She took a few seconds to show that she was considering possibilities. “Do you think you could spare Feo himself? He is a better coachman than Gualtiero.”
Da San-Germain recognized this ploy as a performance, but he gave her an old-fashioned bow and said, “If it would ease your mind, then surely you must ask Feo if he is willing to come with us.”
“I will,” she said, and left the room in an admirable flurry of skirts and smiles.
Left to himself, da San-Germain went to the window, looking out over the city with an expression of utter blankness; his thoughts were far away, following his memories of the roads they were deciding to travel. After ten minutes, he shook himself out of his recollections and went down the room to the banded chest under the window that looked south. He removed a key from an inset in the nearest and unlocked the chest, reached in, and drew out four sturdy leather bags with markings on them; although the bags were heavy, da San-Germain handled them as if they contained nothing more than chaff. As he gathered them together, they clinked as the gold coins inside shifted against one another. Once again he locked the chest, returned the key to its place, and closed all but two of the shutters to keep out the heat of the day. He could smell the rich aroma of Giorgio’s household dinner, and for an instant regretted that he no longer had the capacity to consume such food. Stepping outside the laboratory, he locked the door and went quickly down the stairs to the ground floor, then out the study door and along to the stable, confident that all the household was at table, and the horses were all grazing in the field at the side of the garden.
The wide center aisle of the stable was just now filled with four wagons and two carts; new wheels leaned against all six vehicles, with leather straps around them to allow them to be secured to the cart or wagon for which they were made. The wagons were paneled and covered, each providing bunks inside for four or five people as well as cabinets and shelves to carry possessions and provisions. The larger cart was enclosed—and its floor lined in his native earth—the smaller one open, and it was to the larger cart that da San-Germain went. He climbed onto the driver’s box, slipped back a slat in the footboard, and set the four sacks in the small space revealed; they fit with little room to spare. Satisfied, da San-Germain moved the slat back into place, got down from the box, and started back to the side-door he had used only a few minutes ago.
As he opened the latch, he heard a voice from inside exclaim, “If you come through, I have a pistol.”
Da San-Germain stopped. “Dudone?”
The old steward gave a soft yelp. “Signor’ Conte! What are you doing outside?” He flung the door open and stepped back, his pistol trembling in his hand.
“I have had
a last look at the wagons and carts.” He smiled sardonically.
“Oh. No, Conte,” he said in sudden abashed confusion. “You have no need to explain to me. No need at all. Of course you do not. This is your mansion. I am your steward.” He bowed in the old-fashioned manner. “Come inside. Prego.”
“Grazie,” said da San-Germain, closing the door behind him. “Put your pistol away and go along to your dinner.”
“Si. Si.” He bowed again. “A thousand apologies, Conte.”
“None are necessary. It is a relief to know how diligent you are in protecting this place.” He meant this as far as it went, but even saying such words brought him qualms: what would have happened if Dudone had fired?
“Il Conte is most generous, most forgiving.” Dudone turned away, his face blank from chagrin.
“Think nothing of it.” He moved away from the old man, wondering again if Dudone was still prepared to run the household in his absence. He cursed quietly, knowing that his visit to the stable would be common knowledge among his household by the time dinner was over, and that now he would have to keep watch in the stable through the night. He secured the outer door and went toward the front of the house, all the while musing on how Dudone came to be keeping guard in his study rather than sitting down to dinner with the rest of the household. He kept mulling over his concerns until he came to the library, where he found Theron taking his dinner on a tray while he read a three-hundred-fifty-year-old book of erotic lyrics written by a French bishop, his attention so rapt that he visibly jumped as da San-Germain came into the room.
“Comte,” he exclaimed in French. “I thought you were upstairs.” He closed the book and set it on the couch beside him.
“I was. Now I am here.” He spoke in the same tongue as he looked around at the shelves. “I have been trying to make up my mind which books to take with me, so I’ll have something to read.”
“You’ve packed some books already,” Theron said, reaching for his glass of Nebbiolo, and drinking most of it in two gulps.
“Those were of dramas, so we will have something to work with for the troupe,” said da San-Germain. “Now I want something I can read for recreation, something to distract me. What would you recommend?”
Commedia della Morte Page 9
