“This is your library, Comte,” said Theron.
“I gather I would do better with something not in French, something fairly new, and definitely not political.” He strolled down the room, looking at the titles on the shelves. “Something in English?”
“Too many aristos are escaping to England,” Theron said.
“So they are. Not English, then.” He walked a little farther. “I have a book of Russian stories. Does anyone escape to Russia, do you know?”
“No one I’ve heard of,” said Theron.
“Then Russian it shall be.” He pulled the step-ladder near and climbed up, reaching for the top shelf, and taking down a pair of books in green-leather binding, their titles embossed in bold Cyrillic letters: Tales of the East, and Tales of the West. “These were printed in Sankt Piterburkh in 1724, among the first books to come out of the new publishing houses there.”
“Then they’re too valuable to take on such a journey as we’re making,” Theron said at once. “A pity.”
Da San-Germain kept the books in his hand. “The value of books is in the reading, Heurer. As leather and paper and ink, they mean little unless they are read. That is their purpose.” He thought of the thousands of books he had lost over the centuries, and of his own publishing houses, in Amsterdam, in Venezia, and in Copenhagen. “These will do very well,” he declared. “Who knows? they may even inspire a play or two.”
Theron shook his head and poured himself more wine.
* * *
Text of a letter from the Revolutionary Tribunal of Avignon and the Revolutionary Court of Avignon to Madelaine de Montalia at Montalia, delivered by Revolutionary Guard courier, five days after it was written.
To the woman known as Madelaine de Montalia, the summons of the Revolutionary Tribunal of Avignon: on this, the 21st day of August, 1792:
Madame,
It is the order of the Revolutionary Tribunal and the Revolutionary Court that you are now under arrest and must proceed at once, under armed Revolutionary Guard, to Avignon to stand before the Revolutionary Court to answer for your crimes. Any members of your household still remaining at Montalia are to be given pensions, livestock, and property before you leave, with copies of all grants witnessed by officers of the Revolutionary Guard and one person of known integrity living within three leagues of Montalia.
You will be allowed to bring three changes of clothes, as well as such garments as cloaks and other outer wear as may be necessary for the journey. Also five sets of underclothes and two corsets in order that you may present a proper appearance before the Revolutionary Tribunal. One nightrail and one simple robe-des-chambre will be acceptable as well, so that no immodesty will result during your confinement. Two pair of shoes and two hats may also be brought. Such items for personal use as brushes and combs may be carried as well, but no patches or other cosmetics, no jewelry, and no scent will be allowed either for this journey or for any appearances before the Revolutionary Tribunal or the Revolutionary Court.
Your failure to comply with any requirement listed will be regarded as an act against the Revolution, and result in an increasingly severe standard of detention.
Be aware, woman, that your crimes and the crimes of your ancestors will be judged by the Revolutionary Court and your punishment determined by testimony of such witnesses as may appear before the Revolutionary Tribunal and the Revolutionary Court in Avignon. Your trial may take up to fourteen months to commence, so you will be granted time to send requests to those you want to appear on your behalf to attend upon our sessions. The testimony of your fellow-criminals will not be accepted: any defense you offer must come from those you have oppressed, and those you have had in your household. All others will be turned away.
Long live France!
Long live the Revolution!
Georges Marie Forcier
Senior Deputy Secretary for Public Safety in Avignon
Revolutionary Tribunal of Avignon
6
“How many houses do you own, Conte?” Photine marveled as their train of wagons and carts pulled into a courtyard of a C-shaped house not far from the old Roman amphitheater in Verona; she had spent the last hour beside him on the driver’s box of the larger cart, her face sheltered from the sun by a wide-brimmed straw hat; as they entered the city, she used it to wave at the guards, grinning in admiration at the piazze and churches as they made their way through the streets. Now she looked around in astonishment at the vast old house that stood behind strong wooden gates which had swung open on their approach and were now closing behind them. The afternoon light gave the stones a warm glow that made the house more inviting than forbidding, although she suspected that the place could be quite formidable under less sunny skies. She did her best not to appear overly impressed.
“A fair number,” said da San-Germain as he pulled in the mules drawing the cart and raised his hand to Roger, who came hurrying across the courtyard to welcome him. “We made good time.”
“You did. When I left this morning to come ahead, I thought I wouldn’t see you until sunset. If then. Yet here you are, more than two hours before nightfall. Did you go on through the afternoon without a riposino?” Without waiting for an answer, he pointed to the archway leading to the back of the house. “The stable’s that way. There are nine stalls, and two small paddocks for the remuda horses. The rest will have to be kept in line-stalls for the night, which should be mild, so they can cool off.”
“Eighteen horses and six mules,” Feo called down from the box of the largest wagon. “Are there grooms here, or must we attend to them ourselves?”
“Two grooms, one of them hired for our stay,” Roger answered, and waved the company on through to the rear. “Those who aren’t needed for unhitching and tending, come with me into the house.”
“Should I go in?” Photine asked da San-Germain. “And the rest of the actors? Or do you need our help.”
“Go in, if you would. Have your actors bring inside only the things they’ll need for tonight and tomorrow; that will get us on our way in good time come morning.”
“We’re a commedia troupe,” Photine said with a bit of sharpness in her voice. “We know how to manage touring. We’ll sleep in haystacks, if we must, and be on the road before the farmers are awake.”
“Of course,” da San-Germain assured her. “My maladroit—”
“And mine,” she countered quickly. “It has been a long day and we’re both tired. I’ll remind my troupe to treat this as if it were any stop for the night. Will that do?”
He gave her a quick smile. “So long as you tell them that there are comfortable beds for them, and a bath-house for later tonight. Go with Roger. I’ll be in as soon as the cart is stowed and the mules are cared for.” He held out his hand to help her down, and kissed her cheek as she set foot on the ground. “There are seven guest-rooms in the house. Some of the company will have to double up for the night.”
“After the wagons, it will be luxury itself, sleeping in a proper bed, no matter if there are one or two of us in them,” she said as she reached the cobbled courtyard. “I suppose there’ll be food shortly?” She looked around and saw eight of her troupe getting out of their wagons, bags in their hands, moving slowly while they accustomed themselves to walking again. “We’ll need a rehearsal this evening. I trust there is room for it.”
“Yes; a meal is being readied now, and once you’ve dined, there will be time for rehearsal. Roger will show you the house. You may choose where you would like to practice; you can arrange with Roger who is to sleep where, and when you can bathe.”
“We’ll have a genial evening, by the sound of it; will you watch the rehearsal?” It was an impulsive offer, and she was startled to hear herself make it. “We’re just starting out on Monsieur Heurer’s scenario.”
“I’d be delighted. I want to thank your players who drive for you for all they did today. They’ve done well.”
“We will be pleased,” said Photine.
“And perhaps your son will finally speak to me.” He softened his remark with a smile.
She looked around, not comfortable speaking about her fifteen-year-old son. “Enee is a sulky boy just now, showing disrespect and very little courtesy to anyone. I try to give him his head when it’s not too … He rarely likes men who like me; the more gentlemanly my admirers are, the more Enee resents them, so he sees you as very bad. Why, he’s even jealous of Theron. I know I don’t have to ask you to be kind to him; you have been patience itself with him.”
“I have been, have I not?” he asked kindly, and was not surprised when she paid no attention.
“I know he’s been … surly since we started traveling,” Photine admitted. “It’s his way of telling me he’s no longer a child.” She gave an eloquent shrug. “But he’ll be more courteous once we begin to do plays.”
“So you’ve said.”
“He keeps to himself most of the time, and I don’t like to interfere. He no longer wants to delight his mother, for that would be a concession he would not want to make. I want him to work out his life for himself.” She moved back, no longer wanting to talk about Enee. “I’ll go get my night-case and tell the others to do the same.”
“Thank you. I’ll join you directly.” He lifted the reins and whistled to the pair of mules pulling the cart, guiding them toward the archway; behind the cart came the spare mule, pulling on his lead as if reluctant to go one step more. The wagons and the second cart began to move off toward the arch as well. The passage echoed with the sounds of hoofbeats and the creak of wagon wheels.
The rear courtyard was cobbled, taking up much of the space between the back of the house and the stable. Two long drinking troughs flanked the stable door, and to one side of the stable were two fenced paddocks, with a solitary mare grazing in the nearer one. The four household grooms were busy getting ready to sort out the teams of horses and mules. Bits of straw littered the cobbles, a visible testament to newly bedded stalls waiting inside.
Two grooms came running out of the stable to meet the wagons and carts, calling out to the various drivers to enter the stable through the door and line up for unhitching.
“Pascal! Hariot! Urbain!” Feo shouted out to his fellow wagon-drivers as he caught the end of his whip and stowed it in its sheath. “Follow me! Wagons first! Michau, you follow il Conte! Andiam’!”
A ragged line was formed; the wagons filled the center aisle while the grooms and the drivers set about freeing their teams from the wagons, and leading away the spare horses hitched to the rears of the wagons. A system of hanging hooks accommodated the harnesses and bridles. As soon as the horses were haltered their leads were tied to heavy iron rings in the pillars that lined the central aisle. Once the horses were ready to be groomed, the wagons were moved up, so that there was now room for the carts.
“A good stable, small as it is,” Feo approved as he came down from his box and swaggered up to da San-Germain’s cart. “The tack-room’s that way?” he guessed, pointing to the door off to the right of the aisle.
“Thank you; and yes, that’s the tack-room. Grain barrels are in the compartment beyond,” said da San-Germain as he climbed down and went to lead the spare mule to the nearest pillar, where he secured the lead rope. “Would you hand me the stiff brush?”
Feo reached in the back of the cart and pulled out the small box of grooming supplies. “Here you are, Conte.”
“Best get used to calling me Ragoczy; the title will be a problem in France,” said da San-Germain.
“So it will,” Feo said. “Better remind the troupe.” He considered the name. “Ragoczy. Hungarian?”
“In a manner of speaking,” said da San-Germain.
“I wondered where you were from.” Feo moved aside so the pair of mules that pulled da San-Germain’s cart could be taken in hand by the grooms.
“The eastern Carpathian Mountains,” said da San-Germain, not mentioning that his people had left that land almost four thousand years ago.
“You’re a long way from home, Ragoczy,” said Feo.
“That is not uncommon for exiles; it tends to be part of the … the process,” said da San-Germain as he began to brush the spare mule; five hundred years ago, he would have added something more ironic to his observation, but he no longer bothered to. By the time he was finished with the three mules associated with his cart, sunset was staining the western sky orange and pink, fading to lavender and tarnished silver. As he stepped out of the stable, he paused to look at the display, making note of the unusual intensity of the red band of light.
“Could mean wind tomorrow,” said Feo as he came up to da San-Germain, joining him in the contemplation of the sky.
“It could,” da San-Germain agreed.
“It will be what—three, four days to Milano?”
“Very likely, unless the troupe finds a place to perform.” He glanced at Feo. “How likely do you think that will be?”
“Who knows? Ask Hariot, or Aloys, or Urbain—they’re part of the troupe, they know what Photine is likely to do. The troupe is eager to perform, but it will delay us. Are you willing to change your plans?”
“If necessary.”
“The troupe could become restive without a performance to test the new scenario,” Feo said after a moment’s consideration. “Ask Madame—”
“I realize that they want to perform. I was hoping for an outside opinion on what it could do to change our travel.”
Feo sniffed, uncertain if this were a compliment or a slight; he glanced at da San-Germain from the tail of his eye and decided to answer. “They’ve got two plays ready, and the new one Heurer is writing for them, so they may decide it’s time to test the audiences. There’re Brescia, Villa Sole, San-Pellegrino, and Bergamo to pass through before we reach Milano, and it may please Madame to have her troupe practice in one of those places—or all of them.” He chuckled. “Valence is expecting it will be all; he doesn’t want to turn down any audience.”
“I’d wager Milano is certain for a performance,” said da San-Germain.
“Do you have a house in Milano, or will you put us up at an inn?”
“It will have to be an inn, I’m afraid,” said da San-Germain.
“Then you’d better choose one near a piazza where the troupe can set up their stage, otherwise we’ll have them traipsing through the streets in full mufti,” said Feo, and strode past da San-Germain toward the rear door of the house. He paused before he went in. “Urbain and Pascal would like to be allowed to carry pistols. They’re afraid of robbers.”
“I’ll consider it,” said da San-Germain.
“Does that mean no or perhaps?” Feo asked, and ducked into the house.
Da San-Germain lingered a little longer, then followed Feo inside. He had turned down the corridor toward the main staircase when he heard Photine behind him. “Is anything wrong?” he asked as she bustled up to him.
“No. Not really. But something has occurred to me,” she said, coming and taking him by the arm. “Where can we talk privately?”
“There is a withdrawing room a short distance down this corridor.” He could sense only enthusiasm in her, with a small quiver of discomfort. “Has anything gone wrong?”
“Wrong? No, no, nothing like that. But there is something I must discuss with you before I broach the matter to the troupe.” She went through the door he opened for her, and after a swift look around the withdrawing room, she came up to him, her eyes bright. “You recall what Campo told us? That the Revolutionary Guards are looking for the new, and the possibly outrageous?”
“Yes,” he said neutrally.
“Well,” she declared, “I’ve been thinking about that, and I believe I’ve hit upon an idea that could make a difference for us.” She turned away from him, took three steps, and turned back. “I’ve hit upon a name for the troupe.”
“A name?”
“Yes. Commedia del’Arte may sound much too old-fashioned to gain the approval of the border guard, but
what if we were Commedia della Morte? It sounds not only like a troupe of actors, but one that has taken a new approach to playing. They won’t look for Harlequin and Columbine in a troupe with such a name.” Her smile was dazzling. “What do you think? It’s outrageous, it’s new, and it still identifies what we are.”
Da San-Germain let the name roll around in his mind; finally he nodded to her. “It does have an outre charm.”
“That’s what I thought.” She almost bounced with exuberance as she came up to him again. “Do you like it? Do you think the border guards will approve of us, with such a name?” She was speaking French now, and almost laughing.
“They may, at that,” he told her. “But you will need material that justifies such a name, or it may work to your disadvantage.”
“That’s why I came to you first. Do you think you can work out scenarios for us that reflect the name? Nothing too grim, of course. The people of France have enough grim in their lives without our adding to it. But ironic, humorous scenarios would be effective, don’t you see? Something that has figures in winding-sheets with skull faces for a kind of Greek chorus to scenes of the Old Regime’s excesses. The Old Regime can be broad comedy, but the figures in winding-sheets should not be. Perhaps they shouldn’t even speak.”
He cocked his head. “I think I understand your intention here.” He kissed her forehead. “And I think you may well be inspired, ma belle.”
Her blush caught her unaware, and she strove to conceal her confusion. “Well, if the troupe endorses it, Commedia della Morte we will be, and to the devil with those who dislike it.” She gave him an impulsive hug. “Thank you, thank you, Comt … Ragoczy. I’ll leave you now, and I’ll have a word with my troupe.” She paused dramatically. “Oh, Urbain told me he doesn’t want to go into France after all. Will you try to reason with him? Or persuade one of the others to take up his duties?”
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