Commedia della Morte

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

“I don’t need your sarcasm,” Theron told her bluntly.

  “I’m not being sarcastic—quite the opposite. For the first time I can see you may have the makings of a real playwright within your verses. You’re showing a glimmer of comprehension of how a play is made.” She took him by the arm and all but dragged him to the table where they had dinner. “Come. Sit down. Aloys, fetch us a lanthorn and paper.”

  “I have paper; I need pens,” Theron added as he sat on the bench, setting the box in front of him; Sibelle took the place on his right, Pascal on his left.

  “The rest of you,” Photine called to the troupe. “If you can sleep, I suggest that you do so. We have much to do tomorrow.”

  Enee glowered at his mother. “Do you want me to stay with you?”

  “Get some rest,” she said to her son, and sat down beside Theron, unaware of the furious glance Enee gave her. “Shall we start our work? Pascal, what do you think would work in this scene?”

  “A grandiose speech at the beginning, extolling Desiree and their love in such exaggerated terms that there is no feeling that it reveals genuine emotions; all over-blown and filled with aggrandizement,” Pascal said, extending his arms dramatically. “And Desiree should respond with something equally elaborate.”

  Sibelle managed to curtsy while remaining seated. “Yes. That would be good.”

  Theron shook his head twice. “That would border on the burlesque.”

  “Exactly!” Photine rounded on him. “Yes. That’s what’s needed in this scene—a serious situation pushed to the extreme so that it becomes absurd. Remember the Commedia del’Arte traditions.”

  “You mean farce?” Theron asked, dreading her answer.

  “Perhaps not as much a caricature as farce, but much nearer it than the play is now,” Photine said with unexpected sympathy. “This is to be humorous, because that is expected, but you must underlie the humor with irony.”

  “And in all the other scenes, as well?” Theron asked, his face a mask of misery. “Is there no way to accommodate the profound?”

  “You may let the First Corpse do that, if you like, in an epilogue; you may be as eloquent as you like then, so long as what is said isn’t so morbid that it leaves a bad taste with the audience,” said Photine. “If we try to convey too much depth, we’re likely to be hauled into jail for presenting plays sympathetic to the Old Regime.”

  “So you keep saying,” Theron muttered.

  “And I think the Corpses should appear while Cleante and Desiree are kissing,” Photine said. “That will provide a greater shock.”

  “But—” Theron began, then was silent.

  “It is this contrast that makes the play daring, the absurd and the inexorable, which is what we want,” said Photine with exaggerated patience. “We want the audience to stop laughing with a gasp, not a yawn.”

  “How can you ask this, after playing Racine?” Theron’s caustic remark was intended to sting.

  “For the same reason I do not wear the same clothes every day—acting is kept fresh through variety, as is life.” Photine sat down at the end of the drop-table. “If one does the same thing always, it becomes stale.”

  Aloys, with two lanthorns in his hands, approached the table. “The oil should last four hours, Madame.”

  “Very good; thank you, Aloys; if you will take the first watch on the camp? Ragoczy can relieve you at midnight. We’ll need the fire built up before dawn,” she said, and placed the lanthorns so that they provided the largest pool of light on the table. “Now, let us start at the beginning of the scene and see what can be done.”

  Theron did his best not to sigh; he picked up a goose-feather, checked it to see the nib was properly trimmed, then looked about. “Where’s the ink?”

  Da San-Germain came up to him, holding out a standish of ink and a firkin of sand. “This should be sufficient for tonight.”

  “Thank you, Cont—Ragoczy,” he said without a trace of gratitude. “I will do my best not to run out.”

  “Oh, don’t despair,” Photine advised Theron. “You will yet have the opportunity to write your tragic drama, but it won’t be for us, not on this tour.”

  Theron stared at her in astonishment. “I saw you do Phaedre. You were magnificent, and noble. How can you … Variety. You don’t have to tell me again.” He took a sheet of paper from the box and smoothed it. “Eh bien,” he said to Pascal, “what kind of excess did you have in mind?”

  As if unaware of Theron’s mockery, Pascal rose from the bench. “I believe Cleante would compare his passion to the effulgence of the sun, and Desiree to the radiant moon, that he might speak of Heloise and Abelard as paltry in their love, that he would extol his devotion as the equal to any lover in myth or history: Helen and Paris are mere playmates, Antony and Cleopatra are only political opportunists.” He paused as if expecting applause; when none was forthcoming, he sat down again.

  Tereson took the ewer of hot water off its stand next to the fire and used half its contents to wash out the stew-kettle, all the while whistling an aimless melody; Lothaire added three cut logs to the fire, then built up the low rim of earth around it. Olympe emerged from the wagon she shared with her mother and Sibelle, a basin in her hands for warm washing water. None of them paid attention to Theron, Photine, Sibelle, and Pascal.

  Roger came up to da San-Germain, saying in Byzantine Greek, “Do you need me any longer tonight, my master?”

  “I don’t think so,” said da San-Germain.

  “Then I’ll go and find something to eat.” He held up his skinning knife. “I’ll have my meal away from the camp; no one will mind that the meat is raw.”

  “Prudent as always, old friend,” said da San-Germain, and went off to the larger cart, where he took up a seat on the rear of the vehicle and spent the next two hours watching Photine and Theron wrangle over the particulars of the play.

  * * *

  Text of a report from the Revolutionary Tribunal of Avignon to the Revolutionary Assembly of Avignon, delivered the day it was signed, carried by a Captain of the Revolutionary Guard.

  To the learned Deputies of the Revolutionary Assembly of Avignon on this, the ninth day of September, 1792, a report from Evraud Marais, Maitre de Prison, the Revolutionary Tribunal of Avignon,

  Esteemed Deputies of the Revolutionary Assembly,

  In accordance with your instructions, I have prepared, and now submit to you, a report on the state of our prison:

  We now house 739 male prisoners, most of them enemies of the Revolution, but in that number are 114 criminals, 14 of them children under the age of nine. These two groups, the common criminals and the enemies of the Revolution, are kept apart from one another, and have separate squads of Revolutionary Guards to keep watch upon them. As you are aware, the prison has 120 individual cells and 20 general cells, all of which are overcrowded, which is contributing to the increasing incidents of disease and violence among the inmates. In addition, there are three general cells set aside for women prisoners which now number 83, of which 27 are nuns, 34 are prostitutes, and the remainder are enemies of the Revolution. The three general cells are each designed to hold twelve.

  It is the opinion of the Revolutionary Tribunal that these numbers must be reduced for the safety of the public, and as we have not yet scheduled trials for most of the inmates, the situation is likely to get much worse before it is improved through the execution of sentences upon these prisoners. There is an offer from the Revolutionary Tribunal in Lyon to take on enemies of the Revolution for trial there, which I believe is an offer we must now seriously consider. If we sent only those accused of being enemies of the Revolution to Lyon, we would seriously reduce the crowding we experience and it would allow you to try those prisoners who are ordinary criminals before having to make decisions about the many additional enemies of the Revolution who are even now being rounded up by the Revolutionary Guards.

  It is my belief that we will better serve France by consigning the enemies of the Revolution to the Revolu
tionary Tribunal of Lyon for their judgment, for not only is that city willing to aid us in this matter, the place is far enough away that traditional loyalties will not be an issue as they are likely to be here, and the verdicts given will then better reflect the goals of the Revolution instead of the dedications of those who still harbor sympathy for the Old Regime. We have Guardsmen to escort them, and funds enough to pay for the journey.

  If you were to authorize the transfer of these prisoners, you could commandeer barges to transport the prisoners north, lessening the chances of escape as well as avoiding the dangers that may be encountered on the roads. We could have the prisoners ready to travel in two days’ time if you will agree to my recommendation. The Revolutionary Guards currently sweeping the countryside are due to return in six days, and if we have not alleviated the crowding in the prison, it will be impossible for us to maintain order or even effective surveillance upon those we are charged with keeping within our control.

  Sixteen men of the Revolutionary Garrison of Avignon are already on record as being willing to be part of the escort for these prisoners. Another 100 Revolutionary Guards should be an adequate number to ensure that the prisoners reach Lyon without serious incident. I ask that you take this under advisement as soon as possible, before we have a wholesale revolt in the prison and risk having our Guards killed by these enemies of the Revolution.

  All glory to the Revolution,

  Evraud Marais

  Maitre de Prison

  Revolutionary Tribunal of Avignon

  8

  “There are only two of us house-servants left here; there are four grooms and a shepherd as well, for what good they are. It would be wrong to admit so many unknown…” The man on the other side of the gate at Montalia faltered, trying to choose a word to describe the troupe of players gathered at the entrance; he was broad-shouldered, between thirty and thirty-five, with shaggy hair, two days of stubble on his cheeks, and looked to have recently lost flesh; the apron he wore proclaimed him the cook. “I haven’t the authority to allow you to enter.” He stared at the troupe as if hoping they would vanish, unwilling to let them in. “I don’t know how I could be responsible for any mischief that might occur.”

  “Players don’t always mean mischief,” said Pascal with a winning smile; he and Photine had used the guest-bell to summon a warden and had almost given up waiting for anyone to answer the clang and permit them inside the walls. “Not often, in any case.” He chuckled to conceal his relief that someone had answered their ringing, for it was mid-afternoon and he knew if they were not taken in here they would have only a few hours to find an inn or a place to make camp for the night. “Certainly not here.”

  “That is no reassurance for me,” said the cook warily, his gaze directed at some point beyond the players. “How would those of us still here stop you if you decided to steal, or to vandalize the estate? Or set the mansion itself on fire? You have superior numbers. Two house-servants cannot contain you.”

  “We will give you our pledge that we will do nothing obstreperous, nothing unlawful, nothing against the expectations of hospitality,” said Pascal at his most persuasive. “All of us, on the Cross, if you like, or the tricoleur, if you prefer.”

  “For pity’s sake, don’t badger him,” Photine whispered to Pascal as she cast an uneasy glance on the man inside the fence, trying to think of what she might say to persuade him. She moved a little nearer to the gate, prepared to extend her hand to the man if he presented her such an opportunity.

  “Gigot, it’s Heurer,” Theron called out, descending from the second wagon and holding out his hand in a familiar way he had never before demonstrated to a servant. “What are you saying? Don’t refuse us.”

  “Monsieur Heurer?” Gigot exclaimed in surprise, shading his eyes with one massive hand. “What are you doing with—”

  Theron cut him short, stepping up to the gate to face him. “You say there are only two of you here. Who’s left with you? Isn’t Remi still here? I thought he was staying on. Where has everyone else gone? Where is Madelaine de Montalia? When did she leave?”

  “A courier came and the Revolutionary Guards took Madame away; that was just over a week ago. The few servants who had remained here left, all but Maxime and I; we were charged with care of Montalia. The grooms have been charged with keeping the horses ready for the Revolutionary Guard; they stay in the stable. We’re supposed to maintain this place, all of it, orchards, gardens, house, stable, livestock, and fowl, the two of us. Two.” He reached for the lock on the chain that held the gate closed. “If you are with these … folk, I believe it may be all right to admit you.” He pulled an iron key from the pocket of his apron, an air of resignation about him like a cloak. “You understand that you can’t stay?”

  “You’re most kind,” said Photine with a smile calculated to melt the iciest heart.

  From his place on the driving-box of the larger cart, da San-Germain frowned at the cook, his eyes becoming keener as he listened for what Gigot would say, his concentration much greater than it appeared to be.

  “We don’t want to be here more than two days at most, to rest and to make plans, since we are looking for Madame de Montalia,” Theron explained. “If you can tell us where Madelaine has been taken—?”

  “They told us she was going to be held at Avignon,” said Gigot as he worked the key in the lock.

  “Why?” Theron demanded.

  “Who can say?” Gigot pulled the lock open and removed it from the chain, then started to unwrap it from the gate. “The men who are in charge now, they do as they like, when they like, to whom they like—as bad as those they replaced, if you ask me.” He stepped back, pulling the complaining gate open, and standing aside to permit the wagons to move through; his expression was dour. “No one is safe, no one.” He looked directly at Theron. “That includes you, Monsieur Heurer.”

  “I’ll remember that,” said Theron.

  Gigot nodded. “Lead these people up to the mansion; take your vehicles around to the stable. I’ll warn Maxime to be ready for you, with beds and blankets, then I’ll try to put a supper together for you, though there’s not much in the larder and no one wants to hunt. Replace the lock when you’re all inside. We want no more guests today, particularly no more unexpected ones.” With that graceless remark, he trudged away up the curving drive, not bothering to check on the troupe to see if they followed him.

  “What on earth has happened?” Photine asked da San-Germain as his cart rolled through the gate. “Why is your kinswoman not here?”

  “It would appear she has been arrested,” said da San-Germain in a very neutral tone; he pulled in his mules and moved enough to allow her to join him on the driver’s box.

  “That much is obvious. I wondered if you knew the reason why,” she said as she clambered up beside him.

  “How could I?” He set his pair in motion again. “I’ve had only the one letter from her, and I gathered from it that she was confined to her estate. If she wrote to me about her arrest, I haven’t received the letter.”

  “But that changes everything, doesn’t it?” Photine adjusted her skirts and laid her hand on his arm. “What do you want to do about it?”

  “Go to Avignon,” he said grimly.

  “I didn’t think you’d do anything else,” she said.

  “If you think it too dangerous, you may return to Padova,” he offered. “You’ve risked enough coming this far. Feo can escort you back, if you like.”

  “What good would that do?” She expected no answer and got none. “Well, we should be able to perform in Avignon, that’s something,” she said, doing her best to make light of the fear that clutched her.

  “That will get us into the city, and may…” His words trailed off as he became lost in unwelcome thought: Madelaine in prison. The very notion was appalling. He fought off a welling of memories of prisons he had occupied, from the oubliette where he received offerings of young women sacrificed to his appetite, to the cell under
the Flavian Circus, to the tower in Damascus, to the— He stifled the recollections, then turned to Photine. “We must prepare how we’re going to introduce ourselves to the Revolutionary Assembly there.”

  “So we stay here tonight and tomorrow night? Heurer seems to think we will.” Photine raised her voice enough to be heard by most of the troupe.

  “The horses and mules could do with a rest,” said da San-Germain distantly. “And so could your company.”

  Photine considered this. “How far are we from Avignon?”

  “In leagues or in travel days?” da San-Germain countered, then softened his response. “We may have delays in our travel, so an estimate could be unreliable.”

  “Then how many days would you estimate it will take us to reach Avignon from here, if there are no delays and we aren’t detained??” She clearly expected an answer.

  “Four, perhaps five days, if the roads are open,” said da San-Germain, “and if we travel through the day, no riposino.”

  “That’s hard on the animals,” said Photine.

  “It is. If you would rather make the journey in six or seven days, the teams will be more rested, and so will we. But it may mean avoiding inns and markets while we go; the way things are at the moment, it will be risky to stay in remote settlements. There is so much coseismal opinion about in these times that doing any kind of performing could bring us trouble, and that could lead to consequences none of us would want.”

  “But won’t we offend villagers if we don’t perform for them? Surely they’re eager for a little entertainment, to relieve the stress of the time?” Photine asked, nearly pleading. “Wouldn’t our presence be an insult unless we performed?”

  “Only if we try to lodge there.” He gave her a quick, mercurial smile. “We’ll be safer in cities than in towns. There are more opinions in them than there are in small villages, and that affords us protection.” They had been moving up the curve of the drive through an avenue of cypress, and now emerged to see an elegant chateau ahead of them. It was in the style of the early fifteenth century, three storeys in height, made of reddish stone, with an addition on the northwest side that was less than a hundred years old, done in the fashion of the Sun King, including a large salon des fenetres that opened onto a terrace and overlooked a neglected rose-garden and a half-empty, brackish ornamental water framed by unkempt cat-tails.