Commedia della Morte

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “How unfortunate,” Photine said as she took in the sad state of the place. “It must have been quite grand once.”

  “And will be again,” said da San-Germain.

  “Do you think so?”

  “I know it would be Madelaine’s intention,” he said, obliquely.

  “Slanting your bets,” Photine approved. “Just as well, given what the world has become.” She leaned against his shoulder to express comfort. “You’re a good man, Conte; better than most of your kind. I pray that your loyalty is richly rewarded.”

  “I’m not seeking rewards—I want to see that Madelaine is safe.”

  Photine patted his leg affectionately. “You’re too literal. There are many kinds of rewards; I wasn’t talking of money.”

  “I didn’t think you were,” he answered, kindness returning to his dark eyes.

  After that they went in silence until they reached the stable-yard, when Photine got down from the driving-box; before she took her troupe in hand, she looked at da San-Germain and said, “If ever I needed help from a kinsman, I would hope that he would be such another man as you are. I hope your Madelaine realizes how fortunate she is.” With that, she turned away and shouted to Aloys, “Unhitch the teams out here, and line up the wagons against the far wall before you stall the animals. We’ll need to set a guard tonight.”

  Da San-Germain watched her go, once again wondering how much of what she said was a performance and how much was sincere, and if, for her, there was any real difference between one and the other. Realizing he couldn’t answer that question any more now than he had been able to since their first meeting, he set the cart’s simple brake and climbed down from the driving-box, only to find Roger approaching him from the smaller cart. “Are your mules unhitched?”

  “Hariot is attending to unhitching; he’ll deal with yours in a few minutes. Urbain and Lothaire are handling the horses—Urbain will leave tomorrow. Feo’s seeing to the vehicles,” said Roger, and went on in the language of China, “What is this? Is Madelaine truly missing?”

  “Apparently she is under arrest in Avignon,” said da San-Germain quietly in the same tongue. “Not a good sign, I’m afraid.”

  “Certainly not,” Roger said. He nodded toward the mansion behind them. “Do you think it wise to stay here? Could we be in danger?”

  “For two days? How could we be? Who knows we’re here.” Da San-Germain began to disengage the harness from the cart. “Even if the servants send word to Avignon about our arrival, they won’t be able to reach the city before we’ve left.”

  “True enough,” said Roger, signaling to Hariot, who was leading the mules toward the stable, speaking in French, “They’ll need their hooves cleaned carefully.”

  “And water and hay,” said Hariot over his shoulder.

  “The same for my team,” da San-Germain called after him; Hariot nodded and kept on walking.

  “I’ll make sure all the animals are watered and fed,” Roger said, once again in the Chinese of the northern capital. “You and Madame Photine can work out the housing arrangements with Maxime and arrange meals with the cook. If I have the opportunity, I’ll try to find your chests of native earth, as well.”

  “Very prudent of you, as always, old friend; I needn’t have any qualms while you’re about,” said da San-Germain, an ironic lift to his fine brows as he glanced toward the stable. “Let us hope I won’t need the chests.”

  Roger ducked his head. “Best to be prepared.”

  “And in that same spirit, I’ll arrange for your food with the cook,” da San-Germain said. “I’d like to think that we can have an easy stay here.”

  “But you’re uncertain,” said Roger. “And not simply because you’re worried about Madelaine.”

  “Not entirely, no; I see that the two house-servants left are exhausted, and there is more work to be done than we can supply.”

  “You want to put the mansion in order for her, don’t you?”

  “How well you know me,” said da San-Germain, his expression turning sardonic. “And of course, I would like to believe that our arrival will not increase Madelaine’s danger, but it may, if it is reported in Avignon.”

  “Why should it be?” Roger asked. “What danger does a group of players cause her?”

  “I have no idea—and that perplexes me more than the knowledge that she is in the hands of the Revolutionary Assembly.” He moved away from the cart so that Hariot, who was returning across the stable-yard toward them, could lead his team away to the barn. “If I can find the opportunity, I’ll want to sound out the cook.”

  “And give him cause to remember you?” Roger warned.

  “If he is still here, he must have some loyalty to Madelaine remaining in him. He might be able to provide more information—”

  “Let me do it,” Roger said with more genuine emotion than he usually permitted himself to reveal. “Servants gossip, and any questions I ask will mean little to the cook. If you ask them, they will become noteworthy, and that—”

  “An excellent notion, and one I might observe,” said da San-Germain. “I’ll await your report tonight.”

  Roger very nearly smiled, his faded-blue eyes brightening. “Thank you, my master.”

  Da San-Germain looked at him, bemused. “If I have done anything to deserve your thanks, then I am pleased.”

  Roger gave a nod that was more of a bow, and stepped away. “Will you be alone tonight?”

  “I believe so,” said da San-Germain, speaking in French once again. “Enee has been complaining about me again, and Photine wants to reassure him.”

  “Indulge him, you mean, which only serves to encourage him further,” said Roger, still in Chinese, then raised his voice to speak to Aloys in French. “Do you need another hand to bed stalls?”

  “If you’re willing,” Aloys said.

  “Another pair of hands makes shorter work,” said Roger, quoting the old saw from his long-ago childhood; he turned away from da San-Germain to take the remuda line to lead the reserve horses into the stable.

  Da San-Germain watched him go, thinking as he often did, that restoring his manservant to life in the Year of the Four Caesars was one of the most providential actions he had ever taken; Roger was steadfast, loyal, and resourceful, unswerving in his devotion, able to deal with da San-Germain through all manner of perils. A number of all the things they had gone through together flickered in images through his mind: Spain, Italy, China, India, the Americas; he had a quick, agonizing memory of being taken down from a cross in Mexico, and his sense of obligation intensified.

  “Ragoczy?” a voice said at his elbow, a bit more loudly than seemed necessary.

  Da San-Germain turned to see Crepin Sillondroit standing slightly behind him, an expectant smile firmly fixed. “Yes?”

  “You’ve been here before? They say you have.” He pointed toward the mansion as if it were an illusion. “Is it true?”

  “Twice; I have been here twice before,” said Ragoczy, recalling attending Madelaine’s funeral and the evening that followed when she wakened to his life; then the more recent visit, when he had persuaded her to come to Verona with him.

  “It is the property of your kinswoman? That’s what everyone is saying.” Crepin did his best expectant look. “Ragoczy?”

  He considered the actor. “Is there something you want to know?”

  Crepin shrugged with elaborate casualness. “I was only wondering how safe you think the estate is.”

  “Safe? In what way?”

  “Oh, you know—in terms of … locals.” He pressed his hands together, his eyes moving nervously. “That village? Saint-Jacques-sur-Crete? Do you think there might be spies there? Or thieves?”

  “Probably some of both,” said da San-Germain with a gesture of unconcern. “But I doubt they pay much attention to what happens up here. We’re more than three leagues away, and they have the last of the harvest to deal with.”

  Crepin nodded several times, his glance still jitt
ery. “As you say. As you say. But there could be Revolutionary Guards in the village, couldn’t there?”

  “It’s possible, but I don’t think it likely. The village is on a minor road in mountainous territory. Now that Madame de Montalia has been arrested, I would guess that there are few landholders left in the region; we know the hostels are empty, and the monasteries. The Revolutionary Guard has better things to do than occupy villages like Saint-Jacques.”

  “Yes. Yes. I understand your meaning.” Crepin said. “But it is still…” He abandoned his train of thought and tried something new. “Are we putting ourselves in danger by staying here? considering the owner is in the hands of the Revolutionary Tribunal?”

  “Not that I am aware of, no,” said da San-Germain. He moved toward the kitchen door, not wanting to contribute to Crepin’s unease any more than he had already.

  Crepin came after him. “But we could be—in danger, I mean?”

  “Anyone in France could be in danger at present,” da San-Germain said, more sharply than he had intended; he continued in a more conciliating tone, “So far, from what I have learned, which is little more than what all of you know already, players are welcome in France, so long as they don’t keep to the old plays, but perform new ones. The scenario you’re rehearsing now, with the Corpses, is nothing like any commedia troupe has done before, so it’s likely that the play will be a success. You’re probably going to be hailed as artists of the Revolution.”

  “I hope so,” said Crepin, still doubtful.

  Da San-Germain pulled open the door and stepped into the corridor next to the pantry. “Come ahead. The kitchen is on the left.”

  “My nose tells me that,” Crepin said, and peered into its brick-walled depths, a wishful smile on his handsome features, the very image of happy anticipation.

  The aromas burgeoning in the kitchen promised a tasty meal of roast pork stuffed with apples and sweet onions, a casserole of vegetables and cheese, and loaves of fresh bread. In counterpoint to the chop of his knife on cabbage, Gigot was singing one of the old songs of the region, about a lost lamb and a wolf.

  “Your meal should be ready within the hour,” da San-Germain remarked, and turned toward the front of the mansion.

  “Does Photine know what you’ve told me?” Crepin asked, unwilling to give up his questions.

  “I should think so,” said da San-Germain, and continued walking. “We’ve discussed it often enough.”

  “Tell me if you decide anything has changed,” Crepin called after him, then stepped into the kitchen, and asked Gigot if he needed any help.

  As da San-Germain crossed the great hall, he heard Photine raise her voice. “No, Enee, I won’t have it. You’ve been allowed too much license already.” The sound came from the salon des fenetres.

  “I don’t have to obey you,” her son challenged her. “You have no authority over me now that I’m fifteen.”

  “If you want a place to sleep and something to eat, I do. All the troupe recognizes it, including Valence, and he’s forty-one.” She was clearly agitated and doing her best to keep her impulse to rail at him under control. “This continuing defiance is most … distressing.”

  Listening, da San-Germain wondered what she had been going to say that she changed to distressing. He approached the salon des fenetres, feeling slightly uncomfortable at his eavesdropping; he was about to make himself known when Enee’s next words held him to the spot.

  “You won’t let me take a few bottles of wine from this cellar, but you’ll let your noble lover nibble your throat.” He laughed, deliberately harsh. “You think I don’t see what you hide beneath your collar?”

  “Enee!”

  “Don’t look so shocked, Madame,” Enee responded with elaborate scorn.

  “Many men have their … their tastes,” said Photine with studied indifference. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “A man bites my mother, and I’m supposed to pretend it means nothing?” Enee demanded. “What kind of a son would that make me?”

  “An obedient one,” said Photine bluntly. “If I am not displeased with da San-Germain, why should you be?”

  “He is using you, and you won’t see it!” Enee yelled. “You do what he wants without a second to consider what it means. You were going to have four carts and now you have two. Because it’s convenient for him!”

  “Lower your voice,” she snapped at him. “It’s bad enough you spend your time sulking. I won’t have you declaiming to the whole troupe.”

  “You’re being used,” Enee said again, in a quieter tone.

  “And I am using him. What of it? Each of us is receiving what we want, so why shouldn’t we continue as we are?” Photine paused. “If you are so determined to defy me, you will have to decide what profession other than acting you wish to pursue. I can’t have you disrupting the troupe. You’ll need to find a master who’ll have you as an apprentice.”

  “You’d do that to me? Because of him?”

  “Not because of him—because of me. You seek to undermine my authority and to make the rest of the troupe doubt my leadership. You behave like a wayward bear-cub. I can’t have that, particularly from my son.”

  There was the sound of a hand slapped down on wood. “You’re my mother, and you speak to me this way?”

  “Whoelse will do it?” she countered. “I think you had better go to the room Maxime assigned you. Spend the evening reading, or doing something useful. Consider your situation. Do not indulge in wine or steal any more cognac. You have to decide what you want to do, and you’ll need a clear head for that.”

  “You aren’t serious, are you?” Enee asked in disbelief.

  “I am.”

  “Get of a poxy whore,” he muttered.

  Photine’s voice changed, turning imperious and cold. “What did you call me?”

  “What you are,” Enee blustered, and an instant later flung out of the salon des fenetres, hurrying away toward the rear of the mansion, paying no heed to the cry of protest from Photine as he left.

  Da San-Germain remained in the shadow of the alcove for a few minutes while Photine gathered herself together. When he was fairly sure she had gathered herself well enough, he came to the door of the salon des fenetres. “I just saw Enee rushing through the great hall. Is anything the matter?”

  “He’s being a truculent child,” said Photine, as much worry as disgust in her voice.

  “He’s jealous,” said da San-Germain without any annoyance in his tone. “He’s afraid you’ll favor me more than you favor him.”

  “He may have reason for such fear, the wretch,” said Photine darkly, staring at the door as if she thought he might reappear. “What does he expect?—that I’ll turn away from a generous lover and patron because he’s having a fit of the sullens?”

  “Probably,” said da San-Germain, and saw Photine give a single, resigned nod. “He wants to be sure that he’s the light of your life.”

  “At the moment,” said Photine briskly, “he isn’t.” She came to his side and leaned against him. “What am I to do with him?”

  “That depends upon what you want of him,” said da San-Germain, taking her into his arms.

  “I want him to be a reasonable young man; at fifteen he should be able to do that,” Photine sighed, easing her body more closely to his. “But for him, it may not be possible.”

  “It may not,” he agreed, and met her lips with his own in a long, soft kiss.

  “Do you think he should be apprenticed to some worthy tradesman, or an apothecary, or, I don’t know what?”

  If he felt that ending a kiss with a plea for her bothersome son was unusual, he made no comment on it; it was strange enough to embrace her in Madelaine’s mansion. “I doubt Enee knows what would best suit him. It could be a factor in his jealousy—he’s afraid of being adrift in a dangerous time.”

  “All times are dangerous,” said Photine, moving half a step back in his arms.

  “That they are,” da
San-Germain agreed. “But the danger is more apparent now than is often the case.”

  “And he is caught up in the excitement as much as any of them,” said Photine on another, longer sigh. “I can’t hold that against him.”

  “He wants to know what you expect of him,” said da San-Germain. “Not that he’ll comply with your wishes, but he won’t feel so rudderless.”

  She looked at him, dawning surprise in her face. “He claims he wants to be the one to decide for himself.”

  “And he does, but not because he has had to grasp for it.” He stroked her tawny hair. “You are a woman of … character,” he said after a short silence. “He’s used to you guiding him, and little as he wants to acknowledge it, he is comfortable with your direction; that comfort causes him to doubt himself, and so he turns on you, wanting to rule you in order to convince himself that he is capable of being his own master.”

  She blinked at him. “Not unlike Orestes,” she said slowly.

  Da San-Germain shook his head, offering her a half-smile. “Nothing so extreme. We are not living a Greek tragedy.”

  “I should hope not,” she said in a rallying tone. “Well, I can see Enee will take some—”

  “If you can, let him flounder for now. He’ll be the better for it when he finally makes up his mind.” He drew her to him once more. “If he gets into serious trouble, you can come to his aid, but be prepared to have him resent you for it.”

  “You speak as a man who has dealt with difficult sons,” she said, her head cocked speculatively.

  “I have no children: I told you that,” he said gently. “But in my travels I’ve had much opportunity to observe.”

  “And closely, if this is any example of what you’ve seen,” said Photine. “Perhaps you should be doing our scenarios for us, and not Heurer.”

  “You need a Frenchman to write for you. It’s safer to have a French playwright.”