Commedia della Morte

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Unless he is accused of upholding the Old Regime,” she said.

  “Nothing in his work suggests that,” da San-Germain reminded her. “He will seem more revolutionary because he’s French than any outsider would be.”

  She kissed him lightly, then smoothly broke away from him. “We’ll rehearse in this room after supper. I’d like you to come and watch.”

  “As I usually do,” he told her, puzzled by her invitation.

  “Exactly. I rely on you to see how the script may be improved, and to find a way to keep Heurer from penning long, extravagant speeches that only confuse the point of the play. He loves the sounds of his own words, and needs to think more of the sense of them.” She took a step back, blew him a kiss, and made a graceful exit.

  For a short time, da San-Germain stood alone in the salon des fenetres, his eyes fixed on the middle distance, and a half-century ago, when he had encountered Madelaine for the first time, when he had been able to bring her out of danger and into his life. He shook himself mentally, aware that this time he would be risking much more for them both, and jeopardizing Photine’s commedia company as well. “Do I have the right to ask this of Photine? Should I send the troupe back to Italy?” he murmured to the tall windows, and had to be satisfied with silence for an answer.

  * * *

  Text of a report from the Revolutionary Tribunal of Valence to the Revolutionary Assembly of Avignon, carried by Revolutionary Guard courier and delivered three days after it was written.

  To the Revolutionary Assembly of Avignon, the greetings of the Revolutionary Tribunal of Valence on this, the 16th day of September, 1792.

  Most Esteemed members of the Revolutionary Assembly of Avignon;

  This is to inform you that the barge bearing prisoners of your Revolutionary Tribunal has arrived here, and that the prisoners are in good condition, all but one, who, on the advice of the physician August Benizance, has been removed from the barge and allowed to travel in a light carriage with another female prisoner for a chaperone; the younger woman has a profound antipathy to the movement of water and was suffering so extremely that she was causing a disruption on the barge and it was decided that Benizance was right, and she should be removed from the barge for the rest of the journey. Both this young woman and her chaperone come from aristocratic families, and both are to answer for their crimes against the People of France at Lyon.

  The barge is being restocked with water and food, and will lay over here for three days so that the tow-horses may rest, and the escorts have time to refresh themselves. For the three days, the prisoners will be confined in the Couvent des les Sacres Magi, which has stood empty for two years now, the Redemptionist nuns who lived here now gone to their reward through the good offices of the guillotine. Revolutionary Guards have been posted to watch the prisoners, and there is a squad of militiamen with muskets stationed in the adjoining hostelry, in case any misguided sympathizers should attempt to free the prisoners.

  The prisoners will be allowed to have their clothes washed, and to bathe, but they will not be permitted to write letters or to indulge in religious practices. Since there are none to wait upon them, they will be given needles and thread to repair their garments if needed, and combs and scissors for their hair. Benizance has recommended that the prisoners be provided salves for those with sunburn, and camphor to reduce the presence of vermin in their clothing, but the Revolutionary Tribunal has yet to allow such indulgence, for since peasants have endured such torments as these prisoners do, it is fitting that they receive no succor. Benizance has issued a warning about fevers, but the Revolutionary Tribunal has yet to change its finding.

  When the barge is safely away, another courier will bring you word of it, and you will be notified of any changes in the prisoners, their escort, or the time they are expected to reach Lyon.

  Long live the People of France!

  Long live the Glorious Revolution!

  Durand Alphonse Odon

  Clerk of the Revolutionary Tribunal of Valence

  PART II

  RAGOCZY FERENZ, CONTE DA SAN-GERMAIN

  Text of a letter from Oddysio Lisson in Venezia to Ragoczy Ferenz, Conte da San-Germain and owner of the Eclipse Trading Company, to his house in Padova, carried by Eclipse Trading Company courier and delivered thirty-two hours after it was written, when it was dispatched by a second courier to Avignon, and never reached its recipient.

  To the esteemed Ragoczy Ferenz, Conte da San-Germain, and distinguished owner of the Eclipse Trading Company, the dedicated greetings of Oddysio Lisson factor and manager of the Eclipse Trading Company in Venezia, on this, the 21st day of September, 1792,

  My dear Conte,

  Both Salvatore Campo and Gabriello Donat have returned to Venezia; they stand ready to come into France to be at your service, should it be necessary. It is unfortunate that neither of the men accompanied you when you departed with the performing troupe, but I understand that there were difficulties between them and a few of the actors, and it was decided that they should return here and hold themselves prepared to answer your summons. I must tell you that this arrangement troubles me, yet I will do as you instruct me. Thus: to increase our preparedness to respond to your orders, I have put two barquentines, the Sand-Darter and the New Moon, on alert to set sail for Genova, should you require a departure by sea. Your factor in Genova has been notified that quick action may be needed from him, and to keep at least one ship in the harbor to bear you and any companions who may accompany you to Venezia. I fear that your factor in Marseilles has been taken by the Revolutionary Tribunal, and business suspended for that office, and therefore Genova is the nearest safe port to Avignon.

  I say again, I cannot be sanguine about your circumstances, and therefore wish to inform you that there are three couriers in Avignon who may be of use to you: they work from the Golden Cockerel on the Place des Bergers; I have used their services before and they have proved to be most reliable. Their names are: Giraud le Eperon, Jean Maigre, and Octave Jardin. They will recognize my name if you use it, should you decide to hire them. All three men have sworn support to the Revolution, and all three have been allowed to continue in their occupation, at least as far as I have been able to discover. If their position in the world has been compromised, I have no other recommendation to give to you but that you might want to arrange with one of your troupe to serve as your messenger, for it might prove too dangerous for any recognized courier to undertake such an assignment as what you may require. In ventures like this, plans must be fluid, since they may have to change quickly, upon occasion, more than once. I know you will bear that in mind when you travel.

  In the eventuality that you leave France through the Swiss or German frontiers, I ask that you send word to me as soon as possible so that I may make suitable arrangements for you to travel in relative safety. I realize you have offices of Eclipse Trading in many ports, and that each should be able to serve you; still, I cannot believe that all will be as secure as we may be in Venezia. The fires of revolution have been lit, and there are many states in Europe that seek to warm themselves at that hearth. Amsterdam may be fairly safe, in spite of the hostilities with France, but even there trouble could arise that would be as dangerous as any city in France is today. I recommend that should you not be able to return directly to Italy that you make for London or any English port, for the English have taken in many French, and would certainly extend their hospitality to you. Your London office is smaller than some other Eclipse Trading offices, but at present it can provide a degree of protection many of your larger offices cannot. Aroldo San-Marino seconds my suggestion in this regard.

  The Eye of Heaven has returned from the New World with a cargo of cotton, tobacco, mahogany, turquoise, silver, jade, and fur. The ship has suffered damage that will require extensive repairs, which I have ordered. The Stella Marina has been seen at Tunis, where she was flying the banner of the Algerians; it would appear she has been taken by pirates, or commandeered by the
Algerians, and sold to the highest bidder. I know nothing of what has become of Captain Ferran and his crew, but I will make every effort to discover their fates and report them to you. The Andromeda is ready to return to her home port; she’s laden with Antioch silks, Egyptian grain, Batavian spices, Indian brasses, and Venezian glass, all of which should sell most profitably in Stockholm. She is scheduled to call at Messina, at Barcelona, at Cadiz, at Lisboa, at Plymouth, and at Hamburg. Gian-Franco Montador has provided copies of his dispatches for your review; they are enclosed with this letter. I trust I have not erred in sending this now, while you are in France.

  With prayers for your safe return,

  Yours most sincerely,

  Oddysio Lisson

  factor and manager

  Eclipse Trading Company

  Venezian office

  1

  Growls and barking served as all the welcome the troupe was granted as they drew in at the Avignon gate in the turbid light shortly after dawn; six large brindled dogs held on chains lunged at the wagons, their noise alerting the ten Revolutionary Guards who manned the eastern gate, most of whom had gathered in the small guardhouse to avoid the chilly morning mists that clung to the ground like exhausted specters creeping back to their graves.

  “No market today,” bellowed a blocky man in a dirty uniform as he appeared in the gateway. To punctuate his remark, he belched.

  “That’s excellent. We need time to prepare and to apply for permission to perform,” Photine called out in her most tantalizing voice from her place on the driving-box of the larger cart, where she huddled in a long cloak next to da San-Germain.

  The Guard stopped still, caught by the rich promise in her voice. “Who are you?”

  “We’re a company of actors, French actors,” Photine announced. “La Commedia della Morte.”

  “Della Morte? Not del’Arte?” The Guard laughed exuberantly at his own wit, and ambled up to the lead wagon, the dogs cringing around him, their guttural warnings muted for the moment. “I thought all you Commedia folk were del’Arte.”

  “In these times,” said Photine in a manner filled with seduction and portent, “we must laugh at death if we’re to laugh at anything. Our style is new, and our tale is, as well.”

  The Guard whooped and slapped his thigh, almost releasing the chain leash of the largest dog in his mirth. “You lot just might do for Avignon,” he declared when his laughter ceased. “How is it you arrive so early in the morning? Half the city is still asleep.”

  “We left Saint-Vitre three hours ago,” said Photine. “They’re ending harvest there, and most of the village rose well before daylight, to get ahead of the rain they say is coming in the afternoon. The innkeeper asked us to be on our way so that his servants could work the fields.”

  “Have they made a good harvest? Half of it’s likely to be confiscated before the rains start in earnest.” The Guard did not bother to sound genuinely interested; he went on at once, “Eh, bien. Enter the city. If you know where you’re going, go there directly. If you don’t know, keep to the main streets and if there’s any question about how you arrived, tell them Sergeant Poteau admitted you. That should be sufficient for you to avoid trouble.” He waved, shaking his head and chuckling, as the wagons and carts rolled through the gate, the spare horses and mules bringing up the rear.

  In the milky light of early morning, the city looked ill-used; garbage and offal stood unattended in the gutters; a gaggle of geese wandered through the alleys and lanes, pecking at the litter; crude posters announcing the names of those to be executed this morning were displayed in shop windows and on notice boards, and graffiti were scrawled in red paint on many walls. Shops were just beginning to open, so the crowd in the streets was still fairly thin. Those women out for early morning shopping went hurriedly about their business, often in groups of three or four. The men were more at ease; all of them displayed a tricoleur cockade on their hats or jackets. Many soldiers strutted their way in the middle of the lanes and avenues, forcing others to make way for them, enjoying the awe and dread they inspired. A few officials on foot or in chairs bustled importantly toward the center of the city.

  “Nom de nom. I don’t like it,” Photine said quietly to da San-Germain. “Perhaps we should have remained at the Boeuf et Ange in Saint-Vitre.”

  “It was a wretched place,” said da San-Germain. “They needed every hand for the harvest.”

  “It was wretched, but I don’t think Avignon is much better,” Photine said, her whole demeanor disheartened. “This was such a grand town, ten years ago. I cannot believe that it has fallen so far in so little time.”

  “Nor can I, but we must make the best of it.”

  “What do you suppose is going on?” She looked down one of the broader streets where a crowd was gathering.

  “Executions,” he replied tonelessly, nodding toward a poster.

  Photine looked appalled. “Executions?”

  “There are fourteen names on the newest posters,” he said.

  “Do you really think—”

  “If the landlord at the Boeuf et Ange may be believed, they publish the names of the victims the day before, so that the people will be able to decide whom they wish to watch die,” said da San-Germain. He studied the growing crowd, his face revealing nothing of his thoughts, which were filled with executions, including three of his own.

  They were nearing the center of the city when Photine said, “A pity you don’t have a house here in Avignon.”

  He had a quick memory of the days of the Black Plague, when the Pope still lived in Avignon, and the streets were lined with the dead. “I’ve had no reason to buy one, and this is not the time to try.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  They rode in silence through the streets, trundling behind the wagons and followed by the smaller cart until they reached what had been the Place des Papes, but was now the Place du Rhone, where Photine called a halt to their vehicles. “That inn over there,” she declared, pointing to a three-storey building with a sign-board showing a silver horse in mid-leap. “It looks a good size, and this square will be suitable for performing.” She turned to da San-Germain. “Who will deal with the landlord?”

  “I will do it, if you would like me to,” he offered.

  Photine considered his offer while thinking aloud. “We want to pay a fair price for our rooms and meals, and the care of our vehicles and animals, but no more than that; and we will want to have rooms so that we need not sleep more than two to a room, which this inn is large enough to supply without difficulty, by the look of it.” She turned to him, including him in her ruminations. “The location is fine for our purposes; the square is large and the district isn’t too shabby, or too grand.” She pulled her cloak more closely around her shoulders. “If I have no man to speak for me, they will do their utmost to cheat me on the price.” Her raised eyebrow was eloquent; this had clearly happened before. “Do you agree that we must stay here?”

  He did not answer directly. “Then send Roger—it will look more established if you have a representative do your bargaining, someone who has the right mix of canniness and deference; the innkeeper will recognize a superior manservant at once. I’ll do it if you like, but Roger will make the better bargain.”

  She considered his advice. “If you think it best. Have your man make our arrangements, provided he makes the best arrangement he can.”

  “He has long experience in such matters; leave it to him to make the most satisfactory terms for the troupe,” da San-Germain said, casting his mind back to the many, many times Roger had done this for him in the past; he secured the brake and the reins of the two mules before he climbed down from the driving-box and came around the rear of the cart to help her to descend.

  “I want him also to discover where we apply for a permit to perform, and what restrictions they have placed on performances. I need to be prepared before I speak with the authorities.” She spoke quietly, making an effort to keep the rest from over
hearing.

  “As you wish,” said da San-Germain, turning toward Roger and the smaller cart at the end of the troupe’s train. “If you will, inquire what they will charge to house and keep us, two to a room, with a separate room for Photine, and what the costs for the animals and wagons are.”

  He nodded. “Shall I take the purse?”

  “You’d better,” said da San-Germain. “We’re players. They’ll want their money before they provide us so much as a cup of wine. And then ask where we apply for a license to perform.”

  “To convince the innkeeper of our legitimacy, my master?” Roger asked in Byzantine Greek, allowing himself a faint laugh, and went into the Cheval d’Argent, whistling to alert the landlord that customers had arrived.

  “That, and that we wish to comply with the new regulations governing performers,” da San-Germain called after him. “We don’t want any complaints made against us.”

  “Will we have to compete with executions for an audience?” Constance grumbled as she climbed out of the front wagon.

  Feo chuckled. “It will be a hard choice for some of them in this city. Well, it will be a test for the new play—blood or satire. We have novelty on our side, and that should spur interest. If they like it here, it will do well elsewhere.” He yawned and stretched, then turned to offer a steadying hand to Olympe. Behind them on the next wagon, Aloys slumped over the reins, almost too worn out to move.

  “Let us hope so,” said Constance.

  “Get down, get down,” Photine urged, and was confronted by Enee, who had emerged from the third wagon.

  “The Devil take it. That poet! He kept me awake with his scribbling!” Squinting into the morning gloom, he raised his voice. “Is there anything to eat that’s hot? I swear I have chilblains, and it’s only the beginning of October.” He glared at Photine. “Did your foreign gentleman keep you warm, Mother?”