“It’s more drum-like in sound, for all it looks a bit like a ’cello.” He donned the coat and turned to face Roger. “Which neck-cloth?”
“Something simple, perhaps the sprigged cotton,” said da San-Germain. “It creates a more foreign appearance.”
“So it does,” said Roger, going to the smaller of the two traveling chests. “Black or white?”
“Black, I think.”
“Very good.” He sorted through the small closed boxes, then drew out a black neck-cloth of sprigged cotton, which he handed to da San-Germain. “Photine will appreciate your attention to details.”
“I trust the clerks at the Tribunal will do the same,” he said as he wound the cloth around his neck. “No starched collar.”
“Certainly not,” said Roger in mock horror. “Just let me tie the ends for you.”
Da San-Germain gave a single, rueful laugh. “Oh, to have a reflection.”
“Do you miss yours?” Roger asked as he busied himself with the neck-cloth.
“At times like these, I do,” said da San-Germain, and changed the subject. “I’ll need the small purse, and two dozen louis d’or. The Tribunal may not like aristocrats, but I don’t doubt they’ll accept their coins.”
“Especially because you are a foreigner,” Roger seconded. “Do you anticipate needing a bribe?”
“No, but I would be very surprised if there were not fees to be paid,” said da San-Germain in a world-weary tone.
“Of course,” said Roger. “There are always fees.”
“What will come of all this killing?” Da San-Germain asked as the next cheer echoed through the streets, made louder by the bugles’ chaotic fanfares.
“More graves,” said Roger.
Nodding slowly, da San-Germain strove to shut out the sudden image of Madelaine on the scaffold that filled his mind. “Hope that there is good news at the Tribunal, and that they’ll provide answers to us, whatever the case. I need to plan our next step, but I can’t do it until I know what has become of her.”
“Of course,” said Roger, aware of the anguish that had overtaken da San-Germain. He stepped back. “There. Finished.”
Another whoop from the crowd watching the Guillotine do its work rang through the city, with the ragged fanfare lasting longer than before.
With despair in his dark eyes, da San-Germain murmured, “Listen to them: they’re mad for blood.”
Unable to summon up any encouraging sentiments, Roger said, “I’ll get your purse. You said you want two dozen louis d’or.” Without waiting for an answer, he went into the valet’s closet to count out the money from the small banded and locked box that lay in a hidden compartment in da San-Germain’s smallest chest.
* * *
Text of two reports—one to Photine d’Auville, one to Ragoczy Ferenz—sent by messenger to the Cheval d’Argent by the clerks of the Revolutionary Tribunal of Avignon.
To the leader of the acting troupe Commedia della Morte, presently in residence at the Cheval d’Argent, Place du Rhone, from the Revolutionary Tribunal of Avignon, on this, the 6th day of October, 1792.
Madame d’Auville:
After due consideration, the Committee for Public Affairs has agreed to grant you a permit for three performances of the play which scenario you presented to the Tribunal two days ago, said performances to take place on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday next, to conclude before noon, in the Place du Rhone, subject to the review of your script by our Office of Public Morals. Should any portion of your play be deemed inimically against the Revolution, your performances will be canceled and the performance fee retained by the Committee for Public Affairs in recompense for your breach of contract.
The fee for such performances has already been received by this office, and only a twenty-percent contribution of your earnings from the performances will be required of you at the conclusion of your three performances. At that time you may apply for an extension of this permit, and if there has been no complaint lodged against the play or any of your company, another three performances will be licensed.
Vive la Revolution!
Jean-Simone Chastal
Clerk of the Committee for Public Affairs
The Revolutionary Tribunal of Avignon
To the Hungarian exile, Ferenz Ragoczy, presently resident at the Cheval d’Argent, Place du Rhone, a member of the acting troupe Commedia della Morte, from the Revolutionary Tribunal of Avignon on this, the 6th day of October, 1792.
Monsieur,
The records of the Committee for Public Safety inform me that the woman you seek is no longer in the care of that Committee in Avignon, but is, with other enemies of France, being transported to Lyon, where she, and those others with whom she travels, will face the full might of the law for her many offenses against the People of France. You may inform her Hungarian kinsmen that justice will be done upon her, as it will be done on all those who abused the People of France. Any attempt to interfere with that justice will bring the attention of the Revolutionary Courts upon you and whatever members of your family remain within the borders of France; the Revolution has a long arm, and a longer memory.
Vive la Revolution!
Vive la France!
Beniguet Francois Dassin
Clerk of the Committee for Public Safety
Revolutionary Tribunal of Avignon
2
Da San-Germain finished adjusting the tuning-pegs on his cimbalom, then reached for the skull-mask that would complete his costume, which consisted of a winding-sheet wrapped around him, covering the black unmentionables and shirt of ecru silk he wore. Seated as he was at the side of the two wagons that with lowered side-panels provided the stage for the troupe’s performance, he could watch the Place du Rhone gradually fill with citizens; in traditional Commedia costumes, Valence, Crepin, Olympe, and Tereson made their way through the burgeoning audience, entertaining the people with mime with the intent of enticing them to remain for the play. The banner above the stage bore the name of the company and their play: Commedia della Morte.
“We start as soon as the clock strikes the hour of ten,” said Photine, coming around the end of the wagon toward him with an anxious glance at the clock-tower at the far end of the square; she was in her costume for the play but had not yet added her wig, crown, and out-sized rings to complete the appearance of her character. “Our license requires us—”
“That will allow two hours for the performance, which is ample. Even if the audience is deeply enthusiastic, at our last rehearsal the play lasted only an hour and a half, which gives us more than enough time to finish by noon,” da San-Germain reminded her in a calming tone. “The Tribunal will have no complaints on the play’s length.”
Valence and Olympe improvised a little dance, and attracted another dozen or so people to approach the curtained platform. They bowed extravagantly and looked about for more townsfolk to lure to the platform.
“If they do, they’ll stop us, finished or not.” She shook her head as if she were certain this would happen.
“I don’t see why they would bother,” da San-Germain said, keeping his tone carefully neutral. “There are no executions scheduled today.”
“Just as well for us, I think,” she said, her eyes on the gathering in front of the wagons.
“Very likely,” he said, to let her know he was listening.
“I’m sorry, Ragoczy.” She fussed with the lavish fall of lace on her corsage. “You know I’m always nervous before we start.” With a sigh, she sat down on the rear steps of the wagon. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen Enee?”
“Not for more than an hour.” He laid his hand on her shoulder. “Do you want me to send Roger to look for him?”
“No; I’ve put Roger to work keeping track of our masks; this isn’t the time to mix them up, as we did rehearsing,” she said hollowly. “I told Enee at breakfast that he would have to be here by thirty minutes until ten. If he isn’t…” Her words faded into another sigh.
; “He isn’t crucial to the performance,” da San-Germain said gently. “If he doesn’t return in time, it won’t ruin the play. We can manage with one fewer Corpse and Lackey.”
“Yes, we can manage,” she admitted, dejection in every line of her drooping figure. “He is so feckless. He doesn’t understand.”
“Why should he understand? He does this to upset you,” da San-Germain said. “The more distressed you appear, the more he counts himself successful.”
“I know, I know, and I am almost out of patience with him for these petulant tricks of his; he’s fifteen and no longer a child, to be coddled and indulged,” she said, a bit more brusquely, trying to convince herself as well as da San-Germain. “But he is not nearly as experienced, as knowledgeable as he fancies himself. He could get into, oh, all manner of trouble, and this is not the time or the place for such folly.”
“He could, and you’re right—this would not be a good place to catch the attention of the officials. The repercussions could be more difficult than he imagines.” He tied on his mask, and his voice became muffled. “But your telling him that will not persuade him. He might listen to Hariot, or Feo, if you would like me to have a word with them after the play.”
“Oh, would you?” She gave him her most tremulous smile. “He might listen to one of them.” Then she reached for his hand. “I would hate to have to get him out of trouble while we’re going after your kinswoman. It could prevent us from pursing her.” Her expression shifted. “Are you sure that she will be in Lyon?”
“Not completely certain, but from what I’ve learned since the clerk sent the note to me, I have confirmed with two Revolutionary Guards that a barge was taken north with a number of prisoners on it, almost all of them aristos or religious. I have to suppose, since she’s not on the list of official prisoners here, that she is among those on the barge, bound for Lyon.” He felt a shudder of sympathy for Madelaine, constrained to travel over running water, which for those of his blood caused vertigo and seasickness. Being a prisoner was bad enough, but the enervation that the river would cause would double her misery.
“And you’re determined that we should pursue her?”
“Yes, Photine, I am, and I will do so.” He saw her dismay before she could conceal it. “You needn’t come with me if you would prefer not to.”
She stared at him, her whole attention on his dark, compelling eyes in the papier-mâché skull-mask. “I’ve said I would help you find her, and I will.”
From the far side of the stage, they heard the jangling sound of a tambourine, a signal to the mimes to return to the wagons to prepare for the performance.
“I’ll have to finish dressing in a few minutes,” said Photine.
Da San-Germain smiled his encouragement, but realized she could not see it. “You will do well, Photine. Your actors are all rehearsed in their parts. You will succeed.”
She gave a nervous shrug and got to her feet. “Start playing five minutes before the play begins. Remember, no merry songs.”
“I’ll keep to the dirges and laments,” he promised. “I know the ones you prefer.”
She was about to walk away, but stopped. “Have you seen our poet today?”
“Not since early this morning,” he answered. “He seemed to be preoccupied.”
“About what?” It was impossible to tell what she was seeking in that simple question.
“I have no idea. He said nothing to me.” He did not add that Theron seemed to be annoyed with him, though he wondered if he should mention it.
“Well, I trust he’ll be here for the play. It is his work, for the most part, and we will need to discuss the audience reaction when the performance is over; there are changes that we must have.” She waved to him once, then went off toward her wagon, her step dragging as if she carried a great weight on her shoulders. She paused to make a quick perusal of the people at the front of the wagons, then went on, a bit more energetically.
Da San-Germain watched her go, wishing he could think of some way to cheer her, but he had seen her perform many times and realized that her current state of anxiety was part of her means of making ready. He gave his attention to his cimbalom once more, testing the strings with the tips of his fingers to make sure they were holding their pitch. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aloys close the heavy, fringed curtains across the front of the platform and begin setting up the hard stage bed with its garlands of paper flowers, and the small table for the first scene of their play.
Feo came around behind the wagon, saying, “I’m looking for Enee—have you—”
“—seen him? Not recently,” da San-Germain told him. “Nor have I seen Theron in the last two hours. Other than that, everything seems ready.”
“Well, that’s one fewer Corpse for the final march, and one less Lackey for Photine in her scene. The poet, though, he ought to be here, so he can see how the play is received, but I guess it isn’t entirely necessary.” He shook his head. “That boy, he’s another matter altogether—he is determined to get into trouble. He is intent on putting his mother in a difficult position, and to test whether she will stand by him.”
“That he is,” da San-Germain agreed, surprised at the acuity of Feo’s understanding. “And she is aware of it,” he added, then selected the harder hammers for the cimbalom; they were made of wood and looked like long-handled shallow spoons. “It’s almost time to start the music. What do you think of the crowd?”
“I don’t know. It looks a little small to me, but I’m new to all this,” said Feo, a rascally smile brightening his face, “and this is the first real performance I’m seeing, so I have no way to judge.” He ducked his head. “That mask is … unnerving.”
“You’ve seen it before,” said da San-Germain, surprised by the observation.
“I know. It must be the occasion. This isn’t practice anymore, is it?” He stepped away from da San-Germain, taking up his place on the platform beside the curtain-pull for this side of the stage.
Da San-Germain shook his head. “No. No more practice,” he said, and began to play on the cimbalom, hammering the strings lightly at first, drawing out a plaintive folksong from the instrument. At first few of the people gathered in front of the two wagons paid any attention, but as the sound grew louder, more of the audience listened, caught by the haunting tune. They became quiet, and moved closer to the stage, and da San-Germain began another song, this one from his homeland, a somber kind of march that prepared the audience for something disturbing.
Suddenly Lothaire, in his Corpse costume, stepped through the curtains and bowed to the assembled spectators; da San-Germain’s instrument went silent.
First Corpse: How often have we had to see
Death displayed as liberty?
Heads offered up as proof of right
Or proof of law, or proof of spite:
The living find cause for this display
Though fear it may reach them one day.
How often have we had to mourn
For those whose fault was being born?
Yet soon or late, the end must come
And all of life be then the sum
Of days, and be they few or many,
Laden with years, or hardly any,
Welcome or dreaded, all the same,
In obscurity or fame:
Thus these scenes will surely show
That in triumph or in woe
None may stay the fatal hour,
Nor withstand its mortal power.
No king, no beggar, no cadet
Can change the time once it is set.
For soon or late, Death comes for all,
And all that lives is in its thrall.
So take what solace that you may
From what we show to you today.
He bowed again, and stepped back as the curtains were pulled open; the curtain on the right side of the stage concealed his exit even as it revealed the boudoir of a courtesan of the old school, in the person of Olympe Lacet, weari
ng a sacque-backed negligee, a white wig, and elaborate make-up with patches by the corner of her mouth and above her right eyebrow; she was surrounded by paste jewels and paper flowers. She sat on the end of the bed, reading a note from an admirer. The first scene of the play had begun.
Tereson, in the character of Olympe’s maid, came in with a lavish bouquet of white roses made of paper, and presented this to Olympe with a flourish, announcing that a caller was waiting, offering an elaborate description of the man and what he could provide, emphasizing her comments with exuberant gestures, her lithe movements more like dance than mime. Olympe appeared to listen with an air of satisfaction while she admired her bracelets and rings, and when Tereson had finished her catalogue of the new client, asked that he be sent up. Tereson bowed and departed to the right; Olympe picked up a hand-mirror and primped. In a short while, Hariot entered, resplendent in garments twenty years out of fashion, holding on to a tall cane. His face was aged with paint and there were marks on his cheeks and nose that suggested the client suffered from carnal diseases. He bowed and kissed Olympe’s hands, exclaiming on her beauty all the while. She heard him out with an air of boredom, then patted the bed beside her.
The audience chuckled, anticipating what would happen next.
Da San-Germain began to strike a single string, softly but steadily.
Tereson staggered onto the stage, announcing another visitor, but with a demeanor of horror, and before she could conclude her description, she fell as Lothaire entered and pulled her into the fold of his winding-sheet.
The audience gasped, and a murmur passed through the crowd, and then a few of their number moved a little nearer to the stage, aware that they were seeing something unfamiliar. The easy excitement that had possessed the audience changed to attentive curiosity. A pair of older women left the gathering, shaking their heads in shock and disapproval.
On the bed, Hariot and Olympe went still, and then, as the First Corpse approached them, they rose and began to follow Lothaire and Tereson, marching across the stage like a procession of automatons to the grim notes from the cimbalom. A moment later, the curtains closed and Olympe reached for her skull half-mask, and tied it on as she stepped out through the opening in the curtains.
Commedia della Morte Page 17
