Commedia della Morte

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Second Corpse: I, who lived for gaiety and vice,

  Am now but food for worms and cold as ice.

  She went on while behind the curtain the scene was changed as quickly as possible, to the garden for Cleante’s and Desiree’s dialogue where Pascal and Sibelle would argue the merits of eloping.

  Photine slipped in beside da San-Germain, now fully dressed and made up for her scene that was the next-to-the-last in the play. “I wish we didn’t need these speeches to cover the change of scene, but it can’t be helped.” She laid her hand on his arm. “How are they taking it?” she whispered while Olympe continued to recite her couplets.

  “They seem to be interested,” da San-Germain said softly, continuing his steady beat on the single note.

  “Have you seen anyone from the Tribunal watching?”

  “Not that I’ve recognized, but that doesn’t mean that some of the audience isn’t from the Tribunal.”

  Sibelle hurried onto the stage, her costume rustling. Pascal was behind her, putting on his tricorn hat. “How much more time?” he mouthed to Photine.

  She held up four fingers, meaning two couplets to go. “I’ll leave you,” she breathed into da San-Germain’s ear before she slipped away.

  Feo went to pull open his side of the curtain.

  The play progressed steadily, the scenes moving along, some of them touching but most of them amusing enough to evoke laughter from the audience. Da San-Germain continued to play music and to sound the single note—moving up the scale by half a step with the end of each scene. By the time Photine appeared as the Queen in the final scene, the audience was beginning to relish the appearance of the Corpses, and to find their abrupt intrusions mordantly funny; the shock the First Corpse had occasioned at the beginning had given way to ironic anticipation.

  The Queen ordered her Favorite to undertake a voyage to the New World, to claim lands not already gobbled up by England and Spain, and carve out for her a simple, earthly paradise. She rhapsodized on the magnificence and tranquillity that she would find there, and the happiness that had so long eluded her. The Favorite offered lavish promises and the vow that he would rather die than fail in his appointed task—a pronouncement that drew a cynical giggle from some of the spectators—and departed with a flourish. The Queen, left alone, debated with herself about her responsibilities and the power she would not be able to keep in the idyll she sought, and wondered which was more acceptable for her. Her Minister of State arrived to tell her of enemies massing on her borders and the need to send the army into the field to stop them. She told the Minister of State to summon her Generals, and when two had arrived, the Corpses came, too, now increased in number to five.

  At this, the audience applauded, and a few tossed coins onto the stage. The last round of couplets roused more enthusiasm, and as the curtains closed and the troupe readied themselves for their curtain-call, two of the Corpses went out into the audience to collect more coins. Da San-Germain played a morose little march while the actors acknowledged the clapping and cheers of the crowd, and by the time the Corpses returned with their boxes of coins, the people were beginning to drift away from the wagons.

  “Keep the curtains closed for ten minutes,” Photine ordered Aloys and Feo. “We won’t take this down until the audience is gone.”

  “As you like,” said Aloys. “I’ll have a cup of wine while I wait, if it suits you.” His manner indicated that he cared little for what she thought.

  “Just don’t go far,” Photine told him as she came up to da San-Germain, who had removed his mask. “You did very well.”

  “Thank you,” he said as he finished unwinding his shroud. “I gather you’re pleased with the way the performance went? The people were pleased, I thought, once they realized it was not usual commedia.” He put the cimbalom hammers back in their case.

  “Overall, I believe we succeeded. But I need to talk to Heurer about some of those couplets—they sound so labored. We need more ease in phrasing.” She looked about as if expecting to find Theron waiting nearby.

  “I haven’t seen him,” said da San-Germain. “Like Enee, he has not made an appearance.”

  “That’s most … inconvenient,” said Photine. “I will have to have a talk with him about the between-scene couplets—they’re too much like doggerel. We need something more inspired, less heavy-handed, more in keeping with the rest of the play.” She caught sight of Valence and signaled to him, saying over her shoulder to da San-Germain, “We’ll meet later. I do want to spend a time with you privately. Tonight, perhaps, if that will suit you. Just now I have others to attend to.”

  Da San-Germain watched her go, then put his cimbalom back in its case, placed it in the driving-well of the nearer wagon, and donned a short pelisse of light-weight wool. He handed his mask to Roger as he made for the door of the Cheval d’Argent. “Has the take been counted yet?”

  “No, not yet,” said Roger, hanging the mask on a peg with the initials S-G written in chalk above it. “I saw Theron return during the last scene of the play. He’s probably in his quarters or the taproom.”

  “I’ll try the taproom first,” said da San-Germain, and nodded to Roger before he moved toward the door to the inn.

  “He seemed surly when he went in,” Roger called after him in Byzantine Greek.

  Da San-Germain gestured an acknowledgment. He was surprised to realize that he was feeling a bit tired, for he did not think he had exerted himself a great deal playing, but he had done little else to account for his fatigue. He took a minute to consider this development, and decided that he, like the actors, had been caught up in the demands of the performance, investing his music with the added stimulation the audience provided. For a second he recalled Giorgianna singing Scarlatti’s music, a century ago, and the vigor that marked her performance, and the weariness that set in when the opera was done. He paused on the threshold of the taproom, which seemed dim after the brightness of the square; light was harder on his eyes than darkness, and in a moment, he could make out the entire room without difficulty.

  Theron was in the far corner of the room, a large glass of red wine sitting on the table in front of him; an empty glass stood next to it. Looking haggard, he stared off into the distance, deliberately unaware of his surroundings. Even when da San-Germain approached, Theron seemed not to notice.

  “The play went well,” da San-Germain said as he reached Theron’s table.

  Theron said nothing.

  “I believe Photine would like to talk to you about some changes.” Without waiting for an invitation, he pulled up a chair and sat down opposite the poet. “I was surprised you weren’t here for the performance.”

  “I know the lines,” said Theron heavily, and picked up his second glass, drinking down half of it.

  “But that isn’t the same as seeing how an audience takes to it,” da San-Germain observed, keeping his manner affable.

  Theron shrugged and finished the wine, and signaled the man behind the bar for another; he cocked an eyebrow at da San-Germain.

  “Thank you, no; as you may recall, I do not drink wine.”

  “Right. Right,” said Theron, and indicated he wanted two glasses.

  “Is something the matter?” da San-Germain asked, not wanting to challenge Theron when he was so determined to get drunk.

  “Not that you would care,” said Theron, glowering.

  “Ah. What have I done to offend you?” he asked.

  Theron laughed, a bit too loudly. “Done? It is what you have not done that troubles me,” he said.

  “And what might that be?”

  “You haven’t pursued Madelaine’s case with the Revolutionary Tribunal,” he said, making it an accusation.

  “I was informed that she is no longer in their jurisdiction, so pursuit here would glean little beyond what I already know. I will have to go to Lyon to determine what is to be done next. The clerks here aren’t willing to provide much information beyond what they sent three days ago.” He did his
best to sound reasonable, but was aware that this would not be acceptable to Theron, who was taking the two full glasses of wine from the barkeeper’s tray.

  “And you think that sufficient?” Theron asked belligerently. “She is in grave danger; you should do more to secure her release.”

  “She is on a barge bound for Lyon: what do you suggest I do.” He regarded Theron steadily.

  “You could do something.” His face flushed darker. “There must be someone at the Tribunal who could give you more information. Why haven’t you sought someone out who could tell you—”

  “Since I had hoped not to alert the clerks to the depth of my interest in Madelaine, I think what I have done was all I could do. I gather that you have made a point of bringing her to official attention.” He contemplated Theron’s demeanor as he reached for the nearer glass of wine. “I wish you had discussed your plan with me before you spoke to the clerks of the Tribunal.”

  Theron’s words were beginning to slur when he responded. “I suppose you would have advised me to do nothing—as you have done.”

  It was tempting to inform Theron of the damage he had caused, but da San-Germain knew the poet was in no fit condition to listen to any argument sensibly, so he only said, “I thought coming to France was a good start to aiding her, but I gather you deem it—”

  “Devil take you, Comte!” Theron burst out, his face reddened with wine and choler. “You know the kind of danger she is in, and yet, you hold back.”

  “And what would you do, if it were your decision to make?” He managed to give his question a touch of amusement; he could see that the barkeeper was paying more attention to them, his vulpine face sharpened by interest.

  “I would find her at once, and wrest her from her captors.” He took another drink.

  “And how do you propose to accomplish that? Do you think those guarding her would permit you to simply take her without any resistance?” He gave a low chuckle. “No, Theron. Your scenario is most heroic, but far from convincing. And the role you imagine for me seems more villainous than what you originally put forth in your little drama.”

  Theron gave him a look of puzzlement, and shook his head, baffled, but the barkeeper nodded once and grew less attentive.

  Da San-Germain leaned forward, his head only inches from Theron’s, and said in a low, penetrating voice, “If you want to help Madelaine, you would do well to keep your plans to yourself. You have postured enough. The barkeeper has been listening to us, and will undoubtedly report what he hears. Speak to me about a play, not about your plans to deliver Madelaine to safety.”

  Theron stared at da San-Germain, affronted. “How dare you address me in—”

  “I will address you as I see fit,” da San-Germain said more softly, yet with such icy intent that Theron coughed in shock. “You are increasing her danger with your bravado, and I will not permit you to do so. Your impulsive actions will put her in peril beyond what she endures already. Think! You may take pride in your diligence, but you are exposing Madelaine to closer scrutiny, which will make our work harder when we find her.” He gave Theron a long moment to react; as soon as the young man blinked, da San-Germain went on in the same quiet, relentless tone. “So. You will guard your tongue, and you will not venture to the Revolutionary Tribunal again. You will tell me about your new play, and your desire to act the main role, but you will say nothing more about Madelaine. Do you understand me?”

  “I understand,” Theron muttered, cowed, and pushed back from da San-Germain. He downed the last of the wine in the third glass and rubbed at his face. “I know I haven’t the experience the others in the company do,” he said more loudly, “but I’m the poet, and I know how the lines are to be spoken.”

  “That’s as may be,” said da San-Germain, his voice now placating instead of threatening. “But I think Madame may be right, and one of the company should do the role. And perhaps someone else should play the Comte. Crepin perhaps. He has the way of it.”

  Struggling to master his disordered thoughts, Theron picked up the last glass of wine. “I will consider what you say.”

  “That’s all I ask,” said da San-Germain, getting up from the chair.

  Theron blinked at him as he took a gulp of the wine. “Tell Madame I’m … I hope the play went well.”

  “Why not tell her yourself, later?” da San-Germain slightly inclined his head and left Theron to his bibulous indulgence.

  “Ragoczy,” Feo said as he passed da San-Germain; he was coming in as da San-Germain was going out.

  “Feo.”

  “Photine has asked me to go look for her son. Do you have any suggestions where I might try?”

  “No, I don’t, any more than others in the troupe might know,” said da San-Germain. “But when you find him, you might try to impress upon him that he is putting himself in danger to no purpose.”

  Feo laughed once. “He’d take that as praise.”

  “Then you will know how to express your warnings so that he won’t make that mistake,” said da San-Germain. “This company needs to avoid anything that could redound to its discredit.”

  “On that, I agree,” said Feo, turning back toward the door. “Do you think he would want to seek out Revolutionary Guards?”

  “It’s possible,” said da San-Germain. “Foolish, but possible.”

  “There’s a gaming den near the Pont d’Avignon. I’ll try there. That boy is likely to think he’s clever with dice because he won a little money from Lothaire.”

  “It would be a good place to begin; but don’t be too obvious in your search; we don’t want him to go to ground.” Da San-Germain started up the stairs, intending to go to his room for a little quiet while the troupe had their dinner; he was startled to hear Roger call him from the door that led into the kitchen. Coming back down the stairs, he asked, “What is it?”

  “A man from the Revolutionary Tribunal is asking for Madame. She isn’t at the wagons.”

  “I gather the matter is urgent?”

  Roger shook his head. “I imagine so, knowing the Tribunal, but he told me nothing more than he wishes to speak with her.”

  “Let me talk to the fellow while you see if you can find her.”

  “Where would you advise me to begin?” Roger inquired, his voice entirely neutral.

  “You might seek for her at Valence’s wagon,” said da San-Germain with a slight, sardonic smile. “Knock first and give them a little time. They have often … gratified each other at the conclusion of performances.”

  If this surprised Roger, he concealed it. “I’ll attend to this at once.”

  “Where is this official of the Tribunal?” da San-Germain asked before Roger could slip out through the kitchen.

  “He was with Aloys when I came in. Aloys is taking down the curtains and stowing the stage furniture.” With that, he was gone.

  Da San-Germain went out to the side of the platform, and saw a man of about thirty in pale unmentionables and a hammer-tailed coat with broad lapels and a standing collar attempting to engage Aloys in conversation; the older man paid the younger one no heed, but worked steadily, folding the curtains and putting them into their large chests. As he approached the stranger, da San-Germain said, “I understand you would like to talk to Madame d’Auville, who is occupied at present. Will I be an acceptable deputy for her? I am Ragoczy Ferenz, the musician for the troupe.”

  “Good of you to offer,” said the newcomer, an exasperated cast to his countenance. “Where is Madame d’Auville?”

  “She is with some of her troupe. There is a great deal to do before the actors will be ready to go in to dinner.” He smiled affably. “I wear only cerements and a mask; I have almost no costume to care for, and no paint to remove. Let me answer what questions you may have to the limit of my knowledge until Madame d’Auville can join us.”

  “That’s a handsome offer,” said the man from the Tribunal. “Very well. Is there somewhere we can get out of the sun?”

  “There is the
taproom, but the poet who provided the scenario and lines for our play is there, and has been imbibing rather freely.”

  “Need we sit near him?” He gave a kind of smirk, and held out his hand. “I am Evre Durandelle, secretary to the Revolutionary Tribunal.”

  “An honor,” said da San-Germain, and began to walk toward the inn once more. “Can you give me some idea what your purpose is?”

  “Well, the matter is a bit delicate. A few of the members of the Revolutionary Tribunal were hoping to arrange some private entertainments with Madame d’Auville and a few of her troupe.” He pursed his lips. “Something unusual and very discreet.”

  Da San-Germain hesitated for no longer than a breath, then said, “Then I will probably be unable to help you. Such matters are beyond my place in the company. You will have to make your inquiries directly to Madame d’Auville.”

  “Of course,” said Durandelle smoothly. “Then I shall have to wait for her to finish whatever she is doing?”

  “I’m afraid so,” said da San-Germain, with a hint of a bow. “Is there any other way I might be of service to you?”

  “Not just at present,” said Durandelle. “You may go about your business.” He waved da San-Germain away, and continued on into the taproom.

  * * *

  Text of a broadsheet distributed throughout Avignon by a group known as the Revolutionary Artists and Writers.

  Citizens of Avignon

  You have a grand opportunity to see something innovative and truly revolutionary in dramatic performance!

  The Commedia della Morte is presenting a play of the same name that successfully brings home the true significance of our Revolution, and with daring wit that makes what would be beyond the limits of artistic taste into an incisive and occasionally poignant demonstration of the need for revolution beyond the simple political turbulence that has accompanied our casting off our ancient chains for the vigor of freedom.

  We are informed that the company will offer their play three more times, unless the Revolutionary Tribunal extends their license to perform. We urge all people in the city who have any interest in the significance of these times to attend the play and to encourage others to attend the play, so that there may be useful discussion growing out of the experience these accomplished actors bring to their challenging scenarios. We must be thankful for the talents of our modern playwrights and actors who can so clearly show the character of the Old Regime and the purpose of our Revolution. Consider the work of Jean-Marie Collot d’Herbois, and all he has done for our national cause, and give respect to the Commedia della Morte for their artistry and their zeal in the aims of our Revolution. It is through such talent that we will fulfill the promise we have struggled and sacrificed to achieve.