Commedia della Morte

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  She regarded him, perplexed but not quite annoyed. “They knew they were performing a rescue, and that was a great adventure, something worthy of Sophocles or Racine; they assumed that they would be taking her out of Avignon, not Lyon, and that it would be before she was to appear in the Revolutionary Court. But once she is tried and is convicted, then the adventure becomes dangerous for the troupe as well as for your relative, and they do not want to put themselves at risk of imprisonment or execution.” She reached out and brushed his hand with hers. “Surely you can understand their feelings? Would you blame them for not wanting to risk their lives?”

  “Probably not; I expect no such sacrifice,” da San-Germain agreed.

  “But you cannot promise that there is no possibility of trouble, can you?” She tapped her fingers together as her only indication of annoyance.

  He met her eyes. “No, I cannot.”

  “Then you will have to accept their dissatisfaction with the change in our arrangement, when they learn about it.” Her smile was understanding and heartening, but it did not touch her eyes.

  “How much will they have to know? Can we keep anything from—”

  Photine laughed, a knowing, guileful sound. “No one keeps secrets in theatrical companies—no one. They will all know, no matter what you tell them, or withhold from them. That’s why I haven’t spent more time alone with you: my players could find out too much and then none of us would be safe.”

  “But they knew you shared my bed from time to time,” he said.

  “Yes, in Padova where you housed and kept us all. It was expected. Even Enee, no matter how badly he’s behaved, understood that you were going to be my lover, since that is the way things are done. They knew little about the … manner of our passion, which is in our best interests. But living so closely together, they could easily find out more than either of us would want them to learn, and who can tell what they might do then.” She drank again, leaving a small amount in the glass.

  Da San-Germain wondered if her concern for the gossip of her troupe were the only reason for her avoiding him, but he did not want to be distracted. “Tell your troupe that there will be performing opportunities in Lyon to more than match those here, and a larger population to see them. The city is in foment, if the rumors are to be believed, and the play is likely to be a reflection of the citizens’ current understanding, and therefore will be approved. It should command a large audience, and more attention.”

  That possibility had not struck her before. “Foment can work against us, too,” she said cautiously.

  “It can, of course.”

  For the greater part of a minute she was silent. To cover her ruminations, she drank the last of her wine and made no objection when he refilled her glass. The fire was beginning to take hold, shining more brightly than the candles now. “Ordinarily, I would ask the troupe to decide.”

  “Ordinarily, a laudable policy,” he said, sitting down across the table from her; he leaned slightly forward yet did not reach out to touch her.

  “But they would debate and cavil until our license here runs out and we have to leave; actors enjoy such contention, it hones the skills to argue,” she admitted, a touch of amusement in her words. “You say that would be an intolerable delay—which I do not doubt. The reports from Lyon are distressing. Everyone knows that the Revolutionary Court has taken prisoners from more places than Avignon, and the city is willing to kill anyone who acts against the Girondais, as well as those deemed enemies of the Revolution.”

  “That’s true,” he said. “The Girondais have the upper hand now, but they may not be able to sustain their hold. Their disputes with Paris are becoming more rancorous by the day, if the reports are accurate.”

  “Knowing that, you’re still set on going there?”

  “I am.”

  She drank a bit more wine. “Would you take Roger and go? Really?”

  “Yes.”

  She could not question his determination; she set the wine-glass down. “Very well. If that’s the way of it, we must honor our agreement. We will leave after tomorrow’s performance. We should be able to cover three leagues by nightfall.”

  “Unless it rains again,” he said, apprehension revealing the depth of his anxiety for the first time since he had entered the parlor.

  “So you’re worried about the weather as well as the distance,” she exclaimed.

  He responded indirectly. “Even if we can manage more than eight leagues a day in clear weather, which may not be possible, rain could stop us. Then we would be fortunate to cover three leagues in a day.”

  “We can’t perform in the rain, either,” said Photine. “We must hope we reach Lyon before the autumn closes in.”

  “We must also hope that rain doesn’t slow our return to Padova. We’ll need to move fast once we have Madelaine.” He motioned toward the door at the sound of a soft tap. “Are you expecting anyone?”

  She shook her head, her mood transformed from genial to anxious. “No. And I thought the troupe was getting our cases packed. Why? Did you hear something?”

  “A knock, or so it seemed. Of course, it could be just someone passing the door.”

  “Listening at the door, more likely,” said Photine. “Open it, if you think there’s someone there.” She held up her hand and ticked off possibilities. “Why would anyone be disturbing our conversation? Might there be trouble of some kind? Perhaps one of the horses or mules is ailing.”

  “I doubt that.” He had inspected the wagons and carts two days before, and had summoned the farrier to check the shoes on their horses and mules yesterday. Feo and Aloys had busied themselves in doing the necessary minor repairs to the tack and harness, so that did not seem a likely concern. “Which of your actors would interrupt your supper?”

  The second soft knock on the door was startling, though both of them expected it.

  “It’s Feo,” said the quiet voice. “There’s trouble.”

  Da San-Germain went to open the door, regarding the coachman with keen eyes. “Has something happened?” he asked, standing aside to admit Feo into the parlor; Feo gave Photine a half-bow.

  “What is this about?” Photine asked him, her demeanor imperious, showing him that she did not like having her conversation interrupted by a coachman.

  “If it weren’t urgent—” Feo hesitated, then launched into an explanation. “There is no easy way to tell you, Madame, so I’ll just say it: your son has been accused of cheating at cards. The Guards have taken him into custody and are claiming that he must be tried for his crime.”

  “Crime? He can’t … Enee is too—” She was about to say young but stopped herself, and listened.

  “When did this happen?” da San-Germain asked.

  “A little more than an hour ago,” Feo said. “In the tavern at the river’s edge, at the old bridgehead, the Pont Roman; rivermen go there, and smugglers from the south.” He gave an apologetic sigh. “I would have come sooner, but I followed the Guards to see what they would do with him.”

  “Do they brand the hands of card-cheats here?” Photine asked, going pale as she waited to hear what she would say; in her distress, she had gone from Italian to French.

  “Who knows?” Feo answered, but would not be put off his point. “It is a risk it would be unwise to take. The Revolutionary Tribunal is strict in enforcing the law. Better not to get into the toils of the Revolutionary Tribunal in the first place.”

  “Where is he?” da San-Germain asked in French.

  “At the moment he’s in the Revolutionary Tribunal’s jail, awaiting official charges,” said Feo in Italian. “If his fine is paid, and something given to the bailiff to grease the locks, as they say, he could be out tonight.” He paused, his expression becoming speculative and guileful. “If he is brought before the Tribunal, then matters get much more difficult.”

  Photine took all her wine in a single gulp. “You must take me to him, Comte.” She started to rise.

  “No, Madame,” da S
an-Germain objected, putting his hand gently on her shoulder. “This is not your duty, though he is your son. Let me do what I may to secure his release. I think you will do more good by remaining here with your troupe. If you are with us, you could be questioned, and that might cause more trouble.”

  “I could say it must be a misunderstanding, that my boy is new to gaming, and at most he has made a mistake, not committed a crime.” She had returned to Italian for Feo’s benefit.

  “As every mother would claim,” said da San-Germain quietly. “No. Have it seem that you do not believe the accusation, and think it beneath your attention.”

  After giving da San-Germain an inquisitive look, Feo nodded. “He’s right. If you run to him, they will be sure he is guilty.”

  “Enee,” she whispered, and began to weep. “Spare him, Conte,” she implored, her hands clasped and her face shining with tears.

  “I will do what I can,” he answered, then looked at Feo. “Have you seen my manservant?”

  “Roger?” Feo snapped his fingers. “The last I saw he was in the stable, loading one of your chests into the larger cart.”

  “Excellent. We will seek him while we saddle our horses,” said da San-Germain energetically. “Madame, go to your actors and rehearse. It will steady your thoughts and give the appearance that you are not worried on Enee’s behalf.”

  She clutched her linen serviette and wiped her eyes, struggling to regain her composure. “If you think it best…”

  “You will agree if you only consider your boy’s predicament,” said da San-Germain, refilling her glass with the rest of the wine in the bottle. “For the sake of your son, think of this as a performance, and you must succeed.” He signaled to Feo; the coachman gave a suggestion of a salute. “We should be back within two hours. If we’re not, we will need to think of some other means of freeing Enee.”

  Photine pressed her lips together, refusing to cry again; finally she said, “Bon chance,” and waved him out of the room, Feo half a step behind him.

  As they hastened down the corridor to the entrance to the inn, da San-Germain lowered his voice, saying, “How strong is the case against Enee?”

  Feo turned up his hands to show he had no idea. “One of the men playing at his table accused him. I’m told he was drunk and belligerent.”

  “The accuser?”

  “Yes. Which is something in Enee’s favor.” Feo glanced into the taproom, where most of the troupe was assembled. “Should we tell the Guards about the rehearsal?”

  “No,” said da San-Germain. “If we tell them, there will be speculation that would distress Madame. They may assume that the rehearsal is a ruse—which it is—and order her to appear before the Revolutionary Tribunal to explain her lack of supervision of her son.” He paused, his countenance thoughtful. “For all the Guards like our play, they think actresses are trollops, and would be apt to treat her disrespectfully.”

  “She can be eloquent,” Feo remarked.

  “That, too, might seem deceptive to the Guards,” said da San-Germain, lengthening his stride. “Any appeal she makes herself could bring about precisely what she seeks to avoid—a cancellation of her license to perform, and a fine. If she tells them too much, they’ll be certain she is lying, and that will be held against Enee as well as the troupe.”

  “And in that event, our departure could be delayed by several days,” said Feo cannily.

  “That it could,” said da San-Germain without any sign of emotion.

  The evening air was cool, with a skittery wind that nipped at them like a hungry chicken. They crossed the inn-yard to the stable, where they found Roger strapping one of da San-Germain’s chests into place in the bed of the larger cart.

  “The players will need our help loading up after their performance tomorrow; I thought it best if most of our cases and chests were stowed tonight.” He rubbed the front of his dove-gray coat. “What do you want, my master?”

  “You know me too well, old friend; I can hide nothing from you,” he said with a hint of a smile. “I want the square wallet in the old chest,” he said, his description deliberately vague.

  “He’s going to get Enee out of jail,” Feo explained.

  “It is likely to be expensive,” Roger said.

  “Keep that in mind when you bring the wallet,” da San-Germain recommended.

  “I’ll be back in ten minutes,” said Roger, and left the stable without asking any questions.

  “You’re planning to pay for his release, then?” Feo asked. “The little weasel hates you.”

  “I won’t be doing it for him,” said da San-Germain drily.

  “Nor entirely for his mother,” Feo said with a knowing look.

  “No, not entirely.” Da San-Germain started toward one of the box-stalls where two of the troupe’s horses were standing. “The saddles are in the tack-room. Mine is—”

  “—black with silver fittings; yes. I’ll find it.” He strode off toward the tack-room, signaling to one of the grooms to assist him while da San-Germain picked up a brush from the grooming-box next to the stall and let himself in with the two horses, haltered both animals and gave them a perfunctory brushing. Feo brought da San-Germain’s saddle, saddle-pad, and bridle from the tack-room and set them on the stand outside the door. “I’ll get the Italian saddle, the one with the extension behind the cantle, for the boy to ride on.”

  Da San-Germain haltered the gray gelding and prepared to lead him out of the stall. “A good choice.” As he secured the gray’s lead-rope to a ring in the pillar next to the stall, da San-Germain called out to Feo, “Have you seen Theron this evening?”

  Feo’s voice was a bit muffled, but he replied, “Not this evening. I saw him this afternoon in the Plume et Papier, where the writers meet. They were feting him in grand style: wine and pastries and grilled meats—wine most particularly.”

  “Let us trust the style is not too grand—we don’t want to have to deal with the Guards and the Revolutionary Tribunal more than once tonight.” Da San-Germain took the hoof-pick, bent over, and lifted the gray’s front on-side hoof. He worked quickly and silently, making his way around the horse, then put the pick back in the grooming-box and reached for the saddle-pad.

  “My master,” said Roger as he came up to him; da San-Germain had finished saddling and bridling the gray, and he gave his full attention to Roger. “I have put in some of the stones from the alabaster casket, in case they will be useful.” He nodded to Feo, who was finishing tightening the girths on the mouse-colored mare.

  “Many thanks,” said da San-Germain as he took the thick leather wallet from Roger; he knew they had no alabaster casket with them, but that the one in Padova contained a great many jewels da San-Germain had made in his athanor. “You always anticipate what I’ll need.” He buckled the wallet onto the rings on the pommel of the saddle, then mounted up. “We should be back within two hours.”

  “With Enee.”

  “Precisely.” He watched while Feo adjusted the head-stall on the mare’s bridle; the mare stopped fussing with her bit and stood quietly as Feo buckled her throatlatch, lifted the reins over her head and vaulted into the saddle. “Ready?”

  “That I am,” said Feo, gathering the reins to his hands.

  Before he left the stable, da San-Germain said to Roger, “If you can, go find Heurer. He may still be at the Plume et Papier. Bring him back here, whatever his condition may be, and see that he watches the rehearsal. We want no more questions asked about anyone associated with the Commedia della Morte. If you have to bring him back on one of the mules, do it.”

  Roger nodded twice. “I will.”

  “Try not to let him make a scene,” da San-Germain added.

  “I will,” Roger repeated, and stepped back as da San-Germain and Feo rode out into the dark street, going toward the light that marked the Place de Ville, and the Revolutionary Tribunal in the Hotel de Ville. They went at a walk, avoiding gathering-places in the narrow streets, and arrived at the Place de
Ville in a little more than ten minutes.

  “I’ll mind the horses, Ragoczy,” said Feo as he dismounted in the crowded square in front of the Hotel de Ville.

  “Thank you,” said da San-Germain, and made for the doors of the Hotel de Ville, which were well-lit and stood open, Guards flanking the entrance. He stepped into the foyer and found himself surrounded by men assembled in clusters, all talking in lowered voices that made the chamber echo with their various discussions; undeterred by the clamor, da San-Germain looked about for the sign pointing the way to the holding cells; he finally found it at the top of a flight of lamp-lit stairs, which he descended without undue haste, using the time to take stock of the setting so that he could deal with any abrupt changes he might encounter. At a door with a sign saying CLERK OF THE COMMITTEE FOR PUBLIC SAFETY, he paused, and after a moment of consideration, knocked.

  “Enter,” said the person within.

  Da San-Germain had not worn a hat, so he could not remove it as a sign of respect. With his head slightly lowered deferentially, he entered the room. “Good evening, Citizen,” he said in the approved manner.

  “Good evening, foreigner,” said the man behind the desk; he was of medium height and looked to be between thirty-five and forty, a fussy fellow in a blue serge coat and dun-colored unmentionables; his fingers were ink-stained, as were his cuffs, and he gave da San-Germain a swift scrutiny as he half-rose from his chair. There was a tricoleur knot of ribbons on his lapel, which he touched as he looked up at the newcomer. “What is your purpose here.”

  Da San-Germain recognized the man from his previous visit to the Revolutionary Tribunal; he concealed his distaste of the man with an urbane smile. “I am Ferenz Ragoczy, Citizen Dassin; I am with the Commedia della Morte.”

  “I know who you are. I remember your first visit—the Hungarian exile looking for a French relation,” said Beniguet Francois Dassin, the Clerk of the Committee for Public Safety. “What do you want? I have no more information on your relative.”