“I have arranged to have an awning stretched over the wall of the inn-yard. The landlord has one that he usually sets up in summer, to protect animals from the sun. The ostlers should be installing it shortly. It will cover the wagons and about half the space where the audience can stand. Some will have umbrellas, I suppose.” He paused in brushing one of the mules. “The awning should be fully in place within the hour.”
“Does Madame know about this? The prospect of rain must be disappointing for her.” Roger did not sound surprised, but his curiosity got the better of him. He was almost through grooming the pair of Noniuses, stalled together now, as they were hitched together on the largest wagon when the troupe was on the road. There was a second pair of the same breed in the adjoining stall; Roger was finished with their care.
“I offered to make the arrangement last night, when the clouds came in; she was … amenable to the plan once she knew it would not be a charge on her,” said da San-Germain, and resumed brushing back along the flank, then paused to scratch the mule’s withers until its ears flopped and it craned its neck with pleasure. “I’ll need to bring some camphor balls here. The mules have fleas and other insects on their skin.”
“What about your appointment? about Madelaine?” Roger inquired as if he were speaking about the most ordinary thing in the world.
“After the performance, I am to meet with a Deputy Secretary Charlot of the Department of Public Safety at the foot of the Chevaliers; he will have a sprig of evergreen in his buttonhole, and an embossed leather portfolio in his hands,” said da San-Germain in the same commonplace tone. “He has told me he will have information for me.”
“For which you will pay him,” said Roger.
“Certainly.” He took a soft brush and went over the mule’s face, then went back to its coat and the stiffer brush. “Anything else would be folly.”
“A great deal of money?”
Da San-Germain patted the mule again. “And we still must attend to our creatures before the play begins.”
This time Roger would not be turned from the subject. “Are you sure he will give you accurate intelligence, whatever the price? He may be seeking to enrich himself, and will offer a false report; you would have no means of regaining the money without acknowledging the bribe you paid, and that would make it far less likely that you could find out anything useful, and your offer of payment would make it unlikely that you could approach another official to get real information, let alone access.”
“You mean like Decios?” Da San-Germain laughed once. “That thought did cross my mind, but our situation here is rather different than what we encountered on Cyprus—wouldn’t you agree? For one thing, I doubt Charlot would try to kill me.”
“He could denounce you, and that would mean the Guillotine and the True Death.” Roger made no apology for his blunt language.
“It would also mean the end of Charlot receiving bribes and prosecution for doing so; I’m willing to take the risk. He strikes me as a man who is eager to make his fortune and has more to gain by helping me than from condemning me.”
“I hope so,” Roger said, not at all satisfied with the situation.
“You and I can assess what he tells me after I have met with him,” said da San-Germain in a tone that told Roger he did not want to speculate on what he would learn from Charlot.
“The Noniuses are getting their winter coats, and will need more clipping if they’re not to become too long-coated,” Roger pointed out, aware that da San-Germain would say nothing more about Charlot. “And the rest of the horses are putting on weight against the cold. They’ll need more regular brushing.”
“All the more reason for camphor balls,” said da San-Germain. “The stable will be alive with all manner of pests if we don’t stop them now.”
“You’d think Feo would have said something about the problem.” Roger said, and took a pair of heavy scissors to cut a knot of hair out of one of the Hungarian Nonius’ tails. “I haven’t seen Feo this morning.”
“Nor I.” Da San-Germain set his brush aside and picked up a broad, heavy-toothed wooden comb. “He may be out looking for Enee; he didn’t come back to the inn last night, and Photine is worried about him.”
“That youngster is being impudent and foolhardy. He’s determined to upset his mother.”
“Which she tolerates—it only encourages him,”
“That’s obvious: to everyone but Madame.” Roger dropped the knot of mane into the grooming-box. “But why is he so … feckless? Doesn’t he realize he is more likely to damage himself than Madame.”
Da San-Germain considered his answer. “It may be something more than the wildness of youth: I believe that, for all his protests to the contrary, he is trying to remain a child as long as possible, so that he need not give up the luxury of having his mother attend to all his wants and responsibilities. She has done so all his life, making him the center of her world while doing it. There is a kind of fear in him, that he will not be able to command his mother’s love if he becomes an adult; he wants to be accepted as a grown man without sacrificing the advantages he has enjoyed as a boy.”
Roger shook his head, thinking about his own children, dead now for almost seventeen centuries. “He is a difficult son to Madame, for all he is fifteen and considers himself fully grown.”
Da San-Germain was about to add something but went silent as Feo came into the stable and waved a greeting. “They told me you were here.”
“Which they is that?” da San-Germain asked in Italian.
“The ostlers, the ones working on the awning,” said Feo. “Do you know if Madame is busy with the play?”
“She and the rest of the troupe are reviewing the changes the censor demanded,” said Roger. “They’re in the rear parlor.”
Feo stared at da San-Germain. “You’re not with them?”
“I have no reason to be. The changes in twenty lines don’t alter the music. This is Heurer’s problem, and Madame’s. I have other tasks to attend to.”
“Such as procuring the licenses for performances and caring for the animals?” Feo asked with an impish smile. “Doesn’t that get boring?”
“Most of life can become boring, if you allow yourself to be bored,” said da San-Germain; he gave Feo a thoughtful stare, aware that the coachman was uneasy. “What is it? You’re worried.”
“It’s Enee,” said Feo. “I’ve tried to find him, but without success. I was out last night until nearly three, and I’ve been up since dawn. I’ve tried all the places I’ve found him before, and looked where others recommended.” He glanced at the ceiling. “He’s been dicing with the Guards, though Aloys and I have warned him against it. I tried to find him at their haunts, but I was told he wasn’t with them.” He said nothing for several seconds, then admitted, “That’s the extent of my information. I don’t want to have to tell Madame that Enee is not to be found, not so near the beginning of their performance.”
“Such news will distress her,” da San-Germain concurred. “Yet it will not be more welcome if it is delayed.”
“Yes. She expects him to appear in the play. If he isn’t here—”
“If he isn’t here, someone must take his place,” said da San-Germain.
Feo caught a note in da San-Germain’s voice that alarmed him. “Oh, no,” he said. “I’m not going to wrap myself up in cerements and recite poetry.”
“Then you’d best tell her quickly, so she can appoint someone else who will, just in case,” da San-Germain recommended.
Feo pressed his hands together. “What about Roger, then? He tends to the curtains, but I can do that, and assist with the costumes.”
Roger offered a mirthless smile. “I’d rather not.”
“Well, I’d rather not, too.” Feo rounded on da San-Germain again. “What am I going to do? Should I keep looking, or speak with Madame now?”
“You should probably warn Madame as soon as possible. The troupe will be dressing shortly, and if Enee doesn’t re
turn, there will be trouble.”
“That wretched boy!” Feo muttered.
“Yes. It would be easier for the whole company if Enee would not be so irresponsible, which suits him top to toe; all he has to do is enjoy himself and he brings on a spasm of anguish in his mother.” He paused thoughtfully, then continued with more sadness than condemnation. “And this is just such another example of his disregard: Madame has a play to put on; little as she may like it, she needs to know that Enee hasn’t returned. This first performance has to go well, whether Enee is part of it or not. If the play goes poorly, her license may be revoked, which would benefit none of us.” He finished combing the mule’s mane and went to work on its tail.
“All right! All right!” Feo exclaimed. “But it may fall to Roger to take his place.” With that warning, he stomped out of the stable and made his way toward the side-door of the inn.
“Do you think I’ll have to perform?” Roger asked, his manner showing no sign of consternation.
“You may. If you want to volunteer, that should ease Photine’s mind. If she has to ask, it will vex her.” Da San-Germain set the comb aside. “But speaking of the performance, it’s time I put on my costume and tuned the cimbalom. In weather like this, the strings won’t hold their pitch very long.” He let himself out of the stall and was about to leave the stable when Roger stopped him with a single question asked in Imperial Latin.
“My master, how long has it been since you’ve taken nourishment?”
After a slight hesitation, da San-Germain said, “Ten days.”
“With Madame?”
“No.”
“Are you planning to visit one of the troupe in her sleep?”
“No.”
Roger did not quite sigh, but he let out a long, slow breath. “Is that wise?”
“No, it’s not, if nourishment were my only concern.” He stared into the middle distance. “But at this time, I need to be circumspect. For one thing, you know how hazardous it is to be abroad in this city at night, with the Guards everywhere, and the street-gangs. I would be a fool to draw attention to myself, wouldn’t I? The Revolution may have discarded religion, but that doesn’t mean that it embraces vampires.”
“That sounds more like an excuse than a precaution to me; you have moved about cities at night for almost double the time I have known you,” Roger said flatly. “You wouldn’t have to roam the night, in any case, for you have opportunities nearer to hand. Olympe or Tereson or Sibelle would welcome such a dream as you could give them.”
“No, old friend; it would be too great a gamble. You’ve heard them rhapsodize about their dreams.”
“They sound much like many other women’s dreams,” Roger told him.
“It would depend upon what they recall of their dreams, and how they describe them.”
Roger frowned. “You assume you would be recognized.”
“I’m assuming that Photine would not be fooled; if Tereson or Sibelle should describe me as a vision, Photine would not be pleased.”
“She takes her pleasure with the men of her company; there is no one who doubts it, and none deny it, not even the two men who pleasure each other,” Roger observed. “Where would be the harm in you doing likewise with the women, since you’re their patron?”
Da San-Germain answered indirectly. “Gossip is often embroidered in the telling, as we learned in Praha, so consider this—and it was Photine who warned me—that it is impossible to keep a secret in a theatrical company. The players have suspicions about me already; why should I provide fuel for their fires? It would benefit no one, and could compromise my chances of reaching Madelaine.”
“And she is the heart of the matter.”
“She is, and has been from the start.” Da San-Germain nodded to Roger. “I appreciate your concerns for my welfare, but there are times that isn’t—”
“—worth an English farthing,” Roger finished for him as da San-Germain resumed his walk to the inn; he called after him, “I’ll be in to speak to Madame in a few minutes, about Enee’s role.”
The morning was busy throughout the Jongleur: scullions were hurrying into the kitchen with baskets of fresh produce from the morning market, and chambermaids bustled about from room to room, sweeping and tidying. Two hawkers for local shops had arrived and were crying the wares of their employers, much to the annoyance of the staff of the Jongleur. Four of the ostlers were busy working on setting up the awning, two of them setting masts into brick-lined sockets in the ground, the other two unrolling the heavy canvas and hooking its thickly darned buttonholes over the curved two-prong claws set in the top of the fence. There was an urgency about their work, a tension beyond diligence, that revealed their anticipation. It was the same for the actors, who lingered in the rear parlor, poring over their changes in the script for their first performance, which would begin in an hour and a half. Stopping by their parlor, da San-Germain saw that Photine was pale and seemed distracted, while the rest of the troupe were whispering among themselves; Feo had clearly been and gone again. He was about to go on to his room when she caught sight of him and raised her hand, motioning to him to approach.
He went to her at once. “What is it, Photine?”
“You know what it is. Enee isn’t here, and though Feo has gone to search for him again, I can hardly be sure he will find him in time.” She could see the mix of dejection and irritation that had taken hold of the rest of the troupe, and so she added for their benefit as much as his, “You will have to ask Roger to take Enee’s place. There are few lines, and by now he must know everything about the play.”
“Did Feo recommend Roger?” da San-Germain asked, slightly amused.
“He reminded me that he is in better fettle than Aloys,” said Photine, then went on in wheedling supplication. “Promise me you’ll ask him.”
“And if he says no? Would you not prefer that he—”
“I must have someone ready to take my son’s part, in case he doesn’t return in time to perform,” Photine said, this time speaking with real authority. “Your manservant is the one who can do it with the least disruption to the play, so it shall be he who takes on Enee’s role. He speaks well enough for the part. If you are unwilling to tell him, then I’ll send Pascal to inform him that he should ready himself for the play.”
“You needn’t do that,” said da San-Germain, his expression affectionate and gentle. “He intends to offer to do the part; he knows you’re in a demanding situation, and he’s willing to help. As soon as he has finished tending to the horses, he will come to you.”
“And welcome,” said Photine, suddenly breathless. “Of course, all of us must dress. We will not begin later than we’ve announced, not when it’s raining. That would make us seem like amateurs, and later audiences would stay away.”
“Then all the more reason to get ready to perform,” da San-Germain said with an enthusiasm he did not feel.
“Oh, yes,” said Photine, her face brightening. She got to her feet and clapped her hands for attention. “Let us all go prepare. Remember to make sure your costumes don’t get wet, and to mention any fraying or tears to Constance so she can repair them for our next performance.”
The actors heard her out, their edginess of anticipation suddenly much more apparent. All but Sibelle and Valence rose and began to gather up their corrected sides; they said little, preferring not to engage in berating Enee where his mother could hear.
“Can we ask the innkeeper to light a fire for us in this room, so when we’re through, we needn’t be shivering?” Sibelle inquired as she pulled her second-best shawl around her shoulders. “The rain is bad enough, but it’s windy, too.”
“And some mulled wine, nice and hot, would be welcome,” Valence added.
“I’ll arrange both if you like, Madame,” said da San-Germain to Photine before any contention could arise among the players.
Photine faltered, a harried look crossing her features. “Perhaps,” she said.
“It w
ould be my honor to take care of the matter for you.” He bowed to her, and was rewarded with a burst of applause from the rest of the troupe.
“Go ahead, Ragoczy,” she conceded. “Hurry, all of you. We have much to do before the curtains part.” Her French had an edge to it.
Sibelle and Valence were the last to depart, leaving da San-Germain with Photine; she shook her head at him, forbidding him to speak. “Tell Roger I’ll be in my room.”
“One question, Photine,” said da San-Germain. “Why not ask Heurer? It is his play, after all.”
“Oh, my dear Comte,” she said, forgetting all her own strictures about using his title, “that is the very reason I do not ask him: it is his play, and he may be moved to improve upon it while we have an audience, which would leave the rest of us in disarray; it would be like him to edit his speeches to what he thinks is an improvement. Theron is a poet, not an actor, and he is in love with his words.”
“But the role is a small one,” he said. “There’s little opportunity for ad libbing.”
“All the more reason to have Roger do it—he will not seek to enlarge it.” She made a shooing gesture. “There is much to do, and we must all make haste.”
Da San-Germain bowed again. “I will be in my costume in half an hour, and I’ll take my cimbalom down to the wagon-stage.”
“Many thanks,” she said in a distracted tone as she hastened toward the door he held open for her. “If Feo finds Enee—”
“He will notify you at once. If you’re on stage, he will signal you from the wings. If he isn’t back by the end of the performance, then I’ll send Roger to inquire at the Guards’ main station, and engage them to find him.”
“I wish Enee didn’t hate you so much.” With a final, lingering sigh, she turned down the corridor and made for the stairs; da San-Germain went toward the front of the inn, searching for the innkeeper. He found the man in the taproom, checking out the levels in the bottles and ordering more to be brought up from the cellar. As he caught sight of da San-Germain, he all but shoved the waiter aside.
Commedia della Morte Page 26
