Commedia della Morte

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Citizen Ragoczy. What may I do for you?” He rested his large arms on the bar, offering a broad, meaningless smile.

  Da San-Germain did not correct the innkeeper’s use of the title citizen. “Madame is requesting that a fire be built up in the rear parlor in the next hour or so for her troupe; they will want to gather there after the performance. And if you will heat up a large punch-bowl and fill it with hot wine and spices, that will delight them all.”

  “You’ll bear the cost, will you?” the innkeeper asked, being aware that da San-Germain handled the money for the troupe.

  “Of course,” said da San-Germain. “If you would like to be paid in advance, I can do so now.”

  “Later will do. Who knows how much wine they will consume, or how many logs will need to be laid on the fire. Best to be ready to supply their needs lavishly than inadequately.” He studied da San-Germain closely. “You’re a careful fellow for someone who keeps company with players.”

  “It is my duty to care for such things for the troupe,” said da San-Germain. “And to provide the music for the play.”

  “One of the actors told me you’re an exile from Hungary,” the innkeeper persisted.

  “I am.” He knew that any equivocation would lead to more questions, and he did not want to rouse any more suspicions than he already had, for this question led him to surmise that someone had made inquiry about him, and that his answer would be passed on to another.

  “Um. Must be unpleasant.”

  “Upon occasion, but it is preferable to execution.”

  “I should think so.” The innkeeper made a note in his ledger. “I’ll submit my bill to you this evening. Pay me then.”

  “I will,” said da San-Germain, and left the taproom, his stride seeming unhurried for all he covered the distance to his room with remarkable speed. Once in his room, he pulled off his coat and set about donning his costume, preoccupied with anticipation of what he would learn from Charlot when the performance was over. Perhaps, he thought, it was Charlot who had wanted to know more about him.

  Roger arrived some twenty minutes later, a shroud over his arm, a skull-mask dangling from his hand. “I will help you with the lower part of your face, and you can assist me with dressing,” he said.

  Da San-Germain, who had finished putting on the last of his motley except for the mask, looked up from tuning his cimbalom. “Thank you, old friend. You’re doing Madame a great service.”

  “Yes, I am,” said Roger with no sign of emotion. “If Enee should turn up in the next half-hour, I’ll forget every unkind thing I have said about him.”

  “He would be nettled to learn that,” said da San-Germain.

  “I expect so; I’ll keep it to myself, then. I wouldn’t want to encourage him to greater insolence.” Roger coughed experimentally. “What’s to be done with that boy? We can’t go through all this distraint at every performance.”

  “In the next few days, we’ll make other arrangements for Enee’s role, so this will not occur again.” His shroud-like cloak was unlike the rest: it had slits for his arms so that he could play his cimbalom. “Put your coat aside and I’ll wrap you.”

  “Very good,” said Roger, getting out of his coat quickly, and folding it carefully before standing for da San-Germain. “It’s something like a toga, isn’t it?”

  “Not so long or so complicated, or so large, but similar,” said da San-Germain, opening the triangular piece of fabric. “The narrow point goes under your right arm, with the rest of the fabric to the rear,” he said as he set about the winding process. “When I’ve finished, you may set the two pins in place, or I’ll do it for you.”

  “Yours doesn’t require all this draping; it drops over your head,” said Roger, holding his right arm stiffly in place to keep the fabric from sliding.

  “It does,” da San-Germain agreed. “But I’m usually in the shadows, so I needn’t be so careful in the costume as those of you who appear on stage. What I have on looks enough like the cerements the Corpses have on. So long as I wear the half-mask and let my costume hang like the other winding-sheets, Photine will be pleased.”

  “So Constance explained to me,” said Roger. “She said that I’ll have to be careful of the hem, so that it doesn’t drag and trip me.”

  “Bow your left elbow. You’ll need some room to move inside this swath,” said da San-Germain as he continued to work. “This will pass under your right arm again, so you’ll have only one length of cloth holding your arm, but two keeping the shroud in place. That way it won’t slip when you move, so long as you don’t raise your arm above the elbow. It’s awkward, but you’ve seen how to do it.”

  Roger nodded once. “I’ve assisted Tereson to put on her shroud so many times, you’d think I’d know what’s required. But all I do is hold the cloth in place for her, while she turns and wriggles. I should have paid more attention.”

  “You have no reason to chastise yourself, old friend,” said da San-Germain. “If you’ll bend forward a little, so I can get this to fold properly on your shoulder?”

  Roger complied. “I have three lines. I know them well, I’ve heard them countless times already, but I keep fearing that I’ll forget them when I am on stage.”

  “Not an uncommon worry among players, I gather.” He moved behind Roger again, and worked the broad end of the triangular cotton into folds on his shoulder, then dropped the rest of the shroud over his chest. “We’re almost done. You can straighten up for the last of the wrapping.”

  “I feel bound up.”

  “Hardly surprising, since you are,” said da San-Germain as he reached for the small pot of greasy white face-paint, which he handed to Roger. “My jaw, as usual; you will want to use it on your own face when you’ve finished with me.”

  Roger took the pot and pried up its lid. “How inconvenient is it for you, not to have a reflection?” he asked as he scooped out the paint with his fingers.

  “At moments like this, it’s damned inconvenient,” said da San-Germain, sitting down on a three-legged stool near the bed. “When I first came to this life, I paid almost no attention to matters of reflection, and those centuries in the oubliette gave me no reason to look for a reflection. When I first arrived in Egypt, it bothered me, and I was often worried that one of the priests of Imhotep would notice my lack, and would denounce me as something unnatural—which I am.”

  “If you would be quiet while I even the paint,” said Roger; da San-Germain went silent, holding himself in place while Roger smoothed the paint over his jaw and blended it down onto his neck with his fingers. When Roger was satisfied with the result, he said, “You’re ready.”

  Da San-Germain got up and stepped aside, allowing Roger to take the stool. “Try not to scratch your face once I’ve done—the paint can get itchy, but if you touch it…”

  Roger said, “I’ll remember. I’ll scratch when it’s over.”

  The audience gathered under the awning was not very large; a few of the actors tried to conceal their disappointment, though Photine strove to encourage them all to do their best. “This is just the beginning. If we do well in spite of the rain and all the rest, we will command a larger audience next time, and the time after that.”

  “You hope,” said Constance.

  Photine turned to her, her eyes sharp and her voice cutting. “I know that if we do not do well today, we cannot hope to do better at another time, for no one will come to watch us.”

  From his position to the side of the stage, da San-Germain listened attentively. He could sense the players’ states of mind, and he was alert to the problems confronting them with the rain, but he knew that they would rise to the occasion and engage the audience as best they could. He tapped the cimbalom strings softly, frowning at the slippage in pitch; he worked to correct it and waited for the signal to begin.

  Halfway through the play, the audience had grown from twenty to more than thirty-five, which was encouraging. In spite of the weather, there were people watching th
e Commedia della Morte, captivated by the play’s shocks and satire, their attention on the players, not on the persistent drizzle. When the play ended, there was genuine applause; even the Guards assigned to watch the crowd joined in, and as the hats were passed, more than silver dropped into them.

  Behind the curtains, Sibelle was giddy; she bounced as she pulled off her mask and loosened her shroud. “Did you see them at the end? They were all but holding their breaths.”

  Crepin agreed, grinning. “They will come back, some of them, and they will bring their friends. Some of them will tell their comrades, and they may come. We’ll do well here.”

  “Especially if the rain stops,” said Constance.

  Da San-Germain put his cimbalom in its leather case and left the stage for the inn, going directly to his room and getting out of his costume as quickly as he could. He took a rag and wiped off his face, hoping he had got all the paint; then he put on his hammer-tail coat, his black wool cloak, and his bicorn hat; as a last precaution, he tucked a charged pistol into his pocket and made sure his purse was securely fastened inside his waistcoat. As he left the room, he heard the troupe in the corridor bound for the rear parlor, the built-up fire and a punch-bowl filled with hot, spiced wine. For an instant he was sorry that he would not share in their celebration, but then he thought of Madelaine, and that lent purpose to his mission, and he left the inn, going through the last of the mizzle to the statue of the two knights, where a man in his late thirties was standing, a leather portfolio under his arm, and a sprig of pine in his buttonhole.

  “Ragoczy?” the man ventured as da San-Germain approached. “Is this the way to address you?”

  “Charlot?” he countered while he took stock of the man: there was little remarkable about him except his exceptional ordinariness. He was of medium height and medium build, but with a softness about him, like over-ripe fruit. His features were regular but without distinction. His thinning hair was a medium-brown, as were his eyes. Yet there was about him a subtle sense of cruelty, or debauchery, something that was dark and wriggling in his soul, and that awakened da San-Germain’s misgiving. “Yes, among the Hungarians the family name precedes the personal name. You are the Deputy Secretary for Public Safety?”

  “I have that honor,” said Charlot with what was supposed to be a self-effacing smile.

  “Thank you for meeting with me,” said da San-Germain.

  “It’s not the sort of thing I usually do, but as you’re a blood relative of the lady in question, I made an exception for you.” He glanced around the nearly empty square. “I see your Guards are gone now that the play is finished.”

  “That they are.” Da San-Germain wondered how much the price would be raised before Charlot would vouchsafe him the information he had promised. “I am deeply appreciative of your understanding; we have been most uneasy for her welfare. I am charged with discovering where she is being held and in what circumstances.”

  Charlot pretended to muse. “You intend to visit her?”

  “Yes; I thought I made that clear.”

  “The people you represent are noble, are they not?” Charlot asked.

  “For the most part,” said da San-Germain, and volunteered no more.

  “I understand you have a Hungarian title,” Charlot said, cagily scrutinizing him.

  “If an exile has a title, that’s true,” said da San-Germain. “I lost my estates and title a very long time ago.” It was nearly four thousand years since his father’s forces had been vanquished and he himself was taken prisoner, but he mentioned none of this.

  “How unfortunate,” said Charlot with spurious sympathy. “To be well-born but reduced to traveling with a company of players.”

  “You said you had information about Madelaine de Montalia?” da San-Germain reminded him.

  “I had to pay six louis d’or to get specifics,” Charlot said, and let this hang between them.

  Then da San-Germain took eight golden coins from his purse. “This should cover the sum, and your trouble.”

  Charlot snatched them away. “Most kind of you, Ragoczy.” He held up the portfolio. “You’ll find there is a letter of introduction to the warden of the prison where she is being held. You must use it in the next five days, for on the sixth day, she goes to trial unless there is another postponement, and it will be beyond the warden’s power to help you.” He took a long moment to gather his thoughts. “If you should be asked, you did not get this from me.”

  “Of course,” said da San-Germain, taking the portfolio and opening it. Sheltering the paper from the last of the rain with his hunched shoulders, he assured himself it said what Charlot had claimed, then folded it and tucked it into his inner breast-pocket before handing the portfolio back to Charlot.

  “Are you satisfied that this gives value for money?”

  “If she is truly being held at the old monastery, then yes, I am,” said da San-Germain, taking a step back from the Deputy Secretary for Public Safety. “I will send word to our … relatives that I will see her shortly.”

  “You don’t want to say who they are?” Charlot could not keep himself from asking.

  “No,” da San-Germain replied with as gracious a manner as he could muster.

  “I imagine an exile would have to be cautious if he wants to survive,” Charlot said with a smile that was more snide than courteous. He half-turned, then added, “If I can serve you in any other way, you may rely on my discretion.”

  Da San-Germain held up his hand as if suddenly recollecting a matter; recalling what Oddysio Lisson had advised him, he said, “Do you happen to know where I might find Gabrielle Donat?”

  “Why do you want to know?” Charlot asked in a lazy way that revealed that he was listening with keen attention.

  “A colleague of mine has done business with him in the past and desired me to deliver a message to him,” da San-Germain answered.

  “In what regard?”

  “My colleague wishes to arrange with Donat for the shipping of certain goods.”

  “What sort of goods?” Charlot’s eyes narrowed.

  “Upholstery fabric and silverware,” said da San-Germain. “Oh, and silver candlesticks.”

  Charlot studied him before he replied. “I regret to have to tell you that you will have to inform your colleague that Gabrielle Donat is no longer in Lyon. He will have to make other arrangements to get his upholstery fabric, silverware, and candlesticks.” He was about to walk away, but added as an afterthought, “Rumor has it that Donat has gone to England, or perhaps to Canada.”

  “Ah. My colleague will be disappointed. Thank you,” said da San-Germain, trying to keep the irony from his voice.

  Charlot inclined his head, then trod off over the slippery paving-stones, taking care not to look back.

  * * *

  Text of a note from the warden of Saint-Gautier Prison for the Anti-Revolutionary Accused to Ragoczy Ferenz at the Jongleur, Place des Chevaliers, Lyon, carried by Revolutionary Tribunal courier and delivered the day after it was written.

  To the Hungarian foreigner, Ragoczy Ferenz, currently resident at the Jongleur, Place des Chevaliers, the greetings of Egide Loup, Warden of the Saint-Gautier-en-Saone Prison for the Anti-Revolutionary Accused, on the 17th day of October, 1792,

  Citizen Ragoczy,

  For so I understand from the Deputy Secretary of Public Safety that it is the custom among the Hungarians, you are to be addressed thus. I received your request yesterday morning along with the bona fides copy of the letter identifying the basis for your request to visit the prisoner Madelaine de Montalia. She is among those in my charge, and for a reasonable consideration, I will gladly undertake to grant you an hour with her tomorrow between six and seven in the morning. This will be the only time I can guarantee that you will be able to see her, for officers of the Revolutionary Tribunal and the Department of Public Safety will arrive shortly after seven to continue the interrogation of the prisoners, and Madelaine de Montalia will be among those who is
to answer questions.

  Come to the southern gate at ten minutes to the hour and bring the letter of introduction, the original, with you, and such sums as you deem appropriate for the advantage you are being accorded.

  Vive la France!

  Egide Loup

  Warden of Anti-Revolutionary Prisoners

  Saint-Gautier-en-Saone

  8

  Saint-Gautier-en-Saone was an ancient stone pile more than eight hundred years old, with thick, crumbling walls riddled with rotten mortar, encrustations of moss, and uneven surfaces, the main building having dilapidated chimneys, the refectory settled at a precarious angle, and the chapel missing half its roof; it had been neglected for more than two centuries. The waning moon, tumbling through thickening clouds in the western sky, limned the old monastery with an eerie, nacreous shine when it broke out of them. Approaching the southern gate in the darkness of night’s end, da San-Germain felt a rush of consternation mixed with anger. That Madelaine should be kept in such a place! It did not matter to him that he had spent centuries in places worse than this: he loathed the thought of Madelaine having to endure such an ordeal. He could feel his horse tense under him, aware of his distress; he made himself contain his indignation as he dismounted and led the gray up to the warder-gatehouse next to the tall gate of iron-bound timbers. After a brief examination of the place, he found the bell-rope and pulled it, hearing a distant clang as he did.

  It was almost ten minutes later when the warder-gate opened and a man in a rumpled Revolutionary Guard uniform peered into the night, an old-fashioned lanthorn throwing a narrow beam of yellow light. “Ragoczy?”

  “I am he,” said da San-Germain, deliberately thickening his usually faint accent.

  “Come in, then. Warden Loup is waiting for you.” He pushed open the gate with the look of one ill-used by fate, and stared at da San-Germain. “You will have to leave within the hour.”

  “I know,” was the response.

  “The warden has given orders that you are to be watched at all times.”