“If that is to your liking; I expect he’ll have many questions when I return to the Jongleur, the inn where we are presently staying.”
She faltered, trying to summon up what she wanted Theron to know and Montaube to hear. Finally she said, “Tell him I wish I could see his play, and thank him for the service he has done me.”
“I will,” he promised just as there was a rap on the door.
“Five more minutes,” said Montaube.
“Five minutes it will be,” da San-Germain said, raising his voice enough to be heard.
“So we’ll have to say good-bye. So soon.” She stared at him, her eyes echoing the loneliness in his.
“Lamentably,” he agreed, again reaching for her hands.
This time she gave them to him freely. “Do you think you’ll be allowed to come back?”
“That’s in the hands of others,” he told her, and bent to kiss her palms.
“But you’ll make—”
“—every effort: yes, of course.”
She nodded, trying to summon up something to say. At last, she asked, “Will you write to our relatives about this meeting?”
“That is my intention,” he said, drawing her to him by putting her hands on his shoulders. “As soon as I am permitted to return, I will.” He touched his lips to her brow. “Remember that you are dear to … to all of us.”
“Most kind,” she murmured, holding him as if to draw strength from him, all the while knowing that what both of them sought and needed, neither could provide. She cleared her throat. “Your visit has been … has been”—she wanted to say wonderful but settled for the much safer “most welcome. I’m sorry it could not be longer.” Then, gathering her courage, she pushed back from him. “Go now, so they will let you come back.”
“My heart,” he said with a slight, elegant bow.
“Tell Theron that I’m grateful for what he has done.”
“I will,” he said as he heard the door behind him pulled open; he swung around to face Montaube. “The time is up. I know.”
“If you will come with me?” Montaube said automatically. He locked the door with care, then pointed to the corridor.
“I thank you for tending to my visit,” said da San-Germain, and handed the young man two silver coins.
Without a single change in expression, Montaube said, “I hope you will come again,” and clinked the coins to make his point as he made his way out of the dark prison into the murky dawn.
* * *
Text of a letter from Geoffrey George Eustace Wattle on tour in France to his uncle, Eustace Charles St. Ives Bradleigh, Fellow at King’s College, Cambridge, in England, carried by university postal courier and delivered nineteen days after it was written.
To my esteemed Uncle E. C. St.I. Bradleigh, the affectionate greetings of his nephew G. G. E. Wattle, on the road to Lyon on this, the 18th day of October, 1792.
My dear Uncle,
I trust this finds you in your customary good health after your holiday in Northumberland, and that you will pass on to your sister (my devoted Mater) such news of me as will be welcome to her and my brothers.
I further trust you had my letter from Amsterdam, where most of the Dutch still greet us as comrades, although some are less cordial than they have been of late, fearing we may withdraw our support of them if this war with the French becomes more vigorous. Whatever alliances Pitt decides to honor, I fear the Dutch will not emerge unscathed from the war. I will give you a full report upon my return, which I may advance to February rather than April, if the weather will allow me to travel safely.
So without further rodomontade:
On your suggestion, I avoided Paris, but I have discovered that even outside of the Capital, the French are unusually volatile, and there is talk of the Parisian Jacobins demanding the submission of the Girondists, who are particularly strong in Lyon, whither I am presently bound. I have found the French in turmoil, which was to be expected, but which has led to some instances that trouble me. I have had to pay more “fees,” by which I mean bribes, than either you or I anticipated, and that may leave me with a lean purse by the end of the year.
Of course, most French are wary of all English, and that is still the case, and growing steadily more entrenched, though not without cause. I have several times been approached by persons claiming to represent various French persons who wish to leave the country as discreetly as possible, and are willing to pay some considerable sums to gain the means of travel that does not involve going through any of the official points of egress. I have let it be known that I cannot do anything myself, but have recommended contacting the captains of English merchant ships, who are not as particular as many about their passengers, and are often inclined to overlook a lack of official permits for a purse full of gold. That may be the case with French merchants as well, but since there are rewards offered to those denouncing those seeking to escape, I have given it as my opinion that foreign merchants are safer than French ones. I happened upon a captain from the other side of the Atlantic; I do not know for certain if he were American, or of some other nation, but he told me that he had given up carrying slaves and was earning his living by carrying the French who could meet his price to the New World. He said that his hold had been converted from cargo holds to cabins, and that although these passengers demanded better food, there were fewer of them, and they were better-behaved than the slaves he bought in African markets.
From what I have been hearing, it is not unlikely that if Lyon does not capitulate and join with the National Convention on its policies, they may be subject to military action. Fine way to express their Revolutionary unity! You would think that with the war in Holland, they would not seek to turn their soldiers on their own cities. When first I heard of this, I thought it was impossible, but I am no longer convinced of that, which has resulted in many qualms. I am sorry now that only Humphries elected to accompany me (which he has informed me he now regrets doing), for as two foreigners alone in a place where the mob is ever more in charge, and the Government itching to bring it to heel, we are exposed to greater risks than either Humphries or I anticipated, and I believe even you did not perceive for the dangers they have proven to be. Poor Humphries has declared that we must leave soon, despite all the assurances he gave Mr. Priestley and the members of the Lunar Society. Whatever flattery he found in their request that he report events here to them has withered away, and small wonder.
The executions which have been generally decried are still being carried out, and in some places in increasing numbers. I understand that situations in various of the larger towns have reached such a state that ordinary folk are no longer safe from accusations, and that, should Robespierre have his way, accusation and condemnation will become the law of the land, if it is not already accepted by the National Convention. To add to the grotesquerie, there have been grand festivities in Paris, staged to celebrate the death and lawlessness that they say has taken over that city, and is becoming the order of the day in the towns. In Paris, it is the dramatist Jean-Marie Collot d’Herbois who has charge of the merry-making, and it seems that there will be more of that kind of thing, macabre as it appears. Many towns have already announced their intentions to emulate Paris and d’Herbois, which can only mean more trouble for the people, and for foreigners as well. Of all the troublesome signs coming out of this Revolution, these (dare I call them?) ghoulish revels are the most disturbing to me. The praise of carnage for its own sake does not augur well for the outcome of this Revolution: it is not like the American Revolution, when there was no opportunity for the rebels to strike down the monarchy or redress the wrongs of centuries. This is quite another upheaval, and it promotes destruction and mayhem, not independence and identity.
If any of this may be useful to any of your associates in the Government, and those in the Lunar Society, you may make use of it in any way you see fit.
Until I see England and you again, I commend myself to you, and to our family.
G. G. E. Wattle
PART III
MADELAINE ROXANNE BERTRANDE DE MONTALIA
Text of a letter from Jules Topinard, physician of Lyon, to the Department of Public Safety in Lyon, carried by the physician’s servant and delivered the day it was written.
To the members of the Department of Public Safety, the greetings from Jules Topinard, physician, and resident of the city, on this, the 18th day of October, 1792,
Citizens and officers of the Department,
I have just come from my mandated duty at the prison of Saint-Gautier-en-Saone, where I accompanied your officers for the purpose of attending to the health of the prisoners. As I told your colleagues, I would most stringently recommend that the prisoners be removed from that place and housed in more salubrious facilities, for the current site of their detention is contributing significantly to the general decline in the prisoners’ health. Of those I have examined, only half can be said to be in reasonable health; not that they are hale and hearty, but they are at least not showing signs of illness or starvation.
Of those that have apparent illness, six of the prisoners have marked fever, brought about by the cold and damp of their housing, and among them, four show indications of putrid lungs. Among the rest, there are a few alarming symptoms: the young prisoner de Montalia has what I must call the reverse of a fever, her body being dangerously cold and her pulse barely perceptible, signs of advanced enervation, no doubt due to the conditions under which she is presently being incarcerated.
The monks abandoned the place for a reason, which had a direct bearing on its location and the resultant damp; it would be prudent if you were to consider transferring the remaining detainees while you still have some to bring to trial. I fear that even the most obdurate member of the Revolutionary Court would be disinclined to condemn a man to the Guillotine when it was apparent that he was already condemned to perish from disease, and as the stated goal of the Revolutionary Court is to redress wrongs, I do not see how this approach to meting out justice can produce public approbation.
If you are willing to consider my thoughts on this matter, I recommend moving the prisoners to the old Customs House near the south gate: it is not much used, and the merchants presently occupying the ground floor can be compensated for having to move. The Guards could be installed on that floor, the shops converted to barracks and dining hall. The offices above, while small, are drier and the building warmer than Saint-Gautier, and they may readily be fitted with iron doors, or simple heavy braces put on the doors presently in place, making cells that are every bit as guardable as the cells of Saint-Gautier. There is another advantage to such a move: it will be possible to maintain watch on them more easily inside the city walls than outside, for escape within the town is less likely than it is from a remote building like Saint-Gautier, a league beyond the city walls.
Whatever your decision, I have to say that in my opinion, another two, and possibly three, of the prisoners will be dead in five days if they are not moved, and quickly. They will require nursing care at once in any case. This is not a matter to be debated at length; this problem must be addressed hastily, or there will not be much left to address.
This is what comes of taking in more prisoners than we can put up, and may turn out to be a more certain death for the prisoners than the blade can provide. Surely the ideals of the Revolution would compel you to show mercy to these wretches, little though they or their families may have shown it to you.
Tomorrow morning I will present myself to you at nine of the clock, and will answer any questions you may have for me regarding the prisoners; I pray you will be prepared to make a thorough inquiry and to arrive at your conclusion by evening. I know some of you will think it unwise to bring illness into the city, and there is an argument on that point, but prison is prison, and it is not likely that those among the prisoners who are most stricken will have the opportunity to move among the populace to spread the contagion. Nurses assigned to the prisoners may be housed in the same building, so that any exposure they have to disease will be kept within the walls of the prison, and given no opportunity to spread amid the people.
Do not let dread rob you of your compassion. I tell you again that the time for action is short if you are to save those who are not yet displaying symptoms: something must be done or you will lose more of them than those presently near death. In the name of the Revolution and its purpose, I ask you to show mercy to these unfortunates, who presently suffer the same agonies as any person struck with such diseases.
Vive la France!
Vive la Revolution!
Jules Topinard, physician
#27, Rue des Bergers
1
“Are you going to try to see her again?” Photine asked as she rolled into da San-Germain’s arms; her linen sheet slid off her shoulder, exposing her breast almost by accident. She gazed into his face with a look that bordered on adoration. She had been with him for the better part of an hour, and most of that time had been taken up with rapturous love-making that had left her deeply pleasured, yet oddly unsated, though she was gratified for all he had done for her; her disappointment was that he still had not used her as all other men had, and this bothered her, keeping her from achieving the maximal satisfaction she yearned for; it seemed to her that she had been cheated of applause.
“Yes,” he replied, and laid his hand on the rise of her hip; her skin was silky and warm in the chilly room. “If I am permitted.”
“If you have enough money to pay the clerks and the warden, you will be, never fear,” Photine assured him.
He thought for an instant of his athanor, waiting in Padova in his laboratory, where he made gold and jewels; he would be glad of having it with him, but that, he reminded himself, would require another, heavier wagon and that would mean questions he was not eager to answer, and more problems than he already faced. It was not that he lacked money, but his reserve was shrinking. He still had a store of jewels in the hidden safe in the larger cart, but he was reluctant to use any of them. “I believe I can afford another round of bribes,” he said, feeling her continuing desire flare.
“Will you take the poet with you?” She tweaked the collar of his nightshirt. “He tells me he wants to see her.”
“I think not, nor should I encourage him to go to see her alone,” da San-Germain said, a sardonic curl to his mouth. “Theron is becoming too well-known in this city, and his presence at the prison would draw attention to our mission, which could defeat the whole reason for visiting her.”
“Yes, it would cause notice; as you say, he has garnered a following, and is not afraid to make the most of that, which is good for the play, but not for anything private,” Photine agreed, and hugged him emphatically, clinging to him as voluptuously as she could in the narrow confines of her bed. She was able to sound only mildly interested when she asked, “I suppose I’ll have to give you up to her when she is free?”
“Not as you think, not in any way that would rob you of our enjoyment,” he answered, his hand wandering down from her hip to the sea-scented cleft between her legs, moving in ways that made her gasp with delectation. “She is of my blood.”
She wriggled to accommodate his hand, making little, purring sighs as he touched the soft folds. “And that stops you?” If only, she thought, he would remove his nightshirt, but he had told her he would not, and she was not going to seek an explanation now.
“It does,” he said, and bent to kiss her mouth, responding to the passion that had wakened in her, trying to find the source of her inmost ardor as his esurience increased, reacting to her reawakened carnality.
She broke their kiss. “But why would that—”
“Vampires do not—”
“I wish you wouldn’t use that word,” she complained, but with a softened look that took the sharpness of her protest away. “It sounds so dire, like harpies or devils.”
“Nevertheless, it is what I am,” he murm
ured, stroking the rise of her thigh. “Those of my blood have no life to give one another and it is life we must seek. Living blood is not only life, it is unique to every living person who has it, and it is that distinction that makes those of my kind seek out those who are still breathing, to be revivified by that uniqueness that is found in intimacy, in knowing another person completely, and making that knowledge part of ourselves.”
“Do you have such knowledge of me?” Photine asked, a defensive edge to her tone. “What do you know?”
“I know you to the limit you will allow me to know you, as is the case with all those who accept me with understanding,” he answered and went on, “Madelaine and I may have love for each other, but not in any way that we can express as the living do. Lying with her would benefit neither of us,” he told her gently.
“But you did at one time, didn’t you? At least six times, if what you’ve told me is right.” There was an implacable note in her observation.
“That was some time ago.” His manner warned her that this was not a matter to pursue.
Photine took a few seconds to frame her reaction in such a way that it would not seem a challenge to him. Finally she said, “So, supposing that your warnings are well-founded, if I lie with you two more times—or is it one more time?—and become like you when I die, as you’ve said I would, you and I could not be lovers again?” She put her hand to his mouth to stop anything he might answer; she shivered artfully. “That’s a dreadful thought.”
“You will have to decide what you wish to do,” he said calmly. He had been asked such questions many times and had grown more used to explaining. “I will answer anything you would like to know, but the decision you make must be your own; anything else would be folly. If you cannot live by touching the lives of others through this kind of exchange”—he recalled how distressed Demetrice had been when the full realization of the needs of her vampire life struck her, and how she had given herself the True Death shortly after—“then do not risk coming to this undead life.”
Commedia della Morte Page 29
