Commedia della Morte

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Photine,” was the answer, followed at once by sobs.

  He opened the door at once. The fear that she had been waiting for him vanished as soon as he saw her, her beautiful cloak clutched around her, her hair in disarray, her make-up raddled, her lips swollen, her face bruised, a bit of torn ruff poking out of the cloak’s collar, and a strap of her left shoe broken. “Photine,” he exclaimed softly as he drew her into the room, closing the door quietly behind her. “What on earth—?”

  “I’ve done something … dreadful,” she said, attempting to stifle her weeping.

  “What happened?” He reached to take her cloak, but she held it closed, shaking her head repeatedly.

  “I can’t…” She pushed away from him, and he saw what looked like a small burn on the back of her hand, which she pulled back under the folds of her cloak.

  “Photine,” he said, kindly and persuasively, “tell me.”

  “I can’t,” she said again, waving her hand as if to ward off any questions. “Not yet.”

  Puzzled, he offered her his arm for support, but she cringed. He felt alarm awaken in him. “Can you tell me what sort of trouble—”

  “I’ve … I’ve…” She stumbled toward the bed and dropped onto it, and began to cry in earnest.

  He wondered if she and Heurer had had a spat, but decided that was unlikely; for all their volatile dealings, they had never come to blows, let alone any exchange that was as vicious as her appearance indicated. She would never be as distraught as she was now about anything her playwright had done. Going to her side, he repeated, “What happened?”

  “I…” She steadied herself and tried again, this time at the beginning. “I received an invitation.”

  “What manner of invitation?” he asked when she did not go on.

  Photine coughed, took a deep, uneven breath. “From an official. One of the men at the Department of Public Safety. He said…” Once again she wept. “He said that he could help Enee.”

  Da San-Germain spoke very gently. “And could he?”

  “He said he could; he’s in the right position to do it. He had intimated that he would. He has the authority, and offered … to spare him. For … a price.” She doubled over, her arms folded across her torso, and rocked, giving abrupt little sobs.

  For an instant he considered that she might be performing, expressing turmoil on an enhanced scale rather than experiencing it deep within herself; one look into her eyes convinced him that her anguish was genuine. With a consoling murmur, he put his hand on her shoulder only to have her shrug it away. “What did he do to you?” he asked calmly, speaking in the same tone he would use to quiet a frightened horse.

  Her mouth turned down and her lips trembled. “He’s disgusting!” She turned to him. “He demanded I … I serve him … service him.” Suddenly she gagged; he handed her a towel as she vomited. When she was done, he took the towel from her and carried it to the ewer-and-basin sitting atop the discreet commode.

  “If you’d rather not continue,” he offered.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t think I was so upset,” she apologized, her face reddening. “He was loathsome.” She trembled, revulsion gripping her again. “He has…”—she searched for a proper description—“Soldiers’ Pox. There were little sores and blisters all around his member.”

  “And you … did more than touch him?”

  “Yes,” she said with a sudden trembling. “Will I take it? Has he passed it to me?” Her anxiety was visible.

  Rather than answer directly, da San-Germain rose and went to his old chest where he kept his medicaments. He opened the front panel and removed four vials of an opalescent liquid and brought them to her. “Drink one of these now, and the rest over the next three days, first thing in the morning.”

  She eyed the vials suspiciously. “He gave me something to drink. It looked like that, only darker. That isn’t of wormwood, is it?”

  He smiled faintly. “No. It begins as bread,” he said, and did not add that the bread he used was moldy, and went through a process to purify its substance. “This is my sovereign remedy. If you take it as I instruct, you should not take the Soldiers’ Pox.”

  Staring at the vials with some suspicion, she asked him, “Are you certain?” She took hold of her cloak once more as if to retreat behind it.

  “As certain as I am of any medicament,” he said, smiling encouragement. “Take it, Photine. Please.”

  She handled the vials as if she feared they might suddenly explode. “Made from bread, you say?”

  “From bread,” he pledged. “It has served its purpose a thousand times over. It doesn’t taste very pleasant, but it does relieve fever and infection. And it stops certain diseases, like Soldiers’ Pox, completely.”

  With a sigh of capitulation, she took the vials. “If it will stop the Soldiers’ Pox, then it may taste bitter as gall for all I care.” She removed the stopper in one of the vials and tipped the contents down her throat. “You’re right: it tastes foul,” she said, and wiped her mouth with the edge of her cloak.

  “The same again tomorrow, and for two days after,” he told her.

  She pulled back her cloak and put the vials into the concealed pocket, then closed the front again. “If I don’t sicken before nightfall, I’ll do it.” She turned away from him. “Don’t let the others know.”

  “I won’t,” he assured her, and waited to hear more.

  “It was … hideous. Now it is over, and Enee will be free.” She said it as if to convince herself. “If he is free, it will be worth enduring that man.”

  “You have doubts that Enee will be released?” Da San-Germain shared her dubiety, but kept this to himself.

  “He promised, but promises are easily broken,” she said, avoiding his eyes. “He may have been … pretending…” She let the words fade.

  “What will you do then, if he fails to honor his promise?”

  “I don’t know. If I had any way to force him to answer for his actions—” She stopped, changing her demeanor and tone with the ease of a magician. “But who am I, to denounce him? What proof is there of what I say? He is a Deputy Secretary of Public Safety, and I am an actress. Which of us would be believed?”

  “You have injuries,” da San-Germain pointed out; he had seen the purple welts on her neck and shoulders, and the disheveled state of her clothing. “If a physician examined you and gave his report to the Revolutionary Tribunal, the officials would have to hear you out.” He drew up the single straight-backed chair from its position by the fireplace and set it so he could face her without pressing too close to her. “You’ve been badly used,” he said.

  “He would claim that someone else did that, and could then accuse me of malice toward him, an attempt to discredit him for imprisoning my son.”

  “There would be a scandal, and if he had ever done such things before, he could be disgraced.” Da San-Germain watched her more closely than she realized.

  She ducked her head. “He said if I didn’t do whatever he wanted, Enee would die, because of what he did to you, and he would make no effort to prevent it.” She sighed. “I thought he was like so many men—seeing what they want to see in me, and perhaps he did. I can accommodate such imaginings, and have, often and often, but not with this man.”

  He chose his next words carefully. “And what did he want from you, in exchange for your son?”

  “He wanted my acquiescence in all he demanded—I wanted to save my son,” she said with such simplicity that he was astonished. “He wanted to … debauch me.” When he said nothing in response, she went on. “I know it was foolish to go, but what choice did I have? I thought if it would deliver Enee from harm, I had to see Charlot”—she spoke his name as if it were vitriol—“to beg him to spare my child. He said he would. He said Enee would live. What could I do?”

  Although he agreed that she had been reckless to go to Charlot, he understood how Photine might believe she would be able to control the situation, to handle the man as she woul
d handle any audience. “I’m sorry he used you so shamefully in the name of your son,” he said, hoping to draw her out.

  “It will achieve what I sought, if he is true to his word.” For Photine, this was an unusually stolid response.

  “But it was a cruel price,” said da San-Germain.

  “I had to do all that he asked, cruel or sweet,” she whispered. “If I balked, he struck me with a thin cane, one with a ferrule on the head. He used that … in distasteful ways.” She smoothed one hand over her petticoat.

  “How long were you with him?” He extended his hand to her, but did not touch her, for there was a shine to her eyes that told him she was barely able to hold her panic at bay. “I assume you went alone.”

  “I got there at half-past-ten of the clock, and he let me go shortly after three in the morning. Not truly let me go—he threw me out onto the street, calling me a bawd, and spitting on me.” She spoke as if she were reciting by rote words in a foreign language. “It took me some time to get back here. I … I didn’t want to be seen.”

  “Did you get here without incident?” he asked, seeing a concealed wince in her last remark.

  “You mean, was I accosted? I was, by a drunken Guard. He was easily dealt with: I kicked his shin, stamped on his foot, and ran.” There was a brief flash of satisfaction in her eyes, and then the appalled sheen returned.

  The silence between them stretched out, threatening to become impenetrable; finally da San-Germain moved his chair back. “I am sorry you had to—”

  “It wasn’t just the demands he made of my body, he asked me questions. Many questions. Not just about Enee. It wasn’t all coupling and accommodating, he wanted to know things.” Her face revealed a defiance that da San-Germain knew boded ill. “He did ask me about Enee, and the troupe, about Heurer. And you. He wanted to know why Enee stabbed you.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  She sighed. “That I didn’t know why. He didn’t press me about that.” There was a suggestion of more.

  Da San-Germain went very still. “What other things did he ask?”

  “How long I had been an actress. Who my patrons had been. Where I had performed. How long had I known you. Where had we met. What your connection was to the troupe. When did you decide to sponsor us. Were you in love with me. How you arranged our travel. Why you should pay us to bring our Commedia della Morte to France. That was the worst, explaining the purpose of the tour.” She turned a pleading glance on him. “I tried not to tell him, but he didn’t believe you were doing a service for your family. He said it had to be more than that, that no nobleman, not even an exiled one, would come into France as a favor.”

  “And what did you say?” he asked without a hint of emotion.

  “I said that you wanted to free one of your relations from prison.” Having admitted that, she began once more to cry, this time in a dejected, listless way.

  “Did you tell him who that relation is?”

  She nodded several times. “He heated up a poker and said he’d put it into me if I lied.” She put her hand to her mouth, as if she might throw up again. “So I told him. I … I was afraid to lie, don’t you see? I knew he would do it; I think he hoped I would equivocate, so he would have an excuse to do it.” Her eyes were jumpy and she looked at everything but him. “I said you planned to hide her as one of the troupe and to take her with us when we left France.” Her expression changed again, taking on an apologetic servility that da San-Germain was fairly sure was a performance, for there was an undercurrent to her mannerisms that had been lacking before, a slyness that was new. “But we may not leave France now in any case, not if Collot d’Herbois will sponsor us here, for that would be a triumph. In such a place, Charlot would have reason to fear me.” She flung this last at him as if to stop any argument he might raise with her over what she had done. “It is a great opportunity for us.”

  “It is,” he said, trying to discern what lay behind her mercurial shift.

  “If Collot d’Herbois sponsors us, we can go far. We might have our own theater. I long to have my own theater again.” She stared at him as if trying to anticipate his protest. “This may be my last chance to have it. I answered all that he asked of me.”

  Da San-Germain refused to be baited into a dispute with her about this possibility, asking her with the utmost urbanity, “Did you tell Charlot when the attempt to save Madame de Montalia would occur?”

  Photine hesitated before she answered, baffled by his formidable reserve. “I had to. He said he would beat me again if I refused, and would cut my face. I explained about the parade tomorrow … today, really. How we are going to disrupt the transfer of the prisoners, create an incident, and slip her away in one of our shrouds.” She reached out for his hand, her face eloquent of remorse. “I’m sorry, Comte, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I had to tell him, don’t you see? I didn’t have any choice, not with what he wanted to do.” A little of her dramatic flare had returned, and she threw open her cloak to show the ruin of her clothes and the visible extent of her injuries. “Charlot is a monster. He would have done worse than this to me if I hadn’t told him what he wanted to know. Not just cut my face, but break my legs. That would destroy me as an actress, to be scarred and lame.”

  “Yes. I understand,” he said, with a growing relief that Photine had not learned of his work this night, that she still assumed the rescue would take place in the coming afternoon. He also realized that he would have to get Madelaine out of her hiding-place between the inner and outer walls of the city sooner than he had planned, and start for the frontier before noon, during the day and in rain, both enervating for those of their blood; they would be gone before the Commedia della Morte’s parade began. They would have to travel clandestinely and in disguise, for no doubt, Charlot would have Guards after them before the next sunset.

  “Don’t be angry with me, Comte. I couldn’t bear it if you were angry,” she appealed to him, her eyes filling with tears but not to the point of overflowing.

  “I’m not angry with you, Photine, I’m angry at Charlot, that he should abuse his power and you so insolently.”

  This time she wept with gratitude. “Oh, Comte, you are so good, so generous. I am so grateful to you.” She gathered her cloak around her again. “If I could apologize for all this … I know I’ve betrayed your confidence, which is a despicable thing, but if I hadn’t, my son would be executed. I’m his mother. I had to—”

  “Yes,” he said, cutting her effusions short. “Never mind that now. We haven’t time to sort this out. Morning is coming, and there is much you have to do before your performance. You will need to clean yourself up as much as you can, and choose how to conceal your injuries before you perform today. We can discuss this later, perhaps this afternoon, perhaps when we’re in Padova again.”

  “But the troupe is staying here, to work with Collot d’Herbois; we may not return to Padova for months, or years, and who knows what will become of us before such a meeting?” she reminded him; she got to her feet. There was an air of purpose about her now, a kind of familiar anticipation that restored her self-confidence. “After today’s performance—we’ll talk then, not just about … what happened tonight, but all the rest. You deserve to know the whole of it. But you’re right. Just at present, there are so many arrangements to be made that neither of us can—” She laid her burned hand on his arm, giving him a melting smile. “You won’t be trying to rescue your kinswoman now, will you? We won’t have to disrupt the transfer of prisoners, will we? You would be caught if you made the attempt now.”

  “You’re right—I won’t do that,” he said, opening the door for her. “Remember to take the remedy in the vials.”

  “Oh, yes. I will. And I thank you for your remedy. I would not want to have the Soldiers’ Pox.” She did a skittish half-curtsy, then went along almost on tip-toe to the door to her chamber; she turned to give him a last smile, then let herself in, closing the door silently.

  Da San-Germain list
ened intently, but the Jongleur was quiet. No servants were about yet, which he hoped meant that their meeting had been unobserved. He stepped back into the chamber and closed the door, then sat down to revise his plans yet again. If only he had more time, he thought as he mentally reviewed the problem.

  It was almost six of the clock when Roger returned, remarking as he came in, “The scullions are up in the kitchen and will bring the tub up for your bath shortly.” He pulled off his long-coat and rubbed his chin. “I’ll get the basin. We both need a shave.”

  “The basin is presently unusable,” said da San-Germain, and explained about Photine’s desecrated evening with Charlot. “There has to be bath-water we can use, before I bathe.”

  Roger studied da San-Germain. “You’ve worked another plan, haven’t you, my master?’

  “Circumstances require it,” da San-Germain replied in Byzantine Greek. “I don’t like it, but it should suffice.”

  “Tell me,” said Roger in the same language, no sign of doubts or distress in his faded-blue eyes.

  “It will require that you and I travel apart,” da San-Germain said. “I have tried to come up with a better way than this, but I haven’t been able to.”

  “We’ve done so before,” said Roger, more resigned than annoyed.

  “Yes, but I would rather not.” Memories of Spain, of Cyprus, of Leosan Fortress, of the Pilgrim’s Road in Abyssinia all flickered through his mind.

  Roger absent-mindedly picked up the Hungarian clothing da San-Germain had draped over the end of the bed. “Will you be needing these, or shall I pack them?”

  “Pack them, in one of the false-bottomed trunks, in case the Guards from the escort give descriptions of what we were wearing,” he said, adding, “If you can, dispose of them when you reach Valence.”