“And you think she’ll take in her brother’s whore?” The Guard laughed furiously. “If you’re so naive as that!”
“I’m bringing her things her brother wanted her to have. They aren’t much, but it’s all she’ll get from him now that the Revolutionary Courts have taken his lands and houses.”
“Entrusting a fallen woman with family treasure. What sort of fool do you take me for?” He strode to the first pack-mule and unfastened the broad leather straps that held two large cases, one on each side of the animal.
“They both have earth in them. My patron wanted her to have a remembrance of her birthplace. The Court wouldn’t let him provide anything more.”
“Really?” The Guard lifted the lid on the on-side chest and was sprinkled with reddish earth for his pains.
“If you empty it out on the ground, I’ll have to shovel it back in,” Madelaine said slowly. “I’ve already had to do that twice, and lost some of the earth each time.”
“It would be a clever place to hide gems and other valuables.” The Guard pondered if he, too, should turn the chest over.
“Had there been anything beyond the earth in the chests, it is long gone,” Madelaine told him, a sad indifference in her words.
The Guard was torn between greedy curiosity and a desire to get in out of the cold. Finally he reached up and spilled the contents of the chest onto the road. “I guess you’ll have to shovel this back in. I’ll watch.”
Madelaine dismounted, went to the second pack-mule, and untied the shovel from where it lay atop three cases. “If you have a sieve, you may want to fetch it,” she said sardonically.
“And give you the chance to conceal what you carry? I’m not such a fool, me.” He reached for his pipe and lit it, content to lean on the side of his cabin and watch her slowly shovel the earth back into the chest, taking satisfaction in Madelaine’s discomfirture. When Madelaine was almost done, a merchant with a train of nine mules and an escort of six men came up behind her; reluctantly the Guard ambled out to see them. When he came back, he spoke sharply to her. “Get the rest of that dirt stowed, pay me your fee, and be on your way.”
“The merchant paid you better than I can?” she asked as she added another shovel of earth to the chest.
“Do it, or expect to lose your necklace,” the Guard threatened, glowering at her.
Madelaine did as she was told, then scrambled awkwardly into the saddle, pulled her greatcoat tightly around her, and went through the gate with her mules and her baggage after paying her forty-three louis d’or. The road was icy, and the snowfall continued lightly but persistently, so that she dared not try to rush; the mules kept on their steady walk, never straying from the road until late afternoon when she took the turning that led to a posting inn, where she had to pay a handsome bribe to be allowed, as a single woman without a maid or a nurse, to stay in one of the guest-rooms for the night.
“I am to meet a relative here. It was he who secured my passage out of France,” she said as she handed the innkeeper forty louis d’or beyond the price of her room and the care of her mules.
“No one has come here asking for a woman from France,” said the innkeeper.
“I will wait in my room until he arrives; he will need a room of his own,” she said. “You need have no worry about my presence.” She hesitated. “I’ve asked your ostlers to bring my two large chests to the room, along with my valise.”
“So long as you pay for them, I have no objection,” said the innkeeper piously, bowing her toward the stairs to the upper floors.
It was over an hour until the ostlers struggled up the stairs with the two chests and her valise; they set them unceremoniously in the middle of the room and collected their silver.
“Feels like you’ve got rocks in those chests,” one of the ostlers grumbled.
Madelaine managed a rueful chuckle. “It does seem so,” she said as she shut the ostlers out of the room, then went to the darker of the two chests to unbuckle the straps. Moments later, she stepped back as da San-Germain, wrapped in a sheet like a shroud, unfolded himself and climbed out of the chest that now contained only a small amount of his native earth.
“Thank all the forgotten gods, we don’t need to breathe but to speak,” he said as he worked his way out of the sheet. He took her hands and kissed them. “I am greatly obliged to you, my heart.”
“I was afraid the Guard at the border would make me open the second chest,” she confessed, her face pale, her violet eyes appearing huge in her face.
“So was I. That merchant was fortuitous.” He was surprised at the force of her embrace.
“I was so frightened, I thought I wouldn’t be able to fool the Guard.”
“He is used to frightened people. You did very well.” He wondered briefly if Photine could have faced such an audience as the border Guard with such composure, and supposed that she could.
After holding him for a long minute, Madelaine stepped back. “There’s a drop to the stable-yard from the window. The innkeeper knows you are coming.”
“Provident again,” he said, going to look out the window; night was closing in, and he would have to announce his arrival shortly or risk being locked out.
Madelaine stopped him. “There is a widow on the floor above. She’s in the company of her son, who is in the taproom. Tonight she might be glad of a dream.”
“And you?” he asked, testing the hinges on the window before opening it.
“There is a man in a private parlor. He is a banker, according to the registry. He, too, may welcome a dream,” she said.
He looked down to make sure they were unnoticed. “I’ll return directly, and then we shall decide how to proceed.” With a hint of a bow, he climbed out of the window, dropped silently to the stable-yard, then went around to the front of the inn to officially welcome Madelaine de Montalia to Italy.
* * *
Text of a letter from Photine d’Auville in Lyon, to Ragoczy Ferenz, Conte da San-Germain, in Padova, sent by letter carrier, and delivered eighteen days after it was written.
To Ragoczy Ferenz, Conte da San-Germain, the affectionate greetings of Photine d’Auville, in Lyon, on this the 13th day of March, 1793.
My dear Conte,
They are trying to impose new dates on us, but I cannot give up the calendar I know in favor of the new, but in time, I suppose I will become accustomed to the new.
I hope you are well and safely back in Padova. I am sending this to you there, trusting that it will be delivered to you eventually. I was sorry that we had no chance to make our farewells, but I understand the circumstances, and I can only be grateful to the letter you provided, along with the very generous sum you provided for the troupe. Because of that gift, we are now about to open a proper theater here in Lyon, with the approval of Collot d’Herbois, who has taken an interest in us, and in Heurer.
You will want to know that Tereson has left us for a time. The baby is due in May, and since Feo has not returned, despite his promise, Tereson has gone back to her family. She will give the baby to her cousin to raise and will rejoin us. If you encounter Feo, I ask that you inform him of these events.
Theron Heurer has gained much more fame, and has provided us with two more plays. We are beginning to look for more actors to play the roles Heurer has written. I begin to see that we might become the center of the arts in this city, to which end Theron is wholly committed.
I am deeply minded of your kindness and your patronage that brought us to this place. Without all you have done for us, I would never again have performed in France, let alone been able to have my own theater. Let me thank you now, from the fullness of my heart. For one who is not of the theater, you have shown much greater understanding of our art than most patrons could ever have done.
This last winter we had a great deal of rain, and it is still continuing, which has reduced the number of performances we have been able to give. For that reason alone your contribution to us upon your departure has been most h
elpful, and will continue to help us as we move into our new theater. As a tribute to all you have done, our first production will be Phaedre, and we will dedicate it to you.
I’ve not had word from Enee yet, though the records of the Courts show that he was released, but beyond that, I can find nothing more, though I have sent letters to his father in the hope that he may have taken him in. I know he has realized the error of his actions in attacking you, and will doubtless one day make you an apology. For now, I offer one in his stead. You should never have been stabbed. You should not have endured such injuries as you received from him. I will be happy on the day he learns from you that he is forgiven.
I must now join the troupe for our supper. This is the last night we will be at the Jongleur, and we will toast you as we take our leave of this place and all it has provided us. I know this will find you happy and successful as ever you were.
Devotedly,
Photine d’Auville
EPILOGUE
Text of a letter from Madelaine de Montalia from Lecco on Lake Como, to Ferenz Ragoczy, Comte de Saint-Germain, at Padova, carried by Eclipse Trading Company courier and delivered three days after it was written.
To my most-dear Saint-Germain,
Before you take ship for Greece, I want to tell you how much I have enjoyed my time here at Lecco; only your presence could have made it better, and you needn’t remind me that it would be difficult for us both to remain near to each other with nothing but yearning to express our love. Still, I miss you; I always miss you, and I suppose I always will. You are the joy of my life, the haven of my soul. There is no reason to dwell on such matters as the risks of proximity, for that would lead to resentment, which would do neither of us any good; it would blight what we have, have had since you brought me to your life, and will have until the True Death. The Blood Bond does sustain us, so that whether or not we are able to lie together, we are always able to sense each other, and the love that is in our blood as surely as it pervades all the rest of the undeath we share.
Much as I despair of France and the endless bloodshed there, I cannot give way to hopelessness, for that would be to surrender to the forces that are the instigators of the destruction. Yet I am saddened to hear that Theron Heurer has been executed for writing works against the Revolution and the people. What nonsense that is, to think that Theron wanted anything more than fame. So long as the Revolution brought him praise, he was its champion. Do you suppose Collot d’Herbois might have become jealous of Theron’s success? I am glad that none of the players were accused when he was, for it is unfortunate enough to have one artist die in such a firestorm as the one in France now, but to sacrifice more than one is a tragedy that belongs in Greek tragedies, not in the streets of Lyon.
By the time you return, I will have moved from here to Firenze, to see the art accumulated there. It will be my first visit in thirty years, and I intend to make the most of it. I am resolved to remain in that city until the end of November; I will let you know where I plan to go next when I have decided. For now, I have leased a house on the Via Fiesolana, very much in the center of the city; I will see if it suits me, and for how long.
Thank you for sending Roger to me for April. He has been a prize among major domos: he has organized my books in the room you set aside for them, and has set up my study to admiration. I wonder that you can manage without him. Do not remind me that our recent travels were without his presence, for no doubt we would have fared more easily having him with us. He has said that his leaving France was less perilous than our own, and that he had only one awkward moment, in Valence, when an official demanded proof that he was no thief. He had the inventory you had prepared with him, and you fixed it with your seal, so all he had to do was pay an extra tax, and he was permitted to resume his journey.
Should there be trouble in Athens while you are there, do me the favor of leaving before it becomes overwhelming. I was foolish enough to enter a country in revolution and very nearly paid for it with my undead life. Give me your Word that you will not be so reckless as I was. And accept my vow, if at all possible, that I will not do so again.
Evermore yours,
Madelaine
this at Lecco, 22nd June, 1793
By Chelsea Quinn Yarbro from Tom Doherty Associates
Ariosto
Better in the Dark
Blood Games
Blood Roses
Borne in Blood
Burning Shadows
A Candle for d’Artagnan
Come Twilight
Communion Blood
Crusader’s Torch
A Dangerous Climate
Dark of the Sun
Darker Jewels
An Embarrassment of Riches
A Feast in Exile
A Flame in Byzantium
Hotel Transylvania
Mansions of Darkness
Out of the House of Life
The Palace
Path of the Eclipse
Roman Dusk
States of Grace
Writ in Blood
About the Author
Chelsea Quinn Yarbro is both a Grand Master and a Living Legend of Horror. She has been nominated for the World Fantasy, Bram Stoker, and Edgar Allan Poe awards. Her interests range from music—she composes and has studied seven different instruments, as well as voice—to history, from horseback riding to needlepoint. Her writing is similarly wide-ranging; under her own name and pseudonyms, she has written everything from Westerns to mysteries, from science fiction to nonfiction history.
Yarbro has written more than twenty novels starring her vampire hero, the Count Saint-Germain, including An Embarrassment of Riches, Borne in Blood, and States of Grace. Each novel stands on its own and can be read independently.
She has received the Knightly Order of the Brasov Citadel from the Transylvanian Society of Dracula and was the novelist Guest of Honor at the First World Dracula Congress in Romania.
Yarbro has always lived in California and currently makes her home in the Berkeley area.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
COMMEDIA DELLA MORTE: A NOVEL OF THE COUNT SAINT-GERMAIN
Copyright © 2012 by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
All rights reserved.
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Yarbro, Chelsea Quinn, 1942–
Commedia della morte : a novel of the Count Saint-Germain / Chelsea Quinn Yarbro.—1st ed.
p. cm.
“A Tom Doherty Associates book.”
ISBN 978-0-7653-3104-5
1. Saint-Germain, comte de, d. 1784—Fiction. 2. Vampires—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3575.A7C656 2012
813'.54—dc23
2011033201
e-ISBN 9781429988179
First Edition: March 2012
Commedia della Morte Page 43
