Commedia della Morte (13 page)

“We’ll have a genial evening, by the sound of it; will you watch the rehearsal?” It was an impulsive offer, and she was startled to hear herself make it. “We’re just starting out on Monsieur Heurer’s scenario.”

“I’d be delighted. I want to thank your players who drive for you for all they did today. They’ve done well.”

“We will be pleased,” said Photine.

“And perhaps your son will finally speak to me.” He softened his remark with a smile.

She looked around, not comfortable speaking about her fifteen-year-old son. “Enee is a sulky boy just now, showing disrespect and very little courtesy to anyone. I try to give him his head when it’s not too … He rarely likes men who like me; the more gentlemanly my admirers are, the more Enee resents them, so he sees you as very bad. Why, he’s even jealous of Theron. I know I don’t have to ask you to be kind to him; you have been patience itself with him.”

“I have been, have I not?” he asked kindly, and was not surprised when she paid no attention.

“I know he’s been … surly since we started traveling,” Photine admitted. “It’s his way of telling me he’s no longer a child.” She gave an eloquent shrug. “But he’ll be more courteous once we begin to do plays.”

“So you’ve said.”

“He keeps to himself most of the time, and I don’t like to interfere. He no longer wants to delight his mother, for that would be a concession he would not want to make. I want him to work out his life for himself.” She moved back, no longer wanting to talk about Enee. “I’ll go get my night-case and tell the others to do the same.”

“Thank you. I’ll join you directly.” He lifted the reins and whistled to the pair of mules pulling the cart, guiding them toward the archway; behind the cart came the spare mule, pulling on his lead as if reluctant to go one step more. The wagons and the second cart began to move off toward the arch as well. The passage echoed with the sounds of hoofbeats and the creak of wagon wheels.

The rear courtyard was cobbled, taking up much of the space between the back of the house and the stable. Two long drinking troughs flanked the stable door, and to one side of the stable were two fenced paddocks, with a solitary mare grazing in the nearer one. The four household grooms were busy getting ready to sort out the teams of horses and mules. Bits of straw littered the cobbles, a visible testament to newly bedded stalls waiting inside.

Two grooms came running out of the stable to meet the wagons and carts, calling out to the various drivers to enter the stable through the door and line up for unhitching.

“Pascal! Hariot! Urbain!” Feo shouted out to his fellow wagon-drivers as he caught the end of his whip and stowed it in its sheath. “Follow me! Wagons first! Michau, you follow il Conte! Andiam’!”

A ragged line was formed; the wagons filled the center aisle while the grooms and the drivers set about freeing their teams from the wagons, and leading away the spare horses hitched to the rears of the wagons. A system of hanging hooks accommodated the harnesses and bridles. As soon as the horses were haltered their leads were tied to heavy iron rings in the pillars that lined the central aisle. Once the horses were ready to be groomed, the wagons were moved up, so that there was now room for the carts.

“A good stable, small as it is,” Feo approved as he came down from his box and swaggered up to da San-Germain’s cart. “The tack-room’s that way?” he guessed, pointing to the door off to the right of the aisle.

“Thank you; and yes, that’s the tack-room. Grain barrels are in the compartment beyond,” said da San-Germain as he climbed down and went to lead the spare mule to the nearest pillar, where he secured the lead rope. “Would you hand me the stiff brush?”

Feo reached in the back of the cart and pulled out the small box of grooming supplies. “Here you are, Conte.”

“Best get used to calling me Ragoczy; the title will be a problem in France,” said da San-Germain.

“So it will,” Feo said. “Better remind the troupe.” He considered the name. “Ragoczy. Hungarian?”

“In a manner of speaking,” said da San-Germain.

“I wondered where you were from.” Feo moved aside so the pair of mules that pulled da San-Germain’s cart could be taken in hand by the grooms.

“The eastern Carpathian Mountains,” said da San-Germain, not mentioning that his people had left that land almost four thousand years ago.

“You’re a long way from home, Ragoczy,” said Feo.

“That is not uncommon for exiles; it tends to be part of the … the process,” said da San-Germain as he began to brush the spare mule; five hundred years ago, he would have added something more ironic to his observation, but he no longer bothered to. By the time he was finished with the three mules associated with his cart, sunset was staining the western sky orange and pink, fading to lavender and tarnished silver. As he stepped out of the stable, he paused to look at the display, making note of the unusual intensity of the red band of light.

“Could mean wind tomorrow,” said Feo as he came up to da San-Germain, joining him in the contemplation of the sky.

“It could,” da San-Germain agreed.

“It will be what—three, four days to Milano?”

“Very likely, unless the troupe finds a place to perform.” He glanced at Feo. “How likely do you think that will be?”

“Who knows? Ask Hariot, or Aloys, or Urbain—they’re part of the troupe, they know what Photine is likely to do. The troupe is eager to perform, but it will delay us. Are you willing to change your plans?”

“If necessary.”

“The troupe could become restive without a performance to test the new scenario,” Feo said after a moment’s consideration. “Ask Madame—”

“I realize that they want to perform. I was hoping for an outside opinion on what it could do to change our travel.”

Feo sniffed, uncertain if this were a compliment or a slight; he glanced at da San-Germain from the tail of his eye and decided to answer. “They’ve got two plays ready, and the new one Heurer is writing for them, so they may decide it’s time to test the audiences. There’re Brescia, Villa Sole, San-Pellegrino, and Bergamo to pass through before we reach Milano, and it may please Madame to have her troupe practice in one of those places—or all of them.” He chuckled. “Valence is expecting it will be all; he doesn’t want to turn down any audience.”

“I’d wager Milano is certain for a performance,” said da San-Germain.

“Do you have a house in Milano, or will you put us up at an inn?”

“It will have to be an inn, I’m afraid,” said da San-Germain.

“Then you’d better choose one near a piazza where the troupe can set up their stage, otherwise we’ll have them traipsing through the streets in full mufti,” said Feo, and strode past da San-Germain toward the rear door of the house. He paused before he went in. “Urbain and Pascal would like to be allowed to carry pistols. They’re afraid of robbers.”

“I’ll consider it,” said da San-Germain.

“Does that mean no or perhaps?” Feo asked, and ducked into the house.

Da San-Germain lingered a little longer, then followed Feo inside. He had turned down the corridor toward the main staircase when he heard Photine behind him. “Is anything wrong?” he asked as she bustled up to him.

“No. Not really. But something has occurred to me,” she said, coming and taking him by the arm. “Where can we talk privately?”

“There is a withdrawing room a short distance down this corridor.” He could sense only enthusiasm in her, with a small quiver of discomfort. “Has anything gone wrong?”

“Wrong? No, no, nothing like that. But there is something I must discuss with you before I broach the matter to the troupe.” She went through the door he opened for her, and after a swift look around the withdrawing room, she came up to him, her eyes bright. “You recall what Campo told us? That the Revolutionary Guards are looking for the new, and the possibly outrageous?”

“Yes,” he said neutrally.

“Well,” she declared, “I’ve been thinking about that, and I believe I’ve hit upon an idea that could make a difference for us.” She turned away from him, took three steps, and turned back. “I’ve hit upon a name for the troupe.”

“A name?”

“Yes. Commedia del’Arte may sound much too old-fashioned to gain the approval of the border guard, but what if we were Commedia della Morte? It sounds not only like a troupe of actors, but one that has taken a new approach to playing. They won’t look for Harlequin and Columbine in a troupe with such a name.” Her smile was dazzling. “What do you think? It’s outrageous, it’s new, and it still identifies what we are.”

Da San-Germain let the name roll around in his mind; finally he nodded to her. “It does have an outre charm.”

“That’s what I thought.” She almost bounced with exuberance as she came up to him again. “Do you like it? Do you think the border guards will approve of us, with such a name?” She was speaking French now, and almost laughing.

“They may, at that,” he told her. “But you will need material that justifies such a name, or it may work to your disadvantage.”

“That’s why I came to you first. Do you think you can work out scenarios for us that reflect the name? Nothing too grim, of course. The people of France have enough grim in their lives without our adding to it. But ironic, humorous scenarios would be effective, don’t you see? Something that has figures in winding-sheets with skull faces for a kind of Greek chorus to scenes of the Old Regime’s excesses. The Old Regime can be broad comedy, but the figures in winding-sheets should not be. Perhaps they shouldn’t even speak.”

He cocked his head. “I think I understand your intention here.” He kissed her forehead. “And I think you may well be inspired, ma belle.”

Her blush caught her unaware, and she strove to conceal her confusion. “Well, if the troupe endorses it, Commedia della Morte we will be, and to the devil with those who dislike it.” She gave him an impulsive hug. “Thank you, thank you, Comt … Ragoczy. I’ll leave you now, and I’ll have a word with my troupe.” She paused dramatically. “Oh, Urbain told me he doesn’t want to go into France after all. Will you try to reason with him? Or persuade one of the others to take up his duties?”

“Very well,” he said, and opened the door for her.

He left the room and continued on to the main staircase, climbing it swiftly but without obvious effort. The gallery along the western wall was fairly narrow but nothing too confining, and he was soon at the door of his private apartments, where, once inside, he took off his light-weight driving-coat and draped it over the back of a chair before opening the armoire to see what selection might be there.

Only three suits hung on the pegs inside: a black silken suit for formal occasions with a jewel-embroidered waistcoat and a white silk shirt; a woolen suit for winter, and a linen one for summer. He removed the linen suit and considered it. The coat was hammer-tailed, of a dark-burgundy shade, the unmentionables were black, the minimal waistcoat was ivory, and the shirt was white. He decided it would do for the next leg of their journey, so laid it out on the chest-of-drawers while he considered his undergarments. He had just chosen short underdrawers when Roger knocked at the door.

“Enter,” said da San-Germain.

Roger did that. “The bath-house is heated, if you would like to bathe while the troupe dines.”

Da San-Germain nodded. “You think of everything, old friend,” he said.

“After so long, I should hope so,” Roger responded with only a slight glint in his eyes revealing that he was partly jesting. “Do you want the driving-coat washed tonight?”

“If you would, please, and pack what I have in this”—he pointed to the armoire—“to add to the rest. I think I may need more clothes than we assumed when we set out,” said da San-Germain, beginning to undress. “Is my robe in the bedroom?”

“I’ll get it for you,” said Roger, and went past da San-Germain into the ascetical bedroom that had a narrow bed atop a heavy chest that was filled with da San-Germain’s native earth, a nightstand with a branch of three candles on it and a small pile of books, a pair of pegs for clothes where a heavy cotton robe hung, and a clothes-press. He took the robe and went back into the parlor. “Here it is.”

“Thank you,” said da San-Germain as he took off his shirt and added to the pile of coat and waistcoat on the chair. “Will you need another chest for the clothes?”

“I’ll find one if I do,” Roger assured him.

“Thank you,” da San-Germain said, then asked, “Did Photine decide where they will rehearse?”

“In the great hall, of course. They’ve moved back the chairs and the carpets and marked out a space in chalk for their playing area; it’s about the same size as their wagon-platform, so they can set up their actions without worrying about adjusting them later.” Roger picked up the clothes da San-Germain had removed. “I’ll have the lot washed tonight; there are ample clean in the wardrobe.”

“Thank you. We’ll have few enough chances to clean clothes between here and Montalia.” He turned away from Roger as he stepped out of his unmentionables and underdrawers, then accepted the robe, pulled it on and belted it, then turned back to Roger. “I think we should invite the troupe and the drivers to bathe when they’ve eaten, don’t you? They’re as grimy from travel as we are.”

“It seems a good notion,” said Roger. “As you say, they’re all dusty from the road.” He pointed to the suit on the chest-of-drawers. “Would you like me to lay that out properly while you have your bath?”

“If you haven’t other matters that need your attention,” said da San-Germain, and started toward the door. “Oh, and will you see if we can spare a dozen white sheets?”

“What for?”

“For Photine’s troupe, of course.” He paused. “I’ll explain later.”

“Very well. I’ll find out about the sheets,” Roger promised da San-Germain as they left the parlor, Roger to go to the study to consult the house inventories, da San-Germain to go to the bath-house to spend half an hour soaking in warm, rosemary-scented water, his deep tub set in a restorative bed of his native earth.

By the time he had dried himself off and dressed once again, da San-Germain felt much restored; he went down to the great hall where the troupe was gathered, rehearsing a new scenario, one that had to do with a foolish master with a clever servant. Pascal Aube, in the role of the clever servant, Berrmont, was standing near the center of the room with his arms folded, his sides clutched in his right hand, glaring at Photine.