Commedia della Morte (18 page)

“You’ve been here before? They say you have.” He pointed toward the mansion as if it were an illusion. “Is it true?”

“Twice; I have been here twice before,” said Ragoczy, recalling attending Madelaine’s funeral and the evening that followed when she wakened to his life; then the more recent visit, when he had persuaded her to come to Verona with him.

“It is the property of your kinswoman? That’s what everyone is saying.” Crepin did his best expectant look. “Ragoczy?”

He considered the actor. “Is there something you want to know?”

Crepin shrugged with elaborate casualness. “I was only wondering how safe you think the estate is.”

“Safe? In what way?”

“Oh, you know—in terms of … locals.” He pressed his hands together, his eyes moving nervously. “That village? Saint-Jacques-sur-Crete? Do you think there might be spies there? Or thieves?”

“Probably some of both,” said da San-Germain with a gesture of unconcern. “But I doubt they pay much attention to what happens up here. We’re more than three leagues away, and they have the last of the harvest to deal with.”

Crepin nodded several times, his glance still jittery. “As you say. As you say. But there could be Revolutionary Guards in the village, couldn’t there?”

“It’s possible, but I don’t think it likely. The village is on a minor road in mountainous territory. Now that Madame de Montalia has been arrested, I would guess that there are few landholders left in the region; we know the hostels are empty, and the monasteries. The Revolutionary Guard has better things to do than occupy villages like Saint-Jacques.”

“Yes. Yes. I understand your meaning.” Crepin said. “But it is still…” He abandoned his train of thought and tried something new. “Are we putting ourselves in danger by staying here? considering the owner is in the hands of the Revolutionary Tribunal?”

“Not that I am aware of, no,” said da San-Germain. He moved toward the kitchen door, not wanting to contribute to Crepin’s unease any more than he had already.

Crepin came after him. “But we could be—in danger, I mean?”

“Anyone in France could be in danger at present,” da San-Germain said, more sharply than he had intended; he continued in a more conciliating tone, “So far, from what I have learned, which is little more than what all of you know already, players are welcome in France, so long as they don’t keep to the old plays, but perform new ones. The scenario you’re rehearsing now, with the Corpses, is nothing like any commedia troupe has done before, so it’s likely that the play will be a success. You’re probably going to be hailed as artists of the Revolution.”

“I hope so,” said Crepin, still doubtful.

Da San-Germain pulled open the door and stepped into the corridor next to the pantry. “Come ahead. The kitchen is on the left.”

“My nose tells me that,” Crepin said, and peered into its brick-walled depths, a wishful smile on his handsome features, the very image of happy anticipation.

The aromas burgeoning in the kitchen promised a tasty meal of roast pork stuffed with apples and sweet onions, a casserole of vegetables and cheese, and loaves of fresh bread. In counterpoint to the chop of his knife on cabbage, Gigot was singing one of the old songs of the region, about a lost lamb and a wolf.

“Your meal should be ready within the hour,” da San-Germain remarked, and turned toward the front of the mansion.

“Does Photine know what you’ve told me?” Crepin asked, unwilling to give up his questions.

“I should think so,” said da San-Germain, and continued walking. “We’ve discussed it often enough.”

“Tell me if you decide anything has changed,” Crepin called after him, then stepped into the kitchen, and asked Gigot if he needed any help.

As da San-Germain crossed the great hall, he heard Photine raise her voice. “No, Enee, I won’t have it. You’ve been allowed too much license already.” The sound came from the salon des fenetres.

“I don’t have to obey you,” her son challenged her. “You have no authority over me now that I’m fifteen.”

“If you want a place to sleep and something to eat, I do. All the troupe recognizes it, including Valence, and he’s forty-one.” She was clearly agitated and doing her best to keep her impulse to rail at him under control. “This continuing defiance is most … distressing.”

Listening, da San-Germain wondered what she had been going to say that she changed to
distressing.
He approached the salon des fenetres, feeling slightly uncomfortable at his eavesdropping; he was about to make himself known when Enee’s next words held him to the spot.

“You won’t let me take a few bottles of wine from this cellar, but you’ll let your noble lover nibble your throat.” He laughed, deliberately harsh. “You think I don’t see what you hide beneath your collar?”

“Enee!”

“Don’t look so shocked, Madame,” Enee responded with elaborate scorn.

“Many men have their … their tastes,” said Photine with studied indifference. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“A man bites my mother, and I’m supposed to pretend it means nothing?” Enee demanded. “What kind of a son would that make me?”

“An obedient one,” said Photine bluntly. “If I am not displeased with da San-Germain, why should you be?”

“He is using you, and you won’t see it!” Enee yelled. “You do what he wants without a second to consider what it means. You were going to have four carts and now you have two. Because it’s convenient for him!”

“Lower your voice,” she snapped at him. “It’s bad enough you spend your time sulking. I won’t have you declaiming to the whole troupe.”

“You’re being used,” Enee said again, in a quieter tone.

“And I am using him. What of it? Each of us is receiving what we want, so why shouldn’t we continue as we are?” Photine paused. “If you are so determined to defy me, you will have to decide what profession other than acting you wish to pursue. I can’t have you disrupting the troupe. You’ll need to find a master who’ll have you as an apprentice.”

“You’d do that to me? Because of
him
?”

“Not because of him—because of me. You seek to undermine my authority and to make the rest of the troupe doubt my leadership. You behave like a wayward bear-cub. I can’t have that, particularly from my son.”

There was the sound of a hand slapped down on wood. “You’re my mother, and you speak to me this way?”

“Whoelse will do it?” she countered. “I think you had better go to the room Maxime assigned you. Spend the evening reading, or doing something useful. Consider your situation. Do not indulge in wine or steal any more cognac. You have to decide what you want to do, and you’ll need a clear head for that.”

“You aren’t serious, are you?” Enee asked in disbelief.

“I am.”

“Get of a poxy whore,” he muttered.

Photine’s voice changed, turning imperious and cold. “What did you call me?”

“What you are,” Enee blustered, and an instant later flung out of the salon des fenetres, hurrying away toward the rear of the mansion, paying no heed to the cry of protest from Photine as he left.

Da San-Germain remained in the shadow of the alcove for a few minutes while Photine gathered herself together. When he was fairly sure she had gathered herself well enough, he came to the door of the salon des fenetres. “I just saw Enee rushing through the great hall. Is anything the matter?”

“He’s being a truculent child,” said Photine, as much worry as disgust in her voice.

“He’s jealous,” said da San-Germain without any annoyance in his tone. “He’s afraid you’ll favor me more than you favor him.”

“He may have reason for such fear, the wretch,” said Photine darkly, staring at the door as if she thought he might reappear. “What does he expect?—that I’ll turn away from a generous lover and patron because he’s having a fit of the sullens?”

“Probably,” said da San-Germain, and saw Photine give a single, resigned nod. “He wants to be sure that he’s the light of your life.”

“At the moment,” said Photine briskly, “he isn’t.” She came to his side and leaned against him. “What am I to do with him?”

“That depends upon what you want of him,” said da San-Germain, taking her into his arms.

“I want him to be a reasonable young man; at fifteen he should be able to do that,” Photine sighed, easing her body more closely to his. “But for him, it may not be possible.”

“It may not,” he agreed, and met her lips with his own in a long, soft kiss.

“Do you think he should be apprenticed to some worthy tradesman, or an apothecary, or, I don’t know what?”

If he felt that ending a kiss with a plea for her bothersome son was unusual, he made no comment on it; it was strange enough to embrace her in Madelaine’s mansion. “I doubt Enee knows what would best suit him. It could be a factor in his jealousy—he’s afraid of being adrift in a dangerous time.”

“All times are dangerous,” said Photine, moving half a step back in his arms.

“That they are,” da San-Germain agreed. “But the danger is more apparent now than is often the case.”

“And he is caught up in the excitement as much as any of them,” said Photine on another, longer sigh. “I can’t hold that against him.”

“He wants to know what you expect of him,” said da San-Germain. “Not that he’ll comply with your wishes, but he won’t feel so rudderless.”

She looked at him, dawning surprise in her face. “He claims he wants to be the one to decide for himself.”

“And he does, but not because he has had to grasp for it.” He stroked her tawny hair. “You are a woman of … character,” he said after a short silence. “He’s used to you guiding him, and little as he wants to acknowledge it, he is comfortable with your direction; that comfort causes him to doubt himself, and so he turns on you, wanting to rule you in order to convince himself that he is capable of being his own master.”

She blinked at him. “Not unlike Orestes,” she said slowly.

Da San-Germain shook his head, offering her a half-smile. “Nothing so extreme. We are not living a Greek tragedy.”

“I should hope not,” she said in a rallying tone. “Well, I can see Enee will take some—”

“If you can, let him flounder for now. He’ll be the better for it when he finally makes up his mind.” He drew her to him once more. “If he gets into serious trouble, you can come to his aid, but be prepared to have him resent you for it.”

“You speak as a man who has dealt with difficult sons,” she said, her head cocked speculatively.

“I have no children: I told you that,” he said gently. “But in my travels I’ve had much opportunity to observe.”

“And closely, if this is any example of what you’ve seen,” said Photine. “Perhaps you should be doing our scenarios for us, and not Heurer.”

“You need a Frenchman to write for you. It’s safer to have a French playwright.”

“Unless he is accused of upholding the Old Regime,” she said.

“Nothing in his work suggests that,” da San-Germain reminded her. “He will seem more revolutionary because he’s French than any outsider would be.”

She kissed him lightly, then smoothly broke away from him. “We’ll rehearse in this room after supper. I’d like you to come and watch.”

“As I usually do,” he told her, puzzled by her invitation.

“Exactly. I rely on you to see how the script may be improved, and to find a way to keep Heurer from penning long, extravagant speeches that only confuse the point of the play. He loves the sounds of his own words, and needs to think more of the sense of them.” She took a step back, blew him a kiss, and made a graceful exit.

For a short time, da San-Germain stood alone in the salon des fenetres, his eyes fixed on the middle distance, and a half-century ago, when he had encountered Madelaine for the first time, when he had been able to bring her out of danger and into his life. He shook himself mentally, aware that this time he would be risking much more for them both, and jeopardizing Photine’s commedia company as well. “Do I have the right to ask this of Photine? Should I send the troupe back to Italy?” he murmured to the tall windows, and had to be satisfied with silence for an answer.

*   *   *

Text of a report from the Revolutionary Tribunal of Valence to the Revolutionary Assembly of Avignon, carried by Revolutionary Guard courier and delivered three days after it was written.

To the Revolutionary Assembly of Avignon, the greetings of the Revolutionary Tribunal of Valence on this, the 16
th
day of September, 1792.

Most Esteemed members of the Revolutionary Assembly of Avignon;

This is to inform you that the barge bearing prisoners of your Revolutionary Tribunal has arrived here, and that the prisoners are in good condition, all but one, who, on the advice of the physician August Benizance, has been removed from the barge and allowed to travel in a light carriage with another female prisoner for a chaperone; the younger woman has a profound antipathy to the movement of water and was suffering so extremely that she was causing a disruption on the barge and it was decided that Benizance was right, and she should be removed from the barge for the rest of the journey. Both this young woman and her chaperone come from aristocratic families, and both are to answer for their crimes against the People of France at Lyon.

The barge is being restocked with water and food, and will lay over here for three days so that the tow-horses may rest, and the escorts have time to refresh themselves. For the three days, the prisoners will be confined in the Couvent des les Sacres Magi, which has stood empty for two years now, the Redemptionist nuns who lived here now gone to their reward through the good offices of the guillotine. Revolutionary Guards have been posted to watch the prisoners, and there is a squad of militiamen with muskets stationed in the adjoining hostelry, in case any misguided sympathizers should attempt to free the prisoners.

The prisoners will be allowed to have their clothes washed, and to bathe, but they will not be permitted to write letters or to indulge in religious practices. Since there are none to wait upon them, they will be given needles and thread to repair their garments if needed, and combs and scissors for their hair. Benizance has recommended that the prisoners be provided salves for those with sunburn, and camphor to reduce the presence of vermin in their clothing, but the Revolutionary Tribunal has yet to allow such indulgence, for since peasants have endured such torments as these prisoners do, it is fitting that they receive no succor. Benizance has issued a warning about fevers, but the Revolutionary Tribunal has yet to change its finding.