Commedia della Morte (21 page)

“I hope it will succeed,” said Roger.

“So do I,” said da San-Germain with more feeling than before. “If I’m not persuasive, I endanger more than myself, and you.”

“That thought did occur to me,” said Roger, taking another bite, then, after the greater part of a minute, asked, “Do you think you and Madame will … want privacy this evening?”

“If we do, it will be in her room,” said da San-Germain, selecting shoes for his errand. “But she hasn’t asked me yet.”

“Do you think you might go out if she has other plans for tonight?” He asked it off-handedly enough, but there was an unmistakable seriousness in his faded-blue eyes.

“It’s not unlikely,” said da San-Germain, wishing he were at the villa in Lecco where he could avail himself of the Roman bath lined with his native earth. “She has much to do, and although she enjoys our dalliance, she is far more committed to the troupe than to the pleasure she has with me.”

Roger was almost finished with his raw duck. “Then you should consider finding other nourishment. You will need your strength and your wits, my master. Hunger will not serve you well just now.”

“No, it will not,” da San-Germain agreed, coming out from behind the screen. “Where are the—”

“The shirt is on the peg on the far side of the bed, and the swallow-tail coat and unmentionables are in the clothes-press. I’ll get them for you, if you’re ready.” He set his plate aside, and rose.

“My thanks, old friend.” Da San-Germain went to get the shirt, donning it quickly. “This should have a neck-cloth, I think. And I’ll need some kind of ribbon-knot.”

“Red, blue, and white. I know.” Roger had stepped into the valet’s closet and was opening the clothes-press. “I took the liberty of getting a lapel-fan for you while you were sleeping. It’s on the chest-of-drawers.”

“Ah. Yes, I see it.” He took the unmentionables that Roger handed to him, and stepped into them with care, tucking the shirt in as he buttoned the front flap. “No waistcoat.”

“Too grand,” Roger told him. “You’re with players, not the regional magistrate.”

Da San-Germain nodded. “An excellent point.” He found a belt hanging on the peg next to the one that had held the shirt. “No suspenders either, I suppose?”

“The belt is what the players wear.”

“That’s so,” da San-Germain agreed, and threaded the belt through the buttonhole loops along the waist of the unmentionables.

“Photine asked me to mention the music to you an hour ago; she’s fretting about it,” Roger added as he took the swallow-tail coat from the clothes-press. “I trust this is neat enough. A few wrinkles are to be expected.”

Another shout, this one louder than the previous ones, arose from the streets along with the clamor of bugles and the enthusiastic tattoo of a drum.

“As always, you are meticulous.” He held the garment, examining it, then said, “What about the music?”

“Photine would like to know if you have something in mind to accompany the Corpses. She says you discussed it.”

“We did. I haven’t given it much thought.” He looked about almost as if he expected the answer to appear in the air. “But I imagine I ought to, if we are to perform in the next few days.” His expression darkened an instant, then returned to what it had been. “If you would, find the cimbalom for me while Photine and I are at the Tribunal. It should be under the seat in the larger cart, with two sets of hammers.”

Roger gave him a startled look. “The cimbalom? Are you sure? I doubt anyone in Avignon has ever heard one.”

“Exactly,” said da San-Germain. “But they know hammered dulcimers, so the cimbalom won’t be that foreign—just foreign enough, something to set the troupe apart from other players they may have seen. And the sound is a bit eerie.” He reached for the swallow-tail coat. “A pity we couldn’t bring the utugardon from Padova.”

“It’s too big to transport easily,” Roger pointed out, handing over the coat.

“It’s more drum-like in sound, for all it looks a bit like a ’cello.” He donned the coat and turned to face Roger. “Which neck-cloth?”

“Something simple, perhaps the sprigged cotton,” said da San-Germain. “It creates a more foreign appearance.”

“So it does,” said Roger, going to the smaller of the two traveling chests. “Black or white?”

“Black, I think.”

“Very good.” He sorted through the small closed boxes, then drew out a black neck-cloth of sprigged cotton, which he handed to da San-Germain. “Photine will appreciate your attention to details.”

“I trust the clerks at the Tribunal will do the same,” he said as he wound the cloth around his neck. “No starched collar.”

“Certainly not,” said Roger in mock horror. “Just let me tie the ends for you.”

Da San-Germain gave a single, rueful laugh. “Oh, to have a reflection.”

“Do you miss yours?” Roger asked as he busied himself with the neck-cloth.

“At times like these, I do,” said da San-Germain, and changed the subject. “I’ll need the small purse, and two dozen louis d’or. The Tribunal may not like aristocrats, but I don’t doubt they’ll accept their coins.”

“Especially because you are a foreigner,” Roger seconded. “Do you anticipate needing a bribe?”

“No, but I would be very surprised if there were not fees to be paid,” said da San-Germain in a world-weary tone.

“Of course,” said Roger. “There are always fees.”

“What will come of all this killing?” Da San-Germain asked as the next cheer echoed through the streets, made louder by the bugles’ chaotic fanfares.

“More graves,” said Roger.

Nodding slowly, da San-Germain strove to shut out the sudden image of Madelaine on the scaffold that filled his mind. “Hope that there is good news at the Tribunal, and that they’ll provide answers to us, whatever the case. I need to plan our next step, but I can’t do it until I know what has become of her.”

“Of course,” said Roger, aware of the anguish that had overtaken da San-Germain. He stepped back. “There. Finished.”

Another whoop from the crowd watching the Guillotine do its work rang through the city, with the ragged fanfare lasting longer than before.

With despair in his dark eyes, da San-Germain murmured, “Listen to them: they’re mad for blood.”

Unable to summon up any encouraging sentiments, Roger said, “I’ll get your purse. You said you want two dozen louis d’or.” Without waiting for an answer, he went into the valet’s closet to count out the money from the small banded and locked box that lay in a hidden compartment in da San-Germain’s smallest chest.

*   *   *

Text of two reports—one to Photine d’Auville, one to Ragoczy Ferenz—sent by messenger to the Cheval d’Argent by the clerks of the Revolutionary Tribunal of Avignon.

To the leader of the acting troupe Commedia della Morte, presently in residence at the Cheval d’Argent, Place du Rhone, from the Revolutionary Tribunal of Avignon, on this, the 6
th
day of October, 1792.

Madame d’Auville:

After due consideration, the Committee for Public Affairs has agreed to grant you a permit for three performances of the play which scenario you presented to the Tribunal two days ago, said performances to take place on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday next, to conclude before noon, in the Place du Rhone, subject to the review of your script by our Office of Public Morals. Should any portion of your play be deemed inimically against the Revolution, your performances will be canceled and the performance fee retained by the Committee for Public Affairs in recompense for your breach of contract.

The fee for such performances has already been received by this office, and only a twenty-percent contribution of your earnings from the performances will be required of you at the conclusion of your three performances. At that time you may apply for an extension of this permit, and if there has been no complaint lodged against the play or any of your company, another three performances will be licensed.

Vive la Revolution!

Jean-Simone Chastal

Clerk of the Committee for Public Affairs

The Revolutionary Tribunal of Avignon

To the Hungarian exile, Ferenz Ragoczy, presently resident at the Cheval d’Argent, Place du Rhone, a member of the acting troupe Commedia della Morte, from the Revolutionary Tribunal of Avignon on this, the 6
th
day of October, 1792.

Monsieur,

The records of the Committee for Public Safety inform me that the woman you seek is no longer in the care of that Committee in Avignon, but is, with other enemies of France, being transported to Lyon, where she, and those others with whom she travels, will face the full might of the law for her many offenses against the People of France. You may inform her Hungarian kinsmen that justice will be done upon her, as it will be done on all those who abused the People of France. Any attempt to interfere with that justice will bring the attention of the Revolutionary Courts upon you and whatever members of your family remain within the borders of France; the Revolution has a long arm, and a longer memory.

Vive la Revolution!

Vive la France!

Beniguet Francois Dassin

Clerk of the Committee for Public Safety

Revolutionary Tribunal of Avignon

2

Da San-Germain finished adjusting the tuning-pegs on his cimbalom, then reached for the skull-mask that would complete his costume, which consisted of a winding-sheet wrapped around him, covering the black unmentionables and shirt of ecru silk he wore. Seated as he was at the side of the two wagons that with lowered side-panels provided the stage for the troupe’s performance, he could watch the Place du Rhone gradually fill with citizens; in traditional Commedia costumes, Valence, Crepin, Olympe, and Tereson made their way through the burgeoning audience, entertaining the people with mime with the intent of enticing them to remain for the play. The banner above the stage bore the name of the company and their play: Commedia della Morte.

“We start as soon as the clock strikes the hour of ten,” said Photine, coming around the end of the wagon toward him with an anxious glance at the clock-tower at the far end of the square; she was in her costume for the play but had not yet added her wig, crown, and out-sized rings to complete the appearance of her character. “Our license requires us—”

“That will allow two hours for the performance, which is ample. Even if the audience is deeply enthusiastic, at our last rehearsal the play lasted only an hour and a half, which gives us more than enough time to finish by noon,” da San-Germain reminded her in a calming tone. “The Tribunal will have no complaints on the play’s length.”

Valence and Olympe improvised a little dance, and attracted another dozen or so people to approach the curtained platform. They bowed extravagantly and looked about for more townsfolk to lure to the platform.

“If they do, they’ll stop us, finished or not.” She shook her head as if she were certain this would happen.

“I don’t see why they would bother,” da San-Germain said, keeping his tone carefully neutral. “There are no executions scheduled today.”

“Just as well for us, I think,” she said, her eyes on the gathering in front of the wagons.

“Very likely,” he said, to let her know he was listening.

“I’m sorry, Ragoczy.” She fussed with the lavish fall of lace on her corsage. “You know I’m always nervous before we start.” With a sigh, she sat down on the rear steps of the wagon. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen Enee?”

“Not for more than an hour.” He laid his hand on her shoulder. “Do you want me to send Roger to look for him?”

“No; I’ve put Roger to work keeping track of our masks; this isn’t the time to mix them up, as we did rehearsing,” she said hollowly. “I told Enee at breakfast that he would have to be here by thirty minutes until ten. If he isn’t…” Her words faded into another sigh.

“He isn’t crucial to the performance,” da San-Germain said gently. “If he doesn’t return in time, it won’t ruin the play. We can manage with one fewer Corpse and Lackey.”

“Yes, we can manage,” she admitted, dejection in every line of her drooping figure. “He is so feckless. He doesn’t understand.”

“Why should he understand? He does this to upset you,” da San-Germain said. “The more distressed you appear, the more he counts himself successful.”

“I know, I know, and I am almost out of patience with him for these petulant tricks of his; he’s fifteen and no longer a child, to be coddled and indulged,” she said, a bit more brusquely, trying to convince herself as well as da San-Germain. “But he is not nearly as experienced, as knowledgeable as he fancies himself. He could get into, oh, all manner of trouble, and this is not the time or the place for such folly.”

“He could, and you’re right—this would not be a good place to catch the attention of the officials. The repercussions could be more difficult than he imagines.” He tied on his mask, and his voice became muffled. “But your telling him that will not persuade him. He might listen to Hariot, or Feo, if you would like me to have a word with them after the play.”

“Oh, would you?” She gave him her most tremulous smile. “He
might
listen to one of them.” Then she reached for his hand. “I would hate to have to get him out of trouble while we’re going after your kinswoman. It could prevent us from pursing her.” Her expression shifted. “Are you sure that she will be in Lyon?”

“Not completely certain, but from what I’ve learned since the clerk sent the note to me, I have confirmed with two Revolutionary Guards that a barge was taken north with a number of prisoners on it, almost all of them aristos or religious. I have to suppose, since she’s not on the list of official prisoners here, that she is among those on the barge, bound for Lyon.” He felt a shudder of sympathy for Madelaine, constrained to travel over running water, which for those of his blood caused vertigo and seasickness. Being a prisoner was bad enough, but the enervation that the river would cause would double her misery.