Commedia della Morte (3 page)

“I don’t want to argue with you,” said Theron anxiously.

“Still, it would be better that you do it. I don’t want you to be detained.”

“They won’t detain me,” he said with more bravado than conviction.

“No, they won’t—not if you’re in Padova.” She went the length of the room, her face set in determined lines. “These Revolutionaries are hungry for blood, and they will not be easily sated. All through the country, the National Razor is busy shaving heads at the neck. I would prefer they spare me mine.” Her irony was too strong for Theron, who did his best not to look shocked at her bitter humor.

“If I decide to do this for you, I would like a very wondrous farewell tonight,” he said, reaching out for her again.

“That you shall have, no matter what you decide,” she promised.

His voice dropped to a kind of purr. “I’ll think of every way to please you, and you will use your sorcery on me.”

She evaded his embrace. “Yes. Tonight. Not just now with the Guards outside the door.”

He stepped back from her. “You kissed me,” he reminded her.

“So I did. And I will do more. But not here. We want them to believe our argument, don’t we?”

“I suppose so,” he said, looking a bit sulky.

Madelaine reminded herself that he was only twenty-four. “You will be well-rewarded for waiting.”

“I have no doubt of that.” The purr was gone.

“Until then, keep in mind that we must remember that we are being watched. Tonight we will be private.”

He let out an abrupt sigh. “What do you plan to do once I’m gone?” he asked more loudly as he shot a glance toward the door.

“Put this house in order as much as I can with a reduced staff. Gigot will stay on to run the kitchen, but only four will be left in the house, and six for the fields, and who knows? more may leave in the twenty-one days granted in the safe conduct. If Maxime will remain as well, the mansion may not fall into ruin. I have to assume that there will be a few more who prefer safety to good pay.” She gave a little shake of her head. “If we shut up six of the rooms, the task of caring for the place shouldn’t be too overwhelming.”

“That sounds as if you intend to do some of the work yourself,” said Theron, his disapproval obvious.

“Of course I shall.” She shook her head. “Oh, Theron, Theron, I am not some hot-house flower, to be coddled and pampered. I know how to sweep a room and scrub floors, and dress a chicken, if it comes to that. I can mend clothes and lay a fire.” She looked him steadily in the eyes. “You may not believe it, but I would be delighted to go on an antiquarian expedition to Egypt or India, or … oh, I don’t know. Anywhere there are ruins of ancient cities.”

Theron laughed as he reached out to stroke her cheek. “You want the adventure, the romance. But you don’t know the dangers and hardships such expeditions face.”

“Yes, I do, and I welcome them; I’ve told you before that I know what such expeditions are like, and I don’t make light of the hardships they entail,” she declared, then added quietly, “Say nothing more now; this would be a perfect argument for tonight.”

“But—” He stopped himself, aware that in some way he could not understand he had overstepped himself. “I’ll leave you to think about what you have said, I know it was only fancy that inspires you. I would not like to think that you would so demean yourself that you would set aside all propriety for the sake of exotic travel.”

“So would I,” said Madelaine bluntly. “I don’t think travel is demeaning. When you consider some of the places I have gone—” She moved past him. “I’ll be in the kitchen for the next hour. I’ll see you when you dine this evening.”

He could not stop himself from saying, “And you will not eat with me, will you?”

“No; you know I will not. When have I ever?”

His smile was charmingly reckless. “In bed.”

Rather than laugh, Madelaine gave him a warning look. “That is between us,” she whispered. “It is nothing to jest about.”

His face fell. “I suppose you’re right.”

“In this I am.” She raised her voice once more. “Are you considering the safe conduct, then?”

“I don’t know,” said Theron, taking his cue from her expression. “I may. At least I’ll give it some thought.”

“Of course,” she responded with exaggerated courtesy while mitigating her sarcasm with a wink. “Well, if you must, you must.”

“This is not the time to discuss this. As you say, you have things to do.” He gave her an answering wink, then turned and stormed out of the salon, leaving the door open in his haste to be gone.

Madelaine watched him go, wondering how much of his indignation was performance and how much was genuine, thinking that Theron might yet bring them both to ruin. She smoothed the front of her dress, and went out the door, passing between two Revolutionary Guards as she did, and made for the kitchen, doing her utmost to keep her worries from being too apparent in her demeanor.

“Madame,” said Gigot as Madelaine entered his hot, cavernous domain. “You are most welcome.” He was large and loose-limbed, in his mid-thirties, of a comfortable size, and with a rumpled face that gave him the air of an affectionate hound.

“Thank you, Gigot.” She looked around. “Your scullions are leaving?”

“Only Pierre. Dion is staying for now, and Maxime. Dion’s out turning the cheese in the creamery.” His attempt at a smile was wary. “I can’t say if he might not change his mind and decide to leave.”

“Well, if he does,” said Madelaine in a rallying way, “I can turn cheeses, and bake bread if I must.”

Gigot could not conceal his shock. “It wouldn’t be right, Madame. Not even Maxime will turn cheeses.”

“It isn’t right that the Revolutionary Guards are here, but that can’t be changed, so we must accommodate. Let us hope that the worst we will have to do is turn cheeses.” She settled on the bench near the enclosed ovens. “Since they are here, we, perforce, will house and feed them.” For a moment she paused, seeing increasing dismay in his eyes. “There are nine of them, aren’t there?”

“Yes. With two couriers due tomorrow.” Gigot sounded disapproving. “Eleven rough villains, with the manners of brigands.”

“Then prepare them a good supper. Make them a meat pie with the last of the hung beef and the small pork sausages. We have vegetables enough to make the pie a sufficient meal in itself, don’t we?”

Gigot shrugged. “If you require it.”

Before he could become intractable, she held out a hand to him. “Oh, Gigot, think. If we anger them, or show them any contempt, it is not they who will suffer for it, is it? Treat them well, and we will stand in less danger from them than if we defy them. Don’t you see that?”

He nodded slowly. “It upsets me to cater to such men as they are.”

“They aren’t my favorite house-guests, either, but that is out of our hands now.”

Gigot reached for a celery-root and began to trim it. “This, cooked with the beef and sausages, some cabbage, and some turnips, should suffice. I will make the dough for the crust as soon as I finish chopping this.” He waved his wedge-knife as if it were a sword, then set it down with a bang. “I have onions and garlic. There’s beef stock in the pantry, only a day old. Chervil, savory, thyme, a little pepper to liven it, and they will be satisfied.” He paused. “I’ll make something a bit better for the household, and your companion.”

“Thank you, Gigot,” said Madelaine, rising from the bench. “I think you and I should plan meals for at least two weeks, so that we can secure the things we need for the Guards.” She saw him rankle, and went on, “We will need to be prepared. If we don’t make plans now, who knows what they might decide to commandeer for their—”

“We should lock the pantry, and the wine-cellar. And the creamery,” Gigot said emphatically.

“By all means lock whatever you wish.”

“Do you think this will be over in two weeks?” Gigot asked.

“No, I don’t. I think it will get worse,” Madelaine said, her voice flat. “We have to be ready for whatever comes.” She pressed her lips together. “Does Dion know how to butcher? With Olivier going to his brother in Autun, we’ll be without a butcher here, and I don’t trust any of the Guards to know how to slaughter a hog and dress it. I daren’t think what they would do to a lamb.”

“Saints save us! No.” Gigot was shocked. “Better that I should do it, and I am only a cook.”

“There is nothing
only
about your cooking,” said Madelaine.

“How would you know? You never so much as taste it,” Gigot responded, his manner lightly teasing.

“I can smell, and I know aroma from odor,” she answered in the same manner.

“Madame is most kind,” said Gigot with the suggestion of a bow.

“Oh, Gigot, don’t play with me,” said Madelaine.

He chuckled. “Very well. Tell me what you want me to serve your friend for his supper tonight.”

“Nothing too fancy; perhaps ribs of lamb with sauteed cabbage; the Guards will notice if you make one of your special dishes, and might not take it in good part that Theron has better fare than they. Be sure that the Guards have large helpings.” She did her best to smile at him. “I am sorry you’ve been brought to this state, Gigot. If you decide you’d rather not remain, I would certainly understand.”

Gigot gusted out a sigh. “Where would I go? Who would hire me in these times? I haven’t the disposition to be an innkeeper, and there is no one now who can afford to maintain the kind of household I am accustomed to cooking for.”

“True enough,” said Madelaine. “Well, I am pleased to have you with me, whatever your reason for staying.”

“If I had a wife or children it might be different, but since I don’t…” He made another sweep with his knife to finish his thoughts.

Whatever Madelaine might have said was silenced as Bescart came into the kitchen. She regarded him steadily, but with a sinking sensation in her heart. “Good afternoon, Bescart. How are your preparations coming?”

“The carts are mostly loaded, and we have chosen two mules and a spare to pull them,” he said gruffly, pulling at the lobe of his large ear. “I was coming to ask for some cheese and sausage and perhaps a smoked ham to take with us, for food. I don’t know where we’ll find farmers willing to sell us provisions, and half of the travelers’ inns are keeping their doors closed.” He stared at her with a mixture of defiance and shame in his stance. “If you’ll permit it, of course,” he added.

“Certainly you may have food; I told the household that this morning, and nothing has changed,” said Madelaine. “All of you who have chosen to leave have been promised food for your journeys, and you shall have it.”

Gigot scowled, but said, “I’ll bring you two rounds of cheese—the large ones. I have a fennel-sausage made with veal—you know them; the ones that are as long as your forearm and big around as a large beetroot—you shall have three of them. They’re in the pantry. I can fill a jar with pickled onions-and-cucumbers. If Madame will permit, I will give you three bottles of white wine.”

“Yes. That should keep you and your family for a few days,” said Madelaine.

“You are generous, Madame,” Bescart conceded.

“I would not like it said that I haven’t made reasonable settlement on you. I know you already have the funds I’ve provided.” Madelaine took a step toward him. “Let us wish each other well and part friends, Bescart.”

“Giving me a year’s wages and a letter of introduction is a kindness, Madame, but you are a noble and I am not. There can be no friendship between us now.” He turned away from her and spoke to Gigot as if Madelaine had vanished. “I will come for our food in an hour or so. And we will dine in our quarters tonight. My wife will do a baking before ten tonight; you will have bread for tomorrow. We will leave at first light, so that we will not have to travel much in the heat of the day, and can nap, like civilized persons do.”

“I’ve sent for my nephew to do the baking,” said Gigot, trying not to reveal the extent of his disapproval of Bescart’s departure. “He should be here in two days. In the meantime, Remi and I can make loaves for the household.”

“If your nephew answers your invitation, you mean. In these days, who knows if he will take the chance.” Bescart gave Gigot a searching look. “You should come with us, Gigot. It isn’t safe to stay here any longer.”

“Montalia is my home, as it was my father’s,” Gigot said firmly. “I won’t leave it just because some upstarts from the city have taken it into their heads to try to drive me away.”

“As you wish,” said Bescart, tugging at his earlobe again before he swung around on his heel and stomped off to the outside door.

“Well!” exclaimed Gigot when Bescart had closed the door behind him. “What do you make of that?”

“I suppose he’s frightened.” Madelaine shook her head. “And he may be right—those of us from the Old Order are now at the mercy of the New, and he wants to be on the winning side.”

“Do not despair, Madame,” Gigot said, his voice ragged.

Madelaine managed a kind of a smile. “I will do my best not to, Gigot.”

Encouraged, the cook went on, “It will all come right. You’ll see.”

“Do you think so: perhaps.” She started toward the corridor that led to the dining room, but paused in the doorway. “For tonight, do something remarkable for my guest. He will be departing tomorrow, and I want him to have a memorable meal tonight.”

“Would lamb do, with rosemary and garlic? And a creamed-chicken soup with fine herbs?” Gigot’s eyes shone at the prospect.

“It sounds delicious. I can almost taste it,” said Madelaine, and added, “I will be in my study for an hour or so. I have a letter I must write.” And saying that, she was gone.

*   *   *

Text of a letter from Madelaine de Montalia at Montalia to il Conte da San-Germain in Padova, written in Latin, and carried by Theron Baptiste Heurer, delivered twenty-two days after it was written.

To my most dear, most cherished San-Germain, the greetings of Madelaine de Montalia,

This is being carried to you by Theron Heurer, who has been my companion for the last four months. He is a poet of some promise, but still too filled with the sense of his own genius to have done great work yet, though it may be in him. I have tasted his blood five times, but no more than that.