Commedia della Morte (36 page)

“I’ve lost count, there have been so many postponements,” she said. “Who knows? it may be spring by the time we’re taken to the Revolutionary Court, when defense will be moot.”

“Until the law is passed, if it is passed, you will have to have an advocate,” he said.

“If you can discover who it is, I would be grateful.”

“I can certainly make the effort.” He bent and kissed her hand, its chill matching his own hand’s. “Or would you prefer I seek out other counsel for you?”

“No. That would distinguish me too much, and that could lead to certain assumptions that might go against my interests. But tell my Cadiz cousin that I thank him for his generosity.” She stared into his dark eyes. “I have missed you, Saint-Germain. I should have taken your advice, and remained in Italy, but…”

He finished her trailing thought for her. “But the advice of an exile is not always suitable.”

“Oh, no,” she protested, then saw him gesture to her; she collected her thoughts. “Not in the way you mean. I was certain that the Revolution would bring the justice it promised, and that those of us who have been responsible to our people would be able to lose only our titles, not our heads.” She went back to his side. “But you’ve been through this kind of upheaval before, and your warnings were prudent.”

“This is what the soldier should hear; it is what Warden Loup is expecting,” he said in Turkish, a language she had recently learned in anticipation of a journey there. “You’re doing well. I am sorry we cannot talk without anyone listening.” He allowed himself a moment to touch her coffee-colored hair, so lightly that he might have been caressing the wings of butterflies.

“You know I can’t speak Hungarian,” she protested, a ghost of a smile on her lips at her deliberate misidentification.

“I apologize,” he said in French. “It is the circumstances here—they remind me of what I endured, and I lapse.” The oubliette had been long ago, when he had been regarded as a demon; there had been other prisons, in China, in Roma, in the New World, in Poland … He held her hand more tightly.

“Small wonder,” she said, then added quietly, “Do you remember the old chapel, the one you showed me when I had been hunting?”

“Yes,” he said, his mind going back to the dreadful pursuit of Saint Sebastien and his Circle that had brought her to an ancient chapel where he sheltered with her for the night, and the passion that brought her closer to becoming like him. “It was … some years ago, was it not?”

“A shame we can’t return there,” she said, her voice echoing the force of his memories, moving next to him. “Those elegant, vile men, trying to waylay me; were it not for you, I tremble to think what might have happened to me at their hands.”

“Alas,” was as much as he trusted himself to say.

She held up her hand, motioning him to silence. “Those days are gone.”

“It is one of my dearest recollections of you,” he told her gently.

“And mine of you,” she said, leaning against his arm, then stepping back. “How long do you think you will be here?”

Da San-Germain felt her yearning as if it were the heat from a bonfire. “It depends upon the Commedia della Morte. I’m still with the troupe, you see. We were in Avignon not so many days ago, and decided to come north before winter set in.” It was difficult to keep talking of such commonplace things when he wanted to embrace her, but since that would be fruitless as well as dangerous, he made himself continue. “If the play is received well we could be here for two weeks or more; we have five more performances licensed, and may be granted more if there is a demand for them.”

“Then you will remain with the players?” She stood beside him, both of them facing away from the door.

“Yes.” He paused. “I wish you could see them.”

“I would like to, but—”

“Of course: but.”

She took a deep breath. “Well, I shall content myself with imagining you on the stage.”

“I am not on the stage: I provide the music.” He paused. “But I wear a costume, and a mask.”

“Very gallant,” she said, laying her hand on his.

He bowed slightly. “I am content to remain in the shadows.” His tone was playful but his expression was not.

“Do any others share those shadows with you?”

He wanted to enfold her in his arms again, to feel her presence and her emotion with all of his being, but he restrained his impulse. “No; I hope that will change before long. It would enhance the play to have more music than what I can provide on the cimbalom; a flute-player, perhaps.” He saw her start, and very nearly smile: she had learned to play the flute when she was alive, and had not entirely lost the touch of the instrument.

“I wish you good luck in finding such a person,” she said, squeezing his fingers in acknowledgment of his message. Seeking some less precarious subject, she asked, “How was Theron when you left him?”

“Closeted with Madame d’Auville when I last saw him,” said da San-Germain. “That was last evening, immediately after supper.”

“Madame d’Auville?”

“The leader of the troupe,” he said, wondering if this were unwelcome news. “She is an actress of broad experience. I saw her do
Phaedre,
not so many months ago.”

Madelaine was only half-listening. “You mean he’s here?”

“Oh, yes. He wrote the play the troupe is performing.”

“I thought he’d have more sense than I did, and remain in Italy,” she said, and caught her lower lip in her teeth.

“He insisted on coming with us, and Madame d’Auville could not refuse him.”

“And how is he?”

Da San-Germain thought about his answer. “For the most part, he is well. He misses you.”

“I wish I could see him,” she said, her face showing the esurience that had become keen during her imprisonment. “Will you tell him I asked about him?”

“If that is to your liking; I expect he’ll have many questions when I return to the Jongleur, the inn where we are presently staying.”

She faltered, trying to summon up what she wanted Theron to know and Montaube to hear. Finally she said, “Tell him I wish I could see his play, and thank him for the service he has done me.”

“I will,” he promised just as there was a rap on the door.

“Five more minutes,” said Montaube.

“Five minutes it will be,” da San-Germain said, raising his voice enough to be heard.

“So we’ll have to say good-bye. So soon.” She stared at him, her eyes echoing the loneliness in his.

“Lamentably,” he agreed, again reaching for her hands.

This time she gave them to him freely. “Do you think you’ll be allowed to come back?”

“That’s in the hands of others,” he told her, and bent to kiss her palms.

“But you’ll make—”

“—every effort: yes, of course.”

She nodded, trying to summon up something to say. At last, she asked, “Will you write to our relatives about this meeting?”

“That is my intention,” he said, drawing her to him by putting her hands on his shoulders. “As soon as I am permitted to return, I will.” He touched his lips to her brow. “Remember that you are dear to … to all of us.”

“Most kind,” she murmured, holding him as if to draw strength from him, all the while knowing that what both of them sought and needed, neither could provide. She cleared her throat. “Your visit has been … has been”—she wanted to say
wonderful
but settled for the much safer “most welcome. I’m sorry it could not be longer.” Then, gathering her courage, she pushed back from him. “Go now, so they will let you come back.”

“My heart,” he said with a slight, elegant bow.

“Tell Theron that I’m grateful for what he has done.”

“I will,” he said as he heard the door behind him pulled open; he swung around to face Montaube. “The time is up. I know.”

“If you will come with me?” Montaube said automatically. He locked the door with care, then pointed to the corridor.

“I thank you for tending to my visit,” said da San-Germain, and handed the young man two silver coins.

Without a single change in expression, Montaube said, “I hope you will come again,” and clinked the coins to make his point as he made his way out of the dark prison into the murky dawn.

*   *   *

Text of a letter from Geoffrey George Eustace Wattle on tour in France to his uncle, Eustace Charles St. Ives Bradleigh, Fellow at King’s College, Cambridge, in England, carried by university postal courier and delivered nineteen days after it was written.

To my esteemed Uncle E. C. St.I. Bradleigh, the affectionate greetings of his nephew G. G. E. Wattle, on the road to Lyon on this, the 18
th
day of October, 1792.

My dear Uncle,

I trust this finds you in your customary good health after your holiday in Northumberland, and that you will pass on to your sister (my devoted Mater) such news of me as will be welcome to her and my brothers.

I further trust you had my letter from Amsterdam, where most of the Dutch still greet us as comrades, although some are less cordial than they have been of late, fearing we may withdraw our support of them if this war with the French becomes more vigorous. Whatever alliances Pitt decides to honor, I fear the Dutch will not emerge unscathed from the war. I will give you a full report upon my return, which I may advance to February rather than April, if the weather will allow me to travel safely.

So without further rodomontade:

On your suggestion, I avoided Paris, but I have discovered that even outside of the Capital, the French are unusually volatile, and there is talk of the Parisian Jacobins demanding the submission of the Girondists, who are particularly strong in Lyon, whither I am presently bound. I have found the French in turmoil, which was to be expected, but which has led to some instances that trouble me. I have had to pay more “fees,” by which I mean bribes, than either you or I anticipated, and that may leave me with a lean purse by the end of the year.

Of course, most French are wary of all English, and that is still the case, and growing steadily more entrenched, though not without cause. I have several times been approached by persons claiming to represent various French persons who wish to leave the country as discreetly as possible, and are willing to pay some considerable sums to gain the means of travel that does not involve going through any of the official points of egress. I have let it be known that I cannot do anything myself, but have recommended contacting the captains of English merchant ships, who are not as particular as many about their passengers, and are often inclined to overlook a lack of official permits for a purse full of gold. That may be the case with French merchants as well, but since there are rewards offered to those denouncing those seeking to escape, I have given it as my opinion that foreign merchants are safer than French ones. I happened upon a captain from the other side of the Atlantic; I do not know for certain if he were American, or of some other nation, but he told me that he had given up carrying slaves and was earning his living by carrying the French who could meet his price to the New World. He said that his hold had been converted from cargo holds to cabins, and that although these passengers demanded better food, there were fewer of them, and they were better-behaved than the slaves he bought in African markets.

From what I have been hearing, it is not unlikely that if Lyon does not capitulate and join with the National Convention on its policies, they may be subject to military action. Fine way to express their Revolutionary unity! You would think that with the war in Holland, they would not seek to turn their soldiers on their own cities. When first I heard of this, I thought it was impossible, but I am no longer convinced of that, which has resulted in many qualms. I am sorry now that only Humphries elected to accompany me (which he has informed me he now regrets doing), for as two foreigners alone in a place where the mob is ever more in charge, and the Government itching to bring it to heel, we are exposed to greater risks than either Humphries or I anticipated, and I believe even you did not perceive for the dangers they have proven to be. Poor Humphries has declared that we must leave soon, despite all the assurances he gave Mr. Priestley and the members of the Lunar Society. Whatever flattery he found in their request that he report events here to them has withered away, and small wonder.

The executions which have been generally decried are still being carried out, and in some places in increasing numbers. I understand that situations in various of the larger towns have reached such a state that ordinary folk are no longer safe from accusations, and that, should Robespierre have his way, accusation and condemnation will become the law of the land, if it is not already accepted by the National Convention. To add to the grotesquerie, there have been grand festivities in Paris, staged to celebrate the death and lawlessness that they say has taken over that city, and is becoming the order of the day in the towns. In Paris, it is the dramatist Jean-Marie Collot d’Herbois who has charge of the merry-making, and it seems that there will be more of that kind of thing, macabre as it appears. Many towns have already announced their intentions to emulate Paris and d’Herbois, which can only mean more trouble for the people, and for foreigners as well. Of all the troublesome signs coming out of this Revolution, these (dare I call them?) ghoulish revels are the most disturbing to me. The praise of carnage for its own sake does not augur well for the outcome of this Revolution: it is not like the American Revolution, when there was no opportunity for the rebels to strike down the monarchy or redress the wrongs of centuries. This is quite another upheaval, and it promotes destruction and mayhem, not independence and identity.

If any of this may be useful to any of your associates in the Government, and those in the Lunar Society, you may make use of it in any way you see fit.

Until I see England and you again, I commend myself to you, and to our family.

Your most Ob’t nephew,

G. G. E. Wattle