Commedia della Morte (46 page)

At da San-Germain’s room she paused, debating if she ought to inform him of what she was about to do, knowing that she could rely on his confidence. But as quickly as the notion occurred, she realized he would caution her against her plan, and perhaps go so far as to spell out the risks she was taking, or insist on accompanying her, which would discourage her at the time she needed encouragement. With a short, regretful sigh, she moved on, deciding she would explain herself the following morning, when she would know if she had succeeded in gaining Enee’s liberty, and could rely on him for praise or sympathy. In the morning she would speak to him, she promised herself, when the evening with Charlot was over.

She had forgotten how dark the streets could be on a cloudy night, how cavernous the narrow streets with lanterns only at the corners were; leaving the torch-lit inn-yard, she struck off in the direction of Rue Thomas Paine—which not so long ago had been the Rue Saint-Hilaire—and the house of Deputy Secretary Charlot. She had memorized the directions that were included with the invitation, but now she had trouble remembering them as she made her way toward the Rue Tilleul; the darkness made the distances hard to judge, and the landmarks unfamiliar. To her surprise, she was shivering, and not only from the evening chill. Chiding herself for lack of purpose, she nevertheless made a point of avoiding the Guards Patrols making their way through the city streets; there were stories about what they did to women found out alone after dark, and it did not suit her purposes to be thrust into a prostitutes’ cell to wait for morning and the indignity of appearing in court. Briefly she wondered if she should have told one of the troupe where she was going, but quickly decided that would have been folly, and not because all the actors would know within an hour of her errand; that might mean that da San-Germain would hear of her actions before she returned, and she could not believe that he would not attempt to intervene. She shook her head and hurried on, wanting to get off the street as soon as she could. The sooner she reached Charlot, the sooner Enee would be safe.

The house, when she found it, gave her a feeling of disquiet: it was about a century old, narrow, three storeys topped by a mansard roof, set between two larger buildings, both of which looked to her to be unoccupied, and having only three windows facing the street. Since it was placed back a little way from the pavement, it gave the appearance of something concealed. A single lantern over the door provided the light up the short walk to the front door. Photine looked down, suppressing a shudder, for the movement of her skirts cast shadows eerie as slithering serpents. Reaching the door, Photine had a sudden urge to turn back, but she staunchly over-ruled her trepidations, telling herself that she had handled more difficult men than Charlot in her time. She pulled her right hand from her muff, and sounded the knocker, making herself breathe slowly and steadily while she waited for the door to open; while she listened for the approach of a servant, she prompted herself of her coming interview of her intent—“This is for Enee, for my son”—and that she had sufficient experience of men to be able to handle this one bureaucrat, no matter what powers he wielded.

“You arrive promptly; it lacks two minutes of ten-thirty,” said Charlot as he opened the door. “Do come in, Madame d’Auville.” He stepped back, giving her room to pass into the small foyer; he was dressed in an amber-colored dressing-robe over woolen unmentionables and Ottoman slippers. His shirt was open at the throat and she was fairly certain that he wore no waistcoat. Stubble darkened his jaw, and his medium-brown hair was caught at the back of his neck with a narrow ribband. “I am delighted to see you.”

“And I you,” she said as she had rehearsed it. “And to be asked to your house is an honor, for which I am most grateful.”

“I suppose you were … discreet?”

Photine managed not to bristle. “I would not want to compromise either of us. Only one of my troupe knows I’m gone from the inn.”

“That is wise of you. If it were known that I occasionally hear petitioners here, in private, I would be besieged. I trust you will keep my confidence regarding this evening.” His chuckle was without warmth. “Enter. Please.”

Photine gave a slight curtsy before she entered the small room, half-expecting a servant to relieve her of her cloak and muff, but none came. Making the best of an awkward situation, she divested herself of her cloak and held it out to him. “Where shall you hang this, Deputy Secretary? Or tell me where and I will attend to it.” Her smile was deliberately tantalizing, showing that she did not mind that they seemed to be alone.

Charlot confirmed this, saying, “My housekeeper is with her brother’s family tonight, and my cook retired an hour since. We will not be disturbed,” as he took her cloak and dropped it over a broad peg behind the front door. “If you will give me your muff?”

She relinquished it to him, noticing that he dropped it on a narrow bench under the high window that would provide the only daylight to the room; it seemed an odd place to put it. Perhaps, she thought, he had no cloak closet at all—many of these old houses did not. “I am aware that you are a busy man, Deputy Secretary.”

“The burden of my office, Madame,” he said with a kind of automatic courtesy that reminded her that she would have to be succinct. “You wish to discuss your son’s incarceration with me.”

The bluntness of his statement brought her up short; she struggled to keep from launching into disclaimers, and instead nodded, matching candor with candor. “Yes, that is my intention, if you will give me the opportunity to do so.”

“Of course, Madame.” He very nearly smiled.

“You are the official who has the authority to decide what will become of my son—”

“Yes, yes; I understand your reason for accepting my invitation.”

She felt a grue slide up her spine; she covered this with a winsome glance. “Then I appreciate you taking time to hear me out, Deputy Secretary. I would not like to think I am on a fool’s errand.”

“And I am disinclined to waste time, as well.” He touched her shoulder, hardly more than a brush of his fingers, but he had Photine’s full attention. “The trouble is that your son murderously attacked one of your company, and that cannot be entirely set aside. Now, if there are extenuating circumstances to his act, there may be a means to resolve the case without the necessity of a trial.” He paused, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “You must know that I’m eager to discuss this legal predicament with you, Madame,” he said; Photine wondered if she had heard a note of derision in his words; she questioned herself inwardly if this might be because he was used to listening to the pleas of distraught mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, and children on behalf of those the Department of Public Safety had detained. “If you will go through the door on your left?”

“Thank you, Deputy Secretary,” she said, and opened the door into a small but surprisingly elegant salon, with a fire burning and two branches of candles lit. The walls were covered with watered silk the color of pomegranates, and there were two small, scroll-armed sophas upholstered in wine-colored brocade flanking a low, claw-footed table with a brass top, where a bottle filled with an opalescent liquid stood, with two small glasses and a bowl of sugar beside it. “What a charming room,” she said, and went to warm her hands at the hearth; she could feel his gaze following her, and for the first time since she entered the house, she began to relax, certain she would be able to persuade him to release Enee to her if only she mixed her appeal to him with a little flirtation and hid the desperation that possessed her.

“It is one of my few indulgences, this room,” he said with pride that bordered on smugness. “It has taken me four years to bring it to this state.”

“You have done a splendid job, Deputy Secretary.”

“You’re most kind, Madame. I confess I take pride in what I have accomplished here.” He closed the door and moved to the center of the room, next to the table, where the light was brightest. “So few have enjoyed it that your praise means a great deal to me, for you must have seen many elegant rooms in the course of your work.”

She made the most of the cue he offered her, ignoring the snide undertone in his remark. “Then I am doubly pleased—first, that you have agreed to talk to me, and second, that you do so in this lovely room. Thank you again for receiving me. I hadn’t dared to hope until I received your invitation.”

He made a sound that might have meant agreement. “Then complete your gesture of courtesy: if you will sit down, and allow me to pour you a little liqueur of wormwood”—he used the German word for
wormwood
—“we can get down to discussion.” Seeing her hesitate. “Take whichever sopha suits you best,” he urged.

Photine chose the sopha nearer the door, reclining against the rolled arm with a languor she did not feel. “You’re most gracious, Deputy Secretary.”

“Your company makes it easy for me to be so,” he responded with a gallantry that astonished her; so this very ordinary man fancied himself a chevalier, she realized, and determined to use that understanding to her advantage.

“Then we should be able to manage our business without difficulty,” she said, wanting to keep him on point.

“I think that’s possible,” he said, strolling to the table, picking up the bottle, and pouring a small amount of the liqueur into each of the glasses. “This is remarkable stuff. Are you familiar with it?”

“Liqueur of wormwood? I don’t believe so,” she said,

“You will find it most unusual,” he said, a bit remotely. “I know I do.”

Photine stared at the glass handed to her. She took it from him, saying, “Then I thank you in advance.”

“To you, Madame,” Charlot said, lifting his glass before touching the rim to his lips. “And your mission of mercy.”

The taste, Photine thought as she sipped the liqueur, was not entirely pleasant, but she took a second nip. “It’s … interesting.”

“Some poets say it provides them visions,” Charlot informed her. “You, as an actress, may find it does the same for you.”

“Then I should probably wait until our business is finished. It would be unhelpful for me to become lost in a vision when we should be talking sensibly.” She spoke in a level voice as she put the little glass down, still half-full, but the alarm she had felt as she made her way from the Jongleur to this house returned.

“You had best finish the glass—it goes off rapidly once poured, not the usual thing for a liqueur, but there it is,” said Charlot. “I dislike seeing anything so rare go to waste.”

Now Photine was torn: did she refuse Charlot’s hospitality and lose what good opinion he had of her, or did she risk drinking the liqueur of wormwood and hope that she kept her wits about her? After a silence of a dozen seconds or so, she reached for the glass and took another, very small sip. The taste was almost musty, with underlying bitterness that made her wonder if she should put some sugar into the glass with the drink. The vapors wound their way into her skull and slunk into her keyed-up nerves. She realized she had to treat the liqueur with a great deal of respect. “Most unusual, Deputy Secretary.”

“Thank you, Madame. For an instant it seemed that you did not trust me,” he said, putting his own glass on the mantel, where he rested his arm, his ordinary features changing in the flickering light from the fire, lending him a certain air of danger that she found disconcerting. “Tell me about your son—he
is
your son, I presume? Not a nephew or the by-blow of one of your company?”

“Oh, yes, he is mine,” she said, not letting his insinuation stop her from answering his first question. “He’s fifteen. He was born in Beauvais, the son of my first patron, who provided for him—for his education and his livelihood—until he was thirteen, then settled a trust upon him that ended last year when his property was seized by the Revolutionary Tribunal there. He cannot continue to support him.” She looked up at Charlot. “Enee’s father has left the country, or so I’ve been told.”

“He has actually left the country? Are you certain?” Charlot asked with minimal interest.

“I have been told that he has,” she repeated, imbuing her words with certainty. “His banker sent word to Enee that there would be no more money for him unless he came to Jamaica, where there is a family estate, and where he would be provided for. So far, Enee has had no interest in joining his father—assuming that’s where he has gone—but now, who knows? He might be more than willing to live there.” It was difficult to gauge how much to tell this bureaucrat, for his expression revealed nothing of his thoughts. “It angered Enee to be so cruelly cut off. He didn’t grasp the gravity of his father’s situation, but I believe in time he will.”

“A harsh reality for your son,” Charlot mused aloud, then brightened. “So tell me what his childhood was like—did your son know his father at all?”

“Until he was nine, my son spent time with him fairly frequently, a week in his company four times a year, and a month in the winter. Enee always enjoyed himself, for his father shamelessly indulged him. After he turned nine, his father’s wife finally gave him a son instead of daughters, and so he lessened the amount of time they—”

Rather absent-mindedly, Charlot topped off Photine’s glass of wormwood liqueur. “It must have distressed Enee.”

“He came to travel with me in that year, and that eased his suffering.” She shifted on the sopha so that she could lean toward Charlot. “I was thrilled to have his company, and the actors in the troupe appointed themselves his family, as troupes do.” This was not quite true, but she solaced herself with the certainty that the company would agree with her claim if they were ever questioned in that regard.

“Had he traveled with you before?”

“No; I traveled little while Enee was growing up. Why are you asking me so many questions? Shouldn’t we be talking about my son?”

Charlot stared at her, nothing amicable in his eyes. “If you want to see your son released, you will answer any question I put to you.” He waited until she nodded. “How much did your son travel with you?”

Stilling her increasing qualms, Photine took a deep breath. “My patron kept the troupe as his own and was most generous with us. We were housed and fed at his major country estate, with three houses for our own use, and a small theater for us to rehearse in, and present occasional farces for my patron’s guests.” Most of those scenarios had been bawdy and satiric, and nothing whatever like what she liked most to do. “For the most part, we mounted three or four full productions a year for him, and occasionally took a play to Paris; once we played at Versailles. That was some years ago, of course. I was an ingenue then.” Without thinking, she drank a little more of the liqueur of wormwood, finding its effect on her soothing. “He had a taste for the classics, did Jean-Raoul, and encouraged us to produce those plays often, especially the Greek tragedies.”