Commedia della Morte (50 page)

“Thank you,” the two said, and made their way gingerly down the steep slope to the stream, their footsteps fading as they went toward the river.

“Have you found a place?” Madelaine whispered to da San-Germain in Arabic.

“For you—yes. You’ll need to stay hidden until tomorrow afternoon,” he answered in the same language.

She nodded, and glanced at the other women, wondering how much curiosity she had awakened in them; she moved away from da San-Germain, giving him a demi-curtsy as she went.

A few minutes later there came the sound of approaching horses; the three women hurried to conceal themselves at the side of the road. Roger aimed his duck’s-foot, ready to fire, but then lowered it. “The horses are here.”

“Very good,” said da San-Germain, and turned to the women. “I fear you’ll all have to ride astride, but it is far safer that way.”

The most timid of the women looked dismayed, but stood as straight as she could. “If I must, I must.”

The lead horse reached the coaches and stopped, as did the string behind. There was a fidgety stillness; then da San-Germain stepped toward Feo’s horse, distressed certainty growing in him. He reached the horse and caught it by the reins below the bit, his dark-seeing eyes revealing to him what he had hoped not to see: Feo was lying forward on the horse’s neck, the lead for the string secured to the saddle. His hat had been lost somewhere between the road and the meadow; blood dripped slowly from the wound in his thigh, and his sightless eyes were fixed on the far distance, a look of puzzlement etched forever on his dead face.

*   *   *

Text of a bill of sale from Roger Gadouin to Marc de Brisac, innkeeper at the Batteau Jaune, four leagues west of Lyon on the Chouans Road.

Sold to Marc de Brisac by Roger Gadouin on this, the 26
th
of October, 1792, 3:40 a.m., at the inn, the Batteau Jaune, two horses with tack included, for the sum of 20 louis d’or.

Vive la France!

Vive la Revolution!

Roger Gadouin

major domo to

il Conte da San-Germain

7

It was past four of the clock and starting to rain by the time da San-Germain entered the kitchen door at the Jongleur and made his way—so quietly that a shadow might make more noise—through the kitchen and painfully up the servants’ stairs to his room, where he put aside his Hungarian clothes in favor of a long dressing-robe in dark-red velvet. He gave himself a little time to review all that had happened that night—the death of Feo and the improvised funeral he and Roger had given him in an old cemetery among the broken tombs, the dispatching of Roger to sell the extra horses, and the place he had found for Madelaine: he had left her in the unused chapel on the outside of the old city walls twenty minutes before, and was satisfied that she would be safe there until the coming evening, when she would depart with him. Looking around the room, he was relieved that Roger had done such a thorough job of packing without making it appear that they would be gone in twelve hours. He was about to climb onto the mattress on top of the chest filled with his native earth, when he heard a sharp knock on his door. He gave the clock on the mantel a quick glance: four-thirty. Chiding himself for being noticed on his return, he went to the door and asked, “Who is it?”

“Photine,” was the answer, followed at once by sobs.

He opened the door at once. The fear that she had been waiting for him vanished as soon as he saw her, her beautiful cloak clutched around her, her hair in disarray, her make-up raddled, her lips swollen, her face bruised, a bit of torn ruff poking out of the cloak’s collar, and a strap of her left shoe broken. “Photine,” he exclaimed softly as he drew her into the room, closing the door quietly behind her. “What on earth—?”

“I’ve done something … dreadful,” she said, attempting to stifle her weeping.

“What happened?” He reached to take her cloak, but she held it closed, shaking her head repeatedly.

“I can’t…” She pushed away from him, and he saw what looked like a small burn on the back of her hand, which she pulled back under the folds of her cloak.

“Photine,” he said, kindly and persuasively, “tell me.”

“I can’t,” she said again, waving her hand as if to ward off any questions. “Not yet.”

Puzzled, he offered her his arm for support, but she cringed. He felt alarm awaken in him. “Can you tell me what sort of trouble—”

“I’ve … I’ve…” She stumbled toward the bed and dropped onto it, and began to cry in earnest.

He wondered if she and Heurer had had a spat, but decided that was unlikely; for all their volatile dealings, they had never come to blows, let alone any exchange that was as vicious as her appearance indicated. She would never be as distraught as she was now about anything her playwright had done. Going to her side, he repeated, “What happened?”

“I…” She steadied herself and tried again, this time at the beginning. “I received an invitation.”

“What manner of invitation?” he asked when she did not go on.

Photine coughed, took a deep, uneven breath. “From an official. One of the men at the Department of Public Safety. He said…” Once again she wept. “He said that he could help Enee.”

Da San-Germain spoke very gently. “And could he?”

“He said he could; he’s in the right position to do it. He had intimated that he would. He has the authority, and offered … to spare him. For … a price.” She doubled over, her arms folded across her torso, and rocked, giving abrupt little sobs.

For an instant he considered that she might be performing, expressing turmoil on an enhanced scale rather than experiencing it deep within herself; one look into her eyes convinced him that her anguish was genuine. With a consoling murmur, he put his hand on her shoulder only to have her shrug it away. “What did he do to you?” he asked calmly, speaking in the same tone he would use to quiet a frightened horse.

Her mouth turned down and her lips trembled. “He’s disgusting!” She turned to him. “He demanded I … I serve him …
service
him.” Suddenly she gagged; he handed her a towel as she vomited. When she was done, he took the towel from her and carried it to the ewer-and-basin sitting atop the discreet commode.

“If you’d rather not continue,” he offered.

“I’m
sorry,
I didn’t think I was so upset,” she apologized, her face reddening. “He was loathsome.” She trembled, revulsion gripping her again. “He has…”—she searched for a proper description—“Soldiers’ Pox. There were little sores and blisters all around his member.”

“And you … did more than touch him?”

“Yes,” she said with a sudden trembling. “Will I take it? Has he passed it to me?” Her anxiety was visible.

Rather than answer directly, da San-Germain rose and went to his old chest where he kept his medicaments. He opened the front panel and removed four vials of an opalescent liquid and brought them to her. “Drink one of these now, and the rest over the next three days, first thing in the morning.”

She eyed the vials suspiciously. “He gave me something to drink. It looked like that, only darker. That isn’t of wormwood, is it?”

He smiled faintly. “No. It begins as bread,” he said, and did not add that the bread he used was moldy, and went through a process to purify its substance. “This is my sovereign remedy. If you take it as I instruct, you should not take the Soldiers’ Pox.”

Staring at the vials with some suspicion, she asked him, “Are you certain?” She took hold of her cloak once more as if to retreat behind it.

“As certain as I am of any medicament,” he said, smiling encouragement. “Take it, Photine. Please.”

She handled the vials as if she feared they might suddenly explode. “Made from bread, you say?”

“From bread,” he pledged. “It has served its purpose a thousand times over. It doesn’t taste very pleasant, but it does relieve fever and infection. And it stops certain diseases, like Soldiers’ Pox, completely.”

With a sigh of capitulation, she took the vials. “If it will stop the Soldiers’ Pox, then it may taste bitter as gall for all I care.” She removed the stopper in one of the vials and tipped the contents down her throat. “You’re right: it tastes foul,” she said, and wiped her mouth with the edge of her cloak.

“The same again tomorrow, and for two days after,” he told her.

She pulled back her cloak and put the vials into the concealed pocket, then closed the front again. “If I don’t sicken before nightfall, I’ll do it.” She turned away from him. “Don’t let the others know.”

“I won’t,” he assured her, and waited to hear more.

“It was … hideous. Now it is over, and Enee will be free.” She said it as if to convince herself. “If he is free, it will be worth enduring that man.”

“You have doubts that Enee will be released?” Da San-Germain shared her dubiety, but kept this to himself.

“He promised, but promises are easily broken,” she said, avoiding his eyes. “He may have been … pretending…” She let the words fade.

“What will you do then, if he fails to honor his promise?”

“I don’t know. If I had any way to force him to answer for his actions—” She stopped, changing her demeanor and tone with the ease of a magician. “But who am I, to denounce him? What proof is there of what I say? He is a Deputy Secretary of Public Safety, and I am an actress. Which of us would be believed?”

“You have injuries,” da San-Germain pointed out; he had seen the purple welts on her neck and shoulders, and the disheveled state of her clothing. “If a physician examined you and gave his report to the Revolutionary Tribunal, the officials would have to hear you out.” He drew up the single straight-backed chair from its position by the fireplace and set it so he could face her without pressing too close to her. “You’ve been badly used,” he said.

“He would claim that someone else did that, and could then accuse me of malice toward him, an attempt to discredit him for imprisoning my son.”

“There would be a scandal, and if he had ever done such things before, he could be disgraced.” Da San-Germain watched her more closely than she realized.

She ducked her head. “He said if I didn’t do whatever he wanted, Enee would die, because of what he did to you, and he would make no effort to prevent it.” She sighed. “I thought he was like so many men—seeing what they want to see in me, and perhaps he did. I can accommodate such imaginings, and have, often and often, but not with this man.”

He chose his next words carefully. “And what did he want from you, in exchange for your son?”

“He wanted my acquiescence in all he demanded—I wanted to save my son,” she said with such simplicity that he was astonished. “He wanted to … debauch me.” When he said nothing in response, she went on. “I know it was foolish to go, but what choice did I have? I thought if it would deliver Enee from harm, I had to see Charlot”—she spoke his name as if it were vitriol—“to beg him to spare my child. He said he would. He said Enee would live. What could I do?”

Although he agreed that she had been reckless to go to Charlot, he understood how Photine might believe she would be able to control the situation, to handle the man as she would handle any audience. “I’m sorry he used you so shamefully in the name of your son,” he said, hoping to draw her out.

“It will achieve what I sought, if he is true to his word.” For Photine, this was an unusually stolid response.

“But it was a cruel price,” said da San-Germain.

“I had to do all that he asked, cruel or sweet,” she whispered. “If I balked, he struck me with a thin cane, one with a ferrule on the head. He used that … in distasteful ways.” She smoothed one hand over her petticoat.

“How long were you with him?” He extended his hand to her, but did not touch her, for there was a shine to her eyes that told him she was barely able to hold her panic at bay. “I assume you went alone.”

“I got there at half-past-ten of the clock, and he let me go shortly after three in the morning. Not truly let me go—he threw me out onto the street, calling me a bawd, and spitting on me.” She spoke as if she were reciting by rote words in a foreign language. “It took me some time to get back here. I … I didn’t want to be seen.”

“Did you get here without incident?” he asked, seeing a concealed wince in her last remark.

“You mean, was I accosted? I was, by a drunken Guard. He was easily dealt with: I kicked his shin, stamped on his foot, and ran.” There was a brief flash of satisfaction in her eyes, and then the appalled sheen returned.

The silence between them stretched out, threatening to become impenetrable; finally da San-Germain moved his chair back. “I am sorry you had to—”

“It wasn’t just the demands he made of my body, he asked me questions. Many questions. Not just about Enee. It wasn’t all coupling and accommodating, he wanted to know things.” Her face revealed a defiance that da San-Germain knew boded ill. “He did ask me about Enee, and the troupe, about Heurer. And you. He wanted to know why Enee stabbed you.”

“And what did you tell him?”

She sighed. “That I didn’t know why. He didn’t press me about that.” There was a suggestion of more.

Da San-Germain went very still. “What other things did he ask?”

“How long I had been an actress. Who my patrons had been. Where I had performed. How long had I known you. Where had we met. What your connection was to the troupe. When did you decide to sponsor us. Were you in love with me. How you arranged our travel. Why you should pay us to bring our Commedia della Morte to France. That was the worst, explaining the purpose of the tour.” She turned a pleading glance on him. “I tried not to tell him, but he didn’t believe you were doing a service for your family. He said it had to be more than that, that no nobleman, not even an exiled one, would come into France as a favor.”

“And what did you say?” he asked without a hint of emotion.

“I said that you wanted to free one of your relations from prison.” Having admitted that, she began once more to cry, this time in a dejected, listless way.

“Did you tell him who that relation is?”