Commedia della Morte (52 page)

I have taken the liberty of dedicating my new play to you, although with initials only, since there could be difficulty with the officials if they learned that the work is in tribute to an aristocratic fugitive from justice. You, I know, will understand my reluctance to put you in danger, however indirectly, by revealing a connection that could lead to your discovery and arrest. Would that we lived in more accepting times, but, the demands of the Revolution require the people of France to restore the balance of society, and if in doing so, some are penalized who should not be, for the sake of the country, we must acquiesce in the process. It is my most fervent desire that some day, you will be able to attend a performance of
The Triumph of Liberty
, which is based upon a narrative poem by Jean-Marie Collot d’Herbois, who did me the honor of encouraging me to undertake the work. I will send you a copy of the manuscript as soon as I can afford to hire a copyist, so that you may see how much my work has improved.

Photine d’Auville, the leader of the Commedia della Morte, has been kind enough to take an interest in my future and has asked me to deliberate upon forming an official partnership, one that would give us both the advantages of continued association. She is a fine actress, a most remarkable artist. Ask da San-Germain, who has been her patron, to describe her talents. The range of her gifts and the strength of her abilities inspire awe in all who see her. You must surely grasp the advantage of such an alliance, as well as the benefits that would accrue to the Commedia della Morte as well as to me. Already she and I are discussing what other works we might essay, a prospect which will keep me busy for some time.

Yet I miss the pleasure of your company, the passion we have shared, and your generosity. One day it may be possible for us to resume our intimacy, but I fear for now, that will not be prudent for either of us, for all the reasons I have put forth already. You and I have been star-crossed in every sense of the word, but I find I must bow to Fate, and to release you from the love and expectations you have had of me. It is with a heavy heart that I must bid you farewell, and hold my precious memories of our treasured time together in lieu of you yourself. I have come to realize that you are beyond my highest aspirations, and that all that you offered me is beyond the scope of my understanding; reluctantly I will have to accept what has happened. That in no way diminishes my ardor or my esteem, but it has shown me that until I have attained the reputation for my work that I seek, I will not be worthy to pursue you; I can only promise my enduring idolatry, as well as my thankfulness for the inspiration you have provided, little as I deserve it. Your greatness of mind and your sweetness of heart must always be an example to me as I continue my aesthetic crusade.

May you find safety where you are going, and may you one day return to France to resume your title and estates, free from the threat of arrest and trial. Until that day, know that I will long for you, lovely and desirable as you are, and will remember you with exaltation.

With amorous devotion,

Theron Baptiste Heurer

8

Madelaine stared down at the single crossed sheet of paper, her face darkening as she read; when she finished it, she wadded it into a ball. “Of all the inane drivel!” she exclaimed, not as loudly as she would have liked, and threw it across the small, musty room at the back of the abandoned chapel near the north wall of the city where she had been hiding since dawn. “And to think I was attracted to him!”

Da San-Germain bent and picked up the bunched letter, opening it and smoothing it, its crackle mixing with the steady patter of rain on the old roof. “Best not to leave it here. If it’s found, it could bring trouble.”

“To us, or to the troupe?” Madelaine asked, her voice sharp.

“Either, or both, more likely.” He thrust it into the pocket of his caped Russian greatcoat. “We can dispose of it later, once we’re away from here.”

“Which we must be shortly,” said Madelaine, still glaring at the letter he held.

“Yes. We will have to get as far beyond Lyon as we can in the next three hours, for after that, they will know we are missing. If you still want to dispose of it by the time we halt to rest, we can burn it with all due ceremony.” He thought for an instant of Sarai, of Aachen, of Delhi, of Fiorenza, of Amsterdam, of Cuzco, of—with an effort he thrust those memories away as useless. “They’ll send out couriers, or Guards.”

Some of the ire faded from her violet eyes. “No doubt you’re right, Saint-Germain. But all that self-serving twaddle—
remember me with exaltation!
If he believes that this is an example of his improvement on his earlier work—well!” She lifted her chin.

“He is eager to exhibit—” da San-Germain began only to be interrupted.

“Don’t defend him to me—not you,” she said, bending down to finish pulling on her boots; arrayed in boy’s clothes, she still had an air of femininity about her that da San-Germain found compelling. “You know as well as I that he doesn’t deserve it.”

“I wasn’t defending; he asked that I explain his circumstances to you, which I have done. He declares himself your sworn cavalier.” He was glad to see that her indignation was already fading.

“Oh, spare me,” she pleaded, laughing.

“As you wish.” He made a leg, giving her an ironic half-smile. “My duty is discharged, at least so far as Theron Heurer is concerned.”

“Enough of Theron,” Madelaine said, shaking her head and regarding da San-Germain with apprehension; after a brief moment of hesitation, she asked the question that had been bothering her since he had awakened her half an hour before, proffering a valise of boy’s clothes and delivering Theron’s letter. “I’m happy you’re with me, but why are you here at mid-day? It’s not simply because of that miserable letter, is it? You told me you’d come at sundown.”

He held up his gloved hand. “Sadly, we have yet another change of plans.”

“Oh? Again? How many times does this make?” No matter how much she wanted to know more, she held her tongue; when he remained silent, she asked, “What happened? Do you think the three coaches have been found yet?”

“I would imagine so, but that is not what’s caused our predicament.” He met her eyes with his own.

She regarded him steadily. “What, then?”

“Something neither you nor I could have anticipated: an official in the Department of Public Safety was … informed of our contrivance.” This oblique statement did not succeed as he thought it would.

“One of the players talked?” Madelaine pressed her lips together to keep from saying anything more.

Da San-Germain shrugged. “Does it matter? The mischief is done.” He shook his head and went on, “Luckily I discovered that the official had been told in time to alter our hour of departure, or we would have been trapped here, and that would bring us both to the True Death within days, and put others in danger because of it. With all you have been through, that would be intolerable to me.” His gaze was tender. “Had you gone through no misery, it would still be intolerable to me; losing you.” He took a step back. “We need to be gone soon, my heart, so that we have a fair lead on whomever they send after us. And they
will
send someone after us; they cannot afford not to. What I told you wasn’t supposition; the officials here must try to recapture any fugitives from their jurisdiction, or risk interference from Paris.”

She gave an exasperate sigh. “Of course they will hunt us. They cannot afford to let us go without an attempt to reassert themselves through our capture. It would be folly to remain here.” She waved her hand in the direction of the ceiling, indicating the rain. “No matter what the weather, and the state of the roads.”

“The mules will manage it better than horses,” he said, pulling another greatcoat from the bag of clothes he had brought her. “You’ll need this, and I have a tricorn for you.”

“A good choice,” she said, then offered him an indirect apology. “I didn’t mean to be so tactless, Saint-Germain. You didn’t write that wretched letter.”

“Then just as well that he didn’t bring it in person,” said da San-Germain, wanting to ease her aggravation.

“Might he have done so?” she asked in disbelief.

“He thought you would want to see him,” said da San-Germain, handing her the three-cornered hat.

“God save us,” she exclaimed, and surprised them both by chuckling. “I hadn’t realized he had such a high opinion of himself.”

“I believe he thinks you have the high opinion of him, not he.”

Her laughter increased; then she made an effort to quiet her mirth. “He is so very young.”

“He assumes the same of you,” da San-Germain reminded her.

“I’ve told him my age, but you’re right, he thought I was … fabricating a tale.”

“Well, he
is
a poet; would you expect anything less?” He turned his attention to their immediate situation. “The mules are in the narthex. Four of them: two for riding, one to carry, and a spare in case one of the others falls by the wayside. We have grain enough for them to last a week. Then we must find more. I have money and jewels, but it might not be enough.”

“I’m going to take my dress.” She raised her hand to silence him. “I won’t put it in the valise, and once we’re out of France I’ll dispose of it. It’s hardly fit to wear, but if we should be detained, I would like to have it.”

He waited a moment to answer. “If you think you may need it, then bring it with you.”

“Good. If we are snowbound, I won’t be able to pass for a boy for very long, and this way— We won’t be out of France in a week, will we?” She knew the answer, but could not keep from asking.

“It would take longer than that on main roads in summer with no troubles at the borders,” he said. “You and I are going on lesser roads, with winter coming on.” His enigmatic eyes remain fixed on her. “Fifteen days will be as rapid a passage as we can hope for, if we face nothing more than poor roads and bad weather, let alone pursuit. Beyond leaving the country, we will also have to get out of the mountains after we’re over the border.”

“Do you think we could be pursued into Switzerland, or Italy?” That prospect troubled her, but she would not allow her fear to overcome her.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “It would be wise to be on the alert for some kind of chase.”

She considered this. “I dislike agreeing with you, but I do. This Revolution is becoming vindictive; they may want to set an example by tracking me and some of the others you released. They’d gain a lot of power by showing that no one escapes.”

“Which makes the next few hours so crucial.” He gave her a pair of boy’s gloves. “Keep these on; your hands are too … too well-kept.”

“They might take me for a Ganymede, you mean,” she said.

“That would be a risk we can easily avoid,” he responded. “Put on the gloves. They’ll help you stay dry.”

“And conceal my sex,” she added.

“Yes. You don’t have boy’s hands.” He took a deep breath, changing the subject. “I have a route we can follow, one that takes us out of the country in about fifteen to twenty days, if we don’t have to hide ourselves, or travel over the mountains without roads, and making allowances for rain and snow.”

“That seems likely, though, doesn’t it?” she asked. “That we may have to hide.”

“It may be necessary: I hope it won’t be.”

“Is that why you’re sending Roger another way, down the river? So they will chase the wrong man?” She did not wait for an answer. “When you told me we’d be traveling alone, I assumed you intended him to lead the soldiers astray, to buy us more time. That’s the sort of thing I’d expect Roger to do.”

“That is part of it, yes. It also spares the troupe being suspect in my leaving so abruptly. Roger has a story he will tell to Photine, to account for his unexpected departure, as well as mine, and she will inform the Department of Public Safety.” He looked about, hearing an odd sound from the side of the building; he dropped his voice. “We should hurry.”

“What was that?” Madelaine asked, barely louder than a whisper.

“I don’t know, and that troubles me.”

“And it troubles me,” she said. “Next I’ll be flinching at shadows.”

He permitted himself a wan smile. “That would show good sense, given where we are and what’s ahead. Shadows will be the least of it.”

She kept her voice low. “You needn’t try to cheer me, Saint-Germain. I know the risks we are running.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he said. “I know you have good reason to be careful, yet I can’t free myself from worry.”

“We’re both worried,” she allowed, feeling a grue slide down her spine as a soft scritching noise came from the side of the broken altar. “The Guillotine is so utterly final.”

“We need to be gone from here.” He watched her don the greatcoat he had provided. “Remember, don’t let them see your hands, and keep your coat closed, so they can’t see how you’re shaped.”

“All right,” she sighed, “since you’re determined to turn me into a young gentleman.”

“If we would not rouse suspicions in the Guards, you could wear petticoats and jewels if you wished, but as they will be looking for a young woman—”

“If only they knew,” she murmured, pulling on the gloves.

Da San-Germain nodded. “So when we reach the northeast gate, say as little as possible, and be truculent if you can. Treat me like a servant if we are questioned. Blame me for making you ride a mule instead of a horse, complain of your accommodations and the lack of good company, anything that makes you seem the arrogant youth.”

“You’re my tutor, escorting me on some kind of Grand Tour, is that what you would like?”

“It would be useful to have the Guards think so; it might help if you spoke French with an English accent; a few English have come through Lyon in the last three months,” he said, and impulsively stepped to her side to brush her cheek with his lips.

She touched his face, her expression wistful. “Will we do more than this, when we are alone?”

“It will depend upon the circumstances,” he said after slightly too long a pause.