Commedia della Morte (53 page)

She glanced away from him. “Which means no.”

“You know the problem, my heart,” he said to her as gently as he could. “It is our true nature that keeps us from—”

“I know: vampires cannot love vampires because the undead have no life to give each other,” she said, repeating an unwelcome lesson by rote. “We must seek our nourishment from the living.”

“Yes.” There was no regret in his admission, but there was a loneliness that stopped her own discontent abruptly.

“Oh, Saint-Germain, I’m sorry.” She laid her hand on his arm. “It seems so unfair.”

“Neither death nor life is fair,” he said without emotion. “We are what we are: there is no question of fairness.” He turned away from her. “Button your coat. You’ll want it closed when the rain gets heavier. And be ready to act like a spoiled youngster on his Grand Tour. The Guards will remember all the wrong things if you can convince them.”

“Yes, I will,” she said, wishing she had some means to break his maddening reserve, and knew she could not.

“As soon as you are ready, we will go,” he said.

“I’m ready now,” she told him, picking up the valise he had given her. “There’re only boy’s clothes in here, aren’t there?”

“Only boy’s clothes,” he confirmed as he held the door open for her and led her into the narthex where the four mules were tied, flakes of hay set out at their feet so that they could eat rather than make noise. “The spotted mule is yours. I’ll take the gray one.” He checked the girth on the spotted mule’s saddle, then offered Madelaine a leg up.

“Best to let me get used to mounting,” she said, refusing his assistance. “I haven’t ridden astride in decades.”

“Well enough,” he said, and went to gather up the leads of the pack-mule and the spare before vaulting into the saddle on the gray. “Remember, English accent.”

“What do I call you?” she asked, settling her feet in the stirrups. “And what will you call me?”

“A good question,” he said. “Call me Sanders; it’s near enough to what we’re both used to, but English in sound. I will call you … Madison. Not quite as close a fit, but if you don’t object?”

“I think it will do,” she said, demonstrating her version of an Englishman speaking French.

“That should convince all but those who are knowledgeable,” he approved, and started toward the open door of the chapel; a pair of rats ran out from behind the altar and skittered away into the room Madelaine had been using. “Ah. There’s the source of the noises.”

“Are you sure?” Madelaine asked, and received no answer. Within the minute she was following him and the two mules on leads out of the chapel, through an old cemetery and onto the old street that would take them to the northeast gate of the city. She had to remind herself to behave as if nothing were wrong, and when they reached the gate, she complained vociferously that her tutor was exceeding his authority in forcing her to ride a mule.

The Guards had cast a knowing eye on da San-Germain and saw nothing sinister in the harried academic he presented. It took no more than a few minutes for the Guards to wave them through, warning them that there were desperate men about, outlaws who might steal their mules and clothing if the tutor and his charge should be abroad after sundown.

“For they’re bold foreigners. They let loose thirty prisoners last night, and killed six Guards. Five armed men. Don’t let them catch you,” the oldest Guard said as he raised the bar for them.

“Thank you; we’ll be careful,” said da San-Germain as he pulled his mules aside so that Madelaine could precede him out of the city. He fell in behind her, after giving a deferential shrug to the Guard, satisfied that he would not report them as persons the Department of Public Safety would find interesting. The light rain washed the color from the countryside, turning all to gray and sepia, like an aged charcoal sketch.

They traveled in silence east by north, rarely going faster than a walk due to the thickening mud, encountering as they went three detachments of Guards on the road, four shepherds with their flocks, and one long merchants’ train coming from the east. At the fork in the road, they took the less-traveled route to the village of Meyzieu, and stopped at the posting inn there, the largest building in the place, to rest their mules and seek some relief from the increasing rain. While they sat at the fire, water beginning to steam from their coats hanging over the backs of their chairs, Madelaine asked da San-Germain, “Sanders, did the Guard say there were five armed men who released thirty prisoners?”

“That they did.” Da San-Germain reached for the cup of hot brandy that he had ordered, and surreptitiously poured a little of it into the padded arm of the chair.

“Five men freed thirty. Enterprising, wouldn’t you say?”

“One assumes they were desperate.” He cocked his head in the direction of a man in a long black coat who slumped in the inglenook next to the fireplace. “Acting against the Revolution.”

“Then they were most surely desperate.” Madelaine nodded, aware of the warning, but persisted, “Killed what was it? six Guards?”

“I think that’s what they said.” He put the cup down again. “They do a good toddy here.”

“Must truly be dangerous men.” She studied the glass of wine in her hand. “Should we shift saddles when we go on?”

“It would be a good idea,” he said.

An hour later they moved on, carrying a bull’s-eye lantern to mark their way in the night. In five more days, they had crossed La Chartreuse to La Batie, where they stayed for three days while a violent snow-storm buffeted the mountains. They emerged to find drifts as high as the tops of houses, which meant that they would not be able to see the tall stakes that marked the roadway. They went with the village men to help clear the way by dragging the trunk of a large tree behind a team of gray draught horses, a service which earned them the thanks of the villagers and got them a league and a half beyond La Batie, to a farm-house where they paid four English sovereigns for food for their mules and a place to sleep. The brilliantly clear skies of the day had faded, and now a veil of high clouds hid all but the brightest stars.

“I’m becoming hungry,” said Madelaine in a whisper as they reclined fully clothed on the bed allotted to them by the farmer.

“That isn’t surprising.” Da San-Germain stared up at the wood-blackened ceiling.

“You must be hungry, too,” she prompted.

“I would be glad of some sustenance,” he admitted. “But I’ve known far worse.”

“Did you see the dogs the farmer released in the yard?”

“I did,” he said, his voice barely audible. “They are the reason I won’t go looking for a woman I can provide with a pleasant dream in return for what little I need.”

“You think they would give the alarm if we—”

“—moved about? It’s not something I would want to put to the test.” He folded his arms. “When we reach Le Monetier-les-Bains we’ll both be able to find nutriment.”

“That’s a long way,” she murmured.

“With the spas there, strangers will not be observed as we would be in villages and the remnants of monasteries. We will be able to move more freely, seek out those who welcome the dreams we provide.”

She shivered, but not from cold. “Do you think we’d have to make do with the blood of sheep, or geese, or … rats?”

“There are worse things to eat,” he said, speaking gently but with purpose. “For now, we should rest.”

“Did you purchase grain from our host?” she asked.

“I did, for an outrageous price. We’ll have to expect that the nearer we get to the border.”

She sighed, saying disheartenedly, “It will be more than twenty days gone when we reach Italy, I fear.”

“It may,” he agreed, and took her hand in his before sinking into the stupefaction that served all of his kind as sleep.

Madelaine lay awake past midnight, her mind occupied with fears and plans; when she surrendered to fatigue, she had set three plans in place—one of them would get them out of France, she was certain of it, and she would have a few days to refine them before she had to persuade da San-Germain of their effectiveness.

They set off from the farm-house under cloudy skies, and made their way toward the distant border. They skirted Le Monetier-les-Bains when they discovered it was full of soldiers who had come to root out fugitives, and to claim the contents of the extensive wine-cellars as their reward for their diligence; their carousing had reached the depraved stage, and the soldiers were now fighting among themselves as well as abusing their prisoners.

“We take no nourishment here,” da San-Germain said as he and Madelaine watched the town from the safety of a burned-out Carthusian hostel.

“Then we make for Briancon, and the border-crossing on the Torino Road?” Madelaine considered this. “If there is no more snow, we could reach Briancon in what—four days?”

“It is possible.”

“But not likely,” she said. “So five more days at least.”

“I should think so,” he said.

In Le Monetier-les-Bains, a fire was spreading, accompanied by the sounds of collapsing houses. “Do you think it will get worse?” Madelaine asked as she watched another building succumb to the flames.

“Oh, yes,” he said.

“Like the Revolution? You were right about that.” She watched the flames. “I should not have come back. I thought Montalia could provide a haven until sense returned.”

“This fire will only burn itself out; the Revolution will have to destroy half its founders before it ends.” He turned away. “The mules can supply us a little blood tonight. There are deer and boar in the woods, as well, but hunting would be dangerous.”

“In the morning, do we press on toward Briancon?” She was sure he would say yes, for what other choice did they have?

“We should leave before dawn.” He laid his hand on her shoulder, his voice still and musical. “We will win free, my heart.”

“I know,” she said without any hint of confidence.

“We will.”

She leaned against him to kiss his cheek. “I know,” she repeated, this time with more certainty; she turned her back on the burning town and returned to the wreck of the hostel; after a short while, he followed her.

Snow held off for three days, and they made good progress along narrow mountain roads marginally cleared of snow by the short journeys of the farmers and crofters and herders living in the high villages and hamlets. On the fourth day as they neared Briancon, they noticed a build-up of soldiers and Guards around the town; farm-houses and inns were filled with uniformed men, and the people were reticent and cautious in all their activities.

“Not very promising,” said Madelaine. “The border isn’t far beyond.”

“No, it’s not, but it will be hard getting there.” Da San-Germain looked up at the darkening sky. “There will be more snow by morning.”

“Then we’ll have to find shelter beyond the town.”

“Not too far from the Torino Road, if we want to cross there.” He paused. “They may be looking for us by now.”

“Why do you say that?” She masked her alarm with a gesture of impatience.

“Because it is impossible to keep a secret in a theatrical company. Someone will know something of our plans, and will have made a report.” He pointed out the company of Guards patrolling along the limits of the town. “I’ve seen two couriers arrive.”

“Not necessarily from Lyon,” Madelaine interjected.

“No, not necessarily from there, but if there have been two today, how many others have arrived since we left?” He shaded his eyes from the shine off the snow. “We may have to turn north, to one of the lesser crossings.”

She rounded on him. “We’ll cross here, and get out of this dreadful country. We’re too close to turn away.”

“And that is how fugitives are caught.”

They both said nothing for almost a minute; then Madelaine took her courage in her hands. “I have an idea—a plan, or so I hope. If you consent to it, I think it will get us across, but it will require much of you.”

He saw the determination in her eyes. “Tell me your plan.”

So it was that two mornings later the Guard at the border on the Briancon–Torino Road saw a young woman in a ragged dress beneath a man’s greatcoat approach the crossing station, riding a mule, and leading three others, two of them laden with chests and cases. The light snowfall had stopped almost all travelers, and the Guard on duty regarded her with curiosity.

“How are the fires in Briancon?” the Guard asked as he came out of his small cabin to confront her.

“Bad enough that I spent the night outside the town, in a barn,” said Madelaine, making a point of looking tired.

“Sensible little chicken, you are,” the Guard said with an appreciative grin.

“It’s that or get killed one way or another.” She reached for the wallet slung bandolier-style from her shoulder. “How much?”

“Ten louis d’or for you, five for each of the mules, two for each chest, one for each case, including the valise at the back of your saddle. Unless you’d like to bargain?” He licked his lips, just to make himself clear as to the kind of bargain he had in mind.

“I have the money,” she said brusquely.

“I’ll have to inspect the chests and cases,” he said, no longer smiling. “There may be extra charges for them.”

Madelaine stared at him but revealed no emotion beyond resignation. “I have one diamond necklace left. I keep it with my money.”

“And how do you come to have a diamond necklace?” The lascivious light was back in his eyes.

“From my patron,” she said without apology. “He provided well for me, and when he was arrested, he gave me my jewels, a purse of coins, and the mules in his stable. His manservant got the horses. I was allowed to take only the clothes on my back, and a nightrail; the soldiers took everything else. He told me to go to his uncle in Grenoble, who would arrange for me to go into Switzerland, but his uncle had fled before I arrived, so now I’m trying to find his sister. She’s married to an Italian.”

“And you think she’ll take in her brother’s whore?” The Guard laughed furiously. “If you’re so naive as that!”

“I’m bringing her things her brother wanted her to have. They aren’t much, but it’s all she’ll get from him now that the Revolutionary Courts have taken his lands and houses.”