Commedia della Morte (9 page)

“And it wouldn’t do for Giorgio to be offended, would it?” Theron finished the wine in his glass and reached for a wedge of cheese.

“Certainly not,” said da San-Germain. He held out the wine bottle and refilled Theron’s glass. “Have you done any more work on your narrative poem?”

Theron realized that he could not ask anything more about Madelaine for the time being, and so he took a judicious sip and said, “Nothing that I like. It all comes out stilted.”

“I see,” said da San-Germain, to keep the young man talking.

“I’ve tried various ways to approach the work, but so far, it hasn’t … been cohesive enough.” He took a bite of the cheese, saying around it, “This is really excellent.”

“I should hope so,” said da San-Germain, watching Theron start to pace again.

Theron finished his wedge of cheese and tossed off the rest of the wine in his glass. “I keep wondering what’s happened to her. She’s been in the hands of the Revolutionary Guard for longer than I want to think about.”

“She’s a very capable woman. Don’t underestimate her,” da San-Germain said quietly.

“Capable she may be, but most of these men are monsters, without conscience and without honor,” Theron declared. “What can she do against such men?”

“A great deal, if it should come to that,” said da San-Germain, moving to claim the wine-glass. “If you have a little more food, you won’t feel the wine so much.”

“I’m not a green boy,” Theron protested.

“Perhaps not,” said da San-Germain, knowing that one of the reasons that Theron was so insistent was that he was afraid that a green boy was precisely what he was. “But you will be more comfortable for a bit more food. The carriage will be ready in twenty minutes, to take us to the theater; I need to have a word with Roger before we go.”

“All right,” said Theron, picking up a slice of bread and smearing it with pickled relish. “This should help stave off hunger-pangs.”

“It should,” said da San-Germain, setting down the glass again and motioning to the settee. “I’ll return in a moment. Have another wedge of cheese, why don’t you?” Without waiting for an answer, he slipped out the door and went up the stairs to his laboratory, where he found Roger sorting out a number of jewels into piles.

“Are you leaving for the theater?” Roger asked in Imperial Latin, looking up from his task.

“Shortly. Heurer is chastising himself for planning an evening of entertainment. He thinks that if Madelaine is in danger, we mustn’t indulge ourselves.” He spoke in the same tongue, but with the hint of a foreign accent that marked all his speech.

“Because of Madelaine? As if his self-denial will spare her?” Roger ventured.

“What else?” Da San-Germain went to the window and stared out at the dusk. “A clear night ahead.”

“There are clouds in the west,” Roger said, returning to his sorting. “The wind is picking up, as well.”

“And we could have a storm late tonight. I know.”

“Are you still planning to leave in three or four days?”

Da San-Germain pressed his lips together before answering. “Unless I learn something from the couriers that would change the situation, yes, that’s my plan. So far, the players seem to be our most prudent approach.”

“Have you discussed it with Photine?”

“Not specifically, no; I plan to do so tomorrow, after she has garnered well-deserved praise for
Phaedre,
and will be looking for another project for her troupe. Until then, I will not have her full attention,” he admitted, then shook his head. “I don’t know if she’ll agree to the plan when she learns what I have in mind. But the couriers said that players are still welcome, at least those who do Commedia del’Arte material and can set up in market-squares for the people’s entertainment.”

“I think she might be eager to undertake something so daring, and her troupe has done Commedia del’Arte,” said Roger, a suggestion of amusement in his austere features. “It’s as exciting as anything that happens in the dramas she most admires.”

“Perhaps. But the actors don’t really die, even in the tragedies, and they might, if they come with me.” He looked down the room at the athanor. “How much longer until the gold is ready?”

“Not quite an hour,” said Roger, his steady answer concealing his increasing concern for da San-Germain. “If Photine, or her troupe, refuses to go, will you—”

“—still go myself? Of course, old friend.” His smile came and went quickly. “You needn’t have asked.”

“Will you allow me to go with you?” Roger studied the jewels in his hand.

“I’d welcome you,” da San-Germain assured him.

“And you will leave Dudone in charge here?”

The mention of the aging steward, Dudone Sassi, gave da San-Germain several seconds’ consideration. “If he is willing; he may not be, not any longer. If he isn’t, I suppose Abramo will have to run the household.”

“Abramo,” said Roger, doubt apparent in all his demeanor.

“You aren’t sure about him,” da San-Germain observed.

“No, I’m not. I don’t know that Abramo will want to have so much responsibility, not with both of us gone from the house.” There was only a flicker in Roger’s faded-blue eyes, but it was enough to alert da San-Germain to the full range of his reservations about young, inexperienced Abramo Legno.

“Yes, he is a bit lazy, which may be because of his youth rather than a lacking in his character; he isn’t completely feckless. He may find that he likes being in charge, and be willing to undertake the responsibilities of steward.” He pulled a small box from his waistcoat pocket, removed a lucifer, and struck it, lighting a branch of candles near the door. “While I’m at the performance, if you’ll think about how to deal with the steward and understeward, you and I will discuss it further, after Heurer and I have spoken with the couriers. Will that satisfy you?” He asked the last in Italian.

“Yes, my master, it will,” said Roger. “I trust you’ll enjoy the evening. From what I have heard, they will put on a fine performance.”

“Thank you; I intend to.” He opened the door. “You can still change your mind and come to the play.”

Roger shook his head and cocked it toward the windows that overlooked the garden and the rehearsal platform. “I know it by heart already.”

“Then I won’t coax you,” said da San-Germain, and went out of his laboratory, returning to the library, where he found Theron sitting on the couch, pouring himself another glass of wine; most of the cheese was gone. “We should be departing in a few minutes, Heurer. Do you have your cloak?”

“The night is so warm, it seems a pity to wear one,” Theron said, putting the nearly empty wine-bottle back on the tray and picking up his lion-headed cane.

“There will be a breeze later, and perhaps rain; you’ll want one then. Better to prepare for rain than to be completely off-guard.” Da San-Germain expected no reply and got none; he went to the door and called out to Petronio, the night footman, “Will you fetch Signore Heurer’s cloak, and mine, if you please?”

“At once, Signor’ Conte,” Petronio answered, and hurried off to the vestibule, pausing only to light the lamps of the entry hall.

Da San-Germain waited until Theron had finished his wine, then said, “Our cloaks are waiting, and the coach will be at the door in a few minutes.”

“All right,” said Theron, and got carefully to his feet, making an effort to show that he was not the least bit tipsy. “Lead the way, Conte.” He followed da San-Germain out into the corridor, and along to the entry hall, where Petronio stood, two black-silk cloaks over his arm. One was lined in deep-red peau-de-soie, the other in pale-blue satin; Petronio fitted the red-lined cloak over da San-Germain’s shoulders and handed the blue-lined one to Theron. Making a face, Theron swung his cloak around himself. “I’m ready.”

“Then let us step outside, so we may not delay the coachman,” said da San-Germain, and opened the door for them both.

Feo Guistino, the burly coachman, drew up the four gray Kladrubers as the two men came down the broad steps to the roadway. “Good evening, Conte, good evening Signore Heurer,” he said as he signaled to the footman riding on the rear of the carriage. “Remo, the door for the gentlemen.”

The footman was already opening the modified Berlin’s door and letting down the steps. He ducked his head respectfully, and held the door open; as soon as da San-Germain and Theron were in the carriage, he put up the steps, secured the door, and climbed onto the back once again; Feo set the vehicle in motion, turning down the hill toward the bridge, the lanterns set at either side of the driving-box illuminating the street.

Ten minutes later, Feo drew in near the front of the Hall of the Muses, joining a line of carriages letting off playgoers. The piazza was busy with all manner of people—professors, lecturers, students, merchants and their wives, travelers, even a few priests—coming to see the great French version of a classic Greek drama; the piazza was crowded. More carriages came up behind da San-Germain’s, jostling for a favorable place in the line and slowing progress to almost nothing.

“Feo,” da San-Germain called out the window, “let us down here. You can turn around more easily here than at the entrance to the hall.”

“We’re nearly there,” Feo shouted, then whistled to the team through his teeth.

“Which will be a short walk for us, and bring us there in two minutes, without you having to jostle in line,” said da San-Germain. He reached to the door, opening the latch and letting down the stairs. “Come, Heurer.”

“Right behind you, Conte,” Theron declared, preparing to alight.

Belatedly Remo appeared at the door just as da San-Germain stepped onto the paving stones. “I am here, Conte,” he said as if to apologize for not tending to the door himself. He offered a half-bow, and held the door for Theron, closing up the coach so abruptly that the on-side wheeler tossed his head in disapproval.

“Return for us in two and a half hours,” said da San-Germain to Feo. “Stay under the arcade if it’s raining.” He nodded once and strode toward the Hall of the Muses, Theron hurrying along beside him, for although da San-Germain was almost a head shorter than Theron, he moved more quickly.

“You’ve taken a box,” said Theron, panting a little.

“Of course. It would offend Photine if I did not,” da San-Germain said, a suggestion of amusement in his eyes.

“It will be a joy to hear French again,” Theron confessed.

“And superb French, at that,” said da San-Germain, reciting from memory.

“Pourquoi, trop jeune encor, ne putes-vous alors

Entrer dans le vaisseau qui le mit sur nos bords?

Par vous aurait peri le monstre de la Crete,

Malgre tous les detours de sa vaste retraite.”

“Act two, scene five, I believe,” said Theron, stepping into the loggia of the Hall of the Muses, where a group of musicians were playing, and more than fifty people were milling about, looking for friends, and discussing the play they were to hear.

Da San-Germain presented his tickets to the footman at the central door. “The central box, as you see.”

“Will you want wine and—”

“No, thank you. My friend will want a cognac at the end of the second act.” He handed the footman three silver coins. “For your good service.”

The footman bowed and stepped out of the way so they could pass on to the marble staircase that would lead them to their reserved box.

“Kind of you, Conte, to order cognac for me.”

Da San-Germain smiled at Theron. “Think nothing of it.”

A lackey handed them a playbill, announcing the progression of acts and scenes, as well as the players and their roles.

Theseus: King of Athens … Crepin Sillondroit

Phaedre: Wife of Theseus … Photine d’Auville

Hyppolytus: Son of Theseus and his first wife, Antiope … Pascal Aube

Aricia: Princess of Athens … Sibelle Joyau

Oenone: Phaedre’s personal body-servant … Constance Lacet

Theramenes: Hyppolytus’ tutor … Valence Oiegris

Ismene: Aricia’s friend … Olympe Lacet

Panope: Phaedre’s waiting-woman … Tereson Fossegrande

Guards … Hariot Cotesud, Lothaire Malfaire, Enee d’Auville

The summary of the action of the five acts of the play followed, both in French and Italian, with a short article by Professore Don Gustavo Moroponte on the history of Jean Racine and his work, with emphasis on
Phaedre.

“Not bad, as far as it goes,” said Theron as they entered the box, removed their cloaks, and took their seats next to the rail at the front of the box; beyond them the Hall of the Muses was brilliantly lit by numerous candles in three vast chandeliers and twenty sconces along the wall, each one blazing with a dozen lit tapers.

“Did you read it already?”

“I skimmed it,” said Theron. “My Italian isn’t advanced enough to give his work my full appreciation, and his French is too academic for my taste.” He put down the playbill and adjusted himself near the front so that he could rest his elbows on the upholstered rail. “No curtains,” he observed.

“The Church disapproves of curtains on theater boxes,” said da San-Germain. “They claim it encourages licentious acts if curtains can be closed.”

Theron shook his head. “What hypocrites.” He glanced at da San-Germain. “Do we expect anyone to join us?”

“No,” said da San-Germain.

“Then I can make myself comfortable,” said Theron, stretching out his legs along the edge of the box.

The crowd in the theater grew larger and more boisterous as the playgoers made for their seats and boxes. It was slightly more than fifteen minutes later that the play began; as the audience hushed, the curtain rose, revealing Hyppolytus and Theramenes in a Greek colonnade, discussing the missing Theseus.

By the time the cognac was delivered to Theron at the end of the second act, the lackeys had replaced most of the tapers in the sconces and there were splashes of wax all through the theater; a few of the candles in the massive chandeliers had guttered, but not enough to darken the hall.

“What do you think of it so far?” da San-Germain asked Theron when the footman had left the box.

“It’s better than I thought it would be,” Theron said, unaware of the shock he had caused his host. “It’s actually quite good.”