Commedia della Morte (12 page)

“I would,” he said.

“Are you planning to take one of the couriers with us?” Photine asked. “In case we should need to get messages back to Padova or Venezia?”

“I hadn’t thought of it, but it is a good notion,” he said. “If either is willing to go.”

“And what about the weather? Snow comes early in the mountains. Do you think we should prepare for snow as well as robbers and Revolutionary Guards?”

“If all goes well, we should be in Padova again before October is very old.”

“Ah, but if all does not go well, Conte—what then?” She tapped the mountains on the map. “I wouldn’t want the company to be stranded for the winter.”

“Nor would I,” da San-Germain agreed.

“So the southern route will be our choice, and if we are delayed, we will have to select another road for our return.” She thought as the clock on the end of the trestle table chimed one.

“Oh, dear. I’ll be late for dinner, and Giorgio will be annoyed.”

“You needn’t linger on my account. Go eat. We can resume our planning when the riposino is over.” He took her hand and kissed it. “You are being most diligent in your readying for travel.”

“We’ve toured enough, my troupe and I, to know that preparations are necessary, and without having plans in place, there is much that can become—”

“Difficult?” he suggested. “Dangerous?”

“True hardships,” she said, and moved away from the table. “Before I lie down for the afternoon, I’ll speak to Feo about a fourth wagon, and all that must go with it, including a driver.” She took a few seconds to show that she was considering possibilities. “Do you think you could spare Feo himself? He is a better coachman than Gualtiero.”

Da San-Germain recognized this ploy as a performance, but he gave her an old-fashioned bow and said, “If it would ease your mind, then surely you must ask Feo if he is willing to come with us.”

“I will,” she said, and left the room in an admirable flurry of skirts and smiles.

Left to himself, da San-Germain went to the window, looking out over the city with an expression of utter blankness; his thoughts were far away, following his memories of the roads they were deciding to travel. After ten minutes, he shook himself out of his recollections and went down the room to the banded chest under the window that looked south. He removed a key from an inset in the nearest and unlocked the chest, reached in, and drew out four sturdy leather bags with markings on them; although the bags were heavy, da San-Germain handled them as if they contained nothing more than chaff. As he gathered them together, they clinked as the gold coins inside shifted against one another. Once again he locked the chest, returned the key to its place, and closed all but two of the shutters to keep out the heat of the day. He could smell the rich aroma of Giorgio’s household dinner, and for an instant regretted that he no longer had the capacity to consume such food. Stepping outside the laboratory, he locked the door and went quickly down the stairs to the ground floor, then out the study door and along to the stable, confident that all the household was at table, and the horses were all grazing in the field at the side of the garden.

The wide center aisle of the stable was just now filled with four wagons and two carts; new wheels leaned against all six vehicles, with leather straps around them to allow them to be secured to the cart or wagon for which they were made. The wagons were paneled and covered, each providing bunks inside for four or five people as well as cabinets and shelves to carry possessions and provisions. The larger cart was enclosed—and its floor lined in his native earth—the smaller one open, and it was to the larger cart that da San-Germain went. He climbed onto the driver’s box, slipped back a slat in the footboard, and set the four sacks in the small space revealed; they fit with little room to spare. Satisfied, da San-Germain moved the slat back into place, got down from the box, and started back to the side-door he had used only a few minutes ago.

As he opened the latch, he heard a voice from inside exclaim, “If you come through, I have a pistol.”

Da San-Germain stopped. “Dudone?”

The old steward gave a soft yelp. “Signor’ Conte! What are you doing outside?” He flung the door open and stepped back, his pistol trembling in his hand.

“I have had a last look at the wagons and carts.” He smiled sardonically.

“Oh. No, Conte,” he said in sudden abashed confusion. “You have no need to explain to me. No need at all. Of course you do not. This is your mansion. I am your steward.” He bowed in the old-fashioned manner. “Come inside. Prego.”

“Grazie,” said da San-Germain, closing the door behind him. “Put your pistol away and go along to your dinner.”

“Si. Si.” He bowed again. “A thousand apologies, Conte.”

“None are necessary. It is a relief to know how diligent you are in protecting this place.” He meant this as far as it went, but even saying such words brought him qualms: what would have happened if Dudone had fired?

“Il Conte is most generous, most forgiving.” Dudone turned away, his face blank from chagrin.

“Think nothing of it.” He moved away from the old man, wondering again if Dudone was still prepared to run the household in his absence. He cursed quietly, knowing that his visit to the stable would be common knowledge among his household by the time dinner was over, and that now he would have to keep watch in the stable through the night. He secured the outer door and went toward the front of the house, all the while musing on how Dudone came to be keeping guard in his study rather than sitting down to dinner with the rest of the household. He kept mulling over his concerns until he came to the library, where he found Theron taking his dinner on a tray while he read a three-hundred-fifty-year-old book of erotic lyrics written by a French bishop, his attention so rapt that he visibly jumped as da San-Germain came into the room.

“Comte,” he exclaimed in French. “I thought you were upstairs.” He closed the book and set it on the couch beside him.

“I was. Now I am here.” He spoke in the same tongue as he looked around at the shelves. “I have been trying to make up my mind which books to take with me, so I’ll have something to read.”

“You’ve packed some books already,” Theron said, reaching for his glass of Nebbiolo, and drinking most of it in two gulps.

“Those were of dramas, so we will have something to work with for the troupe,” said da San-Germain. “Now I want something I can read for recreation, something to distract me. What would you recommend?”

“This is your library, Comte,” said Theron.

“I gather I would do better with something not in French, something fairly new, and definitely not political.” He strolled down the room, looking at the titles on the shelves. “Something in English?”

“Too many aristos are escaping to England,” Theron said.

“So they are. Not English, then.” He walked a little farther. “I have a book of Russian stories. Does anyone escape to Russia, do you know?”

“No one I’ve heard of,” said Theron.

“Then Russian it shall be.” He pulled the step-ladder near and climbed up, reaching for the top shelf, and taking down a pair of books in green-leather binding, their titles embossed in bold Cyrillic letters:
Tales of the East,
and
Tales of the West
. “These were printed in Sankt Piterburkh in 1724, among the first books to come out of the new publishing houses there.”

“Then they’re too valuable to take on such a journey as we’re making,” Theron said at once. “A pity.”

Da San-Germain kept the books in his hand. “The value of books is in the reading, Heurer. As leather and paper and ink, they mean little unless they are read. That is their purpose.” He thought of the thousands of books he had lost over the centuries, and of his own publishing houses, in Amsterdam, in Venezia, and in Copenhagen. “These will do very well,” he declared. “Who knows? they may even inspire a play or two.”

Theron shook his head and poured himself more wine.

*   *   *

Text of a letter from the Revolutionary Tribunal of Avignon and the Revolutionary Court of Avignon to Madelaine de Montalia at Montalia, delivered by Revolutionary Guard courier, five days after it was written.

To the woman known as Madelaine de Montalia, the summons of the Revolutionary Tribunal of Avignon: on this, the 21
st
day of August, 1792:

Madame,

It is the order of the Revolutionary Tribunal and the Revolutionary Court that you are now under arrest and must proceed at once, under armed Revolutionary Guard, to Avignon to stand before the Revolutionary Court to answer for your crimes. Any members of your household still remaining at Montalia are to be given pensions, livestock, and property before you leave, with copies of all grants witnessed by officers of the Revolutionary Guard and one person of known integrity living within three leagues of Montalia.

You will be allowed to bring three changes of clothes, as well as such garments as cloaks and other outer wear as may be necessary for the journey. Also five sets of underclothes and two corsets in order that you may present a proper appearance before the Revolutionary Tribunal. One nightrail and one simple robe-des-chambre will be acceptable as well, so that no immodesty will result during your confinement. Two pair of shoes and two hats may also be brought. Such items for personal use as brushes and combs may be carried as well, but no patches or other cosmetics, no jewelry, and no scent will be allowed either for this journey or for any appearances before the Revolutionary Tribunal or the Revolutionary Court.

Your failure to comply with any requirement listed will be regarded as an act against the Revolution, and result in an increasingly severe standard of detention.

Be aware, woman, that your crimes and the crimes of your ancestors will be judged by the Revolutionary Court and your punishment determined by testimony of such witnesses as may appear before the Revolutionary Tribunal and the Revolutionary Court in Avignon. Your trial may take up to fourteen months to commence, so you will be granted time to send requests to those you want to appear on your behalf to attend upon our sessions. The testimony of your fellow-criminals will not be accepted: any defense you offer must come from those you have oppressed, and those you have had in your household. All others will be turned away.

Long live France!

Long live the Revolution!

Georges Marie Forcier

Senior Deputy Secretary for Public Safety in Avignon

Revolutionary Tribunal of Avignon

6

“How many houses do you own, Conte?” Photine marveled as their train of wagons and carts pulled into a courtyard of a C-shaped house not far from the old Roman amphitheater in Verona; she had spent the last hour beside him on the driver’s box of the larger cart, her face sheltered from the sun by a wide-brimmed straw hat; as they entered the city, she used it to wave at the guards, grinning in admiration at the piazze and churches as they made their way through the streets. Now she looked around in astonishment at the vast old house that stood behind strong wooden gates which had swung open on their approach and were now closing behind them. The afternoon light gave the stones a warm glow that made the house more inviting than forbidding, although she suspected that the place could be quite formidable under less sunny skies. She did her best not to appear overly impressed.

“A fair number,” said da San-Germain as he pulled in the mules drawing the cart and raised his hand to Roger, who came hurrying across the courtyard to welcome him. “We made good time.”

“You did. When I left this morning to come ahead, I thought I wouldn’t see you until sunset. If then. Yet here you are, more than two hours before nightfall. Did you go on through the afternoon without a riposino?” Without waiting for an answer, he pointed to the archway leading to the back of the house. “The stable’s that way. There are nine stalls, and two small paddocks for the remuda horses. The rest will have to be kept in line-stalls for the night, which should be mild, so they can cool off.”

“Eighteen horses and six mules,” Feo called down from the box of the largest wagon. “Are there grooms here, or must we attend to them ourselves?”

“Two grooms, one of them hired for our stay,” Roger answered, and waved the company on through to the rear. “Those who aren’t needed for unhitching and tending, come with me into the house.”

“Should I go in?” Photine asked da San-Germain. “And the rest of the actors? Or do you need our help.”

“Go in, if you would. Have your actors bring inside only the things they’ll need for tonight and tomorrow; that will get us on our way in good time come morning.”

“We’re a commedia troupe,” Photine said with a bit of sharpness in her voice. “We know how to manage touring. We’ll sleep in haystacks, if we must, and be on the road before the farmers are awake.”

“Of course,” da San-Germain assured her. “My maladroit—”

“And mine,” she countered quickly. “It has been a long day and we’re both tired. I’ll remind my troupe to treat this as if it were any stop for the night. Will that do?”

He gave her a quick smile. “So long as you tell them that there are comfortable beds for them, and a bath-house for later tonight. Go with Roger. I’ll be in as soon as the cart is stowed and the mules are cared for.” He held out his hand to help her down, and kissed her cheek as she set foot on the ground. “There are seven guest-rooms in the house. Some of the company will have to double up for the night.”

“After the wagons, it will be luxury itself, sleeping in a proper bed, no matter if there are one or two of us in them,” she said as she reached the cobbled courtyard. “I suppose there’ll be food shortly?” She looked around and saw eight of her troupe getting out of their wagons, bags in their hands, moving slowly while they accustomed themselves to walking again. “We’ll need a rehearsal this evening. I trust there is room for it.”

“Yes; a meal is being readied now, and once you’ve dined, there will be time for rehearsal. Roger will show you the house. You may choose where you would like to practice; you can arrange with Roger who is to sleep where, and when you can bathe.”