Commedia della Morte (26 page)

Vive la Revolution!

Vive la France!

Submitted most respectfully,

Vivien Zacharie Charlot

Deputy Secretary for Public Safety

Lyon

4

“But we’ve been licensed for two more performances,” Photine protested in French-accented Italian; she was sitting in the private parlor of the Cheval d’Argent, the remains of a roasted chicken and sauteed greens on her plate before her; she had a glass of wine in her hand that glowed like rubies in the candle-lit dusk. She was fashionably dressed, her embroidered peach satin corsage edged with knots of lace that matched the lace at her wrists; a broad, deep-red sash slightly above her waist emphasized her figure, and her satin skirts shone glossily. “How can we reject such a handsome opportunity?”

Da San-Germain kept his voice level, speaking in the same language. “It is most flattering, I know, but we have to leave for Lyon tomorrow. We have already been here longer than either of us supposed we would be. The Revolutionary Tribunal in Lyon is calling for trials in ten days from today, if the courier who arrived here this afternoon is to be believed.” His fine brows snapped into a frown that vanished almost at once. “If you want to do one more performance before we go, I won’t prohibit it, but we must not linger. We’ll have to move quickly if we’re to be in Lyon before the trials begin—which we must do. There’s too much at stake.” He was in black: swallow-tail coat, unmentionables, waistcoat, and silk shirt, making him part of the shadows where he stood at the side of the hearth, out of range of the mirror above the mantel.

“But you—” She stopped herself and offered a conciliatory smile. “All right, yes: I did agree that we would help you to find your … your relative, and bring her out of France. You’ve done everything you pledged to do, and I will not abrogate my side of the bargain because it’s turned out to be less favorable than we could have anticipated. We are to help Madame de Montalia to leave France, and will have the opportunity to perform a new play, all of which you will pay for. Those were the terms. We’re only here because of you, and without your patronage, we would be in a difficult predicament.”

“I wasn’t going to bring that up,” he said, and bent to set a spark to the kindling and wood laid in the fireplace. “It is my honor to sponsor your performances, both here and in Padova, no matter what the circumstances. But performing is not the only purpose of this trip. I cannot lose sight of the reason we came here.” He stepped back into the shadows once more, deploring the ubiquity of mirrors in his thoughts; it had only been in the last fifty years that mirrors had become a common decoration in taverns and bourgeois households, and he found their proliferation an intrusion.

“Which means that we must respect your demands,” she countered, making this concession gracefully. “And, as our patron, you are the one to decide how we are to conduct our tour.”

“But neither of us anticipated your success,” he admitted. “It would be easier to leave had your play not been so much approved by the Revolutionary Tribunal.”

She made a gesture that acknowledged his observation. “We’re actors. We seek applause. Even Heurer is flushed with pride now.”

Da San-Germain came toward her. “I have promised you that you will have every opportunity to perform as we travel, and I will hold to that promise. You deserve the fruits of your art. Were Madelaine’s situation less precarious, I wouldn’t object to your troupe remaining here for another week, but under the circumstances—”

“Life and death. You made that very clear.” She gave a little sigh. “It’s hard to argue with that. You deserve an answer, and you are entitled to my cooperation. You shall have both, to the extent that they are in my power.” Lifting her glass, she offered him an ironic toast, then said in a more cordial tone, “You know, you have a beautiful voice. Not the way actors have beautiful voices; yours is more musical, its expression more private.”

He would not be put off by her unexpected praise; he met her gaze, his dark eyes compelling, his demeanor almost tranquil in his conviction. “I don’t require you to like this change in our plans, and if you are determined to remain here—which you may decide is better for your troupe than traveling to Lyon, though you may be equally popular there—Roger and I will go on alone. We haven’t much time to reach Madelaine before she is brought to trial; after that, we’ll have three days at most to remove her from prison and find a safe route out of the country, or lose her to the True Death.”

“That would be very dangerous,” she said, shocked by his imperturbability. “You could be taken prisoner, and then you would die with her.”

“There is always that risk,” he said; the first twists of flame appeared among the paper and twigs. “Being with your troupe would give us some protection; our chances for a successful escape improve if we are with you.”

She blinked, trying to decide if he were serious or merely trying to coerce her into acquiescing to his demands. “The troupe will not be pleased—both with the delay and with having a fugitive with us.”

“They knew they would be sheltering an aristocrat during our return to Padova,” said da San-Germain, a bit puzzled. “Why does that bother them now? Are they afraid that their fame might make them more vulnerable?”

She regarded him, perplexed but not quite annoyed. “They knew they were performing a rescue, and that was a great adventure, something worthy of Sophocles or Racine; they assumed that they would be taking her out of Avignon, not Lyon, and that it would be before she was to appear in the Revolutionary Court. But once she is tried and is convicted, then the adventure becomes dangerous for the troupe as well as for your relative, and they do not want to put themselves at risk of imprisonment or execution.” She reached out and brushed his hand with hers. “Surely you can understand their feelings? Would you blame them for not wanting to risk their lives?”

“Probably not; I expect no such sacrifice,” da San-Germain agreed.

“But you cannot promise that there is no possibility of trouble, can you?” She tapped her fingers together as her only indication of annoyance.

He met her eyes. “No, I cannot.”

“Then you will have to accept their dissatisfaction with the change in our arrangement, when they learn about it.” Her smile was understanding and heartening, but it did not touch her eyes.

“How much will they have to know? Can we keep anything from—”

Photine laughed, a knowing, guileful sound. “No one keeps secrets in theatrical companies—no one. They will all know, no matter what you tell them, or withhold from them. That’s why I haven’t spent more time alone with you: my players could find out too much and then none of us would be safe.”

“But they knew you shared my bed from time to time,” he said.

“Yes, in Padova where you housed and kept us all. It was expected. Even Enee, no matter how badly he’s behaved, understood that you were going to be my lover, since that is the way things are done. They knew little about the … manner of our passion, which is in our best interests. But living so closely together, they could easily find out more than either of us would want them to learn, and who can tell what they might do then.” She drank again, leaving a small amount in the glass.

Da San-Germain wondered if her concern for the gossip of her troupe were the only reason for her avoiding him, but he did not want to be distracted. “Tell your troupe that there will be performing opportunities in Lyon to more than match those here, and a larger population to see them. The city is in foment, if the rumors are to be believed, and the play is likely to be a reflection of the citizens’ current understanding, and therefore will be approved. It should command a large audience, and more attention.”

That possibility had not struck her before. “Foment can work against us, too,” she said cautiously.

“It can, of course.”

For the greater part of a minute she was silent. To cover her ruminations, she drank the last of her wine and made no objection when he refilled her glass. The fire was beginning to take hold, shining more brightly than the candles now. “Ordinarily, I would ask the troupe to decide.”

“Ordinarily, a laudable policy,” he said, sitting down across the table from her; he leaned slightly forward yet did not reach out to touch her.

“But they would debate and cavil until our license here runs out and we have to leave; actors enjoy such contention, it hones the skills to argue,” she admitted, a touch of amusement in her words. “You say that would be an intolerable delay—which I do not doubt. The reports from Lyon are distressing. Everyone knows that the Revolutionary Court has taken prisoners from more places than Avignon, and the city is willing to kill anyone who acts against the Girondais, as well as those deemed enemies of the Revolution.”

“That’s true,” he said. “The Girondais have the upper hand now, but they may not be able to sustain their hold. Their disputes with Paris are becoming more rancorous by the day, if the reports are accurate.”

“Knowing that, you’re still set on going there?”

“I am.”

She drank a bit more wine. “Would you take Roger and go? Really?”

“Yes.”

She could not question his determination; she set the wine-glass down. “Very well. If that’s the way of it, we must honor our agreement. We will leave after tomorrow’s performance. We should be able to cover three leagues by nightfall.”

“Unless it rains again,” he said, apprehension revealing the depth of his anxiety for the first time since he had entered the parlor.

“So you’re worried about the weather as well as the distance,” she exclaimed.

He responded indirectly. “Even if we can manage more than eight leagues a day in clear weather, which may not be possible, rain could stop us. Then we would be fortunate to cover three leagues in a day.”

“We can’t perform in the rain, either,” said Photine. “We must hope we reach Lyon before the autumn closes in.”

“We must also hope that rain doesn’t slow our return to Padova. We’ll need to move fast once we have Madelaine.” He motioned toward the door at the sound of a soft tap. “Are you expecting anyone?”

She shook her head, her mood transformed from genial to anxious. “No. And I thought the troupe was getting our cases packed. Why? Did you hear something?”

“A knock, or so it seemed. Of course, it could be just someone passing the door.”

“Listening at the door, more likely,” said Photine. “Open it, if you think there’s someone there.” She held up her hand and ticked off possibilities. “Why would anyone be disturbing our conversation? Might there be trouble of some kind? Perhaps one of the horses or mules is ailing.”

“I doubt that.” He had inspected the wagons and carts two days before, and had summoned the farrier to check the shoes on their horses and mules yesterday. Feo and Aloys had busied themselves in doing the necessary minor repairs to the tack and harness, so that did not seem a likely concern. “Which of your actors would interrupt your supper?”

The second soft knock on the door was startling, though both of them expected it.

“It’s Feo,” said the quiet voice. “There’s trouble.”

Da San-Germain went to open the door, regarding the coachman with keen eyes. “Has something happened?” he asked, standing aside to admit Feo into the parlor; Feo gave Photine a half-bow.

“What is this about?” Photine asked him, her demeanor imperious, showing him that she did not like having her conversation interrupted by a coachman.

“If it weren’t urgent—” Feo hesitated, then launched into an explanation. “There is no easy way to tell you, Madame, so I’ll just say it: your son has been accused of cheating at cards. The Guards have taken him into custody and are claiming that he must be tried for his crime.”

“Crime? He can’t … Enee is too—” She was about to say
young
but stopped herself, and listened.

“When did this happen?” da San-Germain asked.

“A little more than an hour ago,” Feo said. “In the tavern at the river’s edge, at the old bridgehead, the Pont Roman; rivermen go there, and smugglers from the south.” He gave an apologetic sigh. “I would have come sooner, but I followed the Guards to see what they would do with him.”

“Do they brand the hands of card-cheats here?” Photine asked, going pale as she waited to hear what she would say; in her distress, she had gone from Italian to French.

“Who knows?” Feo answered, but would not be put off his point. “It is a risk it would be unwise to take. The Revolutionary Tribunal is strict in enforcing the law. Better not to get into the toils of the Revolutionary Tribunal in the first place.”

“Where is he?” da San-Germain asked in French.

“At the moment he’s in the Revolutionary Tribunal’s jail, awaiting official charges,” said Feo in Italian. “If his fine is paid, and something given to the bailiff to grease the locks, as they say, he could be out tonight.” He paused, his expression becoming speculative and guileful. “If he is brought before the Tribunal, then matters get much more difficult.”

Photine took all her wine in a single gulp. “You must take me to him, Comte.” She started to rise.

“No, Madame,” da San-Germain objected, putting his hand gently on her shoulder. “This is not your duty, though he is your son. Let me do what I may to secure his release. I think you will do more good by remaining here with your troupe. If you are with us, you could be questioned, and that might cause more trouble.”

“I could say it must be a misunderstanding, that my boy is new to gaming, and at most he has made a mistake, not committed a crime.” She had returned to Italian for Feo’s benefit.

“As every mother would claim,” said da San-Germain quietly. “No. Have it seem that you do not believe the accusation, and think it beneath your attention.”

After giving da San-Germain an inquisitive look, Feo nodded. “He’s right. If you run to him, they will be sure he is guilty.”

“Enee,” she whispered, and began to weep. “Spare him, Conte,” she implored, her hands clasped and her face shining with tears.