Commedia della Morte (27 page)

“I will do what I can,” he answered, then looked at Feo. “Have you seen my manservant?”

“Roger?” Feo snapped his fingers. “The last I saw he was in the stable, loading one of your chests into the larger cart.”

“Excellent. We will seek him while we saddle our horses,” said da San-Germain energetically. “Madame, go to your actors and rehearse. It will steady your thoughts and give the appearance that you are not worried on Enee’s behalf.”

She clutched her linen serviette and wiped her eyes, struggling to regain her composure. “If you think it best…”

“You will agree if you only consider your boy’s predicament,” said da San-Germain, refilling her glass with the rest of the wine in the bottle. “For the sake of your son, think of this as a performance, and you must succeed.” He signaled to Feo; the coachman gave a suggestion of a salute. “We should be back within two hours. If we’re not, we will need to think of some other means of freeing Enee.”

Photine pressed her lips together, refusing to cry again; finally she said, “Bon chance,” and waved him out of the room, Feo half a step behind him.

As they hastened down the corridor to the entrance to the inn, da San-Germain lowered his voice, saying, “How strong is the case against Enee?”

Feo turned up his hands to show he had no idea. “One of the men playing at his table accused him. I’m told he was drunk and belligerent.”

“The accuser?”

“Yes. Which is something in Enee’s favor.” Feo glanced into the taproom, where most of the troupe was assembled. “Should we tell the Guards about the rehearsal?”

“No,” said da San-Germain. “If we tell them, there will be speculation that would distress Madame. They may assume that the rehearsal is a ruse—which it is—and order her to appear before the Revolutionary Tribunal to explain her lack of supervision of her son.” He paused, his countenance thoughtful. “For all the Guards like our play, they think actresses are trollops, and would be apt to treat her disrespectfully.”

“She can be eloquent,” Feo remarked.

“That, too, might seem deceptive to the Guards,” said da San-Germain, lengthening his stride. “Any appeal she makes herself could bring about precisely what she seeks to avoid—a cancellation of her license to perform, and a fine. If she tells them too much, they’ll be certain she is lying, and that will be held against Enee as well as the troupe.”

“And in that event, our departure could be delayed by several days,” said Feo cannily.

“That it could,” said da San-Germain without any sign of emotion.

The evening air was cool, with a skittery wind that nipped at them like a hungry chicken. They crossed the inn-yard to the stable, where they found Roger strapping one of da San-Germain’s chests into place in the bed of the larger cart.

“The players will need our help loading up after their performance tomorrow; I thought it best if most of our cases and chests were stowed tonight.” He rubbed the front of his dove-gray coat. “What do you want, my master?”

“You know me too well, old friend; I can hide nothing from you,” he said with a hint of a smile. “I want the square wallet in the old chest,” he said, his description deliberately vague.

“He’s going to get Enee out of jail,” Feo explained.

“It is likely to be expensive,” Roger said.

“Keep that in mind when you bring the wallet,” da San-Germain recommended.

“I’ll be back in ten minutes,” said Roger, and left the stable without asking any questions.

“You’re planning to pay for his release, then?” Feo asked. “The little weasel hates you.”

“I won’t be doing it for him,” said da San-Germain drily.

“Nor entirely for his mother,” Feo said with a knowing look.

“No, not entirely.” Da San-Germain started toward one of the box-stalls where two of the troupe’s horses were standing. “The saddles are in the tack-room. Mine is—”

“—black with silver fittings; yes. I’ll find it.” He strode off toward the tack-room, signaling to one of the grooms to assist him while da San-Germain picked up a brush from the grooming-box next to the stall and let himself in with the two horses, haltered both animals and gave them a perfunctory brushing. Feo brought da San-Germain’s saddle, saddle-pad, and bridle from the tack-room and set them on the stand outside the door. “I’ll get the Italian saddle, the one with the extension behind the cantle, for the boy to ride on.”

Da San-Germain haltered the gray gelding and prepared to lead him out of the stall. “A good choice.” As he secured the gray’s lead-rope to a ring in the pillar next to the stall, da San-Germain called out to Feo, “Have you seen Theron this evening?”

Feo’s voice was a bit muffled, but he replied, “Not this evening. I saw him this afternoon in the Plume et Papier, where the writers meet. They were feting him in grand style: wine and pastries and grilled meats—wine most particularly.”

“Let us trust the style is not too grand—we don’t want to have to deal with the Guards and the Revolutionary Tribunal more than once tonight.” Da San-Germain took the hoof-pick, bent over, and lifted the gray’s front on-side hoof. He worked quickly and silently, making his way around the horse, then put the pick back in the grooming-box and reached for the saddle-pad.

“My master,” said Roger as he came up to him; da San-Germain had finished saddling and bridling the gray, and he gave his full attention to Roger. “I have put in some of the stones from the alabaster casket, in case they will be useful.” He nodded to Feo, who was finishing tightening the girths on the mouse-colored mare.

“Many thanks,” said da San-Germain as he took the thick leather wallet from Roger; he knew they had no alabaster casket with them, but that the one in Padova contained a great many jewels da San-Germain had made in his athanor. “You always anticipate what I’ll need.” He buckled the wallet onto the rings on the pommel of the saddle, then mounted up. “We should be back within two hours.”

“With Enee.”

“Precisely.” He watched while Feo adjusted the head-stall on the mare’s bridle; the mare stopped fussing with her bit and stood quietly as Feo buckled her throatlatch, lifted the reins over her head and vaulted into the saddle. “Ready?”

“That I am,” said Feo, gathering the reins to his hands.

Before he left the stable, da San-Germain said to Roger, “If you can, go find Heurer. He may still be at the Plume et Papier. Bring him back here, whatever his condition may be, and see that he watches the rehearsal. We want no more questions asked about anyone associated with the Commedia della Morte. If you have to bring him back on one of the mules, do it.”

Roger nodded twice. “I will.”

“Try not to let him make a scene,” da San-Germain added.

“I will,” Roger repeated, and stepped back as da San-Germain and Feo rode out into the dark street, going toward the light that marked the Place de Ville, and the Revolutionary Tribunal in the Hotel de Ville. They went at a walk, avoiding gathering-places in the narrow streets, and arrived at the Place de Ville in a little more than ten minutes.

“I’ll mind the horses, Ragoczy,” said Feo as he dismounted in the crowded square in front of the Hotel de Ville.

“Thank you,” said da San-Germain, and made for the doors of the Hotel de Ville, which were well-lit and stood open, Guards flanking the entrance. He stepped into the foyer and found himself surrounded by men assembled in clusters, all talking in lowered voices that made the chamber echo with their various discussions; undeterred by the clamor, da San-Germain looked about for the sign pointing the way to the holding cells; he finally found it at the top of a flight of lamp-lit stairs, which he descended without undue haste, using the time to take stock of the setting so that he could deal with any abrupt changes he might encounter. At a door with a sign saying
CLERK OF THE COMMITTEE FOR PUBLIC SAFETY,
he paused, and after a moment of consideration, knocked.

“Enter,” said the person within.

Da San-Germain had not worn a hat, so he could not remove it as a sign of respect. With his head slightly lowered deferentially, he entered the room. “Good evening, Citizen,” he said in the approved manner.

“Good evening, foreigner,” said the man behind the desk; he was of medium height and looked to be between thirty-five and forty, a fussy fellow in a blue serge coat and dun-colored unmentionables; his fingers were ink-stained, as were his cuffs, and he gave da San-Germain a swift scrutiny as he half-rose from his chair. There was a tricoleur knot of ribbons on his lapel, which he touched as he looked up at the newcomer. “What is your purpose here.”

Da San-Germain recognized the man from his previous visit to the Revolutionary Tribunal; he concealed his distaste of the man with an urbane smile. “I am Ferenz Ragoczy, Citizen Dassin; I am with the Commedia della Morte.”

“I know who you are. I remember your first visit—the Hungarian exile looking for a French relation,” said Beniguet Francois Dassin, the Clerk of the Committee for Public Safety. “What do you want? I have no more information on your relative.”

“That does not surprise me. But no, that is not why I am here.” He gave the clerk a slight nod. “You have in one of your temporary cells the son of the owner of the Commedia della Morte, of which company I am honored to be a member. I am here to secure his release, if that may be arranged.”

“And who is this person? We have several men in our cells.” Dassin folded his arms and stared past da San-Germain toward a second, smaller door.

“He is a youth, only fifteen, and recently has become a bit wild, as such youngsters will do. His mother was told that he had got into trouble at a tavern, and asked me to settle whatever money may be needed for his misbehavior, and bring him back to her.” He once again offered a little bow.

“What kind of misbehavior?” The clerk was scowling.

“From what his mother told me, he had been involved in a dispute about a card game.”

“Oho!
That
youth. The dispute was more of a brawl,” the clerk declared.

“Truly?” Da San-Germain offered an expression of incredulity. “I wouldn’t have thought he would be so reckless.”

“You said yourself that the young man was becoming wild. You must know that wildness can lead to trouble.” Dassin leaned forward, resting his crossed arms on his desk. “What he is accused of doing is more than a little wantonness, it is criminal. Cheating at cards is a fraud.”

“If he did it, he must have done it badly, since he was caught,” said da San-Germain, his gaze steadily on the clerk.

Dassin shook his head. “On the contrary. He was quite clever.”

“According to whom?” Although da San-Germain remained unfailingly polite, he made his question pointed enough to require more than a simple answer.

“Jean-Marcel Painsec, the man he tried to cheat. He, too, has been detained until he is sober enough to make an official complaint.”

“Ah. Then the matter is not yet settled,” said da San-Germain, more relieved than he was willing to let Dassin know.

“Not until Painsec files a complaint or withdraws it.” Dassin disengaged his arms and laid his hands flat upon his desk. “There is a fine, of course, no matter what Painsec does; the young man caused an uproar in a public place. That cannot be allowed to go unredressed.”

“No doubt he did,” said da San-Germain with perfect neutrality. “I suppose he had been drinking.”

“Not nearly as much as Painsec had, or he might have passed out and avoided all this disorder,” said Dassin with a hint of scolding. “The lad has claimed that it was Painsec who cheated, but what would you expect?” He looked at da San-Germain inquisitively, waiting for his next move.

“Suppose I could guarantee that the youngster will be gone from this city by tomorrow afternoon? Might that make your decision whether or not to release him to me easier?”

Dassin looked at da San-Germain. “How can you offer such a guarantee?”

“The troupe will be departing tomorrow after their noon performance. We want to travel while the weather remains good.” He made a gesture that took in the entire countryside. “You know how the roads are once the rains start, and how much damage can be done to wagons in the mud.”

“Naturally,” said Dassin, and went silent. Then: “The youngster did get into a brawl.”

“That might not have been of his making,” da San-Germain pointed out.

Dassin bent his head and thought. Finally he said, “The fine can be paid in gold. We take no promissory notes on matters of fines. Ten louis d’or, and a fee for his detention of six louis d’or.” It was an outrageous sum and both men knew it, but da San-Germain reached for his wallet without protest.

“And another two for his speedy release?” He began to count out the gold coins, all the while remembering Telemachus Batsho in those heady days when Heliogabalus ruled in Roma.

It was an effort for Dassin not to goggle, but he managed. “A very … reasonable … payment.”

Da San-Germain started to drop the stack of coins onto Dassin’s desk, but held back after the first five lay in front of the clerk. “I will wait here for the boy. I think that would be best, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes,” said Dassin, having trouble concentrating on anything other than the money in front of him.

“Then perhaps you’d better go and fetch him?” Da San-Germain said gently, moving his hand so that the remaining gold coins clinked.

Dassin picked up a glass bell from the far side of his desk and rang in; ten seconds later, a Guard came through the smaller door and asked, “What is it, Citizen?”

“The young man? The one who cheated at cards?” He made this blunt, as if issuing a challenge to da San-Germain.

“Yes?” The Guard made a point of not looking at da San-Germain.

“Go get that young fool. The one with the black eye and swollen knuckles.” Dassin waved him away and looked back at da San-Germain. “Well, Ragoczy, are you going to give me what you offered or was that merely a ruse to see the young hooligan?”

“As soon as you sign an authorization for his release, I will give the rest to you.” He offered a slight bow.

“Eh bien,” said Dassin, and took a piece of paper from the drawer at the side of the desk. He then drew the inkwell toward him and reached for a trimmed goose-quill. “On your oath, he will be gone from Avignon before sunset tomorrow.”