Commedia della Morte (47 page)

“Then I take it you’re classically trained—an unusual thing in a commedia leader, I’d have thought.” He seemed slightly surprised.

“Yes, it is unusual; the aunt who raised me was a renowned actress and taught me the craft.” She wondered why he asked, and if she ought to have dissembled in her response. “I didn’t learn Commedia del’Arte until I was twenty-five.”

“Um. So your present troupe is new to you?”

“No; these are members of my company. Just now we are doing our Commedia della Morte because there are few theaters in France where the classics are played, and we must eat.” She tried for a whimsical note, and very nearly succeeded.

“You have a patron now, or are you without support?”

“I have a patron.” Before she could stop herself, she added, “He is traveling with us now: Ragoczy Ferenz. He’s an Hungarian in exile.”

“A nobleman.”

“In exile,” she reiterated. “He has a house in Padova.”

“This is the man your son stabbed,” Charlot inquired as if he knew the answer.

“It is most unfortunate, but yes.”

Charlot said nothing for almost half a minute. “You have no family to whom you can turn on your boy’s behalf?” He paused, adding, “Someone who might provide for him?”

“I have a brother and a half-sister. Both are married. One lives … lived in Nancy, the other in Rouen. They have families, and are not in any position to take Enee into their households, or as an apprentice. My half-sister’s husband is a mercer, and my brother was a printer.” I’m telling him too much, she thought, and tried not to panic; she realized the liqueur had loosened her tongue more than she had supposed. Color mounted in her face and only her long training gave her the poise she needed to continue without revealing her agitation. “I’m afraid I don’t know where my brother and his family have gone.”

“A pity. Should either of them be able to offer him a position, perhaps the Revolutionary Tribunal would be willing to release your son to his aunt or uncle. But…” He went to the sopha opposite Photine and sprawled upon it, untying the sash on his robe so that the front of the garment fell open. “We will find another way.”

This display bothered her, but not enough to keep her from pursuing her mission; she almost offered to remember him in her prayers, but stopped herself in time: the Revolution had put an end to the rites and rituals of religion. “That is most kind of you, Deputy Secretary. I have to tell you that I have been nearly at my wits’ end, worrying about Enee. I know he has done a great wrong, but it is my duty, as his mother, to protect him from all dangers, including those he creates himself.”

“It is good to know you remain firm in your conviction,” he said, his eyes lingering on the slope of her breasts longer than was seemly. “I hope you will continue to keep that duty in mind.”

Photine sat up straighter, trying to pull her scattering thoughts to order. “Deputy Secretary,” she said with all the dignity she could summon, “it would be better if you were to sit up.”

“Oh, very good,” Charlot said through his predatory laughter. “You might try indignation next. Protest that you do not do such things, or tell me you’ll complain to the Revolutionary Court. No doubt you could make an admirable scene. It would cost you your son, of course, but it would be a glorious performance.”

“Monsieur!”

“Citizen,” he corrected her, so condescendingly that she longed to slap his face.

“Deputy Secretary,” she said punctiliously, “if you have no intention of helping Enee, then I must thank you for giving me your time, and leave you to your own thoughts.”

He got up from the sopha, his movement deliberate as he approached her: he unbuttoned the front of his unmentionables. “Don’t pretend you are a chaste miss, Madame, that you don’t know how this game is played. Your son proves you know the ways of men well enough.”

Photine turned her dread to outrage, forcing herself to face him. “You have insulted me profoundly, Deputy Secretary. You have been derogatory regarding my profession and the nature of my connection to my son’s father. You have treated me like the lowest harlot, and offended me deeply.” She felt a first hint of courage flicker within her. “I will leave now and say nothing about any of this.”

“No, woman, you will not,” Charlot said, taking hold of her hair.

“Release me!” She used the voice that could stop crowds and bend them to her will, but all Charlot did was grin.

“When I am done with you,” he said in a silky voice. “But I have not yet begun.”

She could feel a knot form in her vitals, and she cursed herself for a gullible dupe, thinking that this man would ever extend himself on behalf of another without requiring recompense for it. “I can give you money.”

“I have money—more than anyone knows,” he told her before bestowing a ferocious kiss on her mouth, one that pressed his teeth into her lips, forcing them apart for the invasion of his tongue. “I want other compensation from you.”

She resisted the impulse to wipe her mouth with the back of her hand. “You disgrace your office, Deputy Secretary.”

He laughed again, though it came out more like a growl. “Power is to be used, Madame. That’s what it’s for.”

The fear she had held at bay flared within her, and she started to rise. “I’m going to leave. You cannot keep me here.”

“Stay where you are. Unless you want Enee to be answerable for your petulance with his head.” He countered her turmoil with an increasing tranquillity. “I am giving you a chance to keep your son alive. I will abide by my word if you’ll obey me.”

Distressed and confused, Photine took a hasty step toward the door, half-stumbled, and swore.

From his place on the sopha, Charlot laughed, holding up a key. “The door’s locked, Madame.” He put the key back in a pocket in his dressing-robe, then reached to the opening in his unmentionables, wriggling as he worked to lower his underdrawers. “Come back and sit down while I explain matters to you.” He tugged his penis free from his undergarment and fondled it, smiling as it began to rise. “Like a sail filling with wind,” he murmured.

“You are insulting, Deputy Secretary,” said Photine, matching his coldness with her own; she could see the red, blister-like sores on his organ and on his lower abdomen where some of his hair had fallen away from the pustules. “Cupid’s Measles,” she said with as much fear as contempt.

“Yes, I have them,” he agreed with a lupine smile. “But doubtless you will know how best to manage me. Actresses are adaptable, aren’t they?”

“Cochon!”

“What a fine representation of revulsion,” he approved, amused by her distress. “You’re beginning to sense what I like.” He pulled at his foreskin, then rolled it back, exposing the broad red head of his penis. “You’ve noticed the sores, of course, and you know what it means.”

“You seek to pass your disease to me,” she said.

“A small price to pay for the life of your son,” he countered, motioning her to approach him. “You are going to do what I ask you, everything I ask you, until I order you to leave, or your son will go to the Guillotine by the end of this month, as he should. Or didn’t you mean it when you wrote to me that you would do anything to secure his freedom?” Charlot’s voice was sharp, like the blade of the Guillotine itself. “Drink the liqueur—it will make this easier for you, and you won’t remember most of it—and then come and suck my organ. I’ll tell you what to do while you satisfy me.”

“You’re obscene,” she said, but moved toward him, her mind reciting
For Enee, for Enee,
as she went.

“The liqueur, Madame,” he said, pointing to the glass of liqueur of wormwood on the table next to her. “You will find it easier to accommodate me with its effects to soothe you.” His penis was standing out from his body now, its tip dark-red and marked by developing pustules. “And don’t think you will bite me and subdue me. If you try such a sluttish trick, your son loses his head in three days.”

“You cannot order me to—”

“I can order you to do whatever I like. For now, I would like you to suck my member dry. Later I have more questions for you, and then perhaps I will have you do other things as well.” His gaze flicked lazily over her, as if assessing possibilities for later. “Open your corsage, Madame. I want to see your breasts as you service me.”

Photine drank the liqueur as if it were poison, letting the muzziness it imparted claim her. She reached to unfasten her sash, dropping it before she loosened the lacing of her corsage, exposing her breasts. “Since you order,” she said with icy contempt. She knelt in the narrow space between the sopha and the table, and leaned forward, disgusted with herself and nauseated by the odor coming from Charlot’s body—the man had not washed in several days and his disease imparted a sweetish aroma of rotting meat to the sweat. As she took his penis into her mouth, she felt his hand in her hair again.

“You will swallow what I give you, then beg me for more,” he said through clenched teeth.

She could not speak and would not have known what to say if she had made the attempt. For an instant, she thought of da San-Germain and his way with her when they lay together, but banished the memories as quickly as she thought of it: this was going to be a long night, and she had Enee to think about, not the man who had brought her into danger for no purpose but to save his beloved blood relative; she could hope for nothing from him tonight. Nor could she convince herself that Theron Heurer would seek her out, for he, too, was looking to aid that unknown noblewoman who was the cause of all that had transpired. As she began her efforts, she heard a clock somewhere in the house begin to sound eleven; the night was stretching out ahead of her like a road into hell.

Charlot was right about the liqueur of wormwood—it provided a dream-like state that allowed her to view all that would be required of her for the next four hours as a kind of nightmare, one that would end in forgetfulness, and reward her with her son’s freedom.

*   *   *

Text of an order issued by the Department of Public Safety presented to the Warden of the Revolutionary Court Prison of Lyon.

On this, the 24
th
day of October, 1792, the Warden and officers of the prison maintained by the Revolutionary Court in Lyon are ordered by the Department of Public Safety to send the prisoner Enee d’Auville under guard in a prison van directly to Calais, and to place him as a prisoner aboard the first military ship bound for any French port in Africa, where he is to be put into the hands of the military commander for dispatch to the most remote outpost under French command, there to serve the country for the rest of his life. He is not to be allowed any correspondence for a period of five years, at which time, he may be allowed to write letters but not to receive any until he has served a decade at the outpost, at which time he may be permitted a one-week leave in the nearest city or town boasting more than ten thousand residents. All records of his transport are to be made in the name Josef Menuisier. All records of his name are to be destroyed, including this order.

Vive la France!

Vive la Revolution!

Luc Theophille Avoine

Secretary, Department of Public Safety

Lyon

Witness:            Vivien Zacharie Charlot

Deputy Secretary, Department of Public Safety

Lyon

6

Da San-Germain, Roger, and Feo were not far from the old Saone River Gate, going north toward the posting inn and the horses that waited for them; the outline of the walls, and the spires of the city’s churches, might have been visible behind them but for the fog, which muffled everything in its frigid embrace. Not far away, the murmur of the Saone was loud in the silence of the night. Then, the uneven sounding of eleven that tolled from various of Lyon’s bells seemed to come from farther away than the half-league they were, and from more directions than from the city to the south. It was disorienting; the three paused until the clamor died away.

“The Virgin’s Tits!” Feo exclaimed. “Are we lost? We could be, in this infernal murk.”

“If we keep to the road, we’ll be at the inn shortly,” said Roger.

“How much farther to the posting inn?” da San-Germain asked, keeping his voice low; the ache in his hip was worse, but he kept on, limping as little as possible.

“Not far,” said Roger. “We should reach it in ten to fifteen minutes.”

“Assuming we can find it at all. I can’t see two paces ahead,” said Feo, rounding on da San-Germain. “How you manage to keep on the road without a lantern—”

“Those of my blood see better in the dark than most,” said da San-Germain in a tone that blighted further inquiry.

“There’s a dip in the road ahead, and a bend to the left; we’re almost there now,” Roger said. “The posting inn is about fifty paces beyond, on the right side of the road. The turning is broad and easily seen, in spite of the fog.” He pulled his hat down farther on his brow, putting his face in added shadow. “The horses will be saddled and ready; three for us, and the rest on leads. The women will have to ride astride.”

“Will we have enough horses? There are twenty-two prisoners, a few of them women,” Feo reminded them.

“If some of the prisoners take the Guards’ horses, the ones we bring will suffice, and if saddles are a problem, it is a small one compared to losing one’s head.” Da San-Germain recalled a night in the forest outside Paris, when Saint Sebastien and his Satanists had chased Madelaine for hours; she had ridden astride then, and would not protest doing so now. “Side-saddles would raise suspicions.”

“So I thought,” said Roger, picking his way through a tangle of fallen branches. “This will slow down the wagons carrying the prisoners.”

“Then let us hope for more of it.” Da San-Germain could feel the pull of his exertions working on the two deepest stab wounds, and he knew they might open if he demanded too much of himself. With a frown, he shortened his stride—this was not the time to risk a fall on the muddy ruts of the old road.

The three kept on grimly, each of them listening intently to the night around them as they went forward. The dip was more slippery than most of the road, and as they reached its lowest point, there was the sound of something moving in the brush next to the road, but nothing came toward them or fled them. A few steps farther along, a large water-bird erupted out of the undergrowth, giving a mournful
hoon
as it went. The men waited until the bird was gone before they moved on.