Commedia della Morte (51 page)

She nodded several times. “He heated up a poker and said he’d put it into me if I lied.” She put her hand to her mouth, as if she might throw up again. “So I told him. I … I was afraid to lie, don’t you see? I knew he would do it; I think he hoped I would equivocate, so he would have an excuse to do it.” Her eyes were jumpy and she looked at everything but him. “I said you planned to hide her as one of the troupe and to take her with us when we left France.” Her expression changed again, taking on an apologetic servility that da San-Germain was fairly sure was a performance, for there was an undercurrent to her mannerisms that had been lacking before, a slyness that was new. “But we may not leave France now in any case, not if Collot d’Herbois will sponsor us here, for that would be a triumph. In such a place, Charlot would have reason to fear me.” She flung this last at him as if to stop any argument he might raise with her over what she had done. “It is a great opportunity for us.”

“It is,” he said, trying to discern what lay behind her mercurial shift.

“If Collot d’Herbois sponsors us, we can go far. We might have our own theater. I long to have my own theater again.” She stared at him as if trying to anticipate his protest. “This may be my last chance to have it. I answered all that he asked of me.”

Da San-Germain refused to be baited into a dispute with her about this possibility, asking her with the utmost urbanity, “Did you tell Charlot when the attempt to save Madame de Montalia would occur?”

Photine hesitated before she answered, baffled by his formidable reserve. “I had to. He said he would beat me again if I refused, and would cut my face. I explained about the parade tomorrow … today, really. How we are going to disrupt the transfer of the prisoners, create an incident, and slip her away in one of our shrouds.” She reached out for his hand, her face eloquent of remorse. “I’m sorry, Comte, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I had to tell him, don’t you see? I didn’t have any choice, not with what he wanted to do.” A little of her dramatic flare had returned, and she threw open her cloak to show the ruin of her clothes and the visible extent of her injuries. “Charlot is a monster. He would have done worse than this to me if I hadn’t told him what he wanted to know. Not just cut my face, but break my legs. That would destroy me as an actress, to be scarred and lame.”

“Yes. I understand,” he said, with a growing relief that Photine had not learned of his work this night, that she still assumed the rescue would take place in the coming afternoon. He also realized that he would have to get Madelaine out of her hiding-place between the inner and outer walls of the city sooner than he had planned, and start for the frontier before noon, during the day and in rain, both enervating for those of their blood; they would be gone before the Commedia della Morte’s parade began. They would have to travel clandestinely and in disguise, for no doubt, Charlot would have Guards after them before the next sunset.

“Don’t be angry with me, Comte. I couldn’t bear it if you were angry,” she appealed to him, her eyes filling with tears but not to the point of overflowing.

“I’m not angry with you, Photine, I’m angry at Charlot, that he should abuse his power and you so insolently.”

This time she wept with gratitude. “Oh, Comte, you are so good, so generous. I am so grateful to you.” She gathered her cloak around her again. “If I could apologize for all this … I know I’ve betrayed your confidence, which is a despicable thing, but if I hadn’t, my son would be executed. I’m his mother. I had to—”

“Yes,” he said, cutting her effusions short. “Never mind that now. We haven’t time to sort this out. Morning is coming, and there is much you have to do before your performance. You will need to clean yourself up as much as you can, and choose how to conceal your injuries before you perform today. We can discuss this later, perhaps this afternoon, perhaps when we’re in Padova again.”

“But the troupe is staying here, to work with Collot d’Herbois; we may not return to Padova for months, or years, and who knows what will become of us before such a meeting?” she reminded him; she got to her feet. There was an air of purpose about her now, a kind of familiar anticipation that restored her self-confidence. “After today’s performance—we’ll talk then, not just about … what happened tonight, but all the rest. You deserve to know the whole of it. But you’re right. Just at present, there are so many arrangements to be made that neither of us can—” She laid her burned hand on his arm, giving him a melting smile. “You won’t be trying to rescue your kinswoman now, will you? We won’t have to disrupt the transfer of prisoners, will we? You would be caught if you made the attempt now.”

“You’re right—I won’t do that,” he said, opening the door for her. “Remember to take the remedy in the vials.”

“Oh, yes. I will. And I thank you for your remedy. I would not want to have the Soldiers’ Pox.” She did a skittish half-curtsy, then went along almost on tip-toe to the door to her chamber; she turned to give him a last smile, then let herself in, closing the door silently.

Da San-Germain listened intently, but the Jongleur was quiet. No servants were about yet, which he hoped meant that their meeting had been unobserved. He stepped back into the chamber and closed the door, then sat down to revise his plans yet again. If only he had more time, he thought as he mentally reviewed the problem.

It was almost six of the clock when Roger returned, remarking as he came in, “The scullions are up in the kitchen and will bring the tub up for your bath shortly.” He pulled off his long-coat and rubbed his chin. “I’ll get the basin. We both need a shave.”

“The basin is presently unusable,” said da San-Germain, and explained about Photine’s desecrated evening with Charlot. “There has to be bath-water we can use, before I bathe.”

Roger studied da San-Germain. “You’ve worked another plan, haven’t you, my master?’

“Circumstances require it,” da San-Germain replied in Byzantine Greek. “I don’t like it, but it should suffice.”

“Tell me,” said Roger in the same language, no sign of doubts or distress in his faded-blue eyes.

“It will require that you and I travel apart,” da San-Germain said. “I have tried to come up with a better way than this, but I haven’t been able to.”

“We’ve done so before,” said Roger, more resigned than annoyed.

“Yes, but I would rather not.” Memories of Spain, of Cyprus, of Leosan Fortress, of the Pilgrim’s Road in Abyssinia all flickered through his mind.

Roger absent-mindedly picked up the Hungarian clothing da San-Germain had draped over the end of the bed. “Will you be needing these, or shall I pack them?”

“Pack them, in one of the false-bottomed trunks, in case the Guards from the escort give descriptions of what we were wearing,” he said, adding, “If you can, dispose of them when you reach Valence.”

“So I am to go south along the river,” said Roger. “You will take another road, with Madelaine?”

“I believe we must.” He paused contemplatively. “The first leg of the journey is the riskiest—we’ll make for Grenoble, and then take the country roads through the mountains and on to Torino.” He said it easily enough, but he knew the roads would be muddy or covered in snow or slick with ice, and they might be pursued. “I believe if we take the mules, we can manage four leagues in a day.”

“Provided the weather doesn’t stop you,” Roger pointed out. “If you take the mules, do you plan to drive the larger cart?”

“No,” da San-Germain said. “We will ride. We can make better time that way, and can use the game trails and shepherds’ tracks through the mountains. You will take the larger cart, and four of the horses, and—”

“—go south to what? Montelimar? Bollene? And from there east into Italy?” Roger guessed aloud.

“Montelimar would be the better choice, I think,” said da San-Germain, and turned his head at a scratch on the door. “Who is it?” he called out in French.

“Your bathtub, Citizen,” called the porter from the hall. “May we bring it in?’

Roger went to open the door, and directed the two men to the open area in front of the fireplace. “There. When will the water be hot?”

“A quarter hour,” said the older porter. “Perhaps a little longer; they’re just building up the fires in the kitchen.”

“Very good,” said Roger, handing each of the men a silver coin. “For your trouble,” he said and let the men out of the room.

“At least we can get clean,” said da San-Germain, once more speaking Byzantine Greek.

“And shaved,” said Roger. “So I should cross the frontier on the Pinerolo Road.”

“If it is clear enough. It’s not an easy road, but it isn’t much patrolled or guarded, either. Best to stay away from the ports: there are too many spies there, looking for escaping Frenchmen.” He went to put a log on the embers in the grate. “I would advise you to leave before the performance begins, and complain to the ostlers that I am an unreasonable man, requiring you to run foolish errands.”

“What foolish errands?” Roger asked.

“Think of something, something that you would find in Marseilles, or perhaps Avignon, but not here. Try not to sound angry, for that might lead those who hear you to suspect you’ve done something illegal, and once they learn that I’m gone from Lyon, they may conclude you are responsible. World-weariness, old friend, not resentment.” Da San-Germain thought again. “I’ll want four mules, with a pack-saddle on one, so that I can carry my native earth with me, and the cask we have of the earth from Madelaine’s estate. The fourth we’ll use as a remount.”

“Will you take weapons?”

“A sword and the duck’s-foot, with powder and ammunition. You keep the pistols with you.”

“Do you intend to bring Madelaine to Padova with you?” It was the one thing that bothered Roger, for although da San-Germain and Madelaine could no longer be lovers, if she lived in his house, it could give rise to speculation and attention that would be dangerous for them both.

“Lecco would be the better place for Madelaine; it is a beautiful setting, and with the large number of strangers who frequent the lake, she will have many opportunities to find nourishment without rousing unwanted misgivings among those she visits in sleep.” He looked toward the fire where the log was beginning to smolder.

“And you will return to Padova?”

“Oh, yes; and remain there for another year at least,” said da San-Germain, his face unreadable.

Roger reflected upon this, and said, “If I leave just before or during the performance, what will you do?”

There was a wry amusement in da San-Germain’s dark eyes as he answered, “I will set up for the performance, and when the troupe gets ready for their parade, I’ll go to the stable for the mules—I trust you’ll ready them for me?” He had a sharp pang of grief, recalling how this would have been work for Feo.

“Of course,” said Roger.

“Little as I want to do it, I’ll leave my cimbalom. I want it to appear that my departure was precipitate, as if there might be pressing reasons for me to leave. That assumption would be reinforced by your sudden departure.”

“World-weary and resigned,” Roger interjected.

Da San-Germain nodded, then fell silent, speaking suddenly more than a minute later. “I’ll contrive a disguise not only for me, but for Madelaine.”

“Traders, perhaps?” Roger suggested.

“That would probably be your disguise. No, I believe I must come up with another explanation.” He looked down into the fire as the log popped and a spark flew out onto the floor; he stepped on it, and kicked the cinder away. “If Madelaine is willing to braid her hair like a boy, I might be able to convince the Guards at the borders that I’m his tutor and he is on an educational tour.”

“Feeble,” said Roger.

“No doubt, but she and I will have time to modify the story and make it more convincing. No innkeeper would refuse us a room we could share if we can make that story convincing.” He put his hands together, studying the steeple of his fingers. “We will need to dress quickly when we’re through with the bath.”

Roger looked up at the ceiling, trying to find ways to express his qualms about this most recent plan. “If you and Madelaine were to come with me, and we were to go along the roads we traveled to get here, we might be able to make a more persuasive tale for Guards and other officials,” he said slowly. “There are few people crossing along those roads in winter. If we’re careful, and have a good enough story, we might be in Italy without problems.”

“Possibly,” said da San-Germain in a tone that Roger knew meant no. “If you’ll get out three changes of clothes for me and for Madelaine and pack them in the soft leather bags? They can be tied to the cantles of our saddles. We’ll need cloaks as well, the fur-lined ones. And half-blankets for the mules.”

“I’ll attend to it after shaving and bathing, you and then me.” Roger went to fetch the leather bags and was almost out of the room when da San-Germain stopped him.

“Thank you, old friend. You may dislike this latest extemporization, but it does make our successful escape more probable.” There was a trace of irony in his smile. “If we’re pursued, the Guards will expect us to be together, so separating increases our chances.”

Roger started to speak, but a knock on the door announced the arrival of the first large cauldron of hot water; he put his uncertainties aside and went to get the shaving gear while da San-Germain admitted the first pair of several servants bearing the cauldron to the room.

*   *   *

Text of a letter from Theron Baptiste Heurer to Madelaine de Montalia, entrusted to da San-Germain and delivered into her hands at one of the clock the same day.

To my most dear, my most adored Madelaine, my heartfelt greetings, Your deliverance from the executioner’s hands has filled me with delight; I am grateful to da San-Germain and his two comrades for all they did to bring you safely out of imprisonment and the threat of death. Be sure I will thank all three of them most heartily when our performance today is complete and our wagons are sheltered from the rain.

No doubt you have been told that the Commedia della Morte troupe has been performing my play by the same name, and you will not be surprised to learn that, due to the great success we have enjoyed, we are embarked upon a second project. Even now I am writing the second act of the new drama, and we are rehearsing the first act in the morning. We have every reason to hope that this will lead to further opportunities, and the attention of truly great men. I know you will be thrilled for me, though this will mean that we will not have the opportunity to be reunited for some considerable time. For this, I beg your understanding. You have been a staunch supporter of my work before your misfortunes and I have the hope that your enthusiasm has not waned during your unfortunate time in prison.