Commedia della Morte Read online

  “Very well,” he said, and opened the door for her.

  He left the room and continued on to the main staircase, climbing it swiftly but without obvious effort. The gallery along the western wall was fairly narrow but nothing too confining, and he was soon at the door of his private apartments, where, once inside, he took off his light-weight driving-coat and draped it over the back of a chair before opening the armoire to see what selection might be there.

  Only three suits hung on the pegs inside: a black silken suit for formal occasions with a jewel-embroidered waistcoat and a white silk shirt; a woolen suit for winter, and a linen one for summer. He removed the linen suit and considered it. The coat was hammer-tailed, of a dark-burgundy shade, the unmentionables were black, the minimal waistcoat was ivory, and the shirt was white. He decided it would do for the next leg of their journey, so laid it out on the chest-of-drawers while he considered his undergarments. He had just chosen short underdrawers when Roger knocked at the door.

  “Enter,” said da San-Germain.

  Roger did that. “The bath-house is heated, if you would like to bathe while the troupe dines.”

  Da San-Germain nodded. “You think of everything, old friend,” he said.

  “After so long, I should hope so,” Roger responded with only a slight glint in his eyes revealing that he was partly jesting. “Do you want the driving-coat washed tonight?”

  “If you would, please, and pack what I have in this”—he pointed to the armoire—“to add to the rest. I think I may need more clothes than we assumed when we set out,” said da San-Germain, beginning to undress. “Is my robe in the bedroom?”

  “I’ll get it for you,” said Roger, and went past da San-Germain into the ascetical bedroom that had a narrow bed atop a heavy chest that was filled with da San-Germain’s native earth, a nightstand with a branch of three candles on it and a small pile of books, a pair of pegs for clothes where a heavy cotton robe hung, and a clothes-press. He took the robe and went back into the parlor. “Here it is.”

  “Thank you,” said da San-Germain as he took off his shirt and added to the pile of coat and waistcoat on the chair. “Will you need another chest for the clothes?”

  “I’ll find one if I do,” Roger assured him.

  “Thank you,” da San-Germain said, then asked, “Did Photine decide where they will rehearse?”

  “In the great hall, of course. They’ve moved back the chairs and the carpets and marked out a space in chalk for their playing area; it’s about the same size as their wagon-platform, so they can set up their actions without worrying about adjusting them later.” Roger picked up the clothes da San-Germain had removed. “I’ll have the lot washed tonight; there are ample clean in the wardrobe.”

  “Thank you. We’ll have few enough chances to clean clothes between here and Montalia.” He turned away from Roger as he stepped out of his unmentionables and underdrawers, then accepted the robe, pulled it on and belted it, then turned back to Roger. “I think we should invite the troupe and the drivers to bathe when they’ve eaten, don’t you? They’re as grimy from travel as we are.”

  “It seems a good notion,” said Roger. “As you say, they’re all dusty from the road.” He pointed to the suit on the chest-of-drawers. “Would you like me to lay that out properly while you have your bath?”

  “If you haven’t other matters that need your attention,” said da San-Germain, and started toward the door. “Oh, and will you see if we can spare a dozen white sheets?”

  “What for?”

  “For Photine’s troupe, of course.” He paused. “I’ll explain later.”

  “Very well. I’ll find out about the sheets,” Roger promised da San-Germain as they left the parlor, Roger to go to the study to consult the house inventories, da San-Germain to go to the bath-house to spend half an hour soaking in warm, rosemary-scented water, his deep tub set in a restorative bed of his native earth.

  By the time he had dried himself off and dressed once again, da San-Germain felt much restored; he went down to the great hall where the troupe was gathered, rehearsing a new scenario, one that had to do with a foolish master with a clever servant. Pascal Aube, in the role of the clever servant, Berrmont, was standing near the center of the room with his arms folded, his sides clutched in his right hand, glaring at Photine.

  “It won’t work. Not the way the scene is written. It doesn’t play, not convincingly, and nothing I can do will change it. The words are wrong.” He glanced at Theron. “Servants don’t quote poetry, not that kind of poetry, not in this kind of play.”

  “But it shows how extraordinary he is,” Theron said, rising from his chair at the end of the room. “He isn’t the usual kind of servant. He does quote high-minded verse.”

  “But he’s supposed to outwit his master, not out-quote him,” Pascal insisted.

  “He can do both,” said Theron, defending his script.

  Constance, who was repairing the seam on one of the knee-britches that would be needed for this play, looked up from her needlework and said, “Pascal’s right. If he does any poetry, it better be scurrilous, or bawdy.”

  “But he’s the hero!” Theron protested. “He should have nobility in his character.”

  “Oh, for Saint Jude!” Pascal burst out, and rounded on Crepin, who was playing his master. “What do you think? Does it make sense for me to wax lyrical when I’m trying to deceive you?”

  Crepin thrust out his lower lip, then said, “Not in this context, no, it doesn’t.” He addressed Photine. “I think the poetry should be changed or eliminated.” He sounded as solemn as a judge, and looked as dignified.

  “Aha,” Pascal said.

  Theron came to the edge of the playing space now. “But that makes Berrmont a corrupting figure, not an instructive one, and then Chambertain becomes a dolt.”

  “Chambertain is a dolt!” Crepin said, throwing down his sides to make the point more forcefully.

  “That he is,” Pascal seconded.

  “But he doesn’t play that way,” Crepin insisted, flinging one arm out. “He comes off as malevolent, manipulative.”

  “He’s blind, that’s the point of the scene,” Theron said. “He’s unaware of the greater world around him. That’s the basis for the whole first act—his insensitivity to anything but his own desires! Can’t you see?”

  “Gentlemen.” Photine held up her hands. “Enough. We won’t settle this by posturing or explaining.” She stepped into the playing area and picked up Crepin’s sides, handing them back to him as she addressed the three men. “Obviously there is still work to do on this scene. Pascal, I want you to discuss the matter of the poetry with Monsieur Heurer. For now, we’ll rehearse the scene with Sibelle and Enee.” She clapped her hands. “Two chairs, and something for the arbor in which they meet.”

  Da San-Germain stepped up to help Hariot and Lothaire move the furniture. “I’m going to need to make myself useful,” he said to Photine as she gave him a startled stare.

  “But … a stagehand? We have Aloys for that.”

  “What else would you recommend?” he asked, putting the chair he carried down where Lothaire pointed. “You told me you wanted me to do more than drive the cart for you.”

  “I have another idea for you, one I think you’ll enjoy,” she said, looking at him seductively.

  He was interested, but said cautiously, “I need to know what you have in mind.”

  She made a show of musing on an answer, then said, “You play several musical instruments, don’t you? Could you play the lute or the fiddle, or something louder, between the scenes? I know you said you prefer not to appear on the stage, but I know music would help.”

  Da San-Germain nodded. “I can bring along three or four instruments that I keep in this house and you may choose which you wish me to play, and when.” He pointed to a narrow ladder leaning up against the side of the fireplace. “Would that do for the arbor?”

  “I should think it might,” said Photine, “if it c
an stand alone.”

  “It has a support leg,” said da San-Germain, going to get the ladder.

  It was almost nine o’clock when Photine called a halt to their rehearsing. “We must leave early tomorrow. Those of you who want a bath, go now. The rest of you, take your sides and work on your lines. We must be ready to play in two days.”

  There was a general groan, although no one was surprised at this reminder. Constance stuffed her sewing materials back in the hamper next to her chair, and announced, “Women first to the bath. You men will have to let us use the water first.”

  Valence, who was the oldest member of the troupe, said, “Have mercy on my old bones,” and pretended to hobble toward the door.

  There was a ripple of laughter from the others, except for Enee, who sighed heavily and rolled his eyes upward.

  “The water is heated, and will not go cold for two or three hours,” said da San-Germain, not wanting to explain the Roman hypocaust he had had built into the floor of the bath-house a century before.

  “The night is warm enough,” said Crepin. “Very well, we defer to the women.” He bowed extravagantly in the old style.

  “Good,” said Constance. “Olympe, girl. Come with me.”

  “Yes, Mother,” she said with deceptive docility.

  “There are towels for you all in the dressing room next to the bath,” said da San-Germain. “Use them as wraps and wear them to your rooms when you are done. There are baskets for your clothing.”

  “My, you are thorough,” said Photine archly.

  Sibelle and Tereson joined the other women, glad their evening’s work was at an end. The five women looked to da San-Germain for directions.

  “Go down that corridor to the third door on your left; it is painted blue. It has a stout latch on it, not just the usual kind. Go through it and along the covered walkway to the bath-house. It isn’t far, just to the end of the garden.” He motioned to the actors. “You men can wait three-quarters of an hour to bathe, can’t you? I’ll have my staff open a couple bottles of wine for you while you wait.”

  “In that case, certainly, we will be glad to let the women go first,” said Valence for them all.

  “Then come, ladies,” said Photine, leading the women toward the corridor that led to the bath-house.

  “So what do you think of the play I’ve written? Does it strike the right note?” Theron asked da San-Germain once the women were gone and the men were moving the carpet and furniture back into place. “Are you as bewildered as the rest are, or do you understand what I am attempting to do in the scenes?”

  “I only heard a little of it,” said da San-Germain.

  “But you have read some of the pages already,” he persisted. “What do you think of Aube’s objections to his lines?”

  “I’d have to see the whole of the scene acted in order to have any useful opinion,” da San-Germain said in the same level tone.

  Theron shook his head. “It won’t do. You can’t dodge the issue forever. You’re the patron of this troupe—surely you have some say in what they perform?”

  “I have made suggestions, but no demands,” he responded quietly. “It isn’t my place to tell them what to do, or how they are to do it. It is for me to make their performances possible.”

  “But it is for you to say what they are to play. It is. You’re paying for them, you’re supplying their wants. That gives you the right to require certain things of them.” He glowered at the men of the troupe who had taken advantage of the moment to sit down together and go through lines, all of them speaking in undervoices.

  “But, Theron, think. These men and women have worked together for six years. They know their strengths and weaknesses, and they have a responsibility to one another to support their work. They also know what their audiences prefer, and how to perform for them. I know very little of these matters.” He saw the mulish disappointment in Theron’s face. “Given their long experience together, you might want to take some time to consider what they recommend. It may be that what you have written isn’t right for them, as they know themselves as players. Another troupe might view the work differently, but for now, at least weigh their comments before you refuse to change anything. I think you will find it will be worth your while.” He moved away from Theron, privately doubting that he would willingly alter so much as a preposition.

  Roger found him a short while later in the withdrawing room. “The women have left the bath. Should I prepare a withdrawing room for you and Madame, my master?”

  “No,” said da San-Germain. “She said she has much to do tonight. So I’ll go along to the Inn of the Two Swans in an hour or so. The landlord’s widow will have a pleasant dream, and I will be nourished for a time.”

  “And when will you return?”

  “Before dawn. We will want to be moving by sunrise,” da San-Germain said. “If you’ll set out my driving-coat—assuming it’s dry by then—I would appreciate it.”

  “As you wish. What would you like to wear?” He regarded da San-Germain for several seconds. “I assume you’ll want something less grand for the road?”

  “You’re right. I’d like my canvas britches and riding boots, a cotton shirt, and a skirted coat. I believe there is one packed in my traveling case.”

  “You may depend upon me,” said Roger.

  “I know, old friend; and for that I cannot thank you sufficiently.” For an instant there was a loneliness in his face that was shattering; then the look was gone, replaced by an urbane half-smile and a slight nod.

  Roger concealed a sigh. “Which gate do you plan to use?”

  “To visit the widow in her sleep? The side-gate: it attracts much less attention than the front.” He caught the quick frown that flickered over Roger’s features. “Don’t fret over me; we both know that this is a sensible decision.”

  With more sharpness than he usually displayed, Roger said, “Which decision? spending the night with the widow, or going into France to bring out Madelaine?”

  Da San-Germain offered him a gentle smile. “Why, both, old friend; both.”

  * * *

  Text of a letter from Menaleo Podesta, Administrator of Markets for Cuneo, granting Photine d’Auville and her troupe the right to perform in the central piazza of the town.

  To the leader of the Commedia del’Arte troupe, Madame Photine d’Auville, on this, the 29th day of August, 1792,

  My dear Madame d’Auville,

  For a consideration of two ounces of gold, your troupe is granted the permission of the Console della Citta and the Console del’Artei as well as the Console del Mercati to offer three performances of Commedia del’Arte plays to be performed in the Piazza San Giovanni Maggiore on the 31st day of August and the 1st day of September, 1792. You will have from two of the clock until four of the clock in the afternoon to complete your performance. All profit from such performances to be shared with the Console del Mercati at the rate of 40% for the Console, 60% for the troupe. Failure to comply with these terms will result in confiscation of all vehicles and dray animals of the troupe and a fine of five ounces of gold.

  Menaleo Podesta

  Administrator of Markets

  Cuneo

  (the civic seal of Cuneo)

  7

  “We will reach the frontier tomorrow, barring accidents or mishaps,” said Roger as he rode into the camp the troupe had made for the night in a narrow valley just off the road; the mountains around them loomed black in the purple of twilight. Nearby a stream gurgled, and in the distance there was the sound of chanting coming from the convent of Sainte-Leatrice-des-les-Etoiles, where nuns spoke only to pray or sing the Hours.

  “Then three days to Montalia,” said da San-Germain, coming away from the tethered horses and mules, now munching on hay, most with pails of water next to the food he had given them. “If we encounter no delays.”

  Photine, who had for the last hour been supervising the preparation of dinner over the fire, abandoned the four spitted ducks and t
he kettle of squashes, onions, and kale, and came to his side. “We’ve all been talking, my troupe and I, and I have a question I have to put to you: this relative of yours we’re going to take into our troupe—I probably should have asked these things before, but there were so many other things to consider that…” She shrugged. “Can she do anything useful to us once we have her with us? She’ll be more readily concealed if she can perform. Does she sing? Can she recite? Does she dance? I’ve been thinking about it, and I’ve decided that the more she can be like us, the easier she’ll be to get out of the country. But that depends on her having some kind of talent.”

  “You’ll have to ask Madelaine what she can do that might suit you. I know she can dance, and she plays the harpsichord reasonably well,” said da San-Germain, careful not to praise Madelaine too much to Photine, who was already showing signs of having second thoughts about their mission. “You will know better than I what use she can be to you and your troupe.”

  “Um,” said Photine, imbuing that sound with complex meaning, most of it expressing doubts and reservations.

  From the cooking-fire came a sudden burst of laughter, and Pascal called out, “Tomorrow we buy ham from a farmer, or I’ll—”

  “Hunt rabbits,” said Constance, unimpressed.

  “Then we’ll all hunt for rabbits,” said Sibelle with a broad wink at Pascal.

  Photine paid no attention to the badinage among her troupe as she continued to speak earnestly to da San-Germain. “I’ve already asked Heurer about her, and he tells me she is a paragon, which she may be, but that’s not important to us if it doesn’t include skills we need.” She gave da San-Germain a challenging look.

  “She does know a great deal about ancient peoples,” Roger remarked as if praising a niece or a prize pupil. “She can advise Heurer on writing scenarios based on vanished civilizations. She and the poet are already … close.”

  “Um-m,” said Photine, giving this itterance a more dramatic reading than her simple um had received. She had wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and now she knotted it in place, for although the days were harvest-hot, the nights were cooler now, and here in the mountains, there was a sharp wind that picked up after nightfall.