Commedia della Morte Read online

“That’s between him and me,” she replied, the words clipped.

  “Did you please him?”

  “Enough, Enee!” she ordered. “Help get the horses and mules into the stable, and brush them down. There’ll be breakfast in a little while.”

  “Yes, Madame,” Enee said, with an insultingly low bow, after which he answered the whistled summons from Feo.

  Gradually all the company got out of the wagons, most of them groggy, all of them hungry; one or two of them were stiff from travel.

  “Wretched weather, but it’s always thus when rain is coming,” Valence declared. “The mist should be gone in an hour or so.”

  “How did you sleep?” Crepin asked everyone in general, pulling on a cloak as he left his wagon.

  “Well enough, I suppose,” said Pascal, descending from the third wagon. “Mornings like this remind me of home—and why I left it.”

  “If a bunk in a wagon is preferable to home, then it must have been extremely dreary,” Valence observed.

  “It was,” said Pascal in a tone that did not encourage more questions.

  “The off-side mare has a loose shoe,” Hariot told Feo as he got off the driving-box of the third wagon. “Her shoes should be pulled and her hooves trimmed, and she should go barefoot for a day or two. She’s close to lame, and must be given a chance to rest. Let Aloys know when he wakes up, will you?” He scratched at the two-day stubble on his jaw. “I’m famished. When do we eat?”

  “Shortly,” said Photine, who had come up to him. “We’re ordering food now. It will be ready in a little while.”

  “Good,” said Hariot. “Where’s the necessary house? I’m damned if I’ll use a chamber-pot in an inn-yard.”

  “How should I know?” Pascal asked.

  Da San-Germain pointed in the direction of the midden. “That way would be my guess,” he said. “If not there, on the other side of the taproom.”

  Both Hariot and Pascal went off in search of it; a few minutes later, Constance followed them.

  Roger emerged from the inn and nodded to da San-Germain. “I’ve paid for a week’s rooms, board, and stabling for the animals as well as the right to put the wagons and carts in the coach-house, with a little extra for service. Wine and beer are not included in the price for food. The rates are high because the innkeeper does not know the troupe, but not outrageous. He’s pleased, and so am I. Permission to perform is granted by the Revolutionary Tribunal, where the costs are determined by a board of three members of the Tribunal.” He spoke loudly enough for almost all the troupe to hear. “There will be breakfast in half an hour. They’re working in the kitchen now, and they’ve sent a kitchen maid to the baker.”

  “Is there anything hot to drink now?” Feo called out to Roger. “Do they have coffee in this place?”

  “If you ask the cook, he may have something for you,” Roger responded. “You’ll find him in the kitchen at the rear of the taproom.”

  “I’ll go ask,” said Feo, signaling to one of the inn’s grooms to tend to his team. “Give them a good brushing.”

  “You will supervise the stabling, Signor’ Feo,” Photine told him, her demeanor showing great purpose. “There will be breakfast when that’s done.”

  Feo shrugged and changed directions toward the stable.

  “Make sure my son helps,” she called after him.

  Unconcerned with the usual morning arrangements, Da San-Germain led his mules toward the stable; he had nearly reached the door when Theron, looking as if he had spent the night outside in a storm, hurried up to him. “When do you make inquiry about Madelaine? I want to go with you when you do.”

  “It would be fruitless to approach anyone in authority at this hour,” said da San-Germain, noticing the febrile shine in the younger man’s eyes. “And it wouldn’t be wise to draw attention to our errand.”

  Theron shook his head slowly. “We’ll have to get word to her somehow that we’re here, and we’ll soon have her released. She must be desolate with worry.”

  “It may not be that easy,” da San-Germain warned him.

  “Oh, there are probably bribes to pay, and certain expected sophistries to observe, but surely we can have her out in a few days.” He shot a suspicious look at da San-Germain. “Or do you have other plans for her?”

  “I have no plans until I discover what her circumstances are,” said da San-Germain with deliberate calm. “It would be prudent of you to do the same. We don’t know enough to make plans, let alone assume we know what will be required to gain her liberty.”

  Shaking his head, Theron swore quietly, then walked away without saying anything loud enough to be heard; da San-Germain continued on into the stable, where he haltered the mules and secured the leads to a stout pillar; he gave all three of the mules a bit of apple from the pouch on his belt under his driving-coat, and proceeded to remove their harnesses, and hung them on hooks on the wall, then gathered the combs and brushes from his grooming-box. By the time he led the three mules into a box-stall, he could hear the inn’s porters removing the actors’ cases from the wagons.

  “I don’t suppose you’re going to go in to eat?” Feo inquired. “Everyone but your man, Hariot, and Enee have sat down.”

  “Not just now,” said da San-Germain as he began to brush the largest of the three mules.

  “Enee has left to watch the executions. He said he wants a good place so he will miss nothing.” Feo gave a snort of laughter, and turned to leave, but hesitated. “You haven’t seen Tereson, have you?”

  “Not in here; I believe she went in to breakfast with Sibelle.”

  Grinning, Feo slapped the door. “Merci, Ragoczy. I’ll find her.”

  Da San-Germain watched him go, then went on with the mules, using a pick to clean their hooves. As he straightened up, he noticed that Hariot was tending to the horses with the help of two of the inn’s grooms; da San-Germain raised his voice. “If you want to break your fast, Hariot, I’ll take over your work for now.”

  “No need,” Hariot replied, panting a little from the speed of his efforts. “I’ll finish up shortly.”

  “As you like.” For the next hour, he worked on the animals while out in the stable-yard Roger supervised the porters carrying the troupe’s chests and cases to their assigned rooms. By the time he emerged from the stable, the mists were lifting and the glare of sunlight promised a clear afternoon.

  Roger was waiting in the short entry hall that led to the taproom on the left and the stairs to the guest-rooms on the right; he spoke in the Latin of his living years. “Most of the players are in the taproom, finishing their meal. Lothaire has gone off for the morning, ostensibly to get the lay of the city. Madame has ordered baths for all who want them.”

  “Very practical,” said da San-Germain, smiling a little.

  “She’s planning to go to the Tribunal shortly after mid-day, before the riposino.” He paused. “I thought you might want to go with her. There is a great deal of information to be had from the Tribunal.”

  “You mean I can learn what they’ve done with Madelaine,” said da San-Germain, his voice low even with the precaution of speaking Imperial Latin.

  “It did seem likely.” Roger saw Crepin coming their way, and said the last in French. “If there is any other service you require of me?”

  “Not just now, thank you, Roger,” said da San-Germain, nodding to Crepin as he passed them in the little antechamber.

  “You have the room on the end of the north corridor on the floor above us; it faces the coach-house. The room has a valet’s closet and I’ll make my bed in there. There’s a clothes-press in the closet, and a cot.” Roger went on when Crepin was out of hearing range. “Feo and Hariot will be in the room next to us, and Photine will have the room opposite for herself.” He held out an iron key to da San-Germain. “I’ve put Theron in the other wing, along with Enee and Aloys. And I removed the mirror from the end of the corridor and put it in Madame’s room.”

  “Astute as always, old friend.” Da
San-Germain slipped the key into the outside pocket of his caped driving-coat, then went on, “I think I had better put on something more respectable than what I’m wearing now when I go the Tribunal with Photine. Driving clothes will not impress the delegates to the Tribunal.”

  Roger nodded. “The black swallow-tail coat and the burgundy unmentionables? And a linen shirt, I think, not a silk one; I will set them out for you.” He paused, waiting for da San-Germain to indicate if this would serve his purpose.

  Da San-Germain gestured his approval. “That should strike the right note—not too formal but formal enough to be seen as serious,” he said.

  “The players would be proud of you, choosing so appropriate an ensemble for your task, ” said Roger, and moved away toward the taproom door. “I’ll tell Madame of your intention to accompany her.”

  “Thank you.” He was about to turn away, but inquired, “Is the large chest of my native earth in the room at the end of the north hall?”

  “It is. And made up for you behind a screen.”

  “I need not have asked,” he said by way of apology. “Then I think I may rest for two or three hours; it is likely to be a long day today, and a longer one tomorrow.”

  “I’ll tell the chambermaids to leave you alone.”

  Da San-Germain ducked his head. “If you’ll let Photine know that I’ll be with her shortly before noon?”

  “Certainly, my master,” said Roger, and opened the taproom door; the buzz of conversation and the aroma of ham, fish, cheese, and fresh bread welled around the two. “And I’ll speak to the cook about obtaining a duck or a goose, fresh killed. I haven’t had a decent meal in four days—too many eyes on me.”

  “Enjoy it,” da San-Germain said. “But don’t forget there are more eyes here than the troupe’s.”

  “I’ll bear it in mind, and be careful of this damned proliferation of mirrors.”

  “It’s hard to avoid them,” da San-Germain said in a lowered voice. “But it’s necessary.”

  “I won’t forget,” Roger said, and closed the door between them.

  Da San-Germain turned away and took the stairs to the floor above, going to the room at the end of the north corridor. The key was stiff in the lock, but the door opened readily enough once the wards aligned.

  Being on the end of the wing, the room had two sets of windows, one pair facing north, the other pair facing east, all still shuttered against the night; underneath these stood his two chests of clothes. A curtained bed was against the south wall, and the screen was on the far side of it; a small round table with two chairs and a small chest-of-drawers with a mirror completed the furniture in the room. Da San-Germain shut the door and tugged off his driving-coat, tossing it onto the curtained bed before unbuttoning his woolen jacket and putting it with the driving-coat. When he had set his jacket aside, he found the ewer and basin in the valet’s closet. Turning the mirror to the wall, he washed his face and hands, used his shirt for a towel, and flung that, too, onto the curtained bed. His unmentionables followed the shirt; he quickly stripped all the way down to his underclothes, then went behind the screen and found his dressing-gown on the narrow bed that lay atop a chest of his native earth. This he pulled on, then climbed onto the thin mattress, stretched out supine, and settled himself into the stupor which, for those of his blood, served as sleep.

  An inharmonious chorus of bells wakened him at mid-day, and as he stirred, Roger came around the end of the screen, a plate of raw slices of duck in his hand, an expression of dismay in his faded-blue eyes. “The day’s executions are about to begin. They’re making quite an occasion of it.” As if to confirm this, a roar went up from a crowd some few streets away, accompanied by a pair of tuneless bugles.

  “That would explain the noise,” said da San-Germain, sitting up and blinking, feeling slightly dazed as he often did after resting.

  “Most of the members of the Revolutionary Tribunal are attending the beheadings,” Roger added, no sign of emotion in his voice. “So is the innkeeper, for that matter. The whole city seems to have come to a halt for the executions.”

  “Then it will be a while before Photine and I can call upon the clerks of the Tribunal.” He got out of his bed and looked toward the shuttered windows. “I gather the day has brightened.”

  “And warmed.” Roger indicated the table. “If you don’t object—”

  “By all means, finish your meal,” said da San-Germain.

  “I don’t want anyone to notice my preference for raw meat,” Roger said as he sat down at the little table, and picked up his knife again.

  “Very wise,” said da San-Germain, getting to his feet, untying the sash on his dressing-gown, and preparing to remove it. “Which of the linen shirts did you choose? the white one or one of the ivory?”

  “Ivory,” said Roger, his voice muffled by chewing. “I will have it for you in a moment.”

  “Do I need a shave yet?” He rubbed his chin and felt the beginning of stubble there.

  “If you want one, I’ll get the basin and the razor,” Roger offered.

  “Best not,” said da San-Germain. “I shouldn’t appear too well-groomed. The members of the Tribunal will be suspicious if I present too fastidious an aspect. Tomorrow will be time enough.”

  “Have you decided upon what you will tell the Tribunal clerks when you inquire about Madelaine?” Roger continued his meal while a second cheer with bugle accompaniment went up.

  “I have. I will say I am a distant relative exiled from Hungary; the family is worried about her, and have asked me, since I am with the players, to find out what I can of her fate.” He had taken off his dressing-gown and now stood in his undervest and drawers, trying to make up his mind if he should choose boots or shoes for the afternoon.

  “It’s a bit risky,” Roger warned.

  “I know, but I trust that this will make my explanation more convincing.” He waited, and when Roger said nothing more, he went on, “As an exile, I’m not one of the aristos the Revolution condemns, and it would make sense that a well-born family in another country would send the black sheep to get information.”

  “I hope it will succeed,” said Roger.

  “So do I,” said da San-Germain with more feeling than before. “If I’m not persuasive, I endanger more than myself, and you.”

  “That thought did occur to me,” said Roger, taking another bite, then, after the greater part of a minute, asked, “Do you think you and Madame will … want privacy this evening?”

  “If we do, it will be in her room,” said da San-Germain, selecting shoes for his errand. “But she hasn’t asked me yet.”

  “Do you think you might go out if she has other plans for tonight?” He asked it off-handedly enough, but there was an unmistakable seriousness in his faded-blue eyes.

  “It’s not unlikely,” said da San-Germain, wishing he were at the villa in Lecco where he could avail himself of the Roman bath lined with his native earth. “She has much to do, and although she enjoys our dalliance, she is far more committed to the troupe than to the pleasure she has with me.”

  Roger was almost finished with his raw duck. “Then you should consider finding other nourishment. You will need your strength and your wits, my master. Hunger will not serve you well just now.”

  “No, it will not,” da San-Germain agreed, coming out from behind the screen. “Where are the—”

  “The shirt is on the peg on the far side of the bed, and the swallow-tail coat and unmentionables are in the clothes-press. I’ll get them for you, if you’re ready.” He set his plate aside, and rose.

  “My thanks, old friend.” Da San-Germain went to get the shirt, donning it quickly. “This should have a neck-cloth, I think. And I’ll need some kind of ribbon-knot.”

  “Red, blue, and white. I know.” Roger had stepped into the valet’s closet and was opening the clothes-press. “I took the liberty of getting a lapel-fan for you while you were sleeping. It’s on the chest-of-drawers.”

  “A
h. Yes, I see it.” He took the unmentionables that Roger handed to him, and stepped into them with care, tucking the shirt in as he buttoned the front flap. “No waistcoat.”

  “Too grand,” Roger told him. “You’re with players, not the regional magistrate.”

  Da San-Germain nodded. “An excellent point.” He found a belt hanging on the peg next to the one that had held the shirt. “No suspenders either, I suppose?”

  “The belt is what the players wear.”

  “That’s so,” da San-Germain agreed, and threaded the belt through the buttonhole loops along the waist of the unmentionables.

  “Photine asked me to mention the music to you an hour ago; she’s fretting about it,” Roger added as he took the swallow-tail coat from the clothes-press. “I trust this is neat enough. A few wrinkles are to be expected.”

  Another shout, this one louder than the previous ones, arose from the streets along with the clamor of bugles and the enthusiastic tattoo of a drum.

  “As always, you are meticulous.” He held the garment, examining it, then said, “What about the music?”

  “Photine would like to know if you have something in mind to accompany the Corpses. She says you discussed it.”

  “We did. I haven’t given it much thought.” He looked about almost as if he expected the answer to appear in the air. “But I imagine I ought to, if we are to perform in the next few days.” His expression darkened an instant, then returned to what it had been. “If you would, find the cimbalom for me while Photine and I are at the Tribunal. It should be under the seat in the larger cart, with two sets of hammers.”

  Roger gave him a startled look. “The cimbalom? Are you sure? I doubt anyone in Avignon has ever heard one.”

  “Exactly,” said da San-Germain. “But they know hammered dulcimers, so the cimbalom won’t be that foreign—just foreign enough, something to set the troupe apart from other players they may have seen. And the sound is a bit eerie.” He reached for the swallow-tail coat. “A pity we couldn’t bring the utugardon from Padova.”

  “It’s too big to transport easily,” Roger pointed out, handing over the coat.