Commedia della Morte Read online

  “I’m content,” he said before kissing the line of her brows and the lids of her eyes. “For now.” He went across the bridge of her nose and along her cheekbone to the top of her jaw, bestowing swift kisses all the way.

  “You are … very good at this,” she whispered, stretching so that the whole of her torso pressed against his. She was warming to his touch in earnest now, and her flesh seemed more pliant under his small, expert hands.

  He continued to kiss her, now her brow, now the corner of her mouth, now the place where ear and jaw created a sensuous hollow. His lips were light, as teasing as a feather; he was unhurried in his ministrations, matching his stimulation to hers, aware of every refinement of response she provided, and adding to her increasing ardor by evoking more pleasure with every exploration he made of her. Gradually she leaned back from their entangled arms, but only to give him greater access to her body. There was a slight flush on her face and neck, and it was spreading down to her breasts, obscuring the color already applied there. She laughed a little, with unstrained joy at what she knew was coming. “You know what pleasures me.”

  “I have some notion, but I believe that there is more within you that has not yet been touched.” He fingered her nipple, turning the stiffening flesh gently, blowing softly on it while he rolled it between his thumb and first finger, taking care to give her only excitement, without any hint of pain.

  “That’s … delectable,” she sighed, surprised that such little titillation could awaken so much desire.

  “Then I’ll do the same to the other,” he said, and began on the other nipple, taking his time to be sure that she derived maximum pleasure from him.

  “How … did you…” She inhaled sharply as she felt her entire body become more sensitive; now his touch radiated this stimulation through her so that when the tip of his tongue lightly brushed her nipple, it rippled along the pathways of excitement from her head to her toes, then began to gather in the cleft between her legs.

  While he flicked at her breasts with his tongue, intensifying her fervor as well as the blush which now spread almost to her waist, he began to stroke her hips with long, languid motions that reached her knees. “You have exquisite physicality, Photine,” he murmured as he caressed her thighs.

  “You…” Whatever she was going to say was lost as a preliminary spasm trembled within her, and her body tightened in anticipation of her release.

  “You needn’t hold back on my account,” he whispered.

  “But you—”

  “There’s time for more,” he pledged, and tenderly took her nipple in his mouth.

  Her culmination shook, pulsing deep within her; she was unaware of the soft cries she made while he continued to fondle her. Gradually the rapture passed and she stared up at him. “How did you do that?”

  “I did very little—this is your fulfillment.” He took her hand and kissed her fingers, then turned it over and kissed her palm. “You were kind enough to share it with me.”

  “You took nothing for yourself, as you did on the previous occasions,” she chided him with a lazy smile.

  “Not yet. I told you there is more time.” He leaned down and nuzzled her breasts, and heard her heart speed up again.

  She closed her eyes and lay back, her body seeming to hum expectantly. “I’m willing to spend it any way you like.” Through half-closed eyes she watched him, wondering what he would do next.

  With gossamer caresses he began again to resume the honing of her passion, his lips following his hands along the contours of her body, never hurrying, never demanding, bringing forth the whole scope of her hedonism. She had never before felt as comprehensive a rousing as what she experienced now. At last he explored the soft folds between her legs, his ministrations kindling an abandon that would have surprised her had she not been consumed in the ecstasy that overwhelmed her as he enfolded her in his arms, his lips on her neck, his esurience finally luxuriating as the culmination of her own desires was accomplished.

  Some little time later, Photine stretched, managed not to yawn, and looked up at da San-Germain, who was still sitting on the side of the couch. “I don’t know how you did that, but I’m thrilled that you did.”

  “I did only what you enjoy,” he told her as he tweaked a curling tendril of her tawny hair back into place.

  “That you did,” she said with deep satisfaction. “And nothing I dislike—except that you did not—” She made a gesture that mimed the act she meant. “I feel that I have deprived you of your release.”

  “You know that can’t happen,” he reminded her. “I lost that capacity many, many years ago. I have what you have, nothing more and nothing less.”

  She propped herself on her elbow. “But I’m afraid I’m cheating you.” Before he could speak, she waved him to silence. “I know—you have what I have.”

  “Then I won’t have to explain again,” he said lightly.

  “But you must understand that your … situation is very … unusual. I’ve never known any man who…”

  He offered her a sad smile. “Remember, Photine; I am not quite a man.”

  “And you’re not quite alive, either, or so you say,” she countered, daunted by the sorrow in his enigmatic eyes. “But I find that hard to believe. Not a man!”

  “No, I’m not.” He slid a little nearer to her. “I hope this doesn’t frighten you.”

  “Frighten me?” Her laughter was brittle, and she made herself stop. “I’ve faced audiences that would terrify an angel; you hold no dread for me. I am surprised that you should have to ask.”

  “Have you forgot what I told you?” His voice was soft, as if to spare her any dismay.

  “I remember everything you’ve said.” She caught his hand in hers. “You said that if we lie together more than five or six times I may become like you when I die, and would have to learn to live as you live. I have tried to believe you, but it isn’t the sort of thing I expect to hear from a lover. It sounds … unreasonable.”

  “That’s an interesting choice of words,” he said, moving so that she could snuggle up against him, content as a kitten.

  For a short while she seemed to doze, though her breathing made it apparent she was not asleep. Then she stretched languidly, opened her eyes, and said, “It must be wonderful to be an exile.”

  Startled, he asked, “Why do you say that?”

  “Oh, just that you are not allied to anyone—not a lord, not a cleric, not a—”

  “Patron?” he suggested.

  She slapped his hand in playful remonstrance. “Or anyone else. No one has a call upon you, and you have no obligations beyond those of your own making. You can choose your own way, and be beholden to no one. You can go anywhere without care, you can be anyone you want to.” She gazed wistfully at the distant window. “It must be lovely to be so free. I can’t imagine the adventures you have had.”

  “Adventures,” he echoed as he felt memories well in him, but said only, “It is easier to be free if one is rich, which, fortunately, at present, I am.”

  “A good thing for me, and my troupe, as well,” she said, sounding a little disappointed for reasons he could not fathom. “And my troupe and I have work to do.”

  Realizing that she wanted to leave, he lifted her hand and kissed it before he rose. “Come. I’ll help you dress.”

  “More a lady’s maid than anyone in my troupe,” she said. “I’m grateful. Trying to dress properly without any help is an ordeal.”

  “How do you mean?” he asked.

  “Just tightening the laces requires tying oneself into a knot,” she said, demonstrating the acrobatic posture needed for her to be able to tighten the laces of her corset. “The women trade off assisting one another to adjust their stays.”

  “Is that a satisfactory arrangement?” he asked, taking care not to sound too curious.

  “We manage well enough most of the time,” Photine said, being deliberately vague.

  Da San-Germain came up behind her and took th
e undergarment in hand. “Let me do this for you; there’s no need for you to tangle yourself so uncomfortably when I am here.” With a few twitches, he settled the corset in place around her and began to pull the laces. “How tight do you want these?”

  “Tight enough. I’ll let you know.” She stood straight to help him work. “That is tight at the waist, but not too tight. The same tension will do all the way up the laces.”

  “Very good,” he said, continuing at his self-appointed task.

  A minute or so later, she said, “You do this very well.”

  “Fashion makes demands: one learns to accommodate them.” He thought of the extravagant body cosmetics of the Athenian youths in Socrates’ day; of the elaborate wrappings of a formal toga in Imperial Rome; of the embroidered paragaudions of Byzantine fashions; of the stiffened silk caps of the professors at Lo-Yang, before Jenghiz Khan began his campaigns; of the complicated head-dresses of the Bohemians, five centuries ago; of the elaborate cartwheel ruffs and jeweled cod-pieces of the Elizabethan court, two hundred years past; of the grand court clothing in the mud and mire of Sankt Piterburkh not quite a century ago … He tied the laces at the top of the corset and tucked the ends inside the undergarment. “There.” He bent and kissed the nape of her neck. “Will that do you?”

  “You accommodate more than I would have expected,” she said archly as she bent awkwardly to gather up her petticoats and skirt, dragging the ties up to her waist and securing them quickly.

  “What would you like me to do now?” he asked, regarding her with interest.

  “That’s very nice, but I would like you to lace my bodice, if you don’t mind?” She found herself marveling at his accommodation; his response was all she wanted, appreciative and gallant.

  He picked up her bodice and slipped it over her head. “Will this do?” He tugged on the laces to get her approval of his adjustment.

  “A little tighter,” she suggested, and stood still, feeling the bodice-back close over the laces of her corset.

  “As you wish,” he said, and complied.

  When she felt him tuck in the bodice-laces, she swung around to face him, her thoughts no longer on the transports they had shared such a short while ago, but on the coming preparations for Racine’s great tragedy. “So, Conte. Tomorrow we begin to prepare the Phaedre. Will you want to watch us rehearse? The first few days are not likely to be very interesting—more stage movements and working out the placements of the properties and scenery, but you’re welcome to join us.”

  “I may,” he said. “Unless you would prefer that I wait a day or two, when you are more familiar with how you will play it.”

  She leaned toward him to kiss his cheek. “I don’t know how a man of your rank can be so understanding of our needs, but I thank you for it.”

  “You forget I’m an exile; you and I have more in common than you realize.” He stepped back from her. “That, and your son is jealous of my attentions to you, I think.”

  She sighed. “Enee is young, but trying to be my protector and guardian. Don’t think ill of him.”

  “I’ll try not to, but I had best let you have some time with him; I don’t want to encourage his rancor. As you say, he is young, and he has an exaggerated sense of his maturity.” He took her hand and kissed it. “Best go out by the terrace door and through the garden. Your troupe will be wanting to see you.”

  “So they will,” she said with a small, artistic sigh. “This has been a most astonishing hour.”

  “That it has,” he told her with warmth in his dark eyes.

  “I’m thankful to you for all you’ve done for me.” She made a little curtsy. “Shall you want an account of our first rehearsal, since you won’t attend?”

  “Only if there’s something you need me to address with the Universita,” he replied, and reached for his coat, pulling it on as he walked beside her to the door of the withdrawing room.

  “I trust your knowledge, and your good sense. You need not give me constant details of what transpires.” He adjusted his neck-cloth and collar, then opened the door for her. “I look forward to seeing you perform, Photine; you and all your troupe.”

  She gave him her most melting smile. “It will be a joy to play a classic again.”

  “Then I am delighted to have helped bring this about.” He gave her a long, steady look. “You must tell me if the site is not to your liking.”

  “I will, but I have no doubt that all will be—” She stopped herself. “Time enough tomorrow for such talk. Now, I must hie myself back to my players so that we may read through our parts again before we have supper. You have a most generous cook, you know.” Glancing at the sconces, she said, “A pity the mirrors are so small and deeply beveled. I can’t see enough of my reflection to be certain my hair is in order.”

  “It isn’t, quite,” said da San-Germain, opening the door for her. “But there is a breeze that can account for it.”

  “Ha! If you believe that, you don’t know how actors think,” she said, and with a roguish wink, she was gone.

  Da San-Germain bowed his head, listening to her departing footsteps and trying to discern how much of what they had shared was intimacy and how much was superb performance.

  * * *

  Text of a memorandum from Vivien Zacharie Charlot, Deputy Secretary of Public Safety of Lyon, to Jean-Claude Sauvier, Deputy for Public Safety of Dijon, carried by Revolutionary Guard couriers and delivered three days after it was written.

  To Jean-Claude Sauvier, Deputy Secretary for Public Safety of Dijon, the fraternal greetings of Deputy Secretary for Public Safety of Lyon, Vivien Zacharie Charlot, on this, the 2nd day of August, 1792,

  All hail the glorious Revolution!

  My dear Deputy Secretary Sauvier,

  It has come to the attention of our Revolutionary Court here in Lyon that many of the regional Revolutionary Courts have become overwhelmed with carrying out the people’s business and can no longer mete out justice in a timely way. I am writing to you and to several other regional Revolutionary Courts to inform you that we at Lyon have the capacity to handle many more cases of suspicions that there may be those holding reactionary opinions, or protecting members of the nobility who deserve to be brought before the people to answer for their crimes, or those who have taken in the clergy in the misguided belief that these superstitious frauds will gain them access to heaven. We have thus far uncovered four groups who have harbored aristocrats, claiming that these enemies of the people were not exploiters and criminals, but sound landlords, worthy of respect and protection. They have paid the price for their stubbornness and folly.

  If you have in your custody any who might fall within these categories, or who have demonstrated other criminal inclinations, and would want to have them dealt with with dispatch, I ask that you consider the offer of the Revolutionary Court of Lyon and send the accused, under appropriate guard, to us. You may rest assured that they will receive our full attention, and that their wrongs will be fully and quickly addressed in the name of the people.

  We of Lyon are seeking to ease the burdens of those regional Revolutionary Courts that are unable to deal with these cases with vigor and speed, or who have not the facilities to hold the reactionary elements of the region, so that the aristocrats or religious may not, through the passage of months, come to be regarded as sympathetic figures, who could then be permitted to leave France without answering for the many abuses they have wrought upon their people. Here you may be sure we are intent on swift justice, and will not be swayed by sentiment, misguided piety, or inappropriate nostalgia.

  This offer has been extended not only to you, but to the Revolutionary Courts of Grenoble, St-Etienne, Avignon, Clermont, Nevers, and Limoges; it is the hope of our tribunal that you will consider our offer and inform us of what you would want from us in this regard, and thus enable the work of the Revolutionary Courts to go forward. It is our duty to the people of France, who have for so long borne the weight of the aristocrats’ feet upon th
eir necks to see that the wrongs they have suffered for so long are redressed through the most effective prosecutions our Revolutionary Courts can provide, as well as the full satisfaction of the law, and to that end, we of Lyon seek to answer these demands. I most sincerely entreat you to allow us to augment your work for the glory of our Revolution.

  Long live France.

  Long live the Revolution.

  Yours in justice,

  Vivien Zacharie Charlot

  Deputy Secretary of the Department of Public Safety

  Lyon

  4

  Theron paused in his pacing down the library to regard da San-Germain with a mixture of worry and frustration. Finally he halted and burst out in French, “But how on earth do you think you can get into France? The borders are watched. There are agents of the Revolutionary Courts everywhere, and others, who want to gain the good opinion of the Revolutionary Courts. If they should discover you, you would be a danger to Madelaine, not a help. Then, both of you would pay the price for your high-handed audacity.” He was dressed for the theater in clothes worthy of a diplomatic reception: his coat and knee-length britches were heavy black silk, his waistcoat, neck-cloth, and stockings were perfect white. Although there would be no ball that evening, he had donned dancing pumps, and carried an ebony walking-stick. His hair, newly cut, was combed into artless waves, giving him the currently fashionable wind-tossed look.

  “Then I will have to take care not to be discovered for what I am, will I not? To that end, I have been speaking with men who were dispatched to France. Two of them have returned, and you may hear—after the play—what they have observed. They will bathe and dine while we attend the performance, and be ready to give us their thoughts when we return. If anything they say distresses you, you must say so, and I will take your reservations into account.” Da San-Germain was as elegantly clothed as Theron, but his presence lent his appearance a quality of understated authority that commanded the attention of others. He had worn ruby instead of mother-of-pearl studs and cufflinks, and this small addition set him off as much as his manner did. “I know you will have questions for them, but I ask you to withhold them until we have their preliminary account of their travels.” His French was almost flawless, if a trifle old-fashioned, and tinged by an accent that Theron had been unable to place.