Commedia della Morte

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Gigot gusted out a sigh. “Where would I go? Who would hire me in these times? I haven’t the disposition to be an innkeeper, and there is no one now who can afford to maintain the kind of household I am accustomed to cooking for.”

  “True enough,” said Madelaine. “Well, I am pleased to have you with me, whatever your reason for staying.”

  “If I had a wife or children it might be different, but since I don’t…” He made another sweep with his knife to finish his thoughts.

  Whatever Madelaine might have said was silenced as Bescart came into the kitchen. She regarded him steadily, but with a sinking sensation in her heart. “Good afternoon, Bescart. How are your preparations coming?”

  “The carts are mostly loaded, and we have chosen two mules and a spare to pull them,” he said gruffly, pulling at the lobe of his large ear. “I was coming to ask for some cheese and sausage and perhaps a smoked ham to take with us, for food. I don’t know where we’ll find farmers willing to sell us provisions, and half of the travelers’ inns are keeping their doors closed.” He stared at her with a mixture of defiance and shame in his stance. “If you’ll permit it, of course,” he added.

  “Certainly you may have food; I told the household that this morning, and nothing has changed,” said Madelaine. “All of you who have chosen to leave have been promised food for your journeys, and you shall have it.”

  Gigot scowled, but said, “I’ll bring you two rounds of cheese—the large ones. I have a fennel-sausage made with veal—you know them; the ones that are as long as your forearm and big around as a large beetroot—you shall have three of them. They’re in the pantry. I can fill a jar with pickled onions-and-cucumbers. If Madame will permit, I will give you three bottles of white wine.”

  “Yes. That should keep you and your family for a few days,” said Madelaine.

  “You are generous, Madame,” Bescart conceded.

  “I would not like it said that I haven’t made reasonable settlement on you. I know you already have the funds I’ve provided.” Madelaine took a step toward him. “Let us wish each other well and part friends, Bescart.”

  “Giving me a year’s wages and a letter of introduction is a kindness, Madame, but you are a noble and I am not. There can be no friendship between us now.” He turned away from her and spoke to Gigot as if Madelaine had vanished. “I will come for our food in an hour or so. And we will dine in our quarters tonight. My wife will do a baking before ten tonight; you will have bread for tomorrow. We will leave at first light, so that we will not have to travel much in the heat of the day, and can nap, like civilized persons do.”

  “I’ve sent for my nephew to do the baking,” said Gigot, trying not to reveal the extent of his disapproval of Bescart’s departure. “He should be here in two days. In the meantime, Remi and I can make loaves for the household.”

  “If your nephew answers your invitation, you mean. In these days, who knows if he will take the chance.” Bescart gave Gigot a searching look. “You should come with us, Gigot. It isn’t safe to stay here any longer.”

  “Montalia is my home, as it was my father’s,” Gigot said firmly. “I won’t leave it just because some upstarts from the city have taken it into their heads to try to drive me away.”

  “As you wish,” said Bescart, tugging at his earlobe again before he swung around on his heel and stomped off to the outside door.

  “Well!” exclaimed Gigot when Bescart had closed the door behind him. “What do you make of that?”

  “I suppose he’s frightened.” Madelaine shook her head. “And he may be right—those of us from the Old Order are now at the mercy of the New, and he wants to be on the winning side.”

  “Do not despair, Madame,” Gigot said, his voice ragged.

  Madelaine managed a kind of a smile. “I will do my best not to, Gigot.”

  Encouraged, the cook went on, “It will all come right. You’ll see.”

  “Do you think so: perhaps.” She started toward the corridor that led to the dining room, but paused in the doorway. “For tonight, do something remarkable for my guest. He will be departing tomorrow, and I want him to have a memorable meal tonight.”

  “Would lamb do, with rosemary and garlic? And a creamed-chicken soup with fine herbs?” Gigot’s eyes shone at the prospect.

  “It sounds delicious. I can almost taste it,” said Madelaine, and added, “I will be in my study for an hour or so. I have a letter I must write.” And saying that, she was gone.

  * * *

  Text of a letter from Madelaine de Montalia at Montalia to il Conte da San-Germain in Padova, written in Latin, and carried by Theron Baptiste Heurer, delivered twenty-two days after it was written.

  To my most dear, most cherished San-Germain, the greetings of Madelaine de Montalia,

  This is being carried to you by Theron Heurer, who has been my companion for the last four months. He is a poet of some promise, but still too filled with the sense of his own genius to have done great work yet, though it may be in him. I have tasted his blood five times, but no more than that.

  He will tell you that I have been confined to Montalia on the order of the Revolutionary Tribunal of Avignon. There are nine Revolutionary Guards posted to my home, and a pair of couriers are supposed to arrive in a day or so, I assume to keep the Tribunal informed of all that happens here, and may yet carry a warrant for my arrest and imprisonment, which would take me away from here.

  I know that you warned me of this when I left your house in Verona. You said that the Revolution might well deteriorate into squabbling, vindictive gangs, but I thought that a woman in my position would not come to the attention of any powerful Revolutionaries so that I could be left alone to preserve my estate and my dependants from Revolutionary excesses. You came for me at the beginning of the Revolution, and I was glad to go with you then. I know you disagreed with me when I returned to Montalia, saying that the worst was still yet to come, and that I would not be safe. You were right. I should have allowed you to persuade me to remain. Yet you, of all people, must understand the tie I feel to this place: it is my native earth, and though not of my blood, these are my people, or they were.

  Half of my household has left, granted safe conducts for the period of a month. I suspect more may decide that it is wiser to be gone from here than to remain. I do not trust these men, and so have taken to sleeping with a poignard under my pillow, and when I go about on the estate, I keep a charged pistol with me. Some of the Guards laugh at me, thinking that I have no knowledge of firearms, but if they attempt to force themselves upon me, they will learn otherwise. I am doing my utmost to make this unpleasant arrangement as bearable as it can be, for I do not wish to be denounced to the Revolutionary Tribunal.

  Which brings me to the purpose of this letter: dearest San-Germain, will you please come and get me before they chop off my head? I would attempt to get away through my own efforts, but if I am caught making such an attempt, the consequences would be immediate and severe; I would like to avoid the True Death for a while longer, and I am relying on you to help me to realize this goal.

  I know I needn’t ask, but be kind to Theron, for my sake. He is a bit vainglorious but his heart is good, and he truly cares for me.

  I will look forward to your arrival in poor, beleaguered France, and until then, I hold you in my heart, as I have done from the first time we met, forty-nine years ago.

  Your Madelaine

  at Montalia, on the 5th day of July, 1792

  2

  Sunlight lay like warmed honey over Padova; it heated the piazze and mercati, gilded the buildings with its glorious shine, added its glow to the stark courtyard of the Universita, and sank into the cobbled streets so that the air shimmered above the stones like ripples in a stream. The people went along slowly, pacing themselves in order not to take more of the sweltering air than was necessary, their faces shiny as they made their way to their homes and student rooms to wait out the most intense heat of the day. The air was redolen
t with odors from people, animals, plants, and the river, running green toward the lagoon of Venezia. Market-stalls were busy in the last hurried effort to get the day’s sales done; around the Universita, cafes hastened to finish their serving so that everyone could get away to nap through the heat of the day, which today, everyone realized, would be greater than usual.

  In the mansion Ragoczy Ferenz, Conte da San-Germain, had bought nearly a decade before, all the windows were open in the hope of catching a hint of breeze off the Adriatic Sea, a day’s travel away. The building was on a rise—one of the few in the city—and offered views in almost all directions. The grounds, while not extensive, were handsomely laid out, showing the city and the countryside to equal advantage. Two guest-houses at the rear of the formal gardens were occupied at present by a troupe of Commedia del’Arte actors hoping to gain the Conte’s official patronage. To that end, they had erected their stage between the guest-houses and were busy completing their first rehearsal of the day before they retired for the afternoon.

  From his vantage-point at his third-storey window, da San-Germain watched the actors working; his laboratory occupied most of the top floor of the mansion, overlooking the gardens and a bit of the countryside beyond. He did not mind the heat, for it, like cold, had little effect on him; there was no trace of sweat on him, nor any other sign of discomfort. He wore a white cotton smock not to keep cool, but to save his silken shirt and black linen trousers from the spatters of azoth that made the secret of the Philosopher’s Stone possible. He was preparing a batch of base metal to go into the athanor for transformation; by nightfall he would have another dozen ingots of gold. He turned away from the window and smiled to himself. There were many at the Universita who scoffed at him for his interest in the study of alchemy, at which da San-Germain would remind them that Isaac Newton had practiced the ancient art and declared that he had not learned all there was to know of it. Just before he placed the alembic in the alchemical oven, there was a knock at the door.

  “My master?” came the voice of Roger, his long-time manservant.

  “What is it?” da San-Germain asked, keeping most of his attention on what he was doing.

  “You have a visitor.” Nothing in Roger’s voice suggested that this was remarkable in any way.

  “I need ten minutes,” said da San-Germain, then asked, “Do you know him?”

  “No. He says he’s a poet. From France.”

  “Ah.” Da San-Germain set the alembic in the retort vessel and carefully closed the steel-and-glass door, latching it securely. “Show him to the library and tell him I will join him shortly.”

  “Shall I have Giorgio make a tray for him?”

  How many times, and in how many ways had da San-Germain offered this most basic hospitality? He had long since lost count. “Yes. If you would. He’ll know what’s best to serve on a day like this.” He reached for his timing clock, and set it for five hours and forty-two minutes, then checked the athanor’s bellows mechanism; satisfied, he straightened up and picked up the container for the azoth, which he returned to its well-insulated strongbox, which in turn was secreted in the bottom of a banded chest; in spite of the heat, his face and neck were dry. With his strongbox secured, he removed his smock and hung it over a peg on the wall, then left the room.

  Roger, who was standing at the head of the stairs, said, “You’ll need a neck-cloth and a jacket.”

  “I know. And I trust you, old friend, to recommend the appropriate ones for me before you attend to our poet from France. I need a little more time to put myself in order for—” He locked the door to his laboratory and slipped the key into his trouser pocket. “I will need a clean shirt—I trust there are a dozen or so in the armoire?”

  “Of course.” Roger started down the stairs, his expression showing signs of worry. “You’ll want the black linen swallow-tail coat, and the embroidered waistcoat—the one of Egyptian cotton.” Then suddenly he blurted out, “Do you suppose that Madelaine has met with some misfortune?”

  “That was my first suspicion, though I hope—” da San-Germain answered with a touch of vexation in his manner. “I hope we’re both wrong.”

  “Where are you going now?” Roger asked.

  “I should do a little more in my forcing house. I would prefer the leaves of the plants not burn in this heat.”

  “Are you going to open the ceiling panels?”

  “Yes,” said da San-Germain. “Is Ugolino about?”

  “I believe he’s giving his attention to the fruit trees in the garden. Do you need him?”

  Da San-Germain shook his head. “Not peremptorily. Let him finish with the fruit trees; if it continues hot through the week, he might not want to get back to them for a fortnight. There’ll be time enough tomorrow to have him assist me. But those panels need to be raised now. Please offer my apologies to the French poet.” He took the rear stairs, leaving Roger to go about his tasks.

  In the kitchen, Giorgio Belcosa, his shirt open to his waist, was standing over a large vat of cold tomato soup, stirring it judiciously. He looked up as da San-Germain came through, on his way to the garden door. “Do not fret, Conte. I will have the mid-day meal ready for the players in less than ten minutes. I know they are hungry, but the day is hot, so I will not burden them with more than their stomachs will want. Nothing too heavy. In this weather, too much food is as bad as too little.”

  “True enough,” said da San-Germain, who had not endured such discomfort for millennia. “What other than the soup?”

  “A salad of lettuces and asparagus, red onion slices, and grated cheese, with lemon slices and olive oil to dress it. Very light, very tasty. This soup, which is robust without being heavy, will complement it.” He smiled contentedly. “There’s bread and new butter as well, and wine.”

  “It sounds an excellent repast,” said da San-Germain.

  Giorgio gave a single laugh, saying good-naturedly, “How would you know? You never eat.”

  “Not with company,” da San-Germain agreed, not wanting to renew an old, genial dispute with his cook. “Has Roger told you about the guest?”

  “That he has. I’ve set out some soup and slices of smoked ham on a tray for him, with bread and butter, quite sufficient for such a visitor. Also I provided him a very nice Trebbiano—not that you’d notice the quality.”

  “No. I do not drink wine,” da San-Germain said. “But, thanks to you, I keep a good cellar, or so I’ve been told.”

  Giorgio laughed and put a large metal pot on the iron stove and filled it with water from the kitchen ewer. “Scalding chickens, for tonight,” he explained. “I’ll have Teobaldo pluck them, after his mid-day nap.”

  “A messy chore,” da San-Germain remarked, who had many times in his long life done far worse than pluck and dress chickens. “Make sure he has two pails of water to wash himself in when he’s done. You don’t want feathers all over the kitchen.”

  “That is why I’m glad to have Teobaldo to do it.” He winked and went into the pantry to retrieve the four newly killed chickens hanging on thongs from a hook. “Those players have healthy appetites.”

  Da San-Germain passed on into the kitchen garden, and from there into his forcing house, which was even warmer than the kitchen had been; it smelled of growing plants and loamy earth, and a faint suggestion of moisture clung to everything. He took a long rod with a tip of bent metal, raised it, and unlatched the first of six large glass panels that formed the roof. He pushed the panel upward until there was a loud click as the holding mechanism locked the panel open. He repeated this with the next five, then left the forcing house; he went directly to his own apartment, where he pulled off his shirt and wiped himself with a towel, to rid himself of any trace of detritus from his laboratory. After a brief consideration of the shirt, he tossed it aside and selected another one, with ruffled cuffs and a standing collar from the armoire, along with the black swallow-tail coat and cotton waistcoat that Roger had recommended.

  He dressed quickly, b
eing careful to align his buttons correctly; that was one hazard of dressing that occasionally frustrated him: his lack of reflection made such details easy to miss. Finally he pulled a silk neck-cloth from the drawer of his dresser and secured it in a casual knot. Last of all, he ran an ivory comb through his hair. Satisfied that he was ready, he left his apartments, descending the stairs quickly but without apparent haste; as he entered the corridor to the library, he almost ran into Roger, who was coming the other way.

  “I’ve put him in the library, as you asked. Teobaldo brought the tray.” Roger gave da San-Germain a rapid scrutiny, adjusted the neck-cloth. “No fobs and seals?”

  Da San-Germain shook his head. “Only my signet ring. Anything more might look reactionary to him.” He twisted the silver ring on the little finger of his right hand with the incised image of an heraldic eclipse—a disk with raised, displayed wings, enameled black. He nodded to Roger. “Am I satisfactory?”

  “You are,” said Roger. He stepped aside.

  It was a short walk to the library; da San-Germain moved quickly along the corridor and through the large central hall, then opened the double doors to the library. He looked toward the handsome Turkish couch fronted by a low butler’s table, which held a tray of light foods, a carafe of wine, and a short-stemmed glass. Da San-Germain had been expecting to find his guest there, enjoying his soup and smoked ham; when he realized that the Frenchman was not there, he glanced down the long, shelved wall, and saw the young man at the far end of the room, standing on a footstool, reaching for a worn leather volume of Medieval verses. “Good day to you,” da San-Germain said in slightly old-fashioned French. “And welcome.”

  Theron turned toward da San-Germain, his face flushing from more than the heat. “Good day,” he replied as he put the book back and stepped down from the stool. “I hope you don’t mind—you have such a wonderful collection, I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t mean—”