Commedia della Morte

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Roger studied him. “Yes, I think so,” he said. “With the cloak, you’ll do.”

  “Thank you,” said da San-Germain before he tugged on his boots. “Shall I order the bath on my way out?”

  “I don’t think so,” Roger said. “That would give rise to talk; you may be sure some of the servants know where you spent the night. They make a point of sharing what they know, as well. I’ll attend to it in a few minutes, when I take these bones down to the kitchen.”

  “As you like. I shouldn’t take long,” he said, and let himself out of the room, going toward the backstairs since at this hour no one would be at the front door to bolt it behind him. In the kitchen, a sleepy scullion let him out of the building; da San-Germain crossed the yard to the stable and went in through the tack-room door. His dark-seeing eyes had little trouble with the lack of illumination, but he used flint-and-steel to light a small lantern that hung on a hook on the main pillar in the stable before he stepped into the wide central aisle of the structure, where the wagons and carts were stored at the end opposite the stalls. A few of the horses gave whickers of recognition, and one of the mules made a sound like a pan dragged over pebbles, but otherwise his presence went unnoticed.

  The larger cart was between the rear wall and one of the smaller wagons, with just enough room to let him slip along the wall. Here the lantern cast more shadow than light, which was a minor inconvenience. As he reached the driving-box of the cart, he felt for the small latch that held the seat in place, and began to work it; the latch was stiff but loosened under his persistent fingers. The strengthening effect of his native earth made it easier for him to work his way around the front of the cart to the other side, where he started on the second latch. He was distantly aware of the sound of an opening door, followed by the half-neigh of a pair of the horses, and assumed that the grooms had arrived to begin their morning chores; the mizzling dawn was nearly upon them, and the inn was showing the first signs of the new day. He continued to worry the latch, somewhat hampered by the nearness of the wagon, which left him having to reach at an awkward angle, yet in a few minutes he was able to swing the seat up, and, holding it overhead, ease his way out from in between the cart and the wagon.

  The first knife-thrust felt more like a blow than a cut; da San-Germain staggered back half a step, the seat slipping from his hands as he strove to keep himself upright; it briefly served as a shield from the next three thrusts, then dropped down at his feet. He blinked, but there was blood in his eyes from a slash across his forehead; he realized that he was being stabbed just as the next lunge sent the blade ripping the heavy canvas, down through his shoulder into his chest. Had he been a living man, that one wound would have been fatal. As it was, he fell across the seat, and drew himself into a ball while another eleven knife blows pierced his arms, hip, and back. He made an attempt to kick his assailant, and earned himself four more stabs before he heard the stable door open and a shout of horror; hasty steps drew near, and a scuffle began, marked by angry voices and the approach of more hurried footsteps; da San-Germain lapsed into stupor, an unfamiliar cold eating into him as his thoughts blurred and faded.

  * * *

  Text of a letter from Vivien Zacharie Charlot, Deputy Secretary of Public Safety in Lyon, to Egide Loup, Warden of Anti-Revolutionary Prisoners at Saint-Gautier-en-Saone, carried by a courier of the Revolutionary Tribunal of Lyon, delivered the day it was written.

  To the Warden of Anti-Revolutionary Prisoners at Saint-Gautier-en-Saone, Egide Loup, the greetings of Vivien Zacharie Charlot, Deputy Secretary of Public Safety in Lyon, on this, the 20th day of October, 1792.

  My dear Warden Loup,

  I have in hand your note of this morning, and I must agree that it would not be wise to move the prisoners in this rain; we will postpone the event until the 24th, when I have been assured by Citizen Grostete, who is regarded as expert in matters of weather, that it will be dry enough to move the prisoners. Too many of them, already ill, would be chilled and soaked, which would ensure their quick demise without the decision of the Revolutionary Court. I believe you are wise in postponing the move, little as the physician Topinard may approve. I cannot countenance such an obvious transfer, for it could easily result in a public outcry, should any of the prisoners die as a result of being moved.

  I applaud your care, which shows your good sense and your good judgment, and will report my opinions to the Secretary of Public Safety before I leave this afternoon to deliver my daily report to the Revolutionary Tribunal. You may be certain of my support of your actions as well as my determination to see that the prisoners answer for their crimes before the Revolutionary Court instead of eluding justice by dying of cold and neglect.

  You have my permission to make a proper stew for the prisoners this evening, and to serve it with cheese and bread. Do not allow them to waste away. Those who are unwell, allow them a little wine to fortify them even more. There is no benefit in sending emaciated aristos to the Guillotine any more than there is in executing sick ones. With our combined efforts we should yet come through this cleansing of anti-Revolutionaries with our contributions known and praiseworthy, and our reputations made.

  Vive la France!

  Vive la Revolution!

  Vivien Zacharie Charlot

  Deputy Secretary of Public Safety

  Lyon

  2

  Obscenities and oaths were the first things that da San-Germain noticed as his consciousness returned; the next was an all-encompassing hurt that no movement could lessen. He moaned, and saw a foot near his head move back, accompanied by a startled yelp. He struggled to open his eyes and found that blood from the cut on his forehead had made the lids stick together; he managed to wave his arm, grateful for the annealing presence of his native earth in the seat that he lay atop, which kept him from being incapacitated by pain.

  “God Almighty! He’s alive!”

  “No! He can’t be!” This was from his attacker, a shrill howl of disbelief.

  “He is,” came the answer with ferocious glee. “You failed, boy.” There was a moment’s pause. “For God’s sake, someone take the knife and put it in a safe place.”

  Da San-Germain recognized Feo’s voice, and, almost at once, felt the coachman kneel next to him. “I’m hurt.” He was amazed when he heard himself, for the words were barely more than a whisper.

  “I know. Madame’s worthless son set upon you with a knife. Lie still. Crepin will bring Roger out shortly; he’s gone to fetch him.” He cleared his throat with difficulty and resumed talking. “Enee attacked you. We have him. The grooms and Pascal are holding him. He won’t get away with this, Ragoczy.”

  “I’ve lost … blood,” da San-Germain muttered, attempting to wipe the drying gore from his face without much success; he had only a sliver of vision. Yet he could see part of the broad skirts of his driving-cloak, and noticed that the heavy fabric was saturated with blood, which he decided in a remote way had to be his, for although there was a great deal of it, none of it pumped from cut vessels, and he, lacking a pulse, was the only one in the stable who could bleed so much without gouts spurting from deep wounds. He almost laughed, thinking that what he had had from Photine so recently would not suffice to sustain him now.

  “Lie still. Help is coming. Roger will attend to you shortly, and you’ll be better,” said Feo with desperate conviction; all of da San-Germain’s clothes were red-soaked, and the leather-covered seat was slick with it. “And the Guards will come.”

  There was another abrupt struggle, a flurry of slaps and grunts, then Enee shouted, “Die! You should be dead! I want you dead!”

  If he had been able to respond, da San-Germain might have said that he was dead already, but that required more effort than he could muster, so he only shook his head.

  “I’ll kill you, Comte. If not now, another time.”

  “Enough! What you’ve done is bad for all of us, so keep silent!” Pascal commanded in a voice that rang like a clarion; it was accompan
ied by another series of blows and more outraged exclamations; the horses fretted and milled at the disruption going on. “Keep him away from the horses. We don’t need them trying to—”

  “I’ll take care of it.” Feo went to close the various stall doors and the main stable door as well, glancing back at da San-Germain as he did.

  “The blood … bothers them,” da San-Germain muttered. “The smell…”

  “That should keep them all in their places. We can turn them out later.” Feo jiggled a closed latch to demonstrate that the stalls were secure.

  “Good,” Pascal declared as Feo finished setting the latch on the main door; he did not lock it so that Crepin and Roger would not have to knock to enter.

  Enee continued to curse and blaspheme under his breath, more growling than speech; one of the grooms gave him a hard slap. “Quiet, you.”

  “Lock him in the tack-room and summon the Guards. He must be taken into custody, and soon, before this place becomes busy.” Feo came back to da San-Germain’s side. “I’ll get a cloth and some water. Where is Crepin, and Roger?”

  Pascal bristled. “Why should we follow your orders? This is a matter for the troupe to handle. We can restrain him here, where we can watch him.”

  “And he might escape. He has to be confined.” Feo looked down at da San-Germain. “Just do it: lock him up. There’s going to be enough gossip as it is. One of the grooms can stay with him, to make sure he doesn’t escape. Don’t let any of the company in with him. Madame wouldn’t want her son beaten, and he will be if the rest of the troupe gets here before the Guards arrive.” Feo moved off toward the water-trough.

  “Andre has already gone to the barracks,” said one of the grooms; he had secured Enee’s hands behind his back with a lead-rope, and now had him by the elbow, preparing to shove him into the tack-room.

  Da San-Germain had worked the blood off one of his eyelids, permitting him to see enough to make out Enee and Pascal and the groom. He managed to sit up, though his head rang and he felt dizzy; he had a brief, intense recollection of coming to out at the edge of the swamp at Sankt Piterburkh, not quite ninety years ago. Who had assaulted him then he had never discovered; in this instance, he had no doubts. “I…” The exertion it took to breathe in order to speak was staggering.

  “Don’t talk,” Pascal advised him, holding Enee’s collar in a firm hand. “Renaud, you can stay with him. Just you. Don’t let anyone but the Guards in. We don’t need any more confusion than we already have.”

  “They won’t hold me,” Enee boasted. “My mother will deal with them. You’ll see. The troupe will defend me.” He glared at da San-Germain. “You’re a piece of shit, using my mother for your own ends.”

  The groom paid no attention to this outburst; he nodded to Pascal. “I can do that.”

  “They’ll thank me for trying to get rid of you,” Enee announced loudly and was slapped for his temerity.

  “Keep him secure. The state he’s in, he may try something drastic,” said Pascal to the groom.

  Da San-Germain did his best to follow all this, willing himself not to faint. He attempted to raise his voice enough to be heard. “Why … did he…”

  Feo returned with a small pail and a length of cloth. “I’ll get the blood off your face, Ragoczy,” he said as he knelt down next to da San-Germain.

  Pascal pushed Enee’s back and Renaud jerked at his elbow; gradually Enee was propelled toward the tack-room even while he twisted and wrenched in an attempt to break free of his captors as they jostled him along.

  The cloth was rough and smelled of horses, but da San-Germain was relieved to have his eyes finally wiped clear of blood, and smiled as he opened them. “Thank you, Feo.”

  “You’re fortunate that the knife didn’t cut a main vessel. You couldn’t have survived that.” He sounded a bit mystified as he said it. “That cut into your shoulder … I thought it was deep, but I guess your clothing…”

  “It may not … be deep … but it is painful; the … knife could have … cut my lung”—which he knew it had—“but the canvas … is so … thick, it stopped … the blade,” said da San-Germain, claiming the strip of cloth and gingerly wiping his hands and neck with it. He was about to thrust his hands into the pail to wash them and the cloth when the stable door was flung open and Crepin came in with Roger, both of them moving rapidly. “Ah.”

  “My master,” Roger cried out as he came up to da San-Germain and saw the blood. “How badly are you—”

  “—hurt?” he asked.

  “Enee used a knife on him,” Feo explained. “There are a lot of strikes, if the clothes are any reckoning, and there’s the blood.”

  “So Crepin told me, and half the inn’s staff,” Roger said, no sign of distress visible in his face, but with tension in his voice.

  “We have him in the tack-room, and we’ll keep him there.” Feo added, “Andre has gone for the Guards.”

  “A wise precaution,” Roger approved.

  Da San-Germain did his unsuccessful best to smile. “I trust you have … ordered the bath.”

  “I did, ten minutes ago,” he said, baffled by the remark, but with his demeanor unflustered. “They will be filling it now.”

  “Good.” He blinked twice, trying to rid himself of the last of the tacky blood around his eyes. “I need it … We can … count the … number of cuts … that wretched young … man inflicted and … clean them at the … same time … we wash away … the blood.” He struggled to get up, and was grateful to Roger, who reached out and helped him to rise. “We’ll need … the seat, too.”

  Roger picked it up. “So we will,” he said. “Crepin, add to your goodness and help Ragoczy get to his room. I’ll be right behind you.”

  “Certainly,” said Crepin, taking the seat from him, holding it away from his clothes so that there would be no blood on his own garments.

  Pascal emerged from the tack-room, saying to no one in particular, “We’ve tied him to the harness-pegs. Renaud will stay with him until the Guards come.” He paused. “I must say, the boy’s in a vile mood.”

  Although he already knew this, Roger said, “Very good. Then we may safely take my master back to his room.” He helped da San-Germain to steady himself on his feet, then draped the injured man’s arm across his shoulder and took hold of his waist. “Tell Madame what we’ve done,” he said to Feo and Pascal.

  Some of Pascal’s calm was deserting him, though he tried to maintain it. “Of course. When the Guards have come. I’ll stay here until then. With Feo. In case we’re needed in the tack-room.” Pascal was looking a bit harried, but did not try to dispute with Roger. “We can give a report to the Guards. Then go to Madame.”

  “That you can, though she’ll hear of it before you tell her, unless you gag the entire staff,” said Roger, and carefully edged away from the carts and wagons toward the door, holding da San-Germain so that he remained upright. All the way across the stable-yard, he could feel da San-Germain’s consciousness drift in and out, so he began to speak, giving his master something to focus on beyond moving. “This time, that impetuous young man will have to bear the consequences of his acts, unpleasant as they may be. He’s gone too far for mere wildness. It’s one thing to try to cheat while gambling, but another to attack someone with the intent of killing him with witnesses about.”

  “He thinks he’s … protecting … his mother,” said da San-Germain in Visigothic Spanish. “He has … wanted me … out of her life … since they arrived … in Padova.”

  “He’s in error. She will take no harm from you, but Enee is another matter,” said Roger in the same language; he glimpsed Crepin moving a little closer to them, listening.

  “That he is,” said da San-Germain, pressing his lips together as Roger eased him over the threshold into the kitchen, which was now filled with activity.

  Roger raised his voice to the main scullery maid. “Is the bath ready? My master must have his wounds cleaned. I’ll need a sheet, torn into strips, to bandage
him.” He knew that the staff was curious about da San-Germain, thanks to Crepin’s rush through the kitchen to summon him to the stable.

  The scullery maid stared at da San-Germain with unabashed horror and curiosity, then answered Roger’s question. “The bath has just been poured. I’ll have a torn sheet ready in half an hour, if that will suit you?”

  “Fine; fine,” said Roger, and kept going, entering the corridor three strides from the rear stairs. He saw Crepin coming after them, and motioned him to go ahead up the stairs. “This may take a while: there’s a deep wound in his hip and climbing won’t be easy. Put the seat in the room; we’ll be up in a while.”

  Crepin paled but said with the assumption of aplomb, “If you need my help, you have only to call me. I’m at your disposal.” With that, he went up the stairs with unusual haste, the seat held ahead of him.

  “Best not … to ask for … his help,” said da San-Germain, no condemnation in his observation. “He’s upset … already.”

  “That he is,” Roger agreed.

  Da San-Germain took a long, unsteady breath. “Shall we try … the stairs?”

  “This will be difficult, my master,” Roger warned as they reached the bottom of the flight. “Tell me if this is too painful.”

  “Better to … have it over with,” said da San-Germain, steeling himself for the ascent, clamping his teeth closed so that he would make no sound.

  “There are eight treads, a landing, then six more treads,” Roger said as he moved onto the first stair. “Use your left leg; it should be less painful—the wound is in your right hip.” He contrived to maneuver da San-Germain into a position that would allow him to pull himself up the banister with his free hand. “Are you ready?”

  “I hope so,” was his response.

  It took an adjustment in how da San-Germain kept hold of Roger before the two of them were prepared to continue. Roger shifted his weight, half-lifting da San-Germain with him.