Commedia della Morte

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  When Roger had donned his cloak, he raised the collar so that only the upper half of his head was visible above it. “Hats?”

  “Not yet. They’re distinctive enough to be identified later, if it comes to that. Keep them under your cloak until we’re outside the city.” Da San-Germain eased his way along the wall, not moving quickly, but steadily, toward the side-gate, having recourse to his cane only once; he reminded himself that he had endured much worse at the hands of Timur-i and Srau’s cousins, memories that kept him moving. Ten paces from the side-gate, he stopped at the sound of two cats challenging each other to battle on the wall above them.

  The ostlers looked toward the sound; one of them picked up a pebble and shied it at the animals, cursing good-naturedly. Only when they had resumed their meandering conversation did da San-Germain and Roger move again.

  At the side-gate, Roger took out the key and carefully turned it, cringing at the faint sound of moving wards that ended in a snick. “It’s open.”

  Da San-Germain went through ahead of Roger, making a swift scrutiny of the alley. To his relief, he saw Feo in the shelter of the door opposite the side-gate, lounging against the iron-work grille. He hurried across the narrow pave-stones to where Feo waited. “You’re here in good time.”

  “Fortunate, isn’t it?” Feo’s irreverent smile glinted.

  “For you as well as us,” da San-Germain responded without amusement. “We may jest when we’ve done.”

  Roger opened his bag and brought out the green Bohemian sleeved cape, handing it to Feo as he said, “You’d best put this on after we pass through the city gate. I’ll dispose of it before we get back to the Jongleur.”

  Feo took the Bohemian cape and folded it with the lining out. “Part of our disguises?”

  “Yes,” said da San-Germain. “Tell me what you’ve found out.”

  “The transfer will go according to plan, but some of the prisoners will be held back and moved tomorrow as announced; from what I heard, they’re shifting the riskier ones tonight. The Guards think the notion is foolish, but they know that orders are orders, and there is extra pay for night escort. The prisoners being moved tonight are the ones deemed to be most dangerous, which probably means rich. I couldn’t find out who they were, but it’s likely your kinswoman is among them.”

  “How likely?” da San-Germain demanded in a whisper.

  “If she’s rich and she isn’t ill, she’ll be in one of the coaches, probably the one in the middle.” Feo lifted his chin. “So, do we go or not?”

  “We go,” said da San-Germain, with a side-long glance at Roger. Quelling his doubts, he moved to the end of the alley and gazed out at the street, trying to take in as much as possible without exposing himself to notice: there was a small, rowdy group in front of the tavern at the corner, where gambling was allowed, and occasional cock-fights were held; beyond them a pair of street-sweepers were pushing their well-laden barrow toward the riverbank; four merchants on horseback with a train of pack-mules loaded with casks and crates were approaching from the south; and three thin women shivered with cold as they strutted toward the men in front of the tavern, seeking customers among them.

  “We can fall in behind the merchants,” Feo suggested. “That will get us across the place and into another street.”

  “If we make it seem we are part of their company, we aren’t likely to attract much attention,” da San-Germain agreed. “Be ready to slip in after the mules pass.” He could feel his hip tightening and willed it to relax; he could not let himself limp now.

  “Ready?” Feo asked as he moved, adopting the same plodding pace of the half-dozen attendants leading the mules.

  Roger and da San-Germain followed after him, taking him as their example, and paying no heed to the stares of the attendants.

  Approaching the nearest attendant, Feo murmured, “Footpads tried to rob us; we need cover,” and nodded his thanks at the glimmer of understanding in the man’s eyes.

  Nothing more was asked or said as they went on across the place, where they left the merchants’ train behind for the long, twisting, dark street that led to the old Saone River Gate.

  * * *

  Text of a letter from Oddysio Lisson in Venezia to Cataline Utoc in Marseilles, written in French, carried on the Eclipse Trading Company ship West Wind, and delivered twelve days after it was written.

  To the distinguished merchant Cataline Utoc of Utoc & Fils in the port of Marseilles, greetings from Oddysio Lisson of Eclipse Trading Company in Venezia on this, the 19th day of October, 1792,

  My dear Utoc,

  I have in hand your letter of September 22nd, and I thank you for the efforts you have made on behalf of my employer, Ferenz Ragoczy, Conte da San-Germain: I know it cannot have been easy to gather such intelligence. While your people did not discover where he is, they did find out where he isn’t, and that, in its way, is most useful. If you should learn anything of him, I ask you to send me word as quickly as possible. From what I have been able to learn, there have been many changes in France in the last few months, and reports received here are causing a great deal of alarm. If half of what we’re being told is true, how very sad for France.

  Would you advise me on what would be best to do? I implore you to be candid with me, for I am in such a dither that I can hardly clear my thoughts enough to consider the problem sensibly. I am considering sending a few of my men to France to make inquiries regarding il Conte. He has, as you know, been traveling with a theatrical troupe, but that may have changed, and since we have had no word from him or about him, I believe it is part of my duties as his factor to do what I can to locate him and discover if any mischance has befallen him. Yet with all the dreadful accounts coming from France, I think it may be possible to increase his danger if there should be inquiries made regarding him. Were you in my position, what would you advise? What little information your agents were able to glean is sufficient to convince me that seeking il Conte out could have exactly the opposite result than what I am hoping for: it could attract notice that would be detrimental to him, and to his trading company.

  If there is someone you know who could be of use in sorting out this conundrum, I ask you to send me his name and where he may be found, for I am presently of the opinion that having a Frenchman rather than a Venezian pursue this matter would be prudent at this time, but that may be a misapprehension on my part. As you can see from what I have written, I am of two minds in regard to this state of affairs, and I am certain that nothing I can do or say at this point will answer the problem that confronts me.

  You can understand why I am eager to proceed, but in what way do I go? And to what end? How can I gain the information I seek without jeopardizing my inquirer and his object of inquiry? Yet I must do something, and soon. There are ships in need of refitting, and ships that are ready to set out, but without il Conte’s approval, their captains are reluctant to set to sea. Il Conte gave me letters of authorization, but for those captains not based in Venezia, they are dubious about accepting my orders without the certainty that they are il Conte’s as well. In order to keep trading, I must know what has become of il Conte, and the sooner I know, the better.

  Whatever guidance you can provide me, I will welcome, and thank you from the depths of my heart for it. Truly, I haven’t any plan that would seem workable at this time, yet it is apparent to me that I must do something, which is why I importune you in this way to lend your wisdom to my predicament.

  With a humble heart, I commend myself to your good offices, and thank you for your service on my behalf. May you find rich rewards for your kindness here on earth as well as in Heaven.

  Oddysio Lisson

  Factor, the Eclipse Trading Company

  Venezia

  5

  In the taproom below, the clock was striking ten, its unmelodic clang penetrating the clamor of the patrons; in her room, Photine sat in front of her mirror, putting the finishing touches on her make-up. She moved the candles a little closer
to the shiny surface, then leaned forward and painted the lip rouge on her mouth, taking care to keep the color even. When she was done, she put the small pot of reddened woolfat-and-wax aside, sat back, and subjected herself to critical scrutiny. “This is for Enee,” she whispered over and over to herself, making a litany of the words. “You know how to handle men, my girl,” she told her reflection. “This man is little more than a clerk; Enee needs his good-will. I will secure it for him, if it’s in my power.” Since she had received the invitation from Deputy Secretary Charlot to call at his house to discuss Enee’s case, she had been of two minds. Was he actually willing to accept a bribe to set her son free, or was this a ploy to get her alone with him for other reasons? That was the one possibility that bothered her, and deprived her any trace of a thrill she might have had from such an undertaking; she had seen enough of men to know that they often sought to take advantage of women through their greatest vulnerability—their children. “If it’s my body he wants, so be it, so long as Enee is released,” she said with the firm commitment that she used when she played Antigone, even while trying to decide if she were presenting the appearance Charlot hoped for. Was this what Deputy Secretary for Public Safety Vivien Zacharie Charlot desired? She had tried for a careful mix of matronly and courtesanish. Would he find her pleas convincing? Would he be willing to spare her son? She was still a little perplexed by his agreeing to speak with her about Enee—she had been told by several Guards that the Deputy Secretary did not grant interviews to anyone with a relative in custody, and so had not expected the invitation that had arrived the day before, asking her to call at his house at ten-thirty this evening. “Remember, he’s a man; he will welcome flattery as his due; you know how to do that,” she advised herself.

  A ragged chorus of En Avaunt rose from the taproom, and the stomping of feet for the verse. It grew steadily louder, then quieted when the innkeeper bellowed something at the singers.

  Photine let the stirring melody spur her to action. “It would not do to be late,” she said. Then she frowned at her face in the mirror, once again trying to decide what his purpose might be. “This is for Enee,” she told herself again, resuming her inspection. If only she knew more about his tastes, she could shape her appearance to suit his fancy, but as it was, she would have to find a way to make the most of the evening or leave Enee to the capricious mercy of the Revolutionary Tribunal and the Revolutionary Courts—a thought that left her queasy. Deciding at last that she had done what she could to make herself compelling, she blew out her dressing-table candle and got to her feet, her taffeta petticoats rustling as she moved. Her corsage was simple—white silk embroidered with pale flowers, with a small ruff around the Italian neckline—and complemented the light-green sash that set off her figure admirably, and made the silken skirt flare over the very moderate bolster-roll beneath. She took her evening cloak—a fashionable garment of super-fine wool lined in pale-blue satin—and drew it over her elegant attire, picked up her muff by thrusting her left hand into it, and after a last glance in the mirror, let herself out of her room, moving as quietly as she could along the corridor. It would be difficult to explain to her troupe what she was doing, going out so late at night—she reminded herself that her departure had to be clandestine, “For Enee’s sake.”

  At da San-Germain’s room she paused, debating if she ought to inform him of what she was about to do, knowing that she could rely on his confidence. But as quickly as the notion occurred, she realized he would caution her against her plan, and perhaps go so far as to spell out the risks she was taking, or insist on accompanying her, which would discourage her at the time she needed encouragement. With a short, regretful sigh, she moved on, deciding she would explain herself the following morning, when she would know if she had succeeded in gaining Enee’s liberty, and could rely on him for praise or sympathy. In the morning she would speak to him, she promised herself, when the evening with Charlot was over.

  She had forgotten how dark the streets could be on a cloudy night, how cavernous the narrow streets with lanterns only at the corners were; leaving the torch-lit inn-yard, she struck off in the direction of Rue Thomas Paine—which not so long ago had been the Rue Saint-Hilaire—and the house of Deputy Secretary Charlot. She had memorized the directions that were included with the invitation, but now she had trouble remembering them as she made her way toward the Rue Tilleul; the darkness made the distances hard to judge, and the landmarks unfamiliar. To her surprise, she was shivering, and not only from the evening chill. Chiding herself for lack of purpose, she nevertheless made a point of avoiding the Guards Patrols making their way through the city streets; there were stories about what they did to women found out alone after dark, and it did not suit her purposes to be thrust into a prostitutes’ cell to wait for morning and the indignity of appearing in court. Briefly she wondered if she should have told one of the troupe where she was going, but quickly decided that would have been folly, and not because all the actors would know within an hour of her errand; that might mean that da San-Germain would hear of her actions before she returned, and she could not believe that he would not attempt to intervene. She shook her head and hurried on, wanting to get off the street as soon as she could. The sooner she reached Charlot, the sooner Enee would be safe.

  The house, when she found it, gave her a feeling of disquiet: it was about a century old, narrow, three storeys topped by a mansard roof, set between two larger buildings, both of which looked to her to be unoccupied, and having only three windows facing the street. Since it was placed back a little way from the pavement, it gave the appearance of something concealed. A single lantern over the door provided the light up the short walk to the front door. Photine looked down, suppressing a shudder, for the movement of her skirts cast shadows eerie as slithering serpents. Reaching the door, Photine had a sudden urge to turn back, but she staunchly over-ruled her trepidations, telling herself that she had handled more difficult men than Charlot in her time. She pulled her right hand from her muff, and sounded the knocker, making herself breathe slowly and steadily while she waited for the door to open; while she listened for the approach of a servant, she prompted herself of her coming interview of her intent—“This is for Enee, for my son”—and that she had sufficient experience of men to be able to handle this one bureaucrat, no matter what powers he wielded.

  “You arrive promptly; it lacks two minutes of ten-thirty,” said Charlot as he opened the door. “Do come in, Madame d’Auville.” He stepped back, giving her room to pass into the small foyer; he was dressed in an amber-colored dressing-robe over woolen unmentionables and Ottoman slippers. His shirt was open at the throat and she was fairly certain that he wore no waistcoat. Stubble darkened his jaw, and his medium-brown hair was caught at the back of his neck with a narrow ribband. “I am delighted to see you.”

  “And I you,” she said as she had rehearsed it. “And to be asked to your house is an honor, for which I am most grateful.”

  “I suppose you were … discreet?”

  Photine managed not to bristle. “I would not want to compromise either of us. Only one of my troupe knows I’m gone from the inn.”

  “That is wise of you. If it were known that I occasionally hear petitioners here, in private, I would be besieged. I trust you will keep my confidence regarding this evening.” His chuckle was without warmth. “Enter. Please.”

  Photine gave a slight curtsy before she entered the small room, half-expecting a servant to relieve her of her cloak and muff, but none came. Making the best of an awkward situation, she divested herself of her cloak and held it out to him. “Where shall you hang this, Deputy Secretary? Or tell me where and I will attend to it.” Her smile was deliberately tantalizing, showing that she did not mind that they seemed to be alone.

  Charlot confirmed this, saying, “My housekeeper is with her brother’s family tonight, and my cook retired an hour since. We will not be disturbed,” as he took her cloak and dropped it over a broad peg behind the fron
t door. “If you will give me your muff?”

  She relinquished it to him, noticing that he dropped it on a narrow bench under the high window that would provide the only daylight to the room; it seemed an odd place to put it. Perhaps, she thought, he had no cloak closet at all—many of these old houses did not. “I am aware that you are a busy man, Deputy Secretary.”

  “The burden of my office, Madame,” he said with a kind of automatic courtesy that reminded her that she would have to be succinct. “You wish to discuss your son’s incarceration with me.”

  The bluntness of his statement brought her up short; she struggled to keep from launching into disclaimers, and instead nodded, matching candor with candor. “Yes, that is my intention, if you will give me the opportunity to do so.”

  “Of course, Madame.” He very nearly smiled.

  “You are the official who has the authority to decide what will become of my son—”

  “Yes, yes; I understand your reason for accepting my invitation.”

  She felt a grue slide up her spine; she covered this with a winsome glance. “Then I appreciate you taking time to hear me out, Deputy Secretary. I would not like to think I am on a fool’s errand.”

  “And I am disinclined to waste time, as well.” He touched her shoulder, hardly more than a brush of his fingers, but he had Photine’s full attention. “The trouble is that your son murderously attacked one of your company, and that cannot be entirely set aside. Now, if there are extenuating circumstances to his act, there may be a means to resolve the case without the necessity of a trial.” He paused, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “You must know that I’m eager to discuss this legal predicament with you, Madame,” he said; Photine wondered if she had heard a note of derision in his words; she questioned herself inwardly if this might be because he was used to listening to the pleas of distraught mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, and children on behalf of those the Department of Public Safety had detained. “If you will go through the door on your left?”