Rondo Allegro

by Sherwood Smith

  Weary and overheated, the company gathered. M. Dupree bounded in from the recesses of backstage, his bald head shinier than usual. “Don Alejandro is back,” he announced. “We have received a special invitation to perform in Cadiz.”

  “Cadiz?” several repeated.

  “Is that not where the army is gathered? It will be like Badajos all over, no horses, bandits . . .” Madame waved her hands limply.

  “No, no army. That is, I believe there is a garrison, but it is the navy that is gathered there. Our horses should be in no danger.”

  “Ah, the navy. Well, that is different,” Madame said, thinking privately: That means ships, which in turn means we are that much nearer to France.

  Others agreed with satisfied nods and murmurs.

  “Don Alejandro has been appointed adjutant to a French admiral, and particularly requested us. It seems this admiral is just returned from a hard chase to the West Indies. Don Alejandro says he needs diversion, and what could be better than a French company who has also met with success among their Spanish allies?” He smiled.

  Paul Bisset thumbed his chin, and observed hopefully, “A French admiral would have the ear of Bonaparte.”

  “Exactly!” M. Dupree clasped his hands. “If we are successful, who is to say we might not be put in the way of something better, something imperial?”

  “We could go home to Paris,” Madame murmured aloud, and this time, no one demurred.

  “So we shall finish our contracted time here in Seville, and I will send Pierre ahead to make arrangements,” M. Dupree said, beaming at his company.

  Pierre soon reported that the easiest way to travel to Cadiz would be down the river by sailboat. It would be speedier than overland, “but there is no accommodation on board. And the travel might be at most three or four days.”

  With Don Alejandro’s help, they were able to hire a series of barges, on which tents were set up. The women had one to themselves.

  Glad to be at this distance from Jean-Baptiste’s cold looks, Anna found it restful to sit under a tent and watch the Spanish countryside slip by, but though she had made peace with her diminishing ambition, she brooded about the future once again. What do I want? she thought. Women seldom get what they want, even wealthy women of rank, these days. Princesses are sent off to dullards who happened to be born princes, and duchesses get their heads cut off. What am I willing to settle for?

  She sighed in the hot, humid air. Sliding sweetly along this river like Cleopatra of ancient days made her feel as her life were slipping away along with the Spanish scenery.

  At last they drew near the sea, and there were other things to think about. From the Isla to Cadiz, the road was raised on a causeway, the foot of which was washed by the waters of the bay on one side, and by the Atlantic on the other. At the end of the causeway stood the diamond-bright city of Cadiz, dominated by an enormous fortress built at the highest point.

  Cadiz was built after the Moorish fashion, with high parapets, frequently castellated. The bone-white walls of the houses were blinding in the September sun. They stood in rows carved into the side of the palisades, affording a magnificent view of the Atlantic.

  The streets were very narrow, the balconies all painted green, many decorated with flowers. The streets were quiet, which the tired, travel-worn French took for peaceful, though there were a great many guards with helmets and pikes and muskets about.

  Accompanied by men wearing the livery of Don Alejandro, the company was conducted to the theater, and pointed to their lodgings nearby. Completely unaware of the tensions between the recently formed Combined Fleet, M. Dupree and his flock assumed that the Spanish were as well disposed toward them as they had been in Seville.

  The sea breeze, sweet-smelling as it ruffled over her damp face, prompted Anna to forgo the usual siesta, and to walk past the colorful booths in the marketplace on the narrow street below. She might venture all the way to the ocean.

  “What are you about?” Parrette asked when Anna picked up her mantilla. “Are you not going to rest? You know the performance is to be this evening.”

  “I need fresh air, and movement. It will be infinitely more refreshing than another hot, stuffy room.”

  “Then I am coming with you. You cannot go alone,” Parrette said in a scolding voice.

  “I see women alone here and there. There is one directly below, carrying a basket of fish.”

  “Common women. And they live here. Besides, I want extra thread. Surely I will find some in one of those market stalls.”

  Parrette did not find her thread, but they did discover an amazing array of colorful lace, embroidered cloth, straw hats, boots, shoes, elaborate horse gear, and of course fans.

  Anna carried out her plan of walking all the way to the point, where she stood gazing out at the forest of masts heaving gently in the bay. She loosened her mantilla, the better to feel the salty breeze carried over the water from the sea. So many ships! How it reminded her of Naples!

  “Look at the sun,” Parrette said suddenly, indicating the fiery ball sinking beyond the Point. “And the docks are filling with soldiers. We had better get back.”

  It was true. Patrols marching purposefully this way and that tramped along the docks and the wharf. The two women pulled their mantillas tightly about their faces and toiled hurriedly back up the hill to their lodgings.

  It was a relief to shut the door; a tension she had hitherto been unaware of loosened the back of Anna’s neck. She began humming her scales to warm up her voice as Parrette rearranged her hair and pulled out her costume.

  The theater was small and beautifully appointed, built for a select audience. M. Dupree called, “Places!” for a quick run-through, no more than measuring the stage and warming their voices.

  Anna turned toward her mark, startled as Therese stepped forward confidently at the same time.

  M. Dupree looked at her under his brows. “Mademoiselle Bernardo will sing Argia this evening,” he said. “We will put forth our very best for our countrymen.”

  Therese bit her lip and flushed, for she had counted upon something very different. Then she smiled her false smile. “Here am I, always ready to do what I am asked!”

  A short time after, Anna peered out from behind the theater’s curtain at the rows of officers in their splendid coats, gold braid, and glittering orders. The audience seemed to flicker like the river waters. It was the constant, gentle movement of the ladies’ fans.

  “Which is Villeneuve?” someone whispered.

  “There.”

  Anna directed her gaze back to the row of men in dark blue coats. She was not certain which was Admiral Villeneuve, Commander of the Combined Fleets, but she thought he might be the one in the center. He looked odd, as if someone had pushed in his eyes, or maybe that was the bruised color of exhaustion. His mouth seemed pinched.

  Above and around him, the Spanish ship captains, dons all, wore coats of satin and silk in a dark blue nearly black, very different from the faded blue of the French, made even more glorious with sashes and orders proclaiming their ancient lineage. She became aware of two distinct currents in the quiet hubbub of conversation, Spanish and French. The lighter coats and the dark sat in knots, with little or no interweaving.

  Then the orchestra struck up the overture, and everyone tiptoed hastily to their stage marks.

  Among the French, Villeneuve, exhausted in mind and spirit, closed his eyes, his pleasure derived mostly from the French-accented Italian. It awakened his longing for home, though a home that was forever gone. Reality pressed in, memory of Bonaparte’s latest dispatch, superseding all his previous orders. He had begun to dread each new arrival carrying the imperial seal: Bonaparte, though a genius upon land, knew nothing of the sea, and every new set of orders demanded yet a new impossibility.

  The opera came to its end. As the applause died away, M. Dupree was called out. He accepted the thanks of the dons in his broken Spanish, and the audience got up to leave.

  Vi
lleneuve also rose, but gave in to impulse. He waved an aide to bring Dupree to him, and asked, “You are French?”

  “But yes!” M. Dupree spread his hands, as if anyone could doubt.

  “Will you come to our lodgings in the castle, and give us something French?” When he saw the doubt in M. Dupree’s face he said quickly, “I care nothing for your stage settings. I long for the refreshment of my native tongue.”

  “We could give you La Caverne,” M. Dupree said.

  “La Caverne.” Villeneuve shut his eyes. “Ah, one of my favorites. Yes. Please.”

  M. Dupree bowed as the admiral departed, then turned to Pierre and began issuing rapid orders. So absorbed was he that he was unaware of the surly expressions of the Spanish honor guard detailed to conduct the French naval officers back to their temporary lodgings.

  However, several of the others noticed, and looked about, their reactions characteristic: Therese still irritated that she had not made her promotion to Argia permanent; Paul Bisset skeptical, Madame and Lorette uneasy, Ninon shrugging, and Jean-Baptiste with his expression shuttered. He listened to the rapid conversations as he walked away, his childhood grounding in Latin having aided him in grasping the Spanish language almost before anyone else, though as yet he had seen no reason to admit it.

  He could see that all was not well between the supposed allies.

  o0o

  The next day, in a hall that had been cleared to accommodate the French commander, the company performed La Caverne to the gathered French officers and a few favored guests. Afterward, the entire company was invited to a repast.

  The air filled with French conversation. The emperor—the beautiful empress—Paris—all passed under review, no detail too exhausting, as often happens among people a long away from home.

  Drink flowed freely, and presently, Villeneuve, still oppressed by Napoleon’s latest impossible orders in spite of the glasses of excellent tempranillo he consumed, was approached by one of the opera singers, a man whose carriage and accents did not quite hide his aristocratic origins. “I perform under the name Jean-Baptiste Marsac,” he said, and Villeneuve knew he had surmised correctly.

  Villeneuve was glad to be diverted from his worries. They spoke of wine, each appreciating the other’s knowledge, but when Marsac was reaching to refill their glasses, Villeneuve sighed. “I ought not. Tomorrow I must carry out an inspection, and it will be even less agreeable with an aching head.”

  “Your ships, they are in readiness?” Marsac asked.

  “The Combined Fleet is neither combined nor ready,” Villeneuve said bitterly, to the empty glass in his hands. “We cannot careen the bottoms, which are still full of seaweed from the West Indies. Some have no extra sailcloth. Others suffer rotting futtocks, and we cannot get replacement timber. Even the dons have had trouble, although their king has just given them a letter of credit. Will that do us any good? No.”

  He looked up, trying to blink the glaring halo away from the lanterns. He spoke bitterly, quickly, anything to get away from the danger of mentioning Bonaparte’s name. “The worst of it is these dons have little interest in this war. The wharves are alive with English spies, more numerous than the rats, but the Spaniards don’t do anything about them. They are too busy brigging my own seamen, who merely show their resentment of the murder of their mates by these Spanish dogs.”

  “English spies?” Jean-Baptiste repeated.

  “Everywhere. The English have been blockading for years. I am convinced they know every cove and inlet better than the dons, and they land their devils by the hundreds. If I could but catch one, no doubt I would obtain a better list of our weaknesses than I will ever get marching around on inspection, where every captain strives to hide the worst.”

  Marsac had entered the conversation in hopes of sounding the French admiral about the possibility of a letter of introduction to Bonaparte, but the mention of spies prompted a malicious impulse. “One of our company is secretly married to one of your English captains,” he said with a confiding air.

  Villeneuve sat upright. “What?”

  It was only an idle impulse, but the commander’s reaction, his searching gaze and angry tone, made Jean-Baptiste almost wish he had not spoken. Almost. “One of the women. You heard her sing this very evening—she calls herself Anna Bernardo, though I have no notion what might be her real name. Married to an English sea-captain, though she keeps it to herself.”

  “How does she communicate with him?” Villeneuve asked, frowning so terribly that Marsac sat back.

  “I don’t know.”

  “A woman.” Villeneuve sighed the word. “No one would suspect. A million devils! I will talk to this woman,” he promised, his fury finding outlet at last.

  Jean-Baptiste shrugged. He knew very well that Anna Bernardo was no spy. But she was a smug little coquette with her preposterous honor my vows. Let her get a little fright. It would do her good.

  14

  Ever since their arrival in Spain, after each performance Anna had begun drinking a glass of wine mixed with water. Consequently she was just finishing, as Parrette shook out a gown to air for the morrow, when they heard the rhythmic clump and clatter of a patrol marching along the tiled hall beyond their door.

  Parrette started, her mind going back to those terrible days in Lyons, then she snapped the gown out, mentally scolding herself as she waited for the patrol to pass.

  But the footsteps stopped directly outside their door. Anna and Parrette stared at each other, each about to speak, when a gauntleted fist rapped heavily.

  Parrette whisked the gown into its trunk, then opened the door.

  “Where is Madame Bernardo?”

  “Here.” Anna set aside her wine glass and rose to her feet.

  A thin young officer in an ill-fitting uniform stood stiffly, blocking the doorway. He said in wretched French, “You must with me come.”

  Parrette backed away, aghast. This was like the revolution all over again: one day life is as normal, the next day the unthinkable occurs. That mighty hilltop castle that they had seen all the way from the causeway had looked from afar like a Spanish Bastille.

  “Why?” she asked, standing in front of Anna.

  “Espionage,” said the young officer.

  Anna gazed witlessly. “Impossible!” Parrette tried to block the pike-bearing men who tramped inside the little room. “You cannot! You must speak to M. Dupree—he will tell you that is absurd.”

  “I am a performer,” Anna said. “For whom would I spy?”

  The men ignored Parrette, one handing her off impatiently. The other took hold of Anna’s arm.

  “I will go with you,” Parrette said fiercely.

  “The immediate orders only concern la Senora,” the officer said stiffly. He had no relish for arresting a terrified young lady, or her protective maid. “Wait here.”

  The patrol closed around Anna, who nipped up her mantilla from its hook by the door, and swung it around her head so that at least it obscured her face. It was bad enough to be arrested, but to be stared at compounded the horror.

  And she was. Through the filtering of the lace, she saw faces peering between cracked doors, and through shutters as they wound down the beautifully patterned tile steps, across the private plaza, and then through the gates into the city.

  She was not marched up to that forbidding fortress of Santa Catalina, but down a narrow road to the building where earlier she had sung so light-heartedly. They rounded the great hall, going up a narrow stairway to a series of offices under the guns of fortress.

  Here, Anna was locked into a room bare of anything but a bench. One of the patrol left a lantern sitting on the deep inset window sill before he went out, and she heard the clink of a padlock.

  She sat down to wait, her heart beating rapidly. Her tiredness had vanished. Endlessly her mind insisted on repeating questions she could not possibly answer, and what she ought to say, around and around and around. Her head panged; finally she leaned it back aga
inst the stone wall and shut her eyes.

  She began to doze fitfully, waking with a start when a key rattled in the lock.

  The lantern had burned out. The door swung open, candlelight flaring, the shadows dancing crazily over the wall in elongated distortions as a group of men entered. Her eyes widened when she recognized the one in the center: none other than Commander Villeneuve, still in his blue uniform coat with the gold-embroidered sleeves, though he had removed the sash and the medals.

  An aide set a chair facing Anna’s bench, and he sat down, hands on his knees, and stared at Anna from under furrowed brows. His eyes were narrow, with dark circles under them. Guards took up stances on either side of him, and farther away, an ensign sat with a lap desk, another aide holding a lantern over his head. The ensign began writing, his pen scratching. Then he looked up enquiringly.

  Admiral Villeneuve nodded shortly. “Madame, please state your name.”

  “Anna Maria Ludovisi,” Anna said. Then she remembered the ‘Duncannon,’ but gave her head a tiny shake. It had no meaning.

  Villeneuve leaned forward, his elbows jutting out. “You say ‘Maria’ the English way. Murr—eye—ah.” He growled the ‘r’ sound deep in his throat in his exaggerated pronunciation. But it was recognizably the English pronunciation.

  “My mother was English,” Anna said. “She said that was her own mother’s name. My papa’s mother was Anna Elisabetta, which accounts for my first name . . .” She was aware she was talking too much and stopped abruptly.

  “They said you claimed Bernardo as your name.”

  “It was my performance name. Italian singers are popular, these days. In the way of La Catalani.”

  “Who is Italian,” Villeneuve observed, and then, with an edge of sarcasm, “Mrs. Billington did not see fit to alter her name. And yet she has managed to be successful.”

  Anna was frightened again, but she was also aware of impatience. The situation was entirely mad. “My patroness, Madame de Pipelet—a Frenchwoman—thought it best. ‘Bernardo’ being from Ponte San Bernardo, my father’s birthplace. His cousin is the duke.”