Commedia della Morte (33 page)

Roger shook his head, thinking about his own children, dead now for almost seventeen centuries. “He is a difficult son to Madame, for all he is fifteen and considers himself fully grown.”

Da San-Germain was about to add something but went silent as Feo came into the stable and waved a greeting. “They told me you were here.”

“Which
they
is that?” da San-Germain asked in Italian.

“The ostlers, the ones working on the awning,” said Feo. “Do you know if Madame is busy with the play?”

“She and the rest of the troupe are reviewing the changes the censor demanded,” said Roger. “They’re in the rear parlor.”

Feo stared at da San-Germain. “You’re not with them?”

“I have no reason to be. The changes in twenty lines don’t alter the music. This is Heurer’s problem, and Madame’s. I have other tasks to attend to.”

“Such as procuring the licenses for performances and caring for the animals?” Feo asked with an impish smile. “Doesn’t that get boring?”

“Most of life can become boring, if you allow yourself to be bored,” said da San-Germain; he gave Feo a thoughtful stare, aware that the coachman was uneasy. “What is it? You’re worried.”

“It’s Enee,” said Feo. “I’ve tried to find him, but without success. I was out last night until nearly three, and I’ve been up since dawn. I’ve tried all the places I’ve found him before, and looked where others recommended.” He glanced at the ceiling. “He’s been dicing with the Guards, though Aloys and I have warned him against it. I tried to find him at their haunts, but I was told he wasn’t with them.” He said nothing for several seconds, then admitted, “That’s the extent of my information. I don’t want to have to tell Madame that Enee is not to be found, not so near the beginning of their performance.”

“Such news will distress her,” da San-Germain concurred. “Yet it will not be more welcome if it is delayed.”

“Yes. She expects him to appear in the play. If he isn’t here—”

“If he isn’t here, someone must take his place,” said da San-Germain.

Feo caught a note in da San-Germain’s voice that alarmed him. “Oh, no,” he said. “I’m not going to wrap myself up in cerements and recite poetry.”

“Then you’d best tell her quickly, so she can appoint someone else who will, just in case,” da San-Germain recommended.

Feo pressed his hands together. “What about Roger, then? He tends to the curtains, but I can do that, and assist with the costumes.”

Roger offered a mirthless smile. “I’d rather not.”

“Well, I’d rather not, too.” Feo rounded on da San-Germain again. “What am I going to do? Should I keep looking, or speak with Madame now?”

“You should probably warn Madame as soon as possible. The troupe will be dressing shortly, and if Enee doesn’t return, there will be trouble.”

“That wretched boy!” Feo muttered.

“Yes. It would be easier for the whole company if Enee would not be so irresponsible, which suits him top to toe; all he has to do is enjoy himself and he brings on a spasm of anguish in his mother.” He paused thoughtfully, then continued with more sadness than condemnation. “And this is just such another example of his disregard: Madame has a play to put on; little as she may like it, she needs to know that Enee hasn’t returned. This first performance has to go well, whether Enee is part of it or not. If the play goes poorly, her license may be revoked, which would benefit none of us.” He finished combing the mule’s mane and went to work on its tail.

“All right! All
right
!” Feo exclaimed. “But it may fall to Roger to take his place.” With that warning, he stomped out of the stable and made his way toward the side-door of the inn.

“Do you think I’ll have to perform?” Roger asked, his manner showing no sign of consternation.

“You may. If you want to volunteer, that should ease Photine’s mind. If she has to ask, it will vex her.” Da San-Germain set the comb aside. “But speaking of the performance, it’s time I put on my costume and tuned the cimbalom. In weather like this, the strings won’t hold their pitch very long.” He let himself out of the stall and was about to leave the stable when Roger stopped him with a single question asked in Imperial Latin.

“My master, how long has it been since you’ve taken nourishment?”

After a slight hesitation, da San-Germain said, “Ten days.”

“With Madame?”

“No.”

“Are you planning to visit one of the troupe in her sleep?”

“No.”

Roger did not quite sigh, but he let out a long, slow breath. “Is that wise?”

“No, it’s not, if nourishment were my only concern.” He stared into the middle distance. “But at this time, I need to be circumspect. For one thing, you know how hazardous it is to be abroad in this city at night, with the Guards everywhere, and the street-gangs. I would be a fool to draw attention to myself, wouldn’t I? The Revolution may have discarded religion, but that doesn’t mean that it embraces vampires.”

“That sounds more like an excuse than a precaution to me; you have moved about cities at night for almost double the time I have known you,” Roger said flatly. “You wouldn’t have to roam the night, in any case, for you have opportunities nearer to hand. Olympe or Tereson or Sibelle would welcome such a dream as you could give them.”

“No, old friend; it would be too great a gamble. You’ve heard them rhapsodize about their dreams.”

“They sound much like many other women’s dreams,” Roger told him.

“It would depend upon what they recall of their dreams, and how they describe them.”

Roger frowned. “You assume you would be recognized.”

“I’m assuming that Photine would not be fooled; if Tereson or Sibelle should describe me as a vision, Photine would not be pleased.”

“She takes her pleasure with the men of her company; there is no one who doubts it, and none deny it, not even the two men who pleasure each other,” Roger observed. “Where would be the harm in you doing likewise with the women, since you’re their patron?”

Da San-Germain answered indirectly. “Gossip is often embroidered in the telling, as we learned in Praha, so consider this—and it was Photine who warned me—that it is impossible to keep a secret in a theatrical company. The players have suspicions about me already; why should I provide fuel for their fires? It would benefit no one, and could compromise my chances of reaching Madelaine.”

“And she is the heart of the matter.”

“She is, and has been from the start.” Da San-Germain nodded to Roger. “I appreciate your concerns for my welfare, but there are times that isn’t—”

“—worth an English farthing,” Roger finished for him as da San-Germain resumed his walk to the inn; he called after him, “I’ll be in to speak to Madame in a few minutes, about Enee’s role.”

The morning was busy throughout the Jongleur: scullions were hurrying into the kitchen with baskets of fresh produce from the morning market, and chambermaids bustled about from room to room, sweeping and tidying. Two hawkers for local shops had arrived and were crying the wares of their employers, much to the annoyance of the staff of the Jongleur. Four of the ostlers were busy working on setting up the awning, two of them setting masts into brick-lined sockets in the ground, the other two unrolling the heavy canvas and hooking its thickly darned buttonholes over the curved two-prong claws set in the top of the fence. There was an urgency about their work, a tension beyond diligence, that revealed their anticipation. It was the same for the actors, who lingered in the rear parlor, poring over their changes in the script for their first performance, which would begin in an hour and a half. Stopping by their parlor, da San-Germain saw that Photine was pale and seemed distracted, while the rest of the troupe were whispering among themselves; Feo had clearly been and gone again. He was about to go on to his room when she caught sight of him and raised her hand, motioning to him to approach.

He went to her at once. “What is it, Photine?”

“You know what it is. Enee isn’t here, and though Feo has gone to search for him again, I can hardly be sure he will find him in time.” She could see the mix of dejection and irritation that had taken hold of the rest of the troupe, and so she added for their benefit as much as his, “You will have to ask Roger to take Enee’s place. There are few lines, and by now he must know everything about the play.”

“Did Feo recommend Roger?” da San-Germain asked, slightly amused.

“He reminded me that he is in better fettle than Aloys,” said Photine, then went on in wheedling supplication. “Promise me you’ll ask him.”

“And if he says no? Would you not prefer that he—”

“I must have someone ready to take my son’s part, in case he doesn’t return in time to perform,” Photine said, this time speaking with real authority. “Your manservant is the one who can do it with the least disruption to the play, so it shall be he who takes on Enee’s role. He speaks well enough for the part. If you are unwilling to tell him, then I’ll send Pascal to inform him that he should ready himself for the play.”

“You needn’t do that,” said da San-Germain, his expression affectionate and gentle. “He intends to offer to do the part; he knows you’re in a demanding situation, and he’s willing to help. As soon as he has finished tending to the horses, he will come to you.”

“And welcome,” said Photine, suddenly breathless. “Of course, all of us must dress. We will not begin later than we’ve announced, not when it’s raining. That would make us seem like amateurs, and later audiences would stay away.”

“Then all the more reason to get ready to perform,” da San-Germain said with an enthusiasm he did not feel.

“Oh, yes,” said Photine, her face brightening. She got to her feet and clapped her hands for attention. “Let us all go prepare. Remember to make sure your costumes don’t get wet, and to mention any fraying or tears to Constance so she can repair them for our next performance.”

The actors heard her out, their edginess of anticipation suddenly much more apparent. All but Sibelle and Valence rose and began to gather up their corrected sides; they said little, preferring not to engage in berating Enee where his mother could hear.

“Can we ask the innkeeper to light a fire for us in this room, so when we’re through, we needn’t be shivering?” Sibelle inquired as she pulled her second-best shawl around her shoulders. “The rain is bad enough, but it’s windy, too.”

“And some mulled wine, nice and hot, would be welcome,” Valence added.

“I’ll arrange both if you like, Madame,” said da San-Germain to Photine before any contention could arise among the players.

Photine faltered, a harried look crossing her features. “Perhaps,” she said.

“It would be my honor to take care of the matter for you.” He bowed to her, and was rewarded with a burst of applause from the rest of the troupe.

“Go ahead, Ragoczy,” she conceded. “Hurry, all of you. We have much to do before the curtains part.” Her French had an edge to it.

Sibelle and Valence were the last to depart, leaving da San-Germain with Photine; she shook her head at him, forbidding him to speak. “Tell Roger I’ll be in my room.”

“One question, Photine,” said da San-Germain. “Why not ask Heurer? It is his play, after all.”

“Oh, my dear Comte,” she said, forgetting all her own strictures about using his title, “that is the very reason I do not ask him: it
is
his play, and he may be moved to improve upon it while we have an audience, which would leave the rest of us in disarray; it would be like him to edit his speeches to what he thinks is an improvement. Theron is a poet, not an actor, and he is in love with his words.”

“But the role is a small one,” he said. “There’s little opportunity for ad libbing.”

“All the more reason to have Roger do it—he will not seek to enlarge it.” She made a shooing gesture. “There is much to do, and we must all make haste.”

Da San-Germain bowed again. “I will be in my costume in half an hour, and I’ll take my cimbalom down to the wagon-stage.”

“Many thanks,” she said in a distracted tone as she hastened toward the door he held open for her. “If Feo finds Enee—”

“He will notify you at once. If you’re on stage, he will signal you from the wings. If he isn’t back by the end of the performance, then I’ll send Roger to inquire at the Guards’ main station, and engage them to find him.”

“I wish Enee didn’t hate you so much.” With a final, lingering sigh, she turned down the corridor and made for the stairs; da San-Germain went toward the front of the inn, searching for the innkeeper. He found the man in the taproom, checking out the levels in the bottles and ordering more to be brought up from the cellar. As he caught sight of da San-Germain, he all but shoved the waiter aside.

“Citizen Ragoczy. What may I do for you?” He rested his large arms on the bar, offering a broad, meaningless smile.

Da San-Germain did not correct the innkeeper’s use of the title
citizen
. “Madame is requesting that a fire be built up in the rear parlor in the next hour or so for her troupe; they will want to gather there after the performance. And if you will heat up a large punch-bowl and fill it with hot wine and spices, that will delight them all.”

“You’ll bear the cost, will you?” the innkeeper asked, being aware that da San-Germain handled the money for the troupe.

“Of course,” said da San-Germain. “If you would like to be paid in advance, I can do so now.”

“Later will do. Who knows how much wine they will consume, or how many logs will need to be laid on the fire. Best to be ready to supply their needs lavishly than inadequately.” He studied da San-Germain closely. “You’re a careful fellow for someone who keeps company with players.”

“It is my duty to care for such things for the troupe,” said da San-Germain. “And to provide the music for the play.”

“One of the actors told me you’re an exile from Hungary,” the innkeeper persisted.

“I am.” He knew that any equivocation would lead to more questions, and he did not want to rouse any more suspicions than he already had, for this question led him to surmise that someone had made inquiry about him, and that his answer would be passed on to another.