Renzi felt unreality closing in. "Um, sir, is the plot well advanced?"
"Certainly. There are some hundreds of brave souls already in Paris, each with his part to play and practised since the summer. You will, no doubt, recognise the name of General Charles Pichegru?"
"Pichegru!" He had risen rapidly to the top of the Revolutionary Army, invaded and subjugated Holland, then subsequently crossed the Rhine with his victorious troops.
"Yes. The only general in history to capture an entire fleet of ships-of-the-line!" It was the stuff of legend: the Dutch battle-squadron had been ice-bound and Pichegru had led a cavalry charge across the frozen sea to seize them all.
D'Auvergne continued, "He will raise the soldiery, who love him, to take all Paris and declare for the King. In the vacuum that exists at the disappearance of Napoleon, the Duc d'Enghien will be made head of state and regent until King Louis might return to claim his throne."
"But—but the organisation, the timing?"
"I have told you the essence only. There is much more. If you knew Georges Cadoudal, and that for five months he has been in Paris preparing, you would rest your concerns."
"Cadoudal?"
"A man larger than life itself—a Hercules of sublime courage and audacity, and one with an undying reputation in the Chouan risings. I myself have seen Georges hold fast a kicking donkey by its back leg—they sing ballads about him in Brittany."
Renzi found himself utterly at a loss for words.
"There are others too numerous to mention. Chouans who have made the perilous journey from the Vendée to Paris to lie in hiding awaiting the call, those who pass among the people risking everything to bring word of the coup to come. There are even troops of dragoons training in secret in the forests outside the capital."
"Then—when shall it . . . ?"
"It is essential that the rising is supported at a scale where it may succeed. To this end we must await a final commitment from London. In my communications I have stressed the urgency and fading opportunity. We shall hear shortly, I believe."
The evening was turning chilly and Kydd was thankful to get inside the theatre. It was now abuzz with excitement and anxious stagehands hurried to mysterious places past the giant curtain.
For too long Kydd's buoyant good nature had been clouded, but the atmosphere of a place dedicated to losing oneself in fantasy was getting to him. Damn it, he vowed, he would enjoy this interlude.
"Hey, you! You there—Tom, whatever's y' name!" Carne's face came round the curtain and he looked irritable.
"Aye, Mr Carne," Kydd called humbly, and made his way hastily past the seats and on to the stage.
"Come!" The face disappeared, so Kydd pulled back the curtain tentatively and stepped into a dark chaos of props, ladders, improbable scenes painted on vast boards—and an impatient Carne. "This is y' mate as will teach ye." Carne snatched a look at a well-thumbed snap-bound book and turned to a wiry man nearby. "And I want t' block through scene three again f'r Miss Mayhew in ten minutes," he told him, and left them to it.
"Tim Jones," his preceptor said, thrusting out a hand to Kydd. "Look o' the sea about ye, cuffin!" He snorted, then grinned.
"Aye," said Kydd, bemused. "Er, quartermaster's mate round th' Horn in the flying Artemis."
"Artemis?" Jones said respectfully. "As did fer the Citoyenne in th' last war? Glory be! Well, I was only a Jack Dusty in Tiger, had t' go a-longshore wi' the gormy ruddles as ruined m' constitooshun." He clapped Kydd on the shoulder. "We's better be learnin' ye the ropes here right enough."
They left the confusion of the rehearsal for the dark upper eyrie of the fly-loft where Kydd looked down through a maze of ropes and contraptions directly to the stage below. Jones squatted comfortably on the slats, and began: "That there's Mr Carne, an' he's the stage-master who calls th' show from that book he has. He's in charge o' the runnin' crew, which includes us flymen, an' that scrovy crowd workin' below. Now, here's the griff. When the scene shifts, th' whole thing fr'm clew t' earring goes arsy-versy in a very smart way, an' it's us as does it. How? I'll show ye . . ."
Kydd took in the complexity of ropes and machinery that could change their world of enchantment from a sylvan glade to a magnificent palace and back again. He learned of flats and gauzes, clothes and rigging; and of the special whistles that had as much meaning for the stage crew in the complex operations of a scene change as a boatswain's call for seamen in the operation of a man-o'-war.
Carne's hectoring voice rose above the din, and occasionally Kydd caught sight of an actor in fine robes foreshortened by the height as he strode the boards declaiming into the empty darkness. Excitement gripped him: soon the grand play would open—it seemed impossible that the disorderly rumpus below could calm to the breathless scenes he remembered from his last visit to a theatre. "Will we see Miss Mayhew an' Mr Samson a-tall?" he found himself asking in awed tones.
"Y' might at that."
A bellow of "Places! Places!" cut through the confusion. Carne had the company pacing through the new scene arrangement under the director's critical eye and the flymen were soon hard at work on ropes and flats.
There was a last flurry of activity before front of house went to their stations, then a tense wait for the play to commence. The echoing emptiness of the theatre now had a different quality: a background susurrus of rustling and murmuring as the first of the audience took their seats while the reflectored footlights threw magic shadows into the upper reaches.
The noise grew, shouts from rowdier elements mingling with raucous laughter and the animated hum of conversation. The small orchestra struck up with a strenuous overture until anticipation had built sufficiently—and the play began.
It was hard work and the timing exact, but Kydd had the chance to hear and sometimes see the action. At the interval he descended to help with the flats for the second half but was called across by Carne: "Take Miss Mayhew her refreshment, Tom what'syername."
He was passed a single ornate crystal glass on a small lacquer tray with Chinese writing on it. A smell of gin wafted up from it as Kydd carried it to the dressing rooms, past half-dressed nymphs and bearded Magyars, in a stifling atmosphere of heat and excitement, with the unmistakable smell of greasepaint.
"Enterrrr!" The response to his knock was the same imperious trill he had heard on stage. Griselda Mayhew was at her brightly lit mirror, a vision of a towering wig, flowing gown and caked makeup, but a jolly face with kindly eyes.
"Ah, thank you, dearie!" she said gratefully. "Put it down there. I'm near gut-foundered."
She looked at Kydd shrewdly. "Well, I haven't seen you before?"
"Er, new t'night, Miss Mayhew," he said diffidently.
"You're no common stagehand, I'd wager. Gent of decayed fortune, more like. Still, y' came to the right place. Theatre's a fine place t' make your mark. Good luck t' you, cully!"
Blushing, Kydd left. The second half went rapidly, and when the play finished he felt an unaccountable envy for the tempest of applause that followed and the several curtain calls that had him sweating at the heavy ropes. And when the audience had streamed out he felt a pang of loneliness. All he had to look forward to, after these bewitching hours, was the squalor of the sail-loft. He finished securing the rigging as Griselda Mayhew's laughter pealed at Richard Samson's dramatic flourishes with her coat.
She looked in Kydd's direction. "Did y' enjoy tonight at all?" she called to him.
"I did that," Kydd said awkwardly, conscious of his shabby appearance as he approached her shyly.
She frowned slightly, then touched his arm. "It's not my business, but have y' somewhere t' go to?"