A Sharpness on the Neck d-9

by Fred Saberhagen

  After a moment's pause she added: "Philip's natural father was Benjamin Franklin."

  Almost any resident of France would have been interested at the mention of the late American celebrity, who had lived in France for so many years, and the wounded vampire was no exception. His low voice murmured: "Now that you mention it, our host does bear a certain resemblance to Franklin, around the eyes."

  "You were privileged to meet the great M'sieu Franklin, then?"

  "Once, years ago, I had that honor… and how is the elder statesman now?"

  "I regret to say that he died four years ago, across the sea in Philadelphia. I am surprised you did not know."

  "It is the world's loss." A thin arm bent and straightened in an elegant gesture. "One falls out of touch with many things."

  With the situation now a little clearer to both Vlad Dracula and Melanie (though in fact each still labored under a fundamental misunderstanding), the kneeling woman at last slid closer and reached out to inspect the patient's bandages. At her gesture, the silent young girl who had been hanging back in the doorway now brought the light closer. The patient made no effort to sit up, and to examine him the doctor's daughter was compelled to sit right down on the stone floor, which she did with a natural and very non-aristocratic movement.

  But it was an awkward position in which to try to work, and in a moment she asked irritably: "Can you not sit up?"

  The patient shook his head slowly. "At the moment, you must believe me, I am vastly more comfortable, and even stronger, as I am. Healthier, lying flat on this stone floor, whether you examine me or not. It may seem strange to you, but it is so."

  "Come, though, at least turn over a little and let me see," At first glance, she could tell that the main bandage over the ribs had loosened notably, as if the man could have lost weight over the last few hours. The physician's daughter, a briskly persistent nurse, looked under the bandage, then blinked her eyes at what she saw. "Mon Dieu, but you heal fast! There is a notable difference from just a few hours ago."

  He grunted. "At times in the past, when I have been injured—others have told me that I heal with great rapidity."

  There was a persistent hesitancy between them, and at last the young woman, having pulled off and thrown away the patient's bandage which was no longer really necessary, decided to deal just as firmly with the other matter, the one lying unmentioned and unresolved between them.

  Sitting back on her heels again, running a hand through her long hair, she announced briskly: "Citizen, I think that we have seen each other before."

  Once more settled in the unlikely looking position that gave him greatest comfort, he blinked at her benevolently. "That is possible. Perhaps we shared a dream."

  "No." She shook her head, being firmly practical. "You must know what I mean, and it was not a dream at all. This morning, even while you still were standing outside the house, I recognized you. We met in Paris, one night near midnight, at the cemetery of the Church of the Madeleine, the place where the bodies from the place of execution are brought to be buried."

  "Yes, I am familiar with it."

  "We had a very strange conversation in that cemetery, you and I. I still remember it pretty well, though it took place a year ago, or even more. I was there with my cousin, my teacher, Marie Grosholtz."

  The man on the floor did not comment. He waited, as if withholding judgment.

  "You came upon the two of us while we were at our work there in the churchyard, and you startled us."

  "For that I apologize."

  "You are forgiven. But the good God knows what you must have thought that we were doing. With the heads." Melanie tried a little smile, which brought no response. "You made a strong impression on me."

  He watched her, steadily.

  She drew herself up a little and tried again. "From certain remarks you made at the time, Citizen Legrand (I think that then you may have given us a different name), I understood you to be completely convinced that my cousin and I were up to some… that we were cutting up dead bodies in the pursuit of some kind of black magic. But I want to tell you that was not the case at all… and it occurs to me that now, meeting Citizen Radcliffe here with me, you may believe he is also involved in that sort of wickedness. But the accusation is not true of either of us. I can explain."

  Slowly the supine man shook his head. "I make no accusations. You may have noticed that I offer no reason for my own presence in the graveyard."

  Melanie Remain looked at her patient—if it was still possible to call him her patient—carefully, studying him for the space of several breaths. Then she said: "I do not think you were there on any business of witchcraft either."

  "Certainly I was not." There was more than a touch of asperity in the answer.

  And somehow, without either party seeming to be fully aware of the fact, he had taken her hand in both of his, and had absently begun to stroke her wrist, a procedure to which she made no objection—indeed, she hardly seemed to notice.

  Then abruptly he released the hand of the young woman, saying: "And it is all one to me, whatever the cause may be for your unusual interest in the bodies of the dead."

  Meanwhile the young servant girl, who was still faithfully holding the light, had inched a little closer, and a little closer still. She continued watching in silence, fascinated. Her gaze had become locked on the dark eyes of the man lying on the floor, who was taking no notice of her at all.

  Melanie too was gazing intently at the visitor, and now she shook her head decisively. "I see you do not believe me, M'sieu Legrand, when I protest my cousin's innocence and mine. But I tell you no, it is not what you are thinking. Some deluded folk may still believe that bits of flesh and bone cut from rotting corpses have magical value, but to me that is all superstition. Did I say anything to you at the time, to give you the wrong impression?"

  The man who reclined on the floor shook his head again. Once more he raised himself a little on one elbow, and his voice strengthened. "It makes no difference to me what you said then, and I have told you that I require no explanations now. You and your cousin Marie may dig up all the dead bodies in the world, and play games with all the loose heads—my only concern is that nothing you do will bring harm to our host. I now owe my life to M'sieu Radcliffe. I heard him swear to defend me against my enemies. In my time I have heard many men swear many things, and I believe I can tell which ones mean what they are saying. I can do no less for him in return."

  Melanie blinked. "But I have no intention of harming him."

  "Good. Then you will readily comprehend that he should not become involved in any dangerous graveyard operations—whatever their object." Legrand's voice suddenly sharpened. "Is he connected with such matters now?"

  "No!" The young woman was quietly vehement. "He knows nothing about my cemetery work."

  "Good. And I think it will be well if he remains in ignorance… you see, from this day forth I am bound to take a strong interest in the welfare of Monsieur Radcliffe. It has become a matter of honor for me. So I should like to have your assurance that you, whatever your other interests may be, will do him no harm."

  For a moment the young woman appeared confused. Then she shook her head in silence, but quickly and eloquently; the gesture indicated, as convincingly as any words, that doing any damage to their host was indeed the farthest thing from her thoughts.

  The wounded man let himself sink back, so that again he lay flat on the floor. For the moment he was satisfied. And he was very tired.

  And also his need of nourishment was, growing steadily stronger.

  As his two visitors were leaving him to his rest, his gaze flicked restlessly from Melanie's back to fasten on the enthralled eyes of the servant girl. The girl's bare feet were barely moving, and it almost seemed that she did not intend to leave the room at all.

  Whatever the sources (in fact there were more than one; but we need not go into details) of the good red food that over a matter of a few hours became available
to the vampire, the strengthening effect was immediate and strong.

  Radcliffe, when he saw his guest again early the next morning, blinked at the remarkable transformation. This hardly seemed like the same man who had staggered up to the door at the point of death. Health and vigor had been amazingly restored; in fact the visitor actually appeared to have grown younger overnight.

  "You are feeling better, then, M'sieu Legrand?" the American asked, thinking even as he posed the question that it was obviously unnecessary.

  The lithe figure, in its stained and tattered clothing, bowed. "Very much so, thank you. Thanks to your hospitality. This evening I shall be on my way."

  Vlad Dracula, in conversation with his brave host, declining to share the last of the wine, mixed with some local well water—the fact that it was now breakfast-time was a good excuse—referred again to his passing acquaintance with Radcliffe's father, Benjamin Franklin.

  The two men then exchanged some admiring comments regarding the great man, and Dracula repeated some of the conversation which had once passed between himself and Franklin.

  With my strength restored, slightly more than twenty-four hours after my arrival, I prepared to depart. It was a cloudy day, and from the stock of clothing left to molder in the house's wardrobes I borrowed a broad-brimmed hat and cloak. From the stable I took a horse, which I paid for generously, in gold coin.

  To Radcliffe I extended my hand and said: "Chevalier, I owe you my life." Then, thinking that Radu and his people were very possibly on my trail, with murderous intent, I added solemnly: I advise you to leave this house promptly, and not to return at any time soon."

  "I am no chevalier, but an American."

  I accepted the correction with a slight bow. "Still, my suggestion stands, M'sieu Radcliffe."

  "You give me good counsel, which only confirms my own plan, which is to depart for Paris within the hour. As for what you think you owe me, I would have done as much for anyone." Then the American paused to think about it. "Almost anyone," he amended.

  "Nevertheless, Philip Radcliffe, I shall not forget the debt."

  We shook hands firmly.

  And I bowed to the young lady, Melanie Remain, who had come downstairs and out into the dooryard, to see me off. She looked a trifle pale, and serious. I thanked her gravely for her help.

  I felt a natural kinship with the aristocracy. But I quite agreed with Radcliffe that if this French aristocracy cared nothing for the welfare of the people they ruled, and ignored all the people's problems, they had only themselves to blame for the Revolution.

  We shook hands once more and I took my departure, after gracefully declining a last suggestion that perhaps we would be better off traveling together.

  When they had watched their visitor out of sight, Philip said to the lady standing beside him: "A strange man."

  "Very strange," she agreed thoughtfully.

  Meanwhile, Old Jules's granddaughter, who had come out to gaze after the visitor's departing form, raised one hand to touch the scarf which, Philip noted, she had put round her throat, against the morning chill. She had found it somewhere in the house, he supposed, and maybe it had once been his mother's. But let the poor child have it now; she certainly deserved something for her loyalty.

  Yes, Marguerite was looking a little pale this morning, though otherwise cheerful and well-satisfied enough. She was humming a little song as she went cheerfully about her voluntary chores. Radcliffe decided that he had better pay her a little something, besides the scarf, before he left for Paris.

  Chapter Fifteen

  After doing his best to provide their mysterious wounded visitor with all the help that he was willing to accept, Philip Radcliffe had found himself a decent-looking bed, not too dusty, in one of the upstairs rooms, and had slipped off his boots and thrown himself down. His plan was to rest for perhaps half an hour before making final preparations for an early resumption of his journey to Paris.

  He awakened in the late afternoon, feeling that he had slept for hours. Guilt at his tardiness was ameliorated by an accompanying practical conviction that the sleep had been essential.

  Travel and nervous strain had left him more exhausted than he had realized. After a good sleep, the problems of the world, even those of Revolutionary France, looked considerably less formidable.

  He awoke to find Melanie in his room standing over his bed, looking at him with what he thought was a strange expression.

  "I thought I heard you stirring," she said. Vaguely Radcliffe noticed the servant girl, Marguerite, hovering in the doorway.

  Melanie, her impatience showing, half-apologetically urged her new companion to start for Paris. They could cover a considerable distance before nightfall.

  "Of course." He sprang up, feeling vaguely embarrassed and apologetic, and looked around for his boots. He rubbed his eyes. "Did you get any sleep?"

  "Not a great deal. But I think enough. To be able to talk for a few hours with an old friend, a sympathetic listener, was perhaps better for me than sleep."

  He went to the window and drew a deep breath. There had been rain, and the whole world now smelled clean and new.

  In the glow of approaching sunset, Old Jules and his granddaughter were preparing some kind of meal, consisting largely of eggs and bread and a little cheese. There was also some honey; evidently the bees were on the job. Jules said the pond had been yielding fish, but he'd had no luck there today.

  Radcliffe, accompanied by his fair companion, took a last walk upstairs and down through the old manor house, and looked around.

  Again it struck him: How the house seemed to have shrunk since then!

  Carrying a loaded flintlock pistol, and looking warily about him, Radcliffe walked out into the farmyard, and took note of the absence of any livestock worthy of mention.

  The current de facto master of the house wondered about his strange, and strangely injured, guest. There were things about the man that Radcliffe did not understand. The bandages Melanie had applied yesterday had already been discarded today.

  They found the discarded bandages, the ones Melanie had thrown away last night, when she saw that they were no longer needed. There was surprisingly little blood on the cloth—only a faint brownish stain that vanished mysteriously on being exposed to sunlight.

  "Did you wash these, Marguerite?"

  "No ma'am." The girl sounded surprised at the question. Who would wash such rags? Her eyes were sleepy, and her thoughts seemed to be elsewhere.

  One of the responsibilities his mother had tried to charge Philip with, when she had heard that he might be visiting the old family estate, had been to do what he could for some of the old family retainers, or at least to see what might have happened to them.

  Radcliffe had left Philadelphia with some idea of perhaps being able to evaluate this property. But once he had been confronted with the reality of Revolutionary France, any such plans were quickly forgotten. Obviously the lands and what was left of the buildings were worthless under these conditions. What they might be worth in the future, or who was going to possess them, seemed impossible to guess. And the old family retainers, with the exception of Jules and his granddaughter, were dead or gone away.

  Not that he had forgotten for a moment his main purpose in coming to Europe and to France: He was charged with carrying out a particular and confidential mission for the fledgling government in America. More precisely, for one of its leaders—Washington himself.

  Radcliffe now hinted at something of the kind to Melanie. Once in Paris, his duty would require him to see Tom Paine, and communicate some message to him.

  Tom Paine, the English-American internationally honored in revolutionary circles, was now (along with Washington and others) an honorary citizen of France. Lately Paine had even been made a member of the Convention, the ruling legislature of the new French government that called itself republican. The man who had been king had been beheaded, more than a year ago, despite Paine's suggestion that Citizen Louis Capet
had better be exiled to America, where he could learn the truth about democracy and the nature of republican government.

  Radcliffe tapped his pocket, in which he was carrying, besides his own written invitation, a sealed letter addressed to Paine.

  The sealed letter was in fact a private plea, from Washington himself, couched in diplomatic language, urging Paine to stop making an ass of himself, and sever his connection with the crazy men who were generally giving the idea of revolution a bad name, and were irritating the English unnecessarily.

  Melanie simply nodded. No intelligent, politically conscious Frenchwoman needed the identity or importance of Tom Paine explained to her.

  God knew, Philip didn't blame the peasants of France for revolting. Not after all the stories of starvation and maltreatment he had heard in the short time since he had arrived in the country. Many thousands had gone hungry, millions had been treated like animals under the old regime. But during the few years since the fall of the Bastille, the new stories of mass beheadings and worse were deeply disturbing. Surely human rights and justice were not to be established by turning into savage animals. Humanity ought to mean more than finding a new and painless method of capital punishment…

  Philip continued trying to gather information about the political situation from old Jules, as well from Melanie. Radcliffe hadn't been in Paris for many years, having come directly to the estate from some seaport town, after a surreptitious landing in a small boat on the beach.

  "In Paris, things will be different." His voice sounded confident, though he could no longer feel sure of that.

  "That may be, Citizen." The old man, who had probably never in his life been more than two or three miles from where he was born, let alone to the big city, scratched his head, sounding dubious.

  Philip clung to the idea that he would have much less reason to worry about his own personal safety once he had reached the city. Here in the countryside, barbarism reigned.

  But in Paris he would be respected, given a hearing, as an American and an acquaintance—perhaps he could even claim to be a friend—of Paine.