Julius was furious with himself for his lack of sensitivity (or something). What had he become? What still worse creature might he become given time? It was the Frankenstein family curse: first making monsters, then making monsters of themselves. That ancestral legacy followed him everywhere like a cloud; a big black cloud cancelling every holiday from care.
Anger (like all energy) cannot be destroyed, merely diverted. This particular fiery bolt ricocheted off towards Lady Lovelace. Julius permitted himself a scoff at Ada’s expense, resuming their last serious exchange as though the Duck Island nonsense had never been.
‘So, you plan—no, intend—to conquer the deities of chance, do you? ‘Just as soon as’ is it, madam? Really? And when might that be? And how?’
Anger aside, up till then they had remained arm-in-arm for cover’s sake. Now Ada dared to disengage and turned to face him. Frankenstein ‘ahemed’ and gestured she should remember who—and what—she was.
To no avail. There Lady Lovelace stood, hands on scarlet silken hips, regarding him as though he were the king—nay, emperor—of idiots.
‘‘When’?’ she shot back. ‘When? Well, when you’ve got me my spark back, of course.’
Chapter 7: DEAD MAN WALKING
‘Is there anything else you can tell me? The slightest scrap?’
France’s Minister of Police had aquatic eyes, cold and watery as a fish. They blinked behind their rimless glasses when no reply came.
A interrogator brandishing pliers stepped up but the Minster waved him away. That was not the best way with this prisoner: different dogs itched in different places.
The Minister cleared his throat: polite, almost apologetic, about his persistence in probing.
‘It is a matter of some import. Consider this: you are in no fit state to judge what is relevant or not. Moreover, this is a issue for consideration by someone imbued with civic virtue, someone with humanity’s best interests at heart: in short a citizen of the glorious French Republic—which you, of course, no longer are...’
Touché! The doomed man awoke from reverie and lifted his head. He looked up at the Minister through a curtain of matted hair.
‘There you are wrong, monsieur,’ he said, in gasps. ‘Wrong! No matter what your tribunal says, I shall be a citizen until my dying breath!’
He had been harshly treated, both before and after condemnation. His half-healed wound had re-opened, patterning his prison shirt with blood. Only the trial itself (a rushed five minute fiasco) had not presented opportunities for mental and physical violence against him. Now, contesting the verdict of the sacred State took what little reserves the prisoner had left. His chains barely shifted.
‘Alas,’ said the Minister, consulting his pocket watch, ‘that ‘breath’ you refer to is mere hours away. Meanwhile, I implore you to ponder, to review recent events: is there not some residual snippet? Some last service to render to the Republic?’
Actually, any such service would not be his absolute last. Not from some perspectives. The flow of bodies from Madame Guillotine was too bounteous to commit to the grave. In short order this man must rise again as a ‘New-Citizen’—or Lazaran as enemy nations disparaged them. With permanent semblance of a red ribbon round his neck, he would take his place amongst myriad others, whether it be as a foot-soldier or undead ploughboy.
Let the Church and other reactionaries protest as they will, The Minister could not see anything wrong in it. Nature recycled all that it created, and the Convention sensibly emulated Nature. It was both virtuous and instructive that former enemies of the State might make good for their life’s misdeeds in the only after-life the State believed in.
More thorough-going than his masters, Minister of Police Joseph Fouché believed in nothing: not a single thing. Through a varied past as priest, then politician, then revolutionary, terrorist, Bonapartist, Royalist and now servant of the Convention, no cobweb of belief had ever bound him. He loved his wife and children and thought that quite enough idealism for one lifetime.
Being blessed with such remarkable freedom of action proved the launch-pad of a glittering career. Fouché saw but didn’t share the strings controlling those afflicted with ‘values.’ That enabled him to make them dance to his tune.
Like here, for instance. If this condemned wretch were not a believer, indeed, a fanatic, he would be beyond recall. The blade that would part him from life was being oiled for action even as they spoke. He had nothing left to lose and more torture would only spoil him as a spectacle for the Place de la Guillotine mob. So, in one—highly technical—sense he should be safe from harm.
Yet that same fanatic spirit which had made him suitable to be sent to England en mission meant he was still reachable. Though facing the just penalty for having failed, binding ties to an earthly cause meant use could be made of him yet.
The man was thinking. Not of matters more fitting to his predicament, but of ephemeral things, sole concerns of the world he was about to leave behind. Light returned to his eyes. Fouché leant low.
‘There may be one thing...,’ said the prisoner, dredging deep for one last reprise of his life-role as elite soldier of the State.
‘Good, good...,’ anticipated Fouché, taking out a dainty gold-clad notepad. He twisted its matching pencil till lead appeared and stood poised to record.
‘It was when we were reconnoitring. A man-servant told me an alehouse tale. He was bitter; angry: loyal to an aristo family displaced from their château. Yes! I recall: it seemed just black bile at the time, but not I’m not so sure. It was he who also gave me the drugged wine and dead-boys plot—and that all came true, didn’t it...’
‘Permit me to be the judge of that...,’ Fouché whispered into his ear, scribbling away at the same time. He was more aroused than the marital bed ever made him.
The prisoner obediently trotted back from interpretation to reportage.
‘This English lackey said the Arch-Traitor was distracted for days. ‘Smooth as a plate, normally, but not no more’: those were his actual words, I swear. He was a serf, a lickspittle of counter-revolution, and so I did not attach weight to his views. Was I at fault? ‘Facts yes, opinion no’: that is what we were taught at the ecole privé...’
The Republic-wide chain of state schools for France’s teeming war orphans raised dependable but inflexible products: a combination that could be both strength and weakness. The Convention’s best minds had wrestled with that conundrum in vain.
‘Nevertheless,’ Fouché hushed him, ‘on this occasion, I should like to hear the vile wretch’s opinion.’
The prisoner revisited recent days: from miraculous survival and escape, to return to inevitable death. He recounted from memory:
‘The man overheard the Arch-Traitor talking to himself, when he believed himself alone.’
‘And... and...?’ Fouché’s anticipation was almost erotic.
‘I do not have the precise words, but apparently the Arch-Traitor said something to the effect that ‘this was the plan that would make or break him.’ Then the servant heard him pray—actually pray—for success—and then laugh!’
Fouché wrote it all down and then stood up straight. He exhaled deeply.
‘You did not report this.’
‘I was wounded and in a fever, Minister. Also, the debrief on my return was not... gentle. It seemed nothing; not even a tassel on the great tapestry of my other news.’
Fouché nodded understandingly.
‘Just so. Is there more?’
‘None, minister. You have everything.’
How true, how true. Joseph Fouché, Minister of Police, Duke of Otranto, Prince of Elyria, father of four, and now possessor of this priceless gem of intelligence, reflected that, yes, he did indeed have everything. The Convention, his nominal masters, hearing some of this, would be pleased with him. His real master (other than himself) would praise and possibly promote him. It was a lovely feeling. Too good for words.
Therefore, he wordlessly beckoned the
Revolutionary Guards forward, and in silence signalled they should kill the prisoner now.
* * *
Two weeks before, back when the prisoner was still an agent and had a whole fortnight left to live, he was far away from that grim Parisian condemned cell. Likewise, though a frequent business visitor to the Nouvelle Bastille in the past, he was then merely aware of, but unacquainted with, its tears and stoicism soaked ‘special rooms’ where he’d be worked over and murdered.
Specifically, two weeks ago the Sun still shone on him and his blissful ignorance, whilst he hid in an hedge shielding the privacy of a mansion in England. Formal gardens were all around and a gravel drive beside him. In the middle distance the North Downs loomed, adding perspective to the pretensions of the house. Those chalk hills were here before it and would remain so after.
That thought pleased the waiting man. Injustice was not eternal. Also, he was gratified to have his fellow agents beside him, similarly concealed to the best of their elite abilities. He felt as reassured as a revolutionary cadre on active service reasonably could be in this very epicentre of black reaction.
If his brothers and sisters in arms didn’t know their orders by now they never would. Therefore the prisoner-to-be had nothing to say to them save exhortation.
‘Citizens,’ he whispered softly, but with fervour, ‘The spirit of History is watching: do not disappoint it. What is there to fear? Death is but an eternal sleep! Vive la Republic!’
Those with him, live and Revived alike, mouthed the salutation back.
‘Vive la Republic!’
It was the golden cliff-hanger spell between summer evening and summer dusk. Slap in the middle of that time when humble folk had meals to attend to in their own homes, but before the gentry answered invitations to dine. Only a few carriages hung around the main entrance, their drivers deep in chat or day-dreams. The mission enfilade had managed to worm their way close without detection.
Its captain, the prisoner-in-prospect, looked at the blue sky overarching him and all men. He knew for a fact there was no eternal eye watching: merely the moon, eight planets, a few thousand stars, and then space for infinity; all signifying nothing. Only the Republic had weight and reality. It was both the vanguard and epitome of mankind. What was one man’s life compared to that? It was a privilege to have been raised to make sacrifice to it.
Here, at the likely end of things, he had found certainty. It felt like armour.
So, if not now, then when?
‘En avant!’ he hissed.
The doomed man emerged from the foliage and shot the guard before Loseley House’s front entrance.
Chapter 8: A CRAVAT INTERRUPTED
‘What is the description of the perfect minister for foreign affairs? A sort of instinct, always prompting him, should prevent him from compromising himself in any discussion. He must have the faculty of appearing open, while remaining impenetrable, of masking reserve with the manner of careless abandon; of showing talent even in the choice of his amusements. His conversation should be simple, varied, unexpected, always natural and sometimes naïve; in a word, he should never cease for an instant during the twenty-four hours to be a Minister for Foreign Affairs.
‘Yet all these qualities, rare as they are, might not suffice, if good faith did not give them the guarantee which they almost always require. Here there is the one thing I must say, in order to destroy a widely spread prejudice: no, diplomacy is not a science of deceit and duplicity. If good faith is necessary anywhere it is above all in political transactions, for it is that which makes them firm and lasting. People have made the mistake of confusing reserve with deceit. Good faith never authorises deceit but it admits of reserve; and reserve has this peculiarity that it inspires confidence.’
From Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord’s eulogy (delivered in absentia) for Baron Charles-Frédéric Reinhard (1761-1837), his immediate predecessor as Ministére des Affaires Étrangères (July to November 1799). Presented at the Conventionary Institute of France, March 3 1837.
* * *
Shooting? At this hour? What a bore!
The Prince de Beavente, Lord Vectis, Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Perigord, was disturbed during the second most important part of his day. Only the morning fitting of his silken cravat outranked having his hair dressed for dinner. How tiresome it was for this crucial moment—or hour—to be disrupted by gunfire! And in the sacred sanctum of his dressing room as well!
One member of the massed servantry legged it straightaway, off without a word and at speed through the far door connecting to the bedroom. Talleyrand pursed his lips in disapproval—no one need ever mention him again!
The balance stayed but were dismayed. Minor musketry they could live with (the local gentry were always murdering animals for sport), but this was developing into an early Guy Fawkes night. From beyond the now ajar door and not so far away, cries and angry men’s voices were adding to the mix of single shots and massed volleys. There was nothing within either designed to provide comfort.
So, Talleyrand provided it. Aside from allowing them to turn him to face the fracas, he shifted not an inch, bolt upright in the ornate chair before the dressing table, still apparently awaiting the application of curling tongs and wig-powder.
‘Some callers,’ he said, quite unafraid, ‘have no manners! I’ve half a mind to quite refuse to see them!’
A few laughed nervously. Others—the serious waverers—said nothing. Talleyrand laboured under no illusion (of any sort): the local labour bore no great love for him, for all his open-handedness and gentle yoke. They still bore a torch for their previous masters, the More family, turfed out after half a millennia of residency to make way for this foreign turncoat. Meanwhile, his French staff were just wig-combers and coat-brushers, the merest candyfloss of the human family. Not one would stand between him and an assassin’s bullet.
Why should they? Talleyrand entirely understood and bore no grudge. They were material creatures, of limited duration, inhabiting a material world. Excess expectations of humanity only brought melancholy in its train. He would be the same in their position.
Nearer now, much nearer, came the sound of swordplay, of sparks being struck off sabres and metal applied to fragile fresh. Several more servants melted away.
‘Come with me, sir,’ said the Prince’s senior cravat folder. ‘We may yet escape through the kitchens...’
He meant well but Talleyrand frowned at him. He had never, even in extreme youth, so lowered himself as to run, and didn’t intend to sample such dubious delights now. Quite apart from anything else, his club foot debarred him from having both haste and poise. Better death than even a moment without dignity.
‘A thousand pardons, highness...,’ said the flunky, remembering whom he addressed. Talleyrand graciously waved all remembrance of the faux pas away and remained sitting calmly to await Fate’s decree.
Loseley House had a garrison of guards—elements of the famed ‘Scots Guards,’ to be precise. Dark, dour, men with an distressing propensity for wearing colourful skirts. Loseley locals termed them the ‘poison dwarfs.’ Talleyrand, though a tolerant man, and never for a second doubting their professional skills, always requested they kept out of sight when his friends called.
Yet, despite the suddenness of this attack it was clear they were in plain view now. Interspersed with the sounds of combat could be heard their peculiar variant of the English language, expressing orders, protests at pain and some rather wince-worthy profanity.
Talleyrand tutted.
‘I can understand men wishing to kill one another,’ he observed to the company, ‘but surely there’s no need to be rude about it...’
The Prince also had two Home Office bodyguards allocated to him, though they chanced to be elsewhere when this present unpleasantness began. Talleyrand had every confidence they were now making best efforts to be with him, but he wouldn’t weep over their non-arrival. He suspected the grim duo had orders he should not fall into enemy ha
nds alive. In the present context they were a decidedly two-edged weapon.
Likewise, the Loseley Estate and adjacent Littleton boasted a force of militia, as did every last hamlet in modern militarised Britain, but it was highly debatable they would influence events. For one thing, most would be scattered across fields and farms, far from the action. Secondly, it was necessary that they be willing to arrive. Foreign invasion was one thing, but saving a ‘furriner’ another.
Yet, in the distance the Prince heard St Francis’ church bell begin to ring. So, now that the alarm had been raised some response might—indeed, could—be expected. The State required a return on those muskets provided gratis to every (trusted) homestead, and if no one in the locale stirred then questions would be raised. Conscription-for-life-if-you-answer-wrong sort of questions. Therefore, loyal Littleton would soon be on their way.
Too late. Beneath his unconcerned facade, Talleyrand’s keen ear detected a silence in the lower house. The enemy had passed through there and prevailed. Now the maelstrom was up the main stairs and onto the landing. It appeared that the invaders had precise knowledge of where they wanted to go. The West Wing and Chapel, the expanse and charm of the Great Hall with its family portraits and stags’ heads, tempted them not at all. They were an arrow travelling direct at a pre-selected target.
Footsteps thundered along the corridor leading to Talleyrand’s boudoir. A Scottish voice rose above the clatter to roar ‘fire!’
Following the storm heavy objects thumped the floor hard. A French voice in pain called for his mamam.
After the briefest of interludes a counter volley sounded. A bullet penetrated the bedroom door and ricocheted round to explore the room. Beyond, there were Caledonian howls.
Frankenstein's Legions Page 7
