If so, they were the only dusty thing about Frankenstein by then. Though a fastidious man by nature he was now cleaner than ever before. He stood there dripping water and indignation.
The captain of the bath approached—and approached—and approached yet again, until far too close for European comfort. If this were Switzerland and the bath-captain a wench, they would have been deemed engaged.
The man then inflicted further rudeness via a series of sniffs over Julius at point blank range. Which in turn permitted—in fact forced—Frankenstein to notice that, scent-wise, Bath-captain didn’t exist. Even the air round him had more character and he was just a void in its normality.
Julius had passed his life to date amidst privileged circles where cleanliness, if not Godliness, was becoming de rigueur, yet such high standards as this struck him as extreme; even unnatural...
Which, he then realised, was a silly thought. In his dictated, not chosen, profession of defying death, the unnatural was natural. How much longer must he go on tormenting himself by noticing it? Those who no longer cared were so much happier men...
But it was no good. He had to scratch the itch. A power stronger than willpower made him ask.
‘What was the point of all—?’ he said, or started to say, but desisted when it became clear no one was interested in Julius any more. He doubted they even heard him. Odourless Bath-captain was indicating the next set of doors.
‘Go in there and dry off,’ he ordered, and then turned away. He and his team had a new mission. A marshal of the Grande Armée had just entered the room as Julius had earlier. All attention was focused on this new visitor from the unclean.
‘Disrobe, monsieur,’ the marshal was told. ‘Abandon yourself to our ministrations.’
* * *
Frankenstein let himself out and entered into an sunlit chamber. Floor to ceiling windows flooded it with light to the furthest corners and, as if that did not suffice, the three other walls held polished metal sheets to reflect the rays.
Otherwise the place was empty, devoid of the slightest distraction, but its purpose did not take much deducting. Still dripping water onto the floor, Julius crossed to its centre and basked in the beams. Soon he could feel rapid evaporation underway, plus that revival of animal spirits the sun’s kiss always brings.
Without even a towel to cover his nakedness or supply a fig leaf of normality, Frankenstein felt open to fresh perspectives. The one visible through the high windows seemed an obvious staring point.
Squinting against the sun, he looked into the ornamental gardens stretching into the purple distance. Closer to, the aforementioned peacocks scattered before marching squads of soldiers or other, more casual but still uniformed, strollers. Behind and unseen there was the impression of architectural bulk.
Not that he had any need to rely on intuition. Julius had observed Versailles’ exterior from the coach that brought him there. He instantly recognised the place from numerous prints. Then he’d covertly timed the ride from the first gatehouse beside the road, through interminable security points, and finally, much later, to the front entrance. That and his long walk from there to the bathing room amply confirmed that this was a big palace, a little city in itself. He’d given up as a fruitless exercise counting the rooms and halls and guards and chamberlains en route. Suffice to say, such establishments occupied enough of God’s creation to make their own rules, and visitors simply had to fit in with them.
Surrendering to the flow and a comforting lack of thought, Julius raised his arms like a bird preparing for flight. The sun fell on his skin in a passionate embrace, finally lifting off all excess moisture.
Which was how the next-in-line chamberlain found him, entering the room by a door cunningly concealed in the metalled wall. He wore not gold braid or colourful silk but a garment akin to a toga. It looked light and blindingly white. He carried an identical copy in his arms.
Fancy dress was the final straw. Frankenstein was moved to protest.
‘I am an hygienic man!’ he said. ‘I bathe once a week whether I need to or not. What on earth is all this in aid of?’
This chamberlain waggled his hand equivocally.
‘”On Earth”? I’m not so sure. However, put this on, monsieur, and soon all will be made clear. Then he will see you.’
Chapter 5: BEHOLD THE (FORMER) MAN
‘The first and the last, by the wrath of Heaven, Emperor of the Jacobins, Protector of the Confederacy of Rogues, Mediator of the Hellish League, Grand Cross of the Legion of Horror, Commander in Chief of the Legions of skeletons left at Moscow, Smolensk, Leipzig and etc. Head Runner of Runaways, Mock High-Priest of the Sanhedrin,, Mock Prophet of the Musselmen, Mock Pillar of the True Faith, Inventor of the Syrian Method of disposing of his own sick and wounded by sleeping draughts, or of captured enemies by the bayonet. First Gravedigger for burying alive, Chief Gaoler of the Holy Father and the King of Spain, Destroyer of crowns and manufacturer of counts, dukes, princes and kings. Chief Douanier of the Continental System, Head Butcher of the Parisian and Toulouse massacres, murderer of Hoffer, Palm., Wright, and yea of his own Prince, the noble and virtuous Duke of Enghien, and of a thousand others. Kidnaper of ambassadors, High Admiral of the Invasion barges and praams, Cup-bearer of the Jaffa poison, Arch-Chancellor of waste-paper treaties, Arch-Treasurer of the plunder of the world, the Sanguinary Coxcomb, assassin and incendiary. Werewolf of Europe, the BONEYMAN...’
Text of a poster widely distributed throughout occupied Europe. Much copied but supposedly from an original supplied by His Majesty’s Britannic Government.
* * *
‘He’ proved to be a mere two more chambers, plus a host of highly professional guards and yet more searches (even of a near-nude man) away.
Then, finally:
The throne-room was modest considering what ‘he’ had conquered—not least Death. There was a throne and rich battle-scene tapestries, but not much else. It was the opulence of the field camp: rich stuff but thrown together, standing-by ready for swift departure.
‘Cleaner than he came from the womb,’ confirmed the chamberlain from the threshold. Then he withdrew, leaving them alone together.
Frankenstein could either surrender to awe or stand his ground. And it had to be the latter if his personality wasn’t to be blasted away, leaving him naked before the naked power manifested here.
So, Julius assumed a questioning face and plucked at his toga. To emphasise the point he also shook his still damp hair and the locks discharged a light rain of droplets onto the polished floor.
To Frankenstein’s pleasure, Napoleon actually shrank from their insignificant threat, seeking the further recesses of his throne. The panic lasted several seconds before he realised it didn’t look good
‘Disease...,’ ‘explained’ Napoleon. ‘There must be no germs! The living crawl with them! And filth. Filth breeds pestilence. Pestilence brings death. I cannot afford to die again: not before my work is done. Not when I was only brought back with such pain...’
Wrestling from the grip of strong emotions, Napoleon recalled he should be playing host. An all-powerful, condescending, host at that.
‘So you understand the need?’ he asked Frankenstein, semi politely. ‘For the cleansing, the... manhandling?’
He did indeed. ‘Misinformed,’ concluded Julius to himself, accompanied by relief. ‘Plus scientifically ignorant. And therefore fallible.’
‘Absolutely,’ he said.
To some small extent it meant he could now stand at ease before the Revived Emperor. Also, the puzzling minimalist decor was explained: less places for pesky ‘germs’ and ‘pestilence’ to lurk.
In fact, Frankenstein had had his suspicions, starting with the rough fetching from the Mausoleum. Only a daring enemy nation or one particular ego would dare slight the Convention so. That a certain elite regiment were sent to do it removed all doubt on the subject. England might have its Brigade of Guards but only a certain personage had the ‘Old Guard’:
veterans and sons of veterans of famous campaigns, at his disposal.
Even so, Julius now boggled at the sheer audacity—which was another clincher in itself. If even one of the raiders had been killed or wounded and left behind then all would have been revealed, as good as leaving a calling card. Arrogant in their excellence (and indulged in it by their master) they distinguished themselves with great sportive moustaches. Those that couldn’t grow them for any reason wore false ones.
Frankenstein had thus identified them from the first face at the window. They might have dispensed with their popinjay uniforms and bearskins that night but the lip furniture remained. Which in turn meant he who sent them was reckless of discovery. ‘He’ must calculate that the Convention needed him as much—perhaps more—than he needed them.
That thought made Frankenstein study this king-amongst Lazarans anew.
Amongst the first details Julius noticed was the length of his fingernails. Yellow and cracked, they curved over the arm-rest of the throne, precisely matching his skin-tone. And texture too.
Second shock was the angry purple marks around his scraggy Imperial neck. Frankenstein frowned. History said Bonaparte had died of natural causes, not hanging...
However, someone didn’t care for being scrutinised, even if it was by a doctor. Napoleon felt the need to re-establish just who was interviewing who.
‘Ahem…,’ he said. ‘Good day to you, herr Frankenstein.’
His voice was that of a vigorous leader of men—and didn’t belong in that prune-like body.
‘And good day to you too,’ replied Julius, ‘monsieur le...’ Then he hesitated, tripping over what might be the proper form.
Napoleon had compassion on him—which would have shocked his courtiers had any been present. He raised one yellow claw to wave away any embarrassment. The fingernails clattered.
‘Do not concern yourself. Beyond these walls to term me Emperor is a capital offence. Perhaps you knew that—although I somehow doubt it would influence your decision. However, here at home my old title is applied to me by my servants. I have no strong views on the subject. One has accumulated so many names in the course of an illustrious career. Use any of them that pleases you. Except the offensive variety of course...’
So that excluded ‘The Wolf of Europe’ and ‘The Great Butcher’ then. Not to mention ‘The Grave-ripped Abomination’ favoured by the British press.
A pity. Finally meeting the man in the flesh, as opposed to state portraits or caricatures, Frankenstein saw that the Times had it about right.
Speaking purely of the view, it had been no act of kindness to haul Napoleon Bonaparte back across the Great Divide—either to himself or others. Serum had worked wonders over and above the ‘mere’ restoring of life. However, in this case it wasn’t wonders but miracles that were required—and an unreasonable multitude of them.
The plain fact was that he’d laid in the grave too long between death on St Helena and the Convention’s decision to raise him. During those years decay had had its way and dried his flesh to leather. Serum could reverse some elements of death but not all. In fact, aesthetically speaking, the part-repairs only made matters worse.
Cumulatively, even Frankenstein, a medical man and someone who’d supped deep from Revivalist science’s cup of horrors, had trouble fixing his eye to the point. He found himself evading the Emperor’s gaze like some bashful maiden.
And the Emperor, who retained his sharp perceptions if not his former shape, noticed it.
‘You think I am not a pretty sight, no?
‘Why,’ Julius thought, ‘should I degrade myself by denying it?’
‘No,’ he said, not in any wounding way but as statement of fact. He’d always strived to be honest with the Lazarans from his own laboratory, going against his nature by being cruel to be kind.
No other answer was permissible re the risen Emperor. A desiccated, jaundiced, frog was the closest description Julius could come to. The man was naked—no dirt-harbouring toga for him—and his body was bleached and alternatively bloated or collapsed. Also hairless, save for atop where the lank locks and kiss curl familiar from all his portraits survived. Plus, of course, the eyes. Their fire remained. Indeed they positively burned.
‘No more need to say ‘not tonight, Josephine,’ eh?’ prompted the Emperor, rubbing salt into his own wounds. ‘No woman, not even my dear departed and so ambitious Josephine would approach me now. Not without spewing her stomach contents. Don’t you agree?’
Actually Julius didn’t. Rather shockingly, he found his take on human nature even more cynical than Bonaparte’s.
‘Maybe some that I’ve met might,’ he ventured. ‘If sufficiently rewarded.’
Perhaps the Emperor liked contradiction—in moderation. Maybe it made a change from the army of yes-men in his palace. Whatever the reason, he smiled.
‘That could be so,’ he replied. ‘One should never underestimate the aphrodisiac charms of power. But you are beyond seduction I see. Which surprises me. You are a doctor, even a famous one, dipped deep in Revivalism; surely you have seen worse than me?’
Frankenstein cursed his stubborn integrity. One day it was going to land him in the embrace of Madame Guillotine. Nevertheless…
‘No,’ he said. ‘Not often.’
Napoleon sighed. Those sections of his rib-cage still responding to stimuli heaved.
‘At least you are honest,’ he answered, after a tense pause. ‘It is a contrast. Last month some greaser from the Convention told me I was a fine figure of a man—“for my age”.’
‘Really?’ said Julius. Again that was one word so vastly richer in English than French. Inflection meant it could carry a whole array of meanings, all subtly different. But not so in their current tongue. The Emperor merely thought his anecdote doubted.
‘Tis true!’ he replied. ‘What a creeping merde-mouth he was! So I have arranged for his transfer to the Russian front. There instructions are given that he be permitted to experience the very fullness of events…’
‘Vindictive’ concluded Julius. He wondered again with fresh urgency if there was any brake mechanism on his own wayward words.
‘And lest the relevant calculation clog your thoughts at this vital time,’ the Emperor pressed on, ‘pray let me enlighten you about my ‘age.’ Nigh seventy years: that’s how long I’ve lived—if you include nearly nine in the tomb. Which equalled nine years of absolute nothingness, in case you were wondering...’
In fact Frankenstein was. Every Revivalist did, however much they pretended otherwise and professed to be wearied by the subject. Much of popular acceptance of Revivalism, contrary to the rulings of the Church and some states, stemmed from that: the outside hope that one day the big question might be answered. People couldn’t help themselves. Julius had even taxed Lady Lovelace on the subject, as he would every Lazaran capable of a sensible answer until the day finally came for Frankenstein to find out for himself first hand.
‘It signifies nothing,’ he said, to comfort the Emperor. ‘Everyone says the same…’
The bulging eyes returned from their wondering study of the room. They blazed at Julius.
‘Imbecile! I am not ‘everyone.’ Do you delude yourself? Do you insult me by thinking that might be so? Think again little man, and think quick. Of course I expected different for myself! Heaven should have flung open its doors to me!’
‘Or the other place’ thought Julius, unable to help himself and concerned lest it communicate to his face. He was under no illusion; a storm had broken out of a clear sky and its thunderbolts might well strike him.
‘First glory here, then glory ever after,’ the little Lazaran ranted on. ‘That was my expectation: my due! That would have been justice. I will not endure injustice!’
Then Julius decided: ‘What the hell….’ He might as well go due to a conscious comment as an inadvertent one. Let this warmed-up Zeus throw lightning if he liked.
‘Injustice is the lot of mortal men,’ he cou
ntered. ‘In all times and in all places. Of all men…’
There, he had said it. It was pleasing that his possible last words should be the honest truth.
But the anticipated explosion didn’t come; the fire in the eyes did not flare forth. The Emperor subsided back into the throne.
‘All mortal men,’ he echoed, suddenly calm sounding again. Only the eyes maintained the malevolence.
On balance, Frankenstein decided he preferred the rant mode. This ‘quiet and rational’ mood was probably more hazard rich.
However, it was left at that. The Emperor splayed his fingers over the arms of his throne and subsided into its uncomfortable opulence.
‘I think I may come to like you,’ he said eventually. ‘Maybe. You have backbone. Or is it impudence?’
Frankenstein inclined his head in minimalist bow.
‘Modesty prevents me from reply,’ he said, ‘your highness…’
There, that was it. Thanks to lack of forethought he’d hit upon the right title. It fitted the person addressed but at the same time brought the speaker no discredit.
For most certainly this pale thing upon his throne was high above usual considerations. He had only to say ‘invade!’ and—subject to the Convention’s rubber stamp—whole armies, hundreds of thousands of men, would. He could ask of people ‘die for my cause—whatever it happens to be today’ and they would, also in their many thousands. He held true power. If that was not ‘highness’ in worldly terms, then what was?
The Emperor liked it too. He’d had every opportunity to wear out all the other honorifics. By happy accident, Julius had said the right thing. The preliminaries now over they could proceed to business.
‘So yes,’ the Emperor summed up, intending to curtail any flow of bogglement and blurted gratitude, ‘it was I who plucked you from the Mausoleum. And in such a witty manner, leaving the English with the blame, courtesy of a few expendable prisoners. Did you not suspect before? I mean, who else would dare?’
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