Almost to the last second he was minded to stand his ground and not make way. Then, in the space of that instant, the Egyptian realised Julius wasn’t going to slow. A Swiss missile was heading his way powered by disdain. The only alternative to being shouldered aside was to lose face.
The Egyptian twirled like a ballerina, or a whirling dervish with only one whirl in him. His remaining students gaped.
Julius Frankenstein gained the door—and an enemy.
Chapter 7: SUN-DRIED PROMOTION
Versailles had been beautiful once; superlative even: a crowning glory of European culture. But now the minds that made it that way were gone, replaced by men of a different mettle (and metal). Now functionality ruled and all the gloss and glory were scuffed. Any repairs or additions were inspired by the ‘it’ll do’ school of thought. Sheaves of muskets were stacked in gilt-drenched salons and the libraries were unloved and muffled by dust. Even the famed formal gardens walk now housed the NCOs’ latrines, hijacking its handy irrigation system.
In short, Versailles had been brought bang up to date and rough-married to modernity…
But there were still enclaves (or last stands) of the old grandeur, kept pristine for special purposes. Julius Frankenstein met a Minister of State in one and had a poison pen letter read to him…
‘…Furthermore, I beg to inform you that this interloper among proper scientists has not even brains enough to ascend to the level of incompetence. Between his ears a desert stretches and the wind whistles over its barren expanse without meaning or profit.
Indeed, excellency, I boldly cast doubt over his rightful claim to the illustrious Frankenstein family name. It may well be that he has murdered the true holder and assumed his identity! Or, in the unlikely event that his claims are true, then I can only commiserate with his afflicted kin and conclude, as they must have done, that even the finest stock can breed idiots.
So, sir, you know full well how I hunger and thirst to serve both science and our beloved Emperor. Therefore, I implore you—indeed, I even dare to say that you must—dismiss from the Imperial service this misbegotten block-headed Swiss. And since he now knows what he should not know, your excellencies may care to consider dispensing with his dubious talents in a manner which will forever seal his lips. It is not for me to suggest, let alone direct, but it is also nothing less than my sworn duty to call to your mind’s eye the image of our very own guillotine standing in the august Courtyard of Justice. You may well think it a neat and relevant image in the context of this satanic viper within our bosom who...’
Julius yawned. The man sitting opposite him reading the letter aloud looked up.
‘I should stop, monsieur?’ he asked, surprised. ‘You do not wish to hear the rest?’
Frankenstein finished patting the inadvertent gape. It cheered him to be courtly, even—or especially—in the face of mortal peril.
‘I am indifferent, sir,’ he said. ‘Do whichever is more agreeable to you. One was not listening in any case…’
There was something about this clammy bureaucrat that nagged at Julius. They’d not met before—he would have remembered that—but maybe his pale face had appeared in a news-sheet or the like. If so, identification remained illusive. Not that he was in any rush to strengthen their acquaintance.
Which was a pity from Julius’ point of view. Had he been less sickened by current affairs and paid more attention to their reporting, he might have recognised Joseph Fouché, the Convention’s Minister of Police. He might further have speculated why such a notable was representing the Emperor or talking to mere him—and thus had a feast of food for thought. As it was he was merely wary.
Minister Fouché nodded.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I had gained the impression of being ignored...’
Though he put emphasis in his voice it failed for being carried in such a sibilant whisper. Nothing would ever be gleaned from analysis of it.
Nevertheless, Julius recalled his obligations, even to such a repellent individual.
‘I apologise if I appear impolite, sir,’ he said. ‘I am not usually so arrogant seeming.’
The man adjusted his rimless glasses. Julius had speedily come to dislike those too. When the light hit them in a certain way it made their owner appear eyeless.
‘‘No?’ queried Fouché. ‘But surely, monsieur, your family heritage might justify a certain dignity, even pride...?’
Frankenstein preferred that the man remained still, for every move sent invisible waves of spiritual affliction his way. From the moment they’d met he’d felt himself to be in the presence of something terribly wrong. He’d raised Lazarans with healthier looking skin.
‘No,’ replied Julius, so firmly as to cut off that conversational road.
‘Then kindly explain your demeanour.’
Julius pointed at the letter.
‘Because,’ he said, ‘your man knows nothing.’
Fouché put on a show of being taken aback by such excessive candour, but Frankenstein believed not a single thing about him.
‘No?’ It was a request for confirmation rather than doubt.
‘No,’ Julius obliged. He was being very negative today—and keeping things clipped lest the unclean presence seize on something. ‘Nothing—or next to nothing.’
From a pocket of his shabby fawn frock-coat Fouché extracted a lady-like notepad. It was shod in gold and had a holster for a matching pencil to one side. The Minister made a ritual, perhaps even a sacrament, of opening at a pristine page and then twisting the writing stick till exactly the right amount of lead emerged.
Fouché licked the tip with a tongue that darted snake-like from between thin grey lips. Then he paused, poised.
‘ “Nothing”, Monsieur Frankenstein? Or next to nothing? Which is it? We require precision.’
There was not the slightest overt menace there—usually the default stance of much of the French apparatus. The bureaucrat seemed merely anxious to be enlightened.
Julius was not deceived. This particular cold-fish in human form was new to him, but the type was not. The man had consumed all his tedious debriefings, the sterile interrogations about Revivalism and the Compiegne and Heathrow establishments’ advances (or lack of them) which had gone before. He’d dined on the end product of that sausage-machine process and still deemed it worthy of a second helping. In short: a bore.
‘Let us settle on “next to nothing”,’ said Frankenstein. ‘By accident the Egyptian has stumbled upon a slight refinement of secondary processes. He does not understand the how or why. Hence all the vehemence of his attempts to hang on to favour.’
Notes were being made—more than the bare words warranted. People always find that perturbing and Frankenstein was moved to make conversation.
‘Where did you find him?’ he asked. ‘A medicine wagon at a country fayre?’
Fouché’s pen failed to falter. Nor did he look up.
‘No,’ he said. ‘It was in Egypt. He came recommended. And expensive. We took references. Be aware we are not that easily deceived, monsieur.’ It was a shot across the bow.
‘I see...’
‘Ah, but do you, monsieur? That is the question. Do you see? And speaking of you, I go on to ask: do you know nothing? Or next to nothing? Or maybe something?’
‘The last,’ Julius replied.
‘Really?’
‘I believe so.’
The Minister still only had eyes for his notepad. Julius suspected it was the primary arena of his thoughts, the bank vault in which he stored his true life.
‘Do tell...,’ said Fouché.
Again, it was a cordial invitation from one reasonable man to another, rather than a command.
Should Julius imitate a man divulging all? When ‘all’ didn’t really merit the effort?
‘The Egyptian infuses serum into strips of mummy,’ he said. ‘Which is a singularly absorbent… meat. The resultant admix is made concentrate by sun drying. C’est tout!’
The b
ureaucrat was intrigued, Julius could tell. Although his pen hand remained steady his nostrils had dilated. Plus, his pinched face was now even more so. The hair-line had drawn back too. Myriad involuntary reflexes betrayed even this most opaque of men, revealing ‘tells’ to those in the know. Doctors make good card-players.
‘C’est tout?’ echoed Fouché.
‘C’est tout.’ Julius batted it back
‘The process need not be performed here?’
‘No. Anywhere there is sun will do. Iceland would be worse but southern France better. You see the principle. African sunlight might be the best, being that much fiercer, but I suspect the Egyptian prefers his Versailles life to hot work by the Nile...’
If he concurred with that slander Fouché gave no sign of it.
‘And you could do this?’ he asked.
‘I—or anyone,’ answered Julius. ‘Indeed, I could even improve the process employing lens to focus the sun’s rays. Or something similar...’
With a wave of one hand Frankenstein dismissed the problem as a minor, merely technical, matter. Nothing beyond a morning’s work and few hours of Swiss expertise. His nation’s reputation for mastery of intricate devices such as timepieces preceded him and paved the way.
Frankenstein perceived his companion was a quick learner, and bold besides. Though appearances suggested otherwise, he dared to dash headlong into worlds not his own. In short, Julius concluded, he was that rarity: a buccaneer amongst bureaucrats. Also, probably way more important than he looked. Not that that was difficult: he looked like a provincial child-molester.
‘And the mummy component, monsieur?’ asked Fouché.
‘Of no intrinsic value: mere superstition: utility by association. Granted, mummies were people preserved for an afterlife, but not of the active, Lazaran, variety we are concerned with here. The two things, superficially akin, are in truth entirely unconnected. Beef steak would do just as well, if sufficiently sun-dried. As would scrag-end or giblets. I’d recommend any of the cheaper cuts if cost is a consideration...’
More notes were dashed down, in a positive frenzy of pencil work now. Again, Fouché spoke without looking up.
‘I regret to inform you, monsieur, that it is. Ordinarily, matters vital to the Emperor are not bound by sordid budgetary fetters.’
Julius mentally sat up. ‘Emperor.’ It was instructive that he called him that. Servants of the Convention shouldn’t.
‘If his Majesty wished to dine on nothing but black swan,’ Fouché continued, compounding his crimes, ‘then he could and would. However, permit me to confide to you the quite shocking cost of procuring a regular supply of mummies. Not to mention ensuring their genuine antiquity. Rogue merchants descend upon our need like flies to a turd. There have been attempts to foist upon us pseudo mummies of quite recent vintage. Murder victims apparently, sourced from the Orient where life is cheap, and then subjected to crash-mummification via chemical baths. Or so one would-be fraudster told us...’
The Minister finally raised his face and locked looks with Julius. ‘Under torture, naturally...’
Frankenstein wouldn’t oblige him with the sought for reaction, or indeed any give-away.
‘Naturally,’ he agreed.
‘So,’ Fouché went on, head bowed again, ‘to acquire the requisite supply the Egyptian demands we have had to go to extreme lengths and expense. Which, of course, we are happy to do for our beloved Emperor.’
‘And country,’ prompted Julius, feeling playful now that he found his point well received.
‘Just so,’ confirmed Fouché, unfazed. ‘However, the Revolutionary government, though generous in many respects, is not possessed of infinite resources. Securing a steady stream of millennia old mummies has caused us to—what is it the English say?—feel the pinch. Which is an apt choice of phrase because it is those same English who have made it so expensive...’
It is not the done thing in polite company, and certainly not in the presence of patriots, to dwell on a country’s misfortunes and defeats—and never less so than in the case of the French. Yet it was he who’d broached the subject and almost invited comment.
‘Ah, yes,’ said Julius—but considerately, as if dredging up an obscure memory of no great weight in the first place, ‘Lord Nelson, the Battle of the Nile...’
‘The very same, monsieur. Leading to the stranding of our expeditionary force in Egypt and their eventual defeat.’
Despite himself, Julius was doubled impressed by this functionary. He’d never yet heard a Frenchman baldly admit defeat before. ‘Betrayal’ certainly, ‘fate’ quite often, but never the dreaded ‘D’ word. Here was a man specially trained to face cold hard facts. Or possibly someone already so cold as to be immune to them.
‘Since which time,’ said Fouché, ‘the English naval blockade, latterly under the revived Neo-Nelson, has closed the sea-lanes to us to the point of strangulation. Our supply of original Egyptian relics ran out long ago and you cannot conceive the pains required to procure ancient cadavers and safely ferry them here. Nor will I impart these details to you...’
The Minister’s gaze had risen again. Just like those implied secret ships it carried an important cargo: the message that it not forgotten Julius was a foreigner, with divergent loyalties.
‘Suffice to say, our country could support several divisions for the same cost. Twice as many if composed of New-citizens. Or perhaps raise another fleet to contest that intolerable English command of the Seas...’
‘After Trafalgar?’ queried Julius, greatly daring.
‘After Trafalgar,’ Fouché confirmed. ‘Even after Yarmouth Harbour...’
Mere mention of that more recent and still worse debacle, which Julius had politely omitted, suggested they were on new and uniquely candid territory. Then Fouché proved it.
‘Though perhaps you are right. Maybe the seas are forbidden us whilst England has so much as a row-boat left. And Lord Nelson is proof against a sniper’s bullet now. But there is more than one way to skin a cat—or flay a nation. In any case, you follow my argument: we have diverted vast resources to the Egyptian’s demands. Diverted elsewhere they might have succoured several campaigns. Now, if what you say is true it may be of inestimable value—and I use the term advisedly—to our cause.’
‘Which is what?’ asked Julius, opportunistic as any fake mummy dealer.
‘Which is confidential,’ replied Fouché, sealing off that promising avenue. ‘Although you may safely consider it to be no petty project. On the contrary, it is a cause of some importance...’
Frankenstein shrugged. Every human’s parochial little agenda seemed important to them. In the majority it swelled to fill their entire panorama till they could see nothing else.
‘Which, by sad extension,’ Fouché concluded, ‘makes you important to us.’ He snapped his notebook shut. ‘Congratulations.’
Even Fouché’s standard tones suggested that a heart of stone lurked beneath his stone-coloured coat. Now he emphasised the point. And despite that being absolutely no surprise, Frankenstein’s stomach squirmed. It was the first time that had happened in some while. Did it mean he was reacquiring an attachment to life? If so, should he be pleased or berate himself?
Therefore it was no mere curiosity that made him enquire:
‘‘Congratulations’? On what?’
Minister Fouché did not smile. Julius didn’t know it, but people said he never had or would.
‘On your promotion.’
‘Oh, I see...,’ said Julius.
‘And survival,’ added the Minister. ‘Probably...’
* * *
The culture at Versailles was such that two enemies could not co-exist, least of all in close proximity or competition. Anything else was an insult to its survival of the fittest ethos.
Hence the vehemence of the Egyptian’s letter and its furious drafting mere minutes after the fracas between him and Frankenstein. A relative innocent in such matters, Julius had not taken counter-measures
, and only his incisive intellect during the interview with Minister Fouché saved him.
Now, freshly appointed as new ‘Director of Research’ at the palace, Frankenstein had his appointment confirmed by witnessing the previous occupant’s departure. He was roused from bed and ordered to attend.
It was dawn and the rising sun glinted both on the guillotine’s blade and the Egyptian’s bulging eyes. Purely because of the unearthly hour and for no vindictive reason, Frankenstein was unable to suppress a yawn. The Egyptian, trussed up like a turkey ready for the blade, saw.
In his last use of his head before it was detached, the Egyptian called Julius Frankenstein something that made even the hardened executioner wince.
Chapter 8: SWORD OF DAMOCLES (2)
After that little display Frankenstein hardly needed further proof of the presiding regime’s ruthlessness. Nevertheless, new and compelling evidence arrived the very next morning. That and the lesson to be very careful in your choice of words in further interviews with whoever the Bureaucrat was.
Whilst scouring his new offices clear of all traces of the Egyptian’s presence Julius was informed a delivery had arrived requiring his personal attention.
It proved to be a wagon, under escort by Old Guard and also under tarpaulin. Straightaway, Frankenstein feared the worst. A cull of innocent peasants perhaps, plucked from the fields for him to start a new program of mummy-free research? Or maybe a selection of battlefield or guillotine fresh cadavers, hand-picked to be of fit-for-an-Emperor quality?
Julius cautiously sniffed over the draped tarpaulin. The fall of the material and lack of stench suggested happier alternatives.
Some of the Guardsmen smiled wickedly, wrinkling their moustaches in cruel amusement. They knew but weren’t saying.
‘You could at least look pleased, monsieur,’ said the most senior or shameless. ‘We sweated blood to get these for you!’
They were watching and waiting. There was nothing else for it but to plunge in.
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