A Sharpness On The Neck (Saberhagen's Dracula Book 9)

by Fred Saberhagen

  The young women explained to me that if they did not make the molds at the cemetery, then, after finding the heads they wanted, it would be necessary for them to change their clothes, or put on clean garments over the bloodstained ones, and wrap the heads somehow or put them away in hatboxes. There would be nothing particularly conspicuous about the pair of women as, riding in a wagon or light carriage, they carried their finds back to the wax museum in the Boulevard du Temple.

  But then, when they were through with the heads, they would be faced with the messy problem of getting rid of them.

  “We might be able to bury one or two in our backyard, and no one the wiser. But with the numbers that we must handle … already there have been dozens, and there is no end in sight to what the Committee wants…”

  As we conversed, Melanie had gone on crouching, digging, peering, up to her knees in muddy earth and decaying humanity, enduring the pervasive smell while going about her ghastly but (as I now realized) relatively innocent business. Meanwhile Marie, the more skillful modeler, went on using oil and plaster of Paris to make a mold in which the dummy head of the night’s first subject would later be cast in hot wax.

  Then the younger woman gave a little cry of triumph. “Ah, here he is!”

  Melanie had found the head she had been looking for. There had been twenty-eight executed in the previous day’s batch, and the search had not been particularly easy.

  “But I think I recognize that face,” I ejaculated suddenly. “Is it not Lavoisier?”

  Yes, even I had heard of Lavoisier, the man who now, two hundred years later, is called the father of chemistry, and even I was shocked. Why should the artistic authorities, or the political, have wanted to execute a man of science and then immortalize their crime in wax? Of course the two fields of endeavor were still nowhere near as sharply demarcated as they have recently become.

  It was Lavoisier who proposed the name “oxygen” for the dephlogisticated air required to support a fire. He had worked diligently for the Revolution in its early stages, perfecting its gunpowder and its cannon. But he had been overtaken by a period in his past when he had served as a kind of tax-collector for the old regime, and yesterday had received his reward.

  Marie observed: “Someone pointed out his name on the list to Robespierre, and our leader said: The Revolution has no need of scientists.’“

  And that, I thought, should have been chiseled on his tombstone.

  I felt that Melanie deserved some reward for the assistance she had earlier given me, or attempted to give me, through her medical efforts. It was no fault of hers that those efforts were misguided. But I was not as greatly and as formally in her debt as I was in Radcliffe’s.

  “I understand now, Mademoiselle, the purpose of your work, and I find nothing discreditable about it. I regret having suggested—what I did suggest. My sincere apologies.” I made a slight bow, including Marie, who nodded in return.

  Your apology is accepted, Citizen Legrand—and what of M’sieu Radcliffe? Is there … is there…”

  “Is there any hope? I think so. You have told me where he is. Now we shall see what we can do.”

  “You mean… ?”

  “I mean to help him. As to how, that has yet to be decided.”

  * * *

  The prison called La Conciergerie, like most of the others in the city, was busy day and night during the climactic summer of the Terror. I think that not a single cell stood empty for more than an hour or two. The population fluctuated less than you might think, given the high turnover. On average the count stood at about three hundred souls, during the peak years of ’93 and ’94. The place stank, of course, of fear and sweat and unwashed bodies, though not as badly as most of the prisons of that epoch. An extra excitement seemed to vibrate in the air. I gathered that if one had to be in prison, this was definitely the place.

  Conducting a preliminary reconnaissance on a rainy afternoon, I walked around the prison section of the Palace, or rather I covered three sides of it by this method, looking over the vast gray building from the outside.

  I also made a flying trip, by night. Both methods of scouting had their advantages.

  This prison formed part of the Palais de Justice, which stood on the same island in the Seine as Notre Dame, and at one time or another during the Terror its cells accommodated very many of the most famous victims, including Hebert, Corday, Robespierre, Marie Antoinette, and Danton—besides Charles Darnay, who later achieved a certain literary fame, and a few other foreigners.

  Victims were brought in at all hours, while others were hauled away to attend their trials, most of the latter soon returning under sentence of death. Of the many who were taken from their cells never to return, all but a very few went to their executions. Also coming and going constantly were police and lawyers, along with members of the new hierarchy of bureaucrats, including some of the many priests who had sworn allegiance to the Revolution. As at any other institution where numbers of people dwelt, tradesmen came and went, food and other necessities were delivered.

  I soon learned, somewhat to my surprise, that there seldom passed an evening in this house of horrors when at least one feast was not in progress. These banquets and parties were always rude and raucous but sometimes elaborate and expensive, hosted by one or more of those who were to lose their heads on the next day. Often these affairs were amazingly lavish. As a rule the guards and other officials, following a tradition established during the Old Regime, could easily be persuaded to go along with this practice, while maintaining the essentials of tight security. People who had experienced both prisons said that this one had a conviviality lacking in even the most luxurious quarters of the Bastille.

  On occasion La Conciergerie even welcomed the efforts of musicians and other entertainers, hired by the more prosperous of the condemned at their own expense, to brighten the last days and hours of their impoverished comrades as well as their own. I wondered what success a fortune teller might enjoy. Dedicated atheists, of whom there were many among the Revolutionary theorists, would frown at the practice, and I supposed that for many other prisoners the idea would be too much to take.

  Still, it occurred to me that this might be a good role for Constantia to play.

  A gypsy singer and dancer might easily double as a fortune teller. Vague possibilities stirred, as is usual when I am making plans. She might specialize in telling happy fortunes for the prisoners’ loved ones elsewhere.

  I supposed I could, myself, appear as a gypsy musician. Sawing at a violin, or strumming a guitar. But there was not much time for elaborate schemes.

  Radcliffe, like other prisoners, was at certain times allowed out of his cell to take part in at least some of these parties. It proved childishly easy to arrange for him to meet Constantia at one of them.

  * * *

  When it came Radcliffe’s turn to hold out his hand to the fortune teller, she had solid information to convey to the prisoner. “I see a long life ahead of you, young master.”

  “ ‘Citizen,’ ” he corrected absently. He had never met Connie before, and had no idea that she knew his acquaintance M’sieu Legrand, or was anything more than the gypsy entertainer she appeared to be. And Melanie Romain was much in his thoughts.

  But all the same, the gypsy wench was still impressively attractive. And what she told him proved to be of considerable interest too.

  Through most of his life he had had nothing but contempt for superstition. But lately things had been very weird.

  * * *

  Well. Security was of course not as absolute as those in authority needed to believe. Three hundred years of experience had taught me that it never is; and nothing in the additional two hundred since then has caused me to believe otherwise.

  * * *

  A few prisoners were kept continuously confined in their cells. The late Marie Antoinette’s cell (doubtless fancier than most) was a dark, almost unventilated chamber some twelve feet square, with an uneven brick floor, a narr
ow cot and a straw mattress, a few chairs and an old table. Wallpaper had been applied to wooden frames against the walls, but it was peeling off with the damp.

  * * *

  Meanwhile, as became clear later, my dear brother Radu was also attempting, rather cautiously, to keep some kind of watch on the prison. Mostly he tried to accomplish this through various breathing agents, despite the fact that they were so undependable. My younger brother at this point was chiefly concerned with staying out of my sight; he continually, and with some justice, suspected me of trying to set an ambush for him.

  Radu’s contacts with the authorities, direct or indirect, made it possible for him to know in just which cell any prisoner was supposedly being confined.

  * * *

  I needed no more than twenty-four hours to acquaint myself thoroughly with the details of the prison’s physical construction, and of its daily routine. The latter tended to be irregular, a condition which has advantages as well as disadvantages for anyone who might be planning an escape.

  Wanting to achieve Radcliffe’s rescue as quickly as possible, and realizing that I had no time to waste, I swiftly worked out several possible plans of escape. I wanted to have a number from which to choose, in case whichever scheme I first selected should prove to have some insuperable flaw.

  Bribery, that ancient and time-honored method of achieving almost anything in the scope of human activity, deserved to be considered first. But in this case there were reasons why I preferred not to rely on it.

  * * *

  My simplest and most direct means of locating within the prison certain men and women whom I could recognize would of course be to ghost in through one of the barred windows at any time between sunset and dawn, and take an inventory of its inmates, cell by cell. The place was crowded with wretched humble folk, along with a few who last year, or yesterday, had been among the leaders of society. Once on an earlier visit, many months ago, out of sheer curiosity, I had looked in unseen on Marie Antoinette.

  * * *

  Probably it is completely unnecessary for me to point out, to readers who have spent their entire lives in the second half of the twentieth century, that the vast majority of the victims of the Terror had never had any idea of committing the crime for which they died, never conspired in some way against the new republican government. Most were guilty of the Kafkaesque crime of being Suspect, and that is all. One could with perfect ease lose liberty and even life as the result of a chance remark, an anonymous denunciation by an enemy, or by simply coming under the eye of some police agent who was seeking to fill a quota—you who read will understand such matters, from your vantage point near the beginning of the third millennium, more readily than did I at the end of the eighteenth century.

  Having located my benefactor and formed at least a preliminary plan, it seemed only reasonable to pay him a visit and offer him hope. Whatever method of release I finally decided on, his cooperation would be required.

  * * *

  I thought a prison cell would rarely if ever qualify as a legitimate habitation, in the strange calculus of possibilities that limit the comings and goings of the nosferatu. At least I had at that time never yet found one that I was barred from entering, be it occupied or not.

  * * *

  Radcliffe’s cell was somewhat smaller than Marie Antoinette’s, and of an unusual L-shape, with barely room for a small table and chair beside his bed. I came in quietly. He started up from his mattress, where he had been lying with hands clasped behind his head, and almost cried out at the sight of my shadowy figure, standing not much more than an arm’s length away from him, my finger raised to my lips enjoining silence.

  Chapter Twenty

  For a long moment the young American stared at me as if he thought I was the Angel of Death, whilst I stood waiting, wondering if I ought to have made a less dramatic entrance. But eventually recognition dawned in Radcliffe’s eyes—and when it came, it brought with it a new astonishment.

  I did not hear you come in, M’sieu Legrand.” In his surprise the young man spoke in English, but I answered him in French, my own English at that time being no more than rudimentary.

  I smiled modestly, “I was rather unobtrusive about it.”

  “But I didn’t see the door open either!” Leaping up from his pallet, shaking his head in growing bewilderment, he pushed past me to the door, seized it by the bars which almost filled the small high opening, and pushed and pulled some more, meanwhile trying to peer out into an empty corridor. The massive wooden construction remained closed. “Still locked!” he cried, now having switched to his excellent French.

  I made no effort to quiet him. Actually there was little chance that an outburst of noise would do our cause any harm; in that world of confinement, strange and sudden out-cries were as much a part of existence as were darkness and bad smells. In that prison there were always voices raised somewhere, day and night, arguing philosophy and other trifles, debating politics of course, pleading for life, or sometimes chattering in insane monologues, carrying on arguments with God or the devil; the guards made no effort to enforce silence, and a prisoner bellowing or raving to himself was unlikely to arouse any curiosity at all. The odds were very small that anyone outside the cell would be paying any attention to the sounds emanating from it.

  Instead I remarked calmly: “I don’t suppose you’d want it found standing open?”

  “No—no, of course not.” Turning his back on the door, he forced the fingers of both hands, front to rear, through his long, dark hair. That would soon change; all prisoners under sentence of death were treated to a haircut at state expense, on the theory that nothing, not even hair or a lace collar, ought to be allowed to restrain la mechanique from attaining its maximum efficiency.

  I noted a small white bandage near the crown of his head.

  Now he was facing me again. “But—what are you doing here?”

  “You have saved my life, M’sieu Radcliffe. Now it is my turn to be of service to you.” I bowed slightly. “In fact, I insist on doing so. What has happened to your head? I see that you are bandaged.”

  “A little scuffle when I was arrested.” He shook his head, as if he found it hard to imagine what favor anyone could do for him in his present circumstances. But hope would not die in his eyes, and they stayed fixed on me.

  “I had in mind revoking your death sentence,” I offered modestly. “Unofficially, by means of escape. I take it you would not object if your stay in this world were to be substantially prolonged?”

  My client stared at me incredulously, made a strange sound in his throat, and took a turn of pacing round his cell, which was inconveniently small for such activity.

  In some other cell, far down the dismal corridor, some other prisoner chose that moment to loose a burst of maniacal laughter. Whilst my attention was thus drawn to the auditory environment, the thought crossed my mind that, if one closed one’s eyes, it sounded very much like the interior of an insane asylum.

  And that thought brought back an old memory, which I tried to retain in a place where I hoped it would be ready for use. I recalled hearing that my brother, since his last emergence from underground, had fallen into the habit of visiting such places as Charenton, amusing himself with the inmates. More particularly Radu had taken a special interest in one prisoner—what had his name been? A Frenchman, yes, and an aristocrat. The Marquis, marquis of something or other, and cruelly insane…

  My client had given up trying to pace in the cramped quarters, and had found his voice again. He kept it low, as if by instinct, as he called me by the name I had given him at his chateau. Nervously casting glances at the door and its peephole, in an urgent whisper he repeated: “But what are you doing here, M’sieu … Citizen Legrand? How did you…?”

  “I have my ways,” I assured him, in a normal voice. “Be of good cheer, Mr. Radcliffe. To get you out of La Conciergerie will be somewhat more difficult than getting myself in, but, believe me, it is well within my range of compet
ence. Out from behind these walls, and then a few neatly forged papers … passage to the coast arranged, and then abroad. Three weeks from today you will very likely find yourself seated in some snug London tavern, regaling your friends there with some story explaining your improbable escape.”

  “Melanie,” he said, making the one word a meaningful declaration.

  “Very well, Melanie too. So, it is that way between the two of you. Well, why not?” And at that moment I was on the brink of trying to explain to him how his relationship with his beloved might be altered by the choice of means adopted to effect his release. But I let it pass. Everything I had told him so far was the truth. If not quite the whole truth, well— there would be time for that.

  “Have you seen her? Is she well?”

  “I have.” I did not specify where. “And she is.”

  And all the time the rain was dripping, dripping mournfully somewhere outside. In the distance thunder grumbled.

  Hope had now been born in Radcliffe’s eyes, and I could see that his mind was racing to establish a basis for it. In the fertile soil of America, almost any seed could grow, and quickly. But he remained prudently wary of tricks and impossibilities. In his own fluent but accented French he once more demanded: “How did you get into this cell?”

  “I have my own methods,” I repeated. “Be reassured by the fact that stone walls and locks present small obstacles to me. As they would to you, if a certain transformation in your nature were to be effected.”