Frankenstein's Legions (32 page)

Fouché had the knack of making all conversations seem like his first and most important of the day. It was flattering and frightening in equal proportions to be the focus of such total attention. The effect was the same as with Julius’ newly constructed system of ransacked lens, now up on the Palace roof sun-drying serum-soaked strips of meat. Everything was both speeded up and intensified.

Julius had already mentally girded himself for a ‘mauvais demi-heure’ of carefully watched words and potential pitfalls. It was like dining with someone you knew to be homicidal—sometimes. From second to second the question arose, what use would he put his knife to next?

‘How are things proceeding would you say?’ said Fouché, without preamble, sitting down and arranging the few items on his desk into perfection-plus. ‘Well or not well?’

‘Well.’

That got noted in the little golden notepad, like it was either an admission or wisdom worth preserving. Or maybe, once down in written form it could actually be considered as real.

‘Yes,’ said Fouché, after leisurely delay. ‘That is my assessment also. And, more importantly, it is likewise the Emperor’s opinion. He has confided in me. He has noticed a difference. Therefore you will too.’

‘In what way?’

Fouché indicated something above Julius’ head. Julius looked but could see nothing but air and then a baroque ceiling.

‘An extra thread securing the sword of Damocles over you,’ the unsuspected Minister explained. ‘A slight strengthening of its suspension…’

Dear old Damocles again. He’d hovered over Frankenstein so long they were almost pals. Julius recalled Sir Percy Blakeney wielding that weapon at the Heathrow Hecatomb. Clearly, certain types kept it close to hand in their armoury of cliché.

Frankenstein pretended he had not looked for the dangling threat.

‘But not its removal…,’ he said.

Fouché laughed—an involuntary bark—at the very idea. Then, to cover his lapse, he gestured towards the still shrouded bust.

‘Fifi: deal with that…’

The Lazaran-maid was beyond being pleased now, but had duty as an entire substitute. She shambled over and ensured the Emperor’s marble gaze presided over all again.

‘Specifically,’ Fouché continued, his perfect, polished, self again, ‘His Imperial Highness reports additional clarity of thought, particularly in the evening. He attributes this to prior dining on your infusions. Which, incidentally, are so much more palatable than the Egyptian’s delicacies…’

Which may have been either simple stating of fact, or a hint that he knew Frankenstein had nothing more to put on the table. Corn-fed beef tasted better than long dead human: hardly a revelation!  Yet that improvement might convince those who wanted to believe it had yet further benefits…

Frankenstein stepped in to derail that particular train.

‘I am pleased that his Highness is pleased,’ he said—but he thought: ‘Imagination?  Wishful thinking?  Perhaps a sliver of 1% improvement that his serum-thirsty body picks up on and exaggerates?  Or relief at no more mummy-meat?  Either way it can’t last…’

Whatever else he might be or look like, ‘the Bureaucrat’ was a remarkable man, worth every sous of the fortune they probably paid him. Either he could read minds or, almost as bad, he understood.

‘And I am pleased that you are pleased,’ said Frankenstein’s shark-smooth opponent. ‘However, it cannot last.’

Despite himself, Julius was taken aback. He tried to stem it but it probably showed.

‘It can’t?’

Fouché shook his head.

‘No. You must surely know that his Imperial Excellency expects initial perfection, followed by continuous improvement. It is not reasonable but it is so. That being so, what fresh wonders can you offer us?’

By then Frankenstein had recovered and replaced his social interaction mask.

‘Draw up a list of required miracles,’ he said, ‘and I’ll see what I can do for you.’

It was the right reply—a bold counter-attack in keeping with the martial spirit of the place. It brought him time and an unknowable delay in meeting the Egyptian’s radical redundancy.

‘I will do so,’ said Fouché, and jotted it down as a ‘to do’ item. ‘In the meanwhile, may I inform you that there is an English couple making frantic efforts to trace your good self. Should I encourage or deter them, do you think?  On your behalf. Or perhaps I should deal with them…’

At which point Julius gave up pretending he could be this man’s equal or even play in the same league. Better to just ride the tide and see where it washed you up.

He consoled himself with the thought that he was just one individual in an age increasingly hostile to individuals. Whereas the Bureaucrat was an exceptional talent tapped into a huge amoral conspiracy.

‘A Lazaran woman,’ Julius ventured, ‘but of aristocratic manner?  Plus a prize fighter?’

‘You describe them perfectly,
monsieur
. I may steal your admirably concise pen-portraits for my report…’

And he seemed to do just that, writing them down in his little book-world.

Julius searched within for the answer of his heart but found no strong opinions.

‘I’d… rather you didn’t harm them…,’ he said, then realised that was weak. Would it be enough to save?  Ada had used and humiliated him, but he didn’t wish her dead (again).

‘Au contraire,’ replied Fouché. ‘At the moment, only our protection is protecting them from harm. We thought they might be your friends. If not, then the Convention can have them. The pair think they are clever and camouflaged, but to those with eyes to see their presence stands out like a whore in a monastery. Or shit on a wedding cake…’

Neither similes made Julius smile. He was sure Lady Lovelace was doing her very best, but in current company that best just wasn’t good enough.

‘Your departure from the Compeigne Mausoleum greatly puzzled the English couple,’ Fouché went on. ‘As it did many others. Indeed, it is a tribute to their modest talents, plus promiscuous bribery, that their curiosity has come closer to satisfaction than all other competing enquiries. By the way, are they friends of yours?’

‘Travelling companions,’ said Julius. ‘Formerly.’

‘But not friends.’

‘No.’

‘Or colleagues?

‘No.’

‘Or agents of British intelligence?  Or any other intelligence apparatus?’

‘No and no.’

Each response was recorded. Therefore Julius felt he should add:

‘As far as I know.’

Fouché’s fish-eyes lifted from the page. They held no capacity for fellow-feeling. And as for empathy…

‘That is all any of us can vouchsafe,
monsieur
Frankenstein. I took it as said. Meanwhile, in the light of what you say, I presume you are content for their nosings to meet a brick wall…’

‘So long as it is a metaphorical one,’ said Julius.

Fouché was almost—but not quite—amused. He teetered on the brink for a second but then recovered. Julius would have liked to have seen that, if only as reassurance that humanity cannot be entirely scoured from a soul.

‘Just so,’ Fouché confirmed for Julius’ comfort. ‘A symbolic wall then. Not one for being shot against. La!  What a low opinion of us you have gained!  Where on earth do you people get such notions from?  The Emperor’s service is a happy one. Everyone in the Palace of Versailles is happy to be here…’

The Minister of Police looked at Julius again, his expression exactly as before.

‘Otherwise,’ he added, ‘one way or another, they have to go.’

*  *  *

The cobweb spun at Loseley house twitched. However, the human spider at its centre was too old and wily to just rush out rejoicing. He knew full well that not everything that got caught in his sticky strands was food to feed on. Bigger bugs had been known to imitate the writhings of victims so as to set a trap within a trap.

Such wisdom derived not just from the wonderful word of metaphor but observations of the actual world. Back in France of the Ancien Regime, as a club-footed and thus reject scion of nobility (from whom nothing was expected, to whom nothing would come), he’d had leisure to sit and watch Nature at work. In the end it proved a better education that his perfect siblings had from their expensive schools. From it he deduced that as Mammams went Nature was an excellent but icy parent, quite unconcerned about her individual offspring’s welfare. There were no kind words or cuddles for failure, and it entirely sufficed if somehow, anyhow, enough survived and the show went on.

The young Talleyrand drew his own conclusions from that, very different from those offered either by the Church or ‘Enlightenment’ philosophes. These same firm convictions had then stayed with him, unmodified, throughout life, to the great benefit of his career (if not his immortal soul).

Germane to the current situation, in the gardens of the family chateau at Perigord, he’d once observed a bird peck upon a web to draw forth its maker, and then gobble up the deluded arachnid. Right to its final moment Talleyrand didn’t doubt the spider believed itself as oh so wise, sitting there awaiting dinner to come to it. Instead, in a second, it was dinner; the vibrations attending its death agony rapidly fading away, leaving its web deserted to fall into decay.

There was a lesson there for those with the mental strength to see.

Thus enlightened, Prince Talleyrand waited until the reverberations thrumming in from his own imaginary web’s widespread strands made recognisable sounds. He delayed still further until repetition converted sounds into music. Then, recognising the tune from past experience, he interpreted. But it was only when those interpretations were confirmed by other means that the Prince felt free to act.

It sounds like a timid and tedious and lengthy process, but was not. It occupied only the time taken up by that day’s first cup of chocolate and perusing that night’s dinner menu proposals. And no one present would have guessed that the Prince was not giving his full attention to either (highly important) activity.

If so, they were deceived. The short interlude of sipping and selecting enabled Talleyrand to summon his secretary and, without hesitation, dictate a crisp, memoirs-worthy, memo that shifted forces the length and breadth of Europe.

All change. His agents were to draw back. Good and faithful (or well paid...) servants though they were, they had been detected. Which didn’t matter till now. But now had become then and there was a new now. What didn’t matter then now did. All very simple, A.B.C. stuff.

Next, because at heart (deep deep down, when he could be, if circumstances permitted and all other things being equal) he was a kind man, Talleyrand composed additional missives to his auxiliary agents; those who worked for him unwittingly. True, he was in no position to guarantee the safety of anyone involved, or even materially effect their fate, but he could at least save them from being prey to anxiety.

Talleyrand held it as one of his few fixed beliefs that an anxious life was a fate worse than death. As a former bishop he was aware that Christ’s most frequent instruction as reported by Scripture did not concern belief or prayer or that ill-defined quality called love, but the simple command: ‘do not be afraid.’

Who was Talleyrand, a mere man of the world, an unworthy (and indeed excommunicated) Christian, to dispute that emphasis?

Accordingly he wrote.

The letter to Lady Lovelace was short and unsigned. In fact, it contained but one word:

‘Bravo!’

Whereas to Frankenstein he was more forthcoming. Four-fold so. Julius got a whole sentence.

Chapter 9: IN PHARAOH’S BOUDOIR

Julius received and read it by candlelight.

Just before, he’d been surveying a moonlit segment of Versailles revealed through a cobwebbed window. First, baroque masonry and statuary, then a maze, riotous fountains (albeit dry), formal gardens (plus NCOs’ latrine), and an orangery. Still beautiful, though raddled or raped, their original aims remained latent, just waiting to dispense joy, even though water, blooms and fruit be gone.

 But what noble thoughts and/or lively ladies had he courted in any of them?  What attitudes or garters had he adjusted there?  Answer: none.

There was the excuse of being confined, but excuse was what it was. Julius had never tried to truant in those gardens because he lacked will and skill for the thoughts and garters things. Like a metaphor for the rest of creation, the Palace of Versailles lay spread for his delectation, available as a whore in bed, but also unvisited as the Moon which lit it.

Instead, Frankenstein spent his spare time with the dead. Mixing with his own sort, some wits said: getting in some practise for the imminent real thing.

He was in the ‘Pharaoh’s Bedroom’: actually an obscure lumber room renamed in jest when it became home to the sarcophagi required by the Egyptian (RIP) and his mumbo-jumbo. There they now resided, gathering dust, a long way from their contents’ intended resting place, whilst someone (presumably) decided what on earth to do with them.

It was a problem. There was no wish to advertise possession of the stuff, and putting mummies out with the rubbish was fairly certain to excite comment, even amongst the wine-fuddled sorts who worked the refuse carts. One mooted option was a Viking-style mass funeral pyre and barbeque, which would at least be entertaining.

More sober minds suggested discreet reburial, one by one, night after night, in local churchyards. There was, they pointed out, ample space in those since the Revivalists got access to them…

Alternatively, it could just be left for the next owners of Versailles to discover and worry about. What, someone reasonably asked, were a few more decades or even centuries of limbo to those who occupied the boxes?  The bandaged former royalty didn’t eat or excrete, they didn’t wander about and they never complained. Which made them perfect guests by the standards of the Palace. Why stir them and everything else up unnecessarily?

To date that question hadn’t had good answer. Since there was lot else going on, it probably never would. Future archaeologists might find half of the Valley of the Kings in the ruins of Versailles and draw all sorts of wrong conclusions.