A Sharpness on the Neck

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 competence. 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."

"Transformation in my nature?" Radcliffe looked at the door and nodded sagely, as if he understood. Then he turned to face me again, and admitted: "I don't understand this at all."

"Nevertheless. If such barriers, and a few armed guards, were our only problems, you could be free already."

He stared at me, ready to dispute me. But here I was standing in front of him, in defiance of all logic, locks, and fanatical guards; evidently I could not be such an idiot as my claims made me sound.

He asked the question as if he hoped that I was not a madman: "What is it that truly confines me, then?"

"That is an intelligent question. The answer is: You have a very powerful enemy."

"Do you mean Robespierre? Or Fouquier-Tinville, the prosecutor?"

I shook my head. "I mean a man more dangerous than either, hard as that may be to believe. A drinker of blood indeed, and one who does not mean to rest until he has drained yours to the last drop."

"And this enemy does not want me to get out of prison."

"Oh, on the contrary! Your most dangerous enemy will be happier if you are free to wander, out of my protection. We must consider carefully what we are going to do about him."

On my entry, my client had looked at me as if doubting his own sanity. But now his expression suggested that he thought I was the lunatic.

I gave up the task of explanation for the time being. "I bring you an interesting bit of news."

"Oh?"

"You are to have a visitor soon, perhaps within the hour. A woman named Marie Grosholtz will call on you; she happens to be the cousin of Melanie Remain."

His eyes lit up. "Marie—? Yes! Melanie has told me of her cousin Marie. I know her address here in Paris, though I have never met the woman. I thought she was some kind of teacher… but she comes to me on some official task?"

"Semiofficial, at least. As part of her regular employment, she calls frequently on people who are in your situation."

Radcliffe's perplexity was growing. "For what purpose?"

"I will leave that to her to explain. People in your position are usually willing to cooperate with her… I take it you were not many days, or even many hours, in Paris before your arrest?"

"Less than a day."

"Then I don't suppose you had time to visit the Cabinet de Cire of Dr. Philippe Curtius, on the Boulevard du Temple?"

"A wax museum?" He looked at me in utter blankness. "No… but that was the street where Melanie said I would find her. At number twenty."

"That is the very address. It has been a popular show-place for years, since before the glorious Revolution. I am told that for some time the most popular displays at that establishment—even more so than the effigies of the royal family—have been the modeled heads and busts of notorious criminals.

"In the eyes of the Committee of Public Safety, you now fall into the latter category."

On a whim I pulled from my pocket a small fragment I had recently torn from a Parisian newspaper, and read aloud the article it contained: "Citizens may have their Portraits taken in the most perfect imitation of Life; Models are also produced from PERSONS DECEASED, with the most correct appearance of animation."

Radcliffe hung on every word, trying to extract reason for hope. "I never heard of such a thing."

"It is an art form with something of a history." I did not mention that few citizens who were given a choice ever seemed to avail themselves of the opportunity.

The young American nodded at last. "But who wants my effigy?"

I shrugged. "Probably David."

"Who?… Oh. You mean the artist?"

I nodded. Jacques Louis David was a famous man in the field of art, where there was some justification for his being well-regarded, and also cultivated powerful friends in political circles. (As he had done before the Revolution, and as he continued to do afterward, when Napoleon and his whiff of grapeshot had swept the last red bonnet from the streets. Some people have the knack of survival.) "He is a member of the Convention, you know, and has a great deal of influence. They order wax replicas so he and other dedicated Revolutionary artists can use them as models, for accurate paintings and sculptures. A vast quantity of artistic work is planned, to tell the whole world the story of the glorious Revolution. Also the wax images themselves could play a part in festivals and parades."

Later I learned that it had been David himself who had commanded Marie Grosholtz to go to Marat's house when the great propagandist was assassinated, and to make a cast of the dead man's face, before the body was removed from the bathtub where it lay in a rich mix of blood and water. The fact of Marat's head not being detached (he had simply been stabbed) only made the task a little harder.

David's own face, I have been told, was rather ugly, one cheek disfigured by a huge vein. The main reason, I suppose, why there were never many artistic representations of him. And there are fewer now.

Radcliffe, thinking it all over, checked the door again, then turned back, lowering his voice to a mere whisper. "I take it this coming visit from Melanie's cousin may have something to do with—my escape?"

"One might say so." Then, seeing a shade of disappointment cross his face, I hastened to add: "No, you are not going to disguise yourself as Marie Grosholtz, and slip away while she stays here. That would not be the act of a true gentleman, leaving the lady to face the music… and please give me credit, sir, for a little more imagination than that.

"Besides, you will need forged documents, and they are not yet ready." I did already have a worker started on them, though; over several centuries of life, one picks up the knack of doing many things that are not part of the daily routine, such as recruiting forgers.

Radcliffe drew himself up. "The plan, whatever it is, must not endanger Melanie, or anyone she loves. Otherwise I shall refuse to go."

I intended to tolerate no rebellious behavior on my client's part, whatever might happen. I knew what was best for him, and I did not like to argue. "That is nonsense. You will not refuse to escape. However important this Remain woman may be to you, you cannot help her much while you remain locked up—or if you find yourself a full head shorter than you are."

Having said that much, I glared at him. God knew what fresh villainy my brother might be preparing to launch against me, whilst I was entangled in these distractions. And, regardless of whether or not any of these breathers lived or died, I was determined to best my brother. He should not compel me to dishonor any of my vows.

Radcliffe met my gaze defiantly for ten seconds or so—it usually takes a strong-willed person to do that—then slumped and turned away.

"I could do with a drink," he whispered hoarsely, sinking back on his narrow bed.

Long experience brings foresight, and I happened to have a small flask of brandy in my pocket, which my client accepted gratefully.

"Then your feelings with regard to Melanie Remain are serious indeed," I remarked. And I wondered whether Radcliffe even suspected what I had recently discovered: the existence of Melanie's child. Melanie herself had assured me that he did not know.

He lifted his head. "They are. Unhappily, I did not fully realize how serious until I was locked up in here."

My next encounter with Melanie took place at a celebration in honor of the Supreme Being, a politically convenient deity whose existence had recently been discovered by no less an authority than Robespierre himself. Like a great many other folk, Marie was not attending by choice, but had been sent to look out for some of Curtius's wax heads, heroes and villains of the current political establishment, which were to be carried in a procession.

"You!" she breathed, when I silently confronted her. "Were you able to see Philip?"

"I was. He has asked me to convey to you his greetings—and his love." Perhaps this was not strictly true. I raised to her my glass filled with untasted wine.

"Ah! He used those words?"

"Just as I have said."

"But he does not know—you did not tell him—"

"About your child? No, that is your duty. No doubt some suitable moment will arise."

For a time Melanie continued to be suspicious, but I held forth the promise of Radcliffe's being rescued. "How do you mean to accomplish that?"

"The final choice of means, from several alternatives, is what I have come to discuss with you. But rest assured that, one way or another, I intend to accomplish it. I am firmly determined that he shall regain his freedom."

"I bless you for telling me that, if it is true." In the course of this conversation Melanie passed on to me a piece of news from the countryside that had only recently reached her ears: the murdered, horribly mutilated body of the servant girl, Marguerite, had been discovered in the grounds of the old chateau.

"Radu," I murmured. "In all likelihood, Radu." In truth I believe that my vanity had been pricked, and I felt outraged that that slender girl whose veins had afforded me such delight and healing would nevermore embrace me, or any other, in the fashion of woman with man. Another score against Radu, for which due punishment would have to be administered.

After visiting Radcliffe in his cell again, to report to him on the status of his beloved, I made my exit from the prison before dawn, turning myself into bat-form before the moment of sunrise. Later than that, and I would be forced to retain that shape all day.

Of course I might if necessary have come to my client by day, approaching his cell door in the ordinary way, dressed in the clothes of a lamplighter or some other common functionary.

This time Radcliffe on recognizing me struggled to control his reaction. I could see him, this time, watching me carefully to see how I got in. He succeeded in this endeavor, at least to the extent that he could tell no deception was involved. I was outside the cell, and then I was inside, and neither lock nor bar nor door had moved by a hair's-breadth.

"I cannot believe what my eyes have shown me," he breathed, and rubbed at the organs mentioned. "You must explain it to me, somehow."

But I had decided to leave the bulk of that task to Constantia, who had a real talent for such matters, when she chose to use it properly.

Constantia was on hand and ready, more or less, to be of help. But, as the reader may already have deduced by now, rarely did I ever work with her in any important matter when I had any reasonable alternative. This was because of a certain lack of dependability which she was wont to demonstrate.

But it was she who had the brilliant idea (as it seemed to me then) of converting our client's cell into a genuine habitation, which would then be vampire-proof except by invitation.

"But how does one make a prison cell a home?"

"Maybe, Vlad—maybe if a loving couple were to inhabit it—even if only one of them was there most of the time—"

"It is worth a try. Do what you can. Philip Radcliffe must be protected at all costs."

As for myself, I was fully occupied with labors of a more aggressive nature.

After dark, Constantia and I ghosted together through the prison, melting into mist-form every time some guard, worker, or visitor approached, and in between such episodes regained a semblance of solidity, the better to read the labels on the cell doors or beside them. I wanted her to understand the lay of the land as thoroughly as I did. With this in mind I paused from time to time to read from the list I had borrowed of names and corresponding cell numbers. "Whose cell is this?"

"Evidently what we have here is the foreigners' wing. The tag here reads CHARLES DARNAY. Not the man we want… here's Percy Blakeney, citizen of England… no…"

Forged papers, passport, and identity card would be vitally important assets to a fugitive. A majority of vampires kept up, as a matter of course, with dependable sources of such materials. Little birds had already whispered to me that Lepitre, a classics teacher who had become head of the passport committee of the Commune, did a superb job of providing what were in fact quite genuine documents, with names and descriptions to be filled in by the customer. Naturally such quality was expensive; but I was not poor, and would not be miserly with mere money when honor was concerned. I hoped to avoid the necessity of shepherding my client all the way to the frontier, and even beyond, though I had to face the fact that such a prolonged effort might be necessary.

It had occurred to me very early in the game that converting Philip to vampirism clearly offered the safest and surest means of saving his life, at least in the short term, by removing the immediate danger from Sanson and his machine. But in the long run, that conversion would do little to save him from an attack by Radu.

Ah, if only…

I had made my choice of means. Slowly, gradually, the final version of my plan for Radcliffe's escape was taking shape.

It seemed that I had now undertaken the protection of Melanie Remain as well.

Transforming Melanie into one of the so-called undead would somewhat facilitate the task of protecting her, also, from any effort Radu might make to get at Radcliffe through her.

Another objection loomed in the back of my mind: Converting Melanie would put an end to any possibility of ever establishing a romantic attachment between us; that is something I often concede, but never lightly.

Converting both Philip and Melanie to vampires would render their escape from prison impossible for the authorities to prevent; but it would also rob them both permanently of any possibility of bringing their mutual love to its natural conclusion. Again, that would represent a chance for my wayward brother to claim a kind of victory. And to deny him victory at every possible point, at almost any cost, had become my dearest goal.

Constantia needed but little persuasion to get her to visit the male prisoner in his private cell—in fact, as I now realized, my old acquaintance was already only too eager to do so. Constantia, whom I had known almost all her life, was, to put it mildly, a little flighty, and wont to act with dangerous impulsiveness. But I anticipated no difficulty in persuading her to make the acquaintance of a handsome and hearty young man.

I tried to talk over the range of possibilities with Constantia, before sending her to Radcliffe, to make sure my old associate understood precisely how I thought the matter should be handled; but, as the reader must have realized by now, it is sometimes difficult to hold a rational discussion with that dear girl.

Part of her assigned task was to convey the essentials of an escape plan to him, but I should have known better than to trust her with any mission of that kind.

It was my gypsy's own idea, and not a bad one I must admit, that she could talk to him more easily, and be more convincing, if she appeared in the guise of a fellow prisoner.

If she were in a cell next to his and could squeeze her body through a narrow opening or ventilator, much too small for him to pass, she could be something of a bodyguard against Radu. And perhaps establish the habitation defense.

Easy enough for a vampire to break open, by main force or other means, a prison gate or a cell door or window to allow some breathing convict to escape—but to get the escaped prisoner clean away in the midst of a fanatical manhunt would require at least moderate cleverness as well as force.

Any vampire could easily overpower any prison guard, or several of them, then open the cell door with the key and march Radcliffe out as if on some Committee business. It was not impossible for a woman to appear as a prison guard. But the pair almost certainly would be stopped and questioned at several points before they made it out of the prison. I, playing the role of escort, could probably bluff and bluster my way through such obstacles, but success could not be guaranteed.

And Radu might well show up, at the most inconvenient moment, to claim his prize.

Alternatively, a dead body, dressed to look like that of the prisoner in question, could be left in the cell, making it look as if my client had committed suicide. Perhaps by means of poison? Or with a gun, even a blunderbuss, which might make positive identification very difficult. Hanging, strangulation might well discolor and distort the face sufficiently. How would any prisoner have been able to obtain a gun? Of course it was not impossible, but finding one with his brains blown out would certainly have provoked a great investigation. Quite probably at least one guard would lose his head.

I thought I was on the right track with this idea, but did not yet see how to carry it far enough.

Clothes, rings, and so on would tend to confirm the presumption of identity. Radcliffe now had a partially shaved and bandaged scalp, which would be handy later on.

The body of someone freshly executed could be brought back a few hours later into the cell, but it would be hard to pass off decapitation as a suicide, no matter how dull-witted the investigators.

Any dead body found in the cell and accepted as the prisoner's would of course be carried out and guillotined—suicide does not save one's neck from that fate, once the People have commanded it.