A Sharpness On The Neck (Saberhagen's Dracula Book 9) Fred Saberhagen (free ebook reader for iphone txt) 📖

      Other unbelievable stories, which it would have been easy to dismiss as wild rumor, were actually confirmed: The tide of war, the real war of armies, had turned again in favor of France, riddled though her armies were with desertions, political harassment, and executions. But meanwhile the majority of citizens, at least in Paris, were convinced that the most dangerous threat to their lives and happiness lay close to home. Wild rumors, heard everywhere, declared that bands of brigands, in the pay of royalists and foreigners, were scouring the countryside, raping and pillaging.

      Still, according to the latest word from the frontiers, the Austrian and Prussian armies, commanded by the Duke of Brunswick, appeared able to make little headway against the armies of the people of France.

      Philip’s private opinion was that the war might now be going better for France only because her enemies, watching the revolutionary turmoil, were content to wait for her to tear herself to pieces.

* * *

      In rapid succession, one generation after another of Revolutionary leaders had risen to power and fallen again. The time of turnover was now measured in mere months instead of years, and each new faction on achieving mastery exhibited more savagery than the last. Each was more fanatically dedicated to the ruthless repression of treasonous plots. And the more plots were discovered, and their fomenters executed, the more new examples of treason sprouted into light. Danton, once the unchallenged champion of the people against their aristocratic oppressors, more lately Robespierre’s rival, had been arrested on March 30, 1794 (10 Germinal, Year Two, of the Revolutionary Calendar), charged with excessive moderation, and taken to the scaffold on April 5.

      On May 7, Robespierre the Incorruptible, the newest and seemingly invincible leader, disturbed by the atheistic tendencies shown by his colleagues and their spread among the people in general, had introduced worship of the Supreme Being. June 8 (17 Floral, Year Three) was officially proclaimed the Festival.

      On June 1, British warships commanded by Lord Howe defeated the French fleet in the English Channel.

* * *

      Amid the strains and excitement of the journey, and the disturbing joy of Melanie’s presence, Radcliffe almost forgot about the mysterious stranger, calling himself Legrand, whose life he had saved.

* * *

      For several years now, the routines of planting and harvesting across much of France had been neglected, and the distribution of food had been disrupted, while armed peasants and other workers gathered to exchange inflammatory ideas, fears, hopes, and plans.

      Lying athwart the travelers’ most direct route to Paris were certain towns and villages around which Melanie thought it wise to detour, whole districts she preferred to avoid because of their reputation for fanatical enforcement of Revolutionary decrees upon strangers. The American deferred to her judgment in such matters. In one place, the sentry was asleep in his box, no doubt risking a grisly execution if his new masters should discover him thus. The travelers quietly rode on through the unguarded checkpoint.

      A day or two later the trio, with Old Jules praying continuously to the Virgin, were forced to outrace in their carriage a motley band of unidentifiable pursuers—whether some self-constituted Committee of Public Safety or simple robbers was hard to say. More than once they saw in the distance, on town gates and walls, heads mounted on pikes, in provincial imitation of the now well-established Parisian custom.

      It was the first time Philip had seen such a display, and he stared in sickly fascination. The idea that the heads were artificial would not leave him, though he could see all too clearly that they were not.

      “You seem upset,” Melanie commented.

      “I have seen hanged men, of course.” The great majority of the citizens of America, as well as Europe, were no stranger to that sight. “But beheading…” Radcliffe shook his head. That’s something even more…”

      Melanie appeared to be more thoughtful than shocked. “Yes, it is terrible. Though they say it is humane, more merciful than any of the older ways.”

      The travelers spent several days working their way through a countryside punctuated by the smoke of burning houses and barns. Enthusiasm for the Revolution was far from universal in the countryside. Black columns made ominous warning signals, visible for miles, at points spaced erratically around the horizon. When one fire died away, another sprang up somewhere else.

      At night, the three travelers rested when and how they could. One midnight, on the verge of falling asleep in a haystack, Philip thought back to his recent stop in London, and told his traveling companions about his adventures there, where he had paused on his way from America to France. He told them also about his rough crossing of the Channel in a smuggler’s small boat. England and France had been at war with each other for a year, but the secret commerce in goods and people was still thriving.

* * *

      In a few days, after a journey that had afforded them no reassurance regarding the fate of France, Philip, Melanie, and Old Jules reached Paris. It bothered Radcliffe that conditions seemed no saner or quieter as they approached the capital.

      Now Old Jules was rendered all but mute by unfamiliar wonders; and Melanie treated Philip like a visitor who had never seen Paris before. Indeed, his childhood memories of the great city were fragmentary and jumbled.

      Of course the travelers’ documents were examined at the barrier before they were permitted to enter the city.

      “Our capital, dear American, has been for many centuries the model for all Europe, the guide in all matters of taste and fashion.

      “Here on the right, we now have the Faubourg Montmartre, and also the Temple; straight ahead is Faubourg Saint-Antoine.”

      Radcliffe turned to look where his guide had pointed. “And the address where I can reach you through your cousin—her name is Marie, right?”

      “Marie Grosholtz.”

      “Yes.” He nodded. “And the address, should something happen to separate us, is Twenty, Boulevard du Temple.”

      “That is correct—and over in that direction, across the