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

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 Romain.”

      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 showplace 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