‘Well then,’ mused Best-pressed, ‘you must have served under Marshall Treffault…’
‘No.’
‘What: a veteran like you?’ Best-pressed frowned. ‘At Naples? Why not?’
‘Because,’ said ‘Mr Tell,’ ‘there was no Marshall Treffault at Naples. Or Tunis. Or Moscow. In fact, I’ve never heard of any Marshall Treffault.’
Best-pressed smiled.
‘Right answer. Because he never existed. Papers please…’
He perused the proffered carte de sejour, but not in any sceptical fashion. Frankenstein’s hopes rose.
‘A Swiss National, eh?’
That signified nothing. The Revolutionary cause, and then its conquests, had inspired or pressed men from all over Europe into the Convention’s armed forces.
‘That’s right.’
‘William Tell.’
More muffled jubilation. The name obviously rang no bells. Again, for Frankenstein ignorance was bliss. He gave thanks for defective educations. Gratitude lent his voice a certain flourish.
‘At your—and the Revolution’s—service, sir.’
A few more steps and he’d be free: free to indulge a long held fancy of directing a stately galloon through skies he had no business to be in. Or possibly ending the tedious succession of day after day in a blaze of glory.
Well-pressed was about to give his ill-informed blessing and wave them on. Unticlass="underline"
‘No!’
It was Ada again, in a reprise of her little scene before the booking desk. Except that here it wouldn’t be so little.
Julius leapt boldly into the deja vu.
‘My—Lazaran—sister fears flying,’ he started. ‘Once we are in the…’
‘No!’ Ada repeated, and Julius’ heart froze. He saw she was out of role, still a Lazaran because that was unalterable, but not ‘Mademoiselle Tell’ or any other subordinate guise any more. She was Lady Lovelace again, mistress of her own fate and all she surveyed. And, worse still, smiling.
Foxglove was impassive—but he was in on this. His eyes had just the slightest glitter when they locked with Frankenstein’s.
So, it transpired that just like Julius they had their own surprise planned. A trump card played before Frankenstein could explode his own bombshell about hijacking. The fox had been outfoxed.
‘He is not William Tell,’ said Ada. ‘Nor a hussar. Nor wounded. But Swiss, yes, we can grant him that much.’
No. The soldiers would grant him nothing except suddenly cold faces and broad hands upon his shoulder.
There was a ‘pepperbox’ revolver in Julius’ waistcoat pocket: eight bulky barrels of persuasion ready for use when aloft. Yet it had no relevance here on solid ground and surrounded. He’d be dead before fingers gripped the handle.
‘This is preposterous!’ he protested, and tried to stand up straight as best crutch and restraining hands allowed. ‘She’s mad-…’
Which was probably true and might have worked if he’d persisted, and bluffed better than any human had ever bluffed before. But far more likely was the loss of all dignity and the same result in the end anyway. Julius plumped for poise and silence.
He wasn’t even allowed that. A questing French hand detected his strapped up arm and ripped his pelisse open to reveal it. Thus encouraged, others located his doubled-up ‘missing’ leg. For the sake of completeness, even the eye-patch was ripped away. By then his gun had gone too.
Ada and Foxglove had taken a step back, putting distance between them and someone suddenly no longer of their company. The soldiers had permitted that, but wouldn’t smile on any further retreat. They had questions.
Like:
‘Who is he then?’
Ada looked at Julius and he at she. He could detect no bottom to the depth of her eyes or triumph.
‘I was about to say,’ she said. ‘He is Julius Frankenstein. Great-nephew of Victor Frankenstein, inventor of the Revivalist science. And therefore wanted throughout Europe. I suggest you arrest him. Your Government will reward you.’
Every uniform in earshot seemed to think that was an excellent suggestion and rushed to adopt it.
Care-worn man saw and heard all—from a safe distance.
As soon as Frankenstein was bundled away in chains he ordered each surveillance unit to stand down. For the moment they would drift back to the innocuous lives they lived when not needed.
Meanwhile, in his mind Care-worn man was already considering his report on the mission. For once he looked forward to the task—how sweet the words would flow!
He could tell Talleyrand all had gone well.
THE WAY OF THE WORLD: MISCELLANEOUS DOCUMENTS
Being a selection of divers documents and source material presented for the interested reader to peruse at leisure, while those impatient to resume the story may do so here.
From Decisive Battles of the Western World by Sir Charles Oman (London, 1930)
Volume II: ‘The Second Battle of Agincourt, 1819’
‘…defining moment of the Second French Revolution, fortuitously fought on ground hitherto famous for a crushing Gallic defeat. On this occasion, the ramshackle post-Revolutionary French army, reinforced by elements of the old Imperial Grande Armée and Revolutionary militia of dubious military worth, necessarily took up a defensive stance slightly to the north-west of the historical battlefield. They faced an overwhelmingly stronger Austro-Russian invading force augmented by French Royalist echelons returning from exile.
The defenders of French soil and the newly re-stated ideals of “Liberty, Egality and Fraternity” can have little dreamed that at the height of battle and on the cusp of what seemed like certain defeat.’
From the (pre-publication and unedited) Memoirs of Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington. (Five volumes. London 1830.)
‘…certain defeat and serve them right, when I heard that the d*mned rebel Frenchies had finally turned to fight at the old field of Agincourt. Naturally, I rejoiced like any decent Englishman would, and made all haste to get my army over there to do their worst. The omens all looked d*mned good.
Omens? Stuff o’ nonsense! Never underestimate the stupidity of Johnny foreigner—especially ones called ‘count’ this or ‘duke’ that. As much use as a chocolate teapot the lot d*mned lot of them!
Well, with nigh 50,000 English troops—scum of the earth of course, but seasoned fighters—on the way to lend a hand you might have thought the blasted Austrian and Rusky dunderheads would have held back till we could combine our forces. It wasn’t as if we were across the ocean in China—our advance guard was less than half a day’s march off! We could have been there well before bad light postponed play!
But no, by G*d’s teeth and turban, they wouldn’t wait, d*mn their eyes! If you ask me my opinion, they didn’t want to share the glory. Bldy fools! Bldy foreigners!’
From Memoirs of the Arch-duke Franz-Joseph IV (Vienna. 1863)
Volume 1; ‘My Early Years and Tribulations’
‘…foreigners but welcome allies. A column of Russians was to our left: royal-blue clad grenadiers from Muscovy burning to punish the ungodly French who had dared to kill not one king but two! A cloud of Cossack riders with lance and bow (soldiers, it seemed to me, from another century), preceded and surrounded them. Horse artillery of the most modern kind trundled beside, making the scene gay with their jingling horse accoutrements.