The captain of the bath approached—and approached—and approached yet again, until far too close for European comfort. If this were Switzerland and the bath-captain a wench, they would have been deemed engaged.
The man then inflicted further rudeness via a series of sniffs over Julius at point blank range. Which in turn permitted—in fact forced—Frankenstein to notice that, scent-wise, Bath-captain didn’t exist. Even the air round him had more character and he was just a void in its normality.
Julius had passed his life to date amidst privileged circles where cleanliness, if not Godliness, was becoming de rigueur, yet such high standards as this struck him as extreme; even unnatural…
Which, he then realised, was a silly thought. In his dictated, not chosen, profession of defying death, the unnatural was natural. How much longer must he go on tormenting himself by noticing it? Those who no longer cared were so much happier men…
But it was no good. He had to scratch the itch. A power stronger than willpower made him ask.
‘What was the point of all—?’ he said, or started to say, but desisted when it became clear no one was interested in Julius any more. He doubted they even heard him. Odourless Bath-captain was indicating the next set of doors.
‘Go in there and dry off,’ he ordered, and then turned away. He and his team had a new mission. A marshal of the Grande Armée had just entered the room as Julius had earlier. All attention was focused on this new visitor from the unclean.
‘Disrobe, monsieur,’ the marshal was told. ‘Abandon yourself to our ministrations.’
Frankenstein let himself out and entered into an sunlit chamber. Floor to ceiling windows flooded it with light to the furthest corners and, as if that did not suffice, the three other walls held polished metal sheets to reflect the rays.
Otherwise the place was empty, devoid of the slightest distraction, but its purpose did not take much deducting. Still dripping water onto the floor, Julius crossed to its centre and basked in the beams. Soon he could feel rapid evaporation underway, plus that revival of animal spirits the sun’s kiss always brings.
Without even a towel to cover his nakedness or supply a fig leaf of normality, Frankenstein felt open to fresh perspectives. The one visible through the high windows seemed an obvious staring point.
Squinting against the sun, he looked into the ornamental gardens stretching into the purple distance. Closer to, the aforementioned peacocks scattered before marching squads of soldiers or other, more casual but still uniformed, strollers. Behind and unseen there was the impression of architectural bulk.
Not that he had any need to rely on intuition. Julius had observed Versailles’ exterior from the coach that brought him there. He instantly recognised the place from numerous prints. Then he’d covertly timed the ride from the first gatehouse beside the road, through interminable security points, and finally, much later, to the front entrance. That and his long walk from there to the bathing room amply confirmed that this was a big palace, a little city in itself. He’d given up as a fruitless exercise counting the rooms and halls and guards and chamberlains en route. Suffice to say, such establishments occupied enough of God’s creation to make their own rules, and visitors simply had to fit in with them.
Surrendering to the flow and a comforting lack of thought, Julius raised his arms like a bird preparing for flight. The sun fell on his skin in a passionate embrace, finally lifting off all excess moisture.
Which was how the next-in-line chamberlain found him, entering the room by a door cunningly concealed in the metalled wall. He wore not gold braid or colourful silk but a garment akin to a toga. It looked light and blindingly white. He carried an identical copy in his arms.
Fancy dress was the final straw. Frankenstein was moved to protest.
‘I am an hygienic man!’ he said. ‘I bathe once a week whether I need to or not. What on earth is all this in aid of?’
This chamberlain waggled his hand equivocally.
‘”On Earth”? I’m not so sure. However, put this on, monsieur, and soon all will be made clear. Then he will see you.’
Chapter 5: BEHOLD THE (FORMER) MAN
‘The first and the last, by the wrath of Heaven, Emperor of the Jacobins, Protector of the Confederacy of Rogues, Mediator of the Hellish League, Grand Cross of the Legion of Horror, Commander in Chief of the Legions of skeletons left at Moscow, Smolensk, Leipzig and etc. Head Runner of Runaways, Mock High-Priest of the Sanhedrin,, Mock Prophet of the Musselmen, Mock Pillar of the True Faith, Inventor of the Syrian Method of disposing of his own sick and wounded by sleeping draughts, or of captured enemies by the bayonet. First Gravedigger for burying alive, Chief Gaoler of the Holy Father and the King of Spain, Destroyer of crowns and manufacturer of counts, dukes, princes and kings. Chief Douanier of the Continental System, Head Butcher of the Parisian and Toulouse massacres, murderer of Hoffer, Palm., Wright, and yea of his own Prince, the noble and virtuous Duke of Enghien, and of a thousand others. Kidnaper of ambassadors, High Admiral of the Invasion barges and praams, Cup-bearer of the Jaffa poison, Arch-Chancellor of waste-paper treaties, Arch-Treasurer of the plunder of the world, the Sanguinary Coxcomb, assassin and incendiary. Werewolf of Europe, the BONEYMAN…’
‘He’ proved to be a mere two more chambers, plus a host of highly professional guards and yet more searches (even of a near-nude man) away.
Then, finally:
The throne-room was modest considering what ‘he’ had conquered—not least Death. There was a throne and rich battle-scene tapestries, but not much else. It was the opulence of the field camp: rich stuff but thrown together, standing-by ready for swift departure.
‘Cleaner than he came from the womb,’ confirmed the chamberlain from the threshold. Then he withdrew, leaving them alone together.
Frankenstein could either surrender to awe or stand his ground. And it had to be the latter if his personality wasn’t to be blasted away, leaving him naked before the naked power manifested here.
So, Julius assumed a questioning face and plucked at his toga. To emphasise the point he also shook his still damp hair and the locks discharged a light rain of droplets onto the polished floor.
To Frankenstein’s pleasure, Napoleon actually shrank from their insignificant threat, seeking the further recesses of his throne. The panic lasted several seconds before he realised it didn’t look good
‘Disease…,’ ‘explained’ Napoleon. ‘There must be no germs! The living crawl with them! And filth. Filth breeds pestilence. Pestilence brings death. I cannot afford to die again: not before my work is done. Not when I was only brought back with such pain…’
Wrestling from the grip of strong emotions, Napoleon recalled he should be playing host. An all-powerful, condescending, host at that.
‘So you understand the need?’ he asked Frankenstein, semi politely. ‘For the cleansing, the… manhandling?’
He did indeed. ‘Misinformed,’ concluded Julius to himself, accompanied by relief. ‘Plus scientifically ignorant. And therefore fallible.’