‘Absolutely,’ he said.
To some small extent it meant he could now stand at ease before the Revived Emperor. Also, the puzzling minimalist decor was explained: less places for pesky ‘germs’ and ‘pestilence’ to lurk.
In fact, Frankenstein had had his suspicions, starting with the rough fetching from the Mausoleum. Only a daring enemy nation or one particular ego would dare slight the Convention so. That a certain elite regiment were sent to do it removed all doubt on the subject. England might have its Brigade of Guards but only a certain personage had the ‘Old Guard’: veterans and sons of veterans of famous campaigns, at his disposal.
Even so, Julius now boggled at the sheer audacity—which was another clincher in itself. If even one of the raiders had been killed or wounded and left behind then all would have been revealed, as good as leaving a calling card. Arrogant in their excellence (and indulged in it by their master) they distinguished themselves with great sportive moustaches. Those that couldn’t grow them for any reason wore false ones.
Frankenstein had thus identified them from the first face at the window. They might have dispensed with their popinjay uniforms and bearskins that night but the lip furniture remained. Which in turn meant he who sent them was reckless of discovery. ‘He’ must calculate that the Convention needed him as much—perhaps more—than he needed them.
That thought made Frankenstein study this king-amongst Lazarans anew.
Amongst the first details Julius noticed was the length of his fingernails. Yellow and cracked, they curved over the arm-rest of the throne, precisely matching his skin-tone. And texture too.
Second shock was the angry purple marks around his scraggy Imperial neck. Frankenstein frowned. History said Bonaparte had died of natural causes, not hanging…
However, someone didn’t care for being scrutinised, even if it was by a doctor. Napoleon felt the need to re-establish just who was interviewing who.
‘Ahem…,’ he said. ‘Good day to you, herr Frankenstein.’
His voice was that of a vigorous leader of men—and didn’t belong in that prune-like body.
‘And good day to you too,’ replied Julius, ‘monsieur le…’ Then he hesitated, tripping over what might be the proper form.
Napoleon had compassion on him—which would have shocked his courtiers had any been present. He raised one yellow claw to wave away any embarrassment. The fingernails clattered.
‘Do not concern yourself. Beyond these walls to term me Emperor is a capital offence. Perhaps you knew that—although I somehow doubt it would influence your decision. However, here at home my old title is applied to me by my servants. I have no strong views on the subject. One has accumulated so many names in the course of an illustrious career. Use any of them that pleases you. Except the offensive variety of course…’
So that excluded ‘The Wolf of Europe’ and ‘The Great Butcher’ then. Not to mention ‘The Grave-ripped Abomination’ favoured by the British press.
A pity. Finally meeting the man in the flesh, as opposed to state portraits or caricatures, Frankenstein saw that the Times had it about right.
Speaking purely of the view, it had been no act of kindness to haul Napoleon Bonaparte back across the Great Divide—either to himself or others. Serum had worked wonders over and above the ‘mere’ restoring of life. However, in this case it wasn’t wonders but miracles that were required—and an unreasonable multitude of them.
The plain fact was that he’d laid in the grave too long between death on St Helena and the Convention’s decision to raise him. During those years decay had had its way and dried his flesh to leather. Serum could reverse some elements of death but not all. In fact, aesthetically speaking, the part-repairs only made matters worse.
Cumulatively, even Frankenstein, a medical man and someone who’d supped deep from Revivalist science’s cup of horrors, had trouble fixing his eye to the point. He found himself evading the Emperor’s gaze like some bashful maiden.
And the Emperor, who retained his sharp perceptions if not his former shape, noticed it.
‘You think I am not a pretty sight, no?
‘Why,’ Julius thought, ‘should I degrade myself by denying it?’
‘No,’ he said, not in any wounding way but as statement of fact. He’d always strived to be honest with the Lazarans from his own laboratory, going against his nature by being cruel to be kind.
No other answer was permissible re the risen Emperor. A desiccated, jaundiced, frog was the closest description Julius could come to. The man was naked—no dirt-harbouring toga for him—and his body was bleached and alternatively bloated or collapsed. Also hairless, save for atop where the lank locks and kiss curl familiar from all his portraits survived. Plus, of course, the eyes. Their fire remained. Indeed they positively burned.
‘No more need to say ‘not tonight, Josephine,’ eh?’ prompted the Emperor, rubbing salt into his own wounds. ‘No woman, not even my dear departed and so ambitious Josephine would approach me now. Not without spewing her stomach contents. Don’t you agree?’
Actually Julius didn’t. Rather shockingly, he found his take on human nature even more cynical than Bonaparte’s.
‘Maybe some that I’ve met might,’ he ventured. ‘If sufficiently rewarded.’
Perhaps the Emperor liked contradiction—in moderation. Maybe it made a change from the army of yes-men in his palace. Whatever the reason, he smiled.
‘That could be so,’ he replied. ‘One should never underestimate the aphrodisiac charms of power. But you are beyond seduction I see. Which surprises me. You are a doctor, even a famous one, dipped deep in Revivalism; surely you have seen worse than me?’
Frankenstein cursed his stubborn integrity. One day it was going to land him in the embrace of Madame Guillotine. Nevertheless…
‘No,’ he said. ‘Not often.’
Napoleon sighed. Those sections of his rib-cage still responding to stimuli heaved.
‘At least you are honest,’ he answered, after a tense pause. ‘It is a contrast. Last month some greaser from the Convention told me I was a fine figure of a man—“for my age”.’
‘Really?’ said Julius. Again that was one word so vastly richer in English than French. Inflection meant it could carry a whole array of meanings, all subtly different. But not so in their current tongue. The Emperor merely thought his anecdote doubted.
‘Tis true!’ he replied. ‘What a creeping merde-mouth he was! So I have arranged for his transfer to the Russian front. There instructions are given that he be permitted to experience the very fullness of events…’
‘Vindictive’ concluded Julius. He wondered again with fresh urgency if there was any brake mechanism on his own wayward words.
‘And lest the relevant calculation clog your thoughts at this vital time,’ the Emperor pressed on, ‘pray let me enlighten you about my ‘age.’ Nigh seventy years: that’s how long I’ve lived—if you include nearly nine in the tomb. Which equalled nine years of absolute nothingness, in case you were wondering…’
In fact Frankenstein was. Every Revivalist did, however much they pretended otherwise and professed to be wearied by the subject. Much of popular acceptance of Revivalism, contrary to the rulings of the Church and some states, stemmed from that: the outside hope that one day the big question might be answered. People couldn’t help themselves. Julius had even taxed Lady Lovelace on the subject, as he would every Lazaran capable of a sensible answer until the day finally came for Frankenstein to find out for himself first hand.
‘It signifies nothing,’ he said, to comfort the Emperor. ‘Everyone says the same…’