So, sir, you know full well how I hunger and thirst to serve both science and our beloved Emperor. Therefore, I implore you—indeed, I even dare to say that you must—dismiss from the Imperial service this misbegotten block-headed Swiss. And since he now knows what he should not know, your excellencies may care to consider dispensing with his dubious talents in a manner which will forever seal his lips. It is not for me to suggest, let alone direct, but it is also nothing less than my sworn duty to call to your mind’s eye the image of our very own guillotine standing in the august Courtyard of Justice. You may well think it a neat and relevant image in the context of this satanic viper within our bosom who…’
Julius yawned. The man sitting opposite him reading the letter aloud looked up.
‘I should stop, monsieur?’ he asked, surprised. ‘You do not wish to hear the rest?’
Frankenstein finished patting the inadvertent gape. It cheered him to be courtly, even—or especially—in the face of mortal peril.
‘I am indifferent, sir,’ he said. ‘Do whichever is more agreeable to you. One was not listening in any case…’
There was something about this clammy bureaucrat that nagged at Julius. They’d not met before—he would have remembered that—but maybe his pale face had appeared in a news-sheet or the like. If so, identification remained illusive. Not that he was in any rush to strengthen their acquaintance.
Which was a pity from Julius’ point of view. Had he been less sickened by current affairs and paid more attention to their reporting, he might have recognised Joseph Fouché, the Convention’s Minister of Police. He might further have speculated why such a notable was representing the Emperor or talking to mere him—and thus had a feast of food for thought. As it was he was merely wary.
Minister Fouché nodded.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I had gained the impression of being ignored…’
Though he put emphasis in his voice it failed for being carried in such a sibilant whisper. Nothing would ever be gleaned from analysis of it.
Nevertheless, Julius recalled his obligations, even to such a repellent individual.
‘I apologise if I appear impolite, sir,’ he said. ‘I am not usually so arrogant seeming.’
The man adjusted his rimless glasses. Julius had speedily come to dislike those too. When the light hit them in a certain way it made their owner appear eyeless.
‘‘No?’ queried Fouché. ‘But surely, monsieur, your family heritage might justify a certain dignity, even pride…?’
Frankenstein preferred that the man remained still, for every move sent invisible waves of spiritual affliction his way. From the moment they’d met he’d felt himself to be in the presence of something terribly wrong. He’d raised Lazarans with healthier looking skin.
‘No,’ replied Julius, so firmly as to cut off that conversational road.
‘Then kindly explain your demeanour.’
Julius pointed at the letter.
‘Because,’ he said, ‘your man knows nothing.’
Fouché put on a show of being taken aback by such excessive candour, but Frankenstein believed not a single thing about him.
‘No?’ It was a request for confirmation rather than doubt.
‘No,’ Julius obliged. He was being very negative today—and keeping things clipped lest the unclean presence seize on something. ‘Nothing—or next to nothing.’
From a pocket of his shabby fawn frock-coat Fouché extracted a lady-like notepad. It was shod in gold and had a holster for a matching pencil to one side. The Minister made a ritual, perhaps even a sacrament, of opening at a pristine page and then twisting the writing stick till exactly the right amount of lead emerged.
Fouché licked the tip with a tongue that darted snake-like from between thin grey lips. Then he paused, poised.
‘ “Nothing”, Monsieur Frankenstein? Or next to nothing? Which is it? We require precision.’
There was not the slightest overt menace there—usually the default stance of much of the French apparatus. The bureaucrat seemed merely anxious to be enlightened.
Julius was not deceived. This particular cold-fish in human form was new to him, but the type was not. The man had consumed all his tedious debriefings, the sterile interrogations about Revivalism and the Compiegne and Heathrow establishments’ advances (or lack of them) which had gone before. He’d dined on the end product of that sausage-machine process and still deemed it worthy of a second helping. In short: a bore.
‘Let us settle on “next to nothing”,’ said Frankenstein. ‘By accident the Egyptian has stumbled upon a slight refinement of secondary processes. He does not understand the how or why. Hence all the vehemence of his attempts to hang on to favour.’
Notes were being made—more than the bare words warranted. People always find that perturbing and Frankenstein was moved to make conversation.
‘Where did you find him?’ he asked. ‘A medicine wagon at a country fayre?’
Fouché’s pen failed to falter. Nor did he look up.
‘No,’ he said. ‘It was in Egypt. He came recommended. And expensive. We took references. Be aware we are not that easily deceived, monsieur.’ It was a shot across the bow.
‘I see…’
‘Ah, but do you, monsieur? That is the question. Do you see? And speaking of you, I go on to ask: do you know nothing? Or next to nothing? Or maybe something?’
‘The last,’ Julius replied.
‘Really?’
‘I believe so.’
The Minister still only had eyes for his notepad. Julius suspected it was the primary arena of his thoughts, the bank vault in which he stored his true life.
‘Do tell…,’ said Fouché.
Again, it was a cordial invitation from one reasonable man to another, rather than a command.
Should Julius imitate a man divulging all? When ‘all’ didn’t really merit the effort?
‘The Egyptian infuses serum into strips of mummy,’ he said. ‘Which is a singularly absorbent… meat. The resultant admix is made concentrate by sun drying. C’est tout!’
The bureaucrat was intrigued, Julius could tell. Although his pen hand remained steady his nostrils had dilated. Plus, his pinched face was now even more so. The hair-line had drawn back too. Myriad involuntary reflexes betrayed even this most opaque of men, revealing ‘tells’ to those in the know. Doctors make good card-players.
‘C’est tout?’ echoed Fouché.
‘C’est tout.’ Julius batted it back
‘The process need not be performed here?’
‘No. Anywhere there is sun will do. Iceland would be worse but southern France better. You see the principle. African sunlight might be the best, being that much fiercer, but I suspect the Egyptian prefers his Versailles life to hot work by the Nile…’
If he concurred with that slander Fouché gave no sign of it.
‘And you could do this?’ he asked.
‘I—or anyone,’ answered Julius. ‘Indeed, I could even improve the process employing lens to focus the sun’s rays. Or something similar…’
With a wave of one hand Frankenstein dismissed the problem as a minor, merely technical, matter. Nothing beyond a morning’s work and few hours of Swiss expertise. His nation’s reputation for mastery of intricate devices such as timepieces preceded him and paved the way.
Frankenstein perceived his companion was a quick learner, and bold besides. Though appearances suggested otherwise, he dared to dash headlong into worlds not his own. In short, Julius concluded, he was that rarity: a buccaneer amongst bureaucrats. Also, probably way more important than he looked. Not that that was difficult: he looked like a provincial child-molester.