There was a lesson there for those with the mental strength to see.
Thus enlightened, Prince Talleyrand waited until the reverberations thrumming in from his own imaginary web’s widespread strands made recognisable sounds. He delayed still further until repetition converted sounds into music. Then, recognising the tune from past experience, he interpreted. But it was only when those interpretations were confirmed by other means that the Prince felt free to act.
It sounds like a timid and tedious and lengthy process, but was not. It occupied only the time taken up by that day’s first cup of chocolate and perusing that night’s dinner menu proposals. And no one present would have guessed that the Prince was not giving his full attention to either (highly important) activity.
If so, they were deceived. The short interlude of sipping and selecting enabled Talleyrand to summon his secretary and, without hesitation, dictate a crisp, memoirs-worthy, memo that shifted forces the length and breadth of Europe.
All change. His agents were to draw back. Good and faithful (or well paid…) servants though they were, they had been detected. Which didn’t matter till now. But now had become then and there was a new now. What didn’t matter then now did. All very simple, A.B.C. stuff.
Next, because at heart (deep deep down, when he could be, if circumstances permitted and all other things being equal) he was a kind man, Talleyrand composed additional missives to his auxiliary agents; those who worked for him unwittingly. True, he was in no position to guarantee the safety of anyone involved, or even materially effect their fate, but he could at least save them from being prey to anxiety.
Talleyrand held it as one of his few fixed beliefs that an anxious life was a fate worse than death. As a former bishop he was aware that Christ’s most frequent instruction as reported by Scripture did not concern belief or prayer or that ill-defined quality called love, but the simple command: ‘do not be afraid.’
Who was Talleyrand, a mere man of the world, an unworthy (and indeed excommunicated) Christian, to dispute that emphasis?
Accordingly he wrote.
The letter to Lady Lovelace was short and unsigned. In fact, it contained but one word:
‘Bravo!’
Whereas to Frankenstein he was more forthcoming. Four-fold so. Julius got a whole sentence.
Chapter 9: IN PHARAOH’S BOUDOIR
Julius received and read it by candlelight.
Just before, he’d been surveying a moonlit segment of Versailles revealed through a cobwebbed window. First, baroque masonry and statuary, then a maze, riotous fountains (albeit dry), formal gardens (plus NCOs’ latrine), and an orangery. Still beautiful, though raddled or raped, their original aims remained latent, just waiting to dispense joy, even though water, blooms and fruit be gone.
But what noble thoughts and/or lively ladies had he courted in any of them? What attitudes or garters had he adjusted there? Answer: none.
There was the excuse of being confined, but excuse was what it was. Julius had never tried to truant in those gardens because he lacked will and skill for the thoughts and garters things. Like a metaphor for the rest of creation, the Palace of Versailles lay spread for his delectation, available as a whore in bed, but also unvisited as the Moon which lit it.
Instead, Frankenstein spent his spare time with the dead. Mixing with his own sort, some wits said: getting in some practise for the imminent real thing.
He was in the ‘Pharaoh’s Bedroom’: actually an obscure lumber room renamed in jest when it became home to the sarcophagi required by the Egyptian (RIP) and his mumbo-jumbo. There they now resided, gathering dust, a long way from their contents’ intended resting place, whilst someone (presumably) decided what on earth to do with them.
It was a problem. There was no wish to advertise possession of the stuff, and putting mummies out with the rubbish was fairly certain to excite comment, even amongst the wine-fuddled sorts who worked the refuse carts. One mooted option was a Viking-style mass funeral pyre and barbeque, which would at least be entertaining.
More sober minds suggested discreet reburial, one by one, night after night, in local churchyards. There was, they pointed out, ample space in those since the Revivalists got access to them…
Alternatively, it could just be left for the next owners of Versailles to discover and worry about. What, someone reasonably asked, were a few more decades or even centuries of limbo to those who occupied the boxes? The bandaged former royalty didn’t eat or excrete, they didn’t wander about and they never complained. Which made them perfect guests by the standards of the Palace. Why stir them and everything else up unnecessarily?
To date that question hadn’t had good answer. Since there was lot else going on, it probably never would. Future archaeologists might find half of the Valley of the Kings in the ruins of Versailles and draw all sorts of wrong conclusions.
Meanwhile, Frankenstein had taken to keeping the mummies company when he wanted to think clearly. The jumbled contents of the room helped him to acquire perspective about his own petty troubles. Long ago, these presumably important people had strutted and fretted their hour upon the stage, and afterwards careful provision had been made, and great expense incurred, to get them safe to Heaven. Then circumstances changed and someone else’s agenda had led them here, first to being sliced up like salami, and then when that bright notion was ditched, to abandonment in careless disorder. In the stock market of life (or afterlife) they’d plunged from precious commodities to the junk-shares nobody trusted. And it showed.
The jars and sarcophagi had been stacked higgledy-piggledy by, Julius surmised, servants with no respect for them and even less liking for the task. Lids were askew and partially unwrapped limbs protruded. It was like being in a field hospital’s failures zone after a battle, save for the smell. Rather than the reek of fresh death, here was the scent of ancient dust and long centuries patiently waiting in the dark for… what?
Appropriately enough, it was ‘waiting’ that Julius had come here to ponder on. How long would he have to wait before he was found out again? The Heathrow Hecatomb had been comparatively slow; the Compeigne Mausoleum less so. All the indications were that the Emperor’s establishment was an super-streamlined place. When the breakthroughs failed to arrive on a daily basis he would be asked why—and soon. And in no uncertain manner.
That being so, how long did he have? And what should he do in the interval? There was his ‘collection’ (of which more anon) to preoccupy him, but that was nearly complete. What else could he profitably do? Grow a stylish beard perhaps? Would there be time? And when his head rolled into the guillotine’s basket did he want it to be wearing a beard in any case?
Answer came there none to either big or banal questions. Which was perhaps why, since he was feeling so low in spirits, Fate stepped in to suggest a solution: just so he would keep going and still provide it with amusement.
Someone slid a letter under the door.
Julius heard the rustle of paper and looked up in time to see the missive finish its horizontal journey. Unhurried footsteps receded down the corridor beyond the door.
Unless he’d been followed—and wary Julius didn’t think he had—no one knew he was here. No one else came to this place at alclass="underline" the lower echelons thought it haunted and the ambitious shunned the remnants of an out of favour project. Either his habits had been the subject of close study (Why? By who?) or someone was writing letters to mummies.