A Sharpness on the Neck

And why his surname was Radcliffe.

Philip, having been in France now for more than a week, had already been challenged several times and forced to defend himself against accusations of spying for the Austrians, or for Pitt, the treacherous prime minister of England, by proclaiming himself the natural son of Benjamin Franklin.

Franklin had been and still was highly esteemed in France, and Radcliffe had mixed feelings on observing that his father's portrait, usually with fur hat and bifocal spectacles (his own invention), appeared on all manner of objects.

Philip had already seen the familiar face on snuffboxes and chamber pots.

The story of Philip's paternity was quite true, and fortunately he had documentation in the form of a worn and dog-eared letter from his father, who had died in Philadelphia in 1790.

'For all the years he spent here,' he remarked to Melanie, 'Father never did master French well enough to feel confident writing it, though he could read and understand the spoken word with some facility.'

Radcliffe now pulled from an inside pocket the oilskin packet in which he was carrying this letter, opened it and showed it to his companion.

She murmured: 'I remember…'

'But I forget, did you ever meet my father? I suppose you might well have done so. My mother's often told me that he visited us here, but I have only the vaguest memories of him here, or none at all.'

'Then I suppose,' said Melanie, 'that I was too young also.'

'Yes, of course.'

The first meeting with his father that Philip could remember had not taken place until he was half grown. Then, after Franklin's return from Europe in 1785, he had seen the esteemed gentleman more than once in America. Franklin had acknowledged his relationship to young Philip, wished him well, and offered to use his influence to help him obtain legal training, if that was his wish. Philip had interrupted his apprenticeship at law to undertake this journey, and his half-resentful attitude toward the old man had mellowed into a sincere liking.

Radcliffe was also carrying a letter sent to America by the revolutionary firebrand Tom Paine, inviting Philip to call on Paine if he should come to Paris. Paine was an old acquaintance, if not exactly a friend, of the young man's father—in fact Benjamin Franklin had once been widely credited with the authorship of Paine's famous political pamphlet, Common Sense. Phil also had in his pocket another letter that he hesitated to show Melanie; his elders in Philadelphia had impressed on him that the message he was carrying to Paine was something of a diplomatic secret.

Nor did Phil want to raise Melanie's hopes regarding her father only to see them dashed again. But he seriously thought that he, armed with the letters of introduction he was carrying, might well be able to exert sufficient influence upon the revolutionary authorities in Paris to be of some use to her father.

According to the young woman's description of the course of local events over the last year, typical of the turmoil which had swept through most of the country, some kind of rural mob had gone through a show of seizing this estate, in the name of the People. Melanie of course had not been on the grounds at the time, or even in the village. The intrusion had taken place months ago. The mob had made a drunken, abortive effort to burn the place down. But the house was constructed mostly of stone, and a timely rainstorm had put out the fire, so only minor damage had resulted.

Actually the chief culprit in the matter of damage, as far as Radcliffe could see, was only neglect, which over the last several years had somewhat ravaged the house. Still the structure was basically intact. It seemed very doubtful, though, that anyone in his mother's family would ever have a claim on the place in the future.

That was too bad, in a way. Philip would have enjoyed a leisurely return, in some peaceful future, to the house and lands that held so many happy memories. On the other hand he was perfectly ready to admit that the local peasants, whose blood and sweat and lives for countless generations had been invested in this soil, had a far better claim on the place than did he or any of his family.

* * *

The two young people remarked to each other on how swiftly the night had passed while they had done no more than talk and sip a little wine.

Several times during the course of their nightlong conversation, Radcliffe had asked Melanie what she had been doing all the time he had been gone. He had yet to receive anything like a full or detailed reply.

Melanie continued to be vague in her answers whenever the conversation touched on her personal life. When pressed, she said she had been away to school, but seemed reluctant to provide any details.

'So,' said Philip, drawing a deep breath and ready to try again. 'Now you've heard all about me. I do believe I've told, my entire life story several times over in the course of the night. And I've learned from you all about the state of things in France—and about what's happened to your father. But it would please me to hear of happier days—how you spent your time before the great upheaval. How long did we decide it must be since we last saw each other—? Yes, eighteen years. I'm twenty-five now, and you're—twenty-four? Of course. So we must have been about seven and six when we last played together.'

'Yes, 1776—that was a big year for revolutions,' Melanie commented, smiling. Her companion could not help noticing that she had once more evaded the question.

When he continued watching her in silence, she added: 'My life would make a dull story, I'm afraid—until the Revolution started. Since then all lives in France have been exciting.' She mentioned that she had spent some time working with her father, the physician. 'Until he was arrested.'

'I am really so sorry, Mellie.' The old childhood nickname had come back effortlessly. 'I remember the good doctor well. At least I think I do.'

Again she sipped her wine. She had consumed several glasses over the course of a whole night, and so had he, though not enough to have had any noticeable effect on either party.

Melanie, while visiting in the village yesterday, and at her wits' end as to where to turn next, had heard that someone was occupying the house again. One reason for her visit had been to warn whomever had come here against the local republicans, or Jacobins, who committed desultory acts of terror.

From the moment she had heard of the reported stranger, she said now, she had wondered whether he might possibly be her old playmate.

She had driven out from town in her father's light carriage. Greeting her at the door, Radcliffe had at first not recognized her—nor she him.

'Yes, Mademoiselle, how may I be of service?'

'To begin with, it will be safer for you to call me citoyenne—but stay, M'sieu, have we perhaps met before?'

The couple had spent the night in each other's company, under conditions of deepening intimacy, though as yet there had been only casual physical contact between them after a kiss of greeting at the moment of recognition. They were beginning to fall for each other in a serious way. They had, as it turned out, a very great deal to talk about.

'And what do they say that you must do, this local Commune, or Committee—or whatever is the latest name they give themselves?'

'They call themselves the Committee of Public Safety, having adopted the same title as the men in Paris who last year proclaimed themselves our new masters. You will be wise to treat these local people with politeness when you meet them, but here they have nothing like the power of Robespierre and his gang in the city.'

She was looking out the window again. 'It appears that we are going to have a visitor.'

Vlad Dracula, dragging himself along, struggling to stay on his feet—more than once slipping to his knees and fighting his way erect again—had almost reached the house. This would have been the moment for dogs to rush out barking, but it seemed there were no dogs. If they had come, he was ready, thinking he still had the power to quiet them.

The harried fugitive, staggering with fatigue and loss of blood, had fallen from sheer weakness several times during the last half hour. He knew that he would not survive the first minute of full sunlight under these conditions, not even the slanting, early morning rays; such shelter as he might find under a tree or in a hedgerow was not going to be enough in his condition.

Seen at close range, the building's dilapidation was all the more apparent. Obviously the house had been