In some other cell, far down the dismal corridor, some other prisoner chose that moment to loose a burst of maniacal laughter. Whilst my attention was thus drawn to the auditory environment, the thought crossed my mind that, if one closed one's eyes, it sounded very much like the interior of an insane asylum.
And that thought brought back an old memory, which I tried to retain in a place where I hoped it would be ready for use. I recalled hearing that my brother, since his last emergence from underground, had fallen into the habit of visiting such places as Charenton, amusing himself with the inmates. More particularly Radu had taken a special interest in one prisoner—what had his name been? A Frenchman, yes, and an aristocrat. The Marquis, marquis of something or other, and cruelly insane…
My client had given up trying to pace in the cramped quarters, and had found his voice again. He kept it low, as if by instinct, as he called me by the name I had given him at his chateau. Nervously casting glances at the door and its peephole, in an urgent whisper he repeated: 'But what are you doing here, M'sieu…
'I have my ways,' I assured him, in a normal voice. 'Be of good cheer, Mr. Radcliffe. To get you out of La Conciergerie will be somewhat more difficult than getting myself in, but, believe me, it is well within my range of competence. Out from behind these walls, and then a few neatly forged papers… passage to the coast arranged, and then abroad. Three weeks from today you will very likely find yourself seated in some snug London tavern, regaling your friends there with some story explaining your improbable escape.'
'Melanie,' he said, making the one word a meaningful declaration.
'Very well, Melanie too. So, it is that way between the two of you. Well, why not?' And at that moment I was on the brink of trying to explain to him how his relationship with his beloved might be altered by the choice of means adopted to effect his release. But I let it pass. Everything I had told him so far was the truth. If not quite the whole truth, well—there would be time for that.
'Have you seen her? Is she well?'
'I have.' I did not specify where. 'And she is.'
And all the time the rain was dripping, dripping mournfully somewhere outside. In the distance thunder grumbled.
Hope had now been born in Radcliffe's eyes, and I could see that his mind was racing to establish a basis for it. In the fertile soil of America, almost any seed could grow, and quickly. But he remained prudently wary of tricks and impossibilities. In his own fluent but accented French he once more demanded: 'How did you get into this cell?'
'I have my own methods,' I repeated. 'Be reassured by the fact that stone walls and locks present small obstacles to me. As they would to you, if a certain transformation in your nature were to be effected.'
'Transformation in my nature?' Radcliffe looked at the door and nodded sagely, as if he understood. Then he turned to face me again, and admitted: 'I don't understand this at all.'
'Nevertheless. If such barriers, and a few armed guards, were our only problems, you could be free already.'
He stared at me, ready to dispute me. But here I was standing in front of him, in defiance of all logic, locks, and fanatical guards; evidently I could not be such an idiot as my claims made me sound.
He asked the question as if he hoped that I was not a madman: 'What is it that truly confines me, then?'
'That is an intelligent question. The answer is: You have a very powerful enemy.'
'Do you mean Robespierre? Or Fouquier-Tinville, the prosecutor?'
I shook my head. 'I mean a man more dangerous than either, hard as that may be to believe. A drinker of blood indeed, and one who does not mean to rest until he has drained yours to the last drop.'
'And this enemy does not want me to get out of prison.'
'Oh, on the contrary! Your most dangerous enemy will be happier if you are free to wander, out of my protection. We must consider carefully what we are going to do about him.'
On my entry, my client had looked at me as if doubting his own sanity. But now his expression suggested that he thought I was the lunatic.
I gave up the task of explanation for the time being. 'I bring you an interesting bit of news.'
'Oh?'
'You are to have a visitor soon, perhaps within the hour. A woman named Marie Grosholtz will call on you; she happens to be the cousin of Melanie Remain.'
His eyes lit up. 'Marie—? Yes! Melanie has told me of her cousin Marie. I know her address here in Paris, though I have never met the woman. I thought she was some kind of teacher… but she comes to me on some official task?'
'Semiofficial, at least. As part of her regular employment, she calls frequently on people who are in your situation.'
Radcliffe's perplexity was growing. 'For what purpose?'
'I will leave that to her to explain. People in your position are usually willing to cooperate with her… I take it you were not many days, or even many hours, in Paris before your arrest?'
'Less than a day.'
'Then I don't suppose you had time to visit the Cabinet de Cire of Dr. Philippe Curtius, on the Boulevard du Temple?'
'A wax museum?' He looked at me in utter blankness. 'No… but that was the street where Melanie said I would find her. At number twenty.'
'That is the very address. It has been a popular show-place for years, since before the glorious Revolution. I am told that for some time the most popular displays at that establishment—even more so than the effigies of the royal family—have been the modeled heads and busts of notorious criminals.
'In the eyes of the Committee of Public Safety, you now fall into the latter category.'
On a whim I pulled from my pocket a small fragment I had recently torn from a Parisian newspaper, and read aloud the article it contained:
Radcliffe hung on every word, trying to extract reason for hope. 'I never heard of such a thing.'
'It is an art form with something of a history.' I did not mention that few citizens who were given a choice ever seemed to avail themselves of the opportunity.
The young American nodded at last. 'But who wants my effigy?'
I shrugged. 'Probably David.'
'Who?… Oh. You mean the artist?'
I nodded. Jacques Louis David was a famous man in the field of art, where there was some justification for his being well-regarded, and also cultivated powerful friends in political circles. (As he had done before the Revolution, and as he continued to do afterward, when Napoleon and his whiff of grapeshot had swept the last red bonnet from the streets. Some people have the knack of survival.) 'He is a member of the Convention, you know, and has a great deal of influence. They order wax replicas so he and other dedicated Revolutionary artists can use them as models, for accurate paintings and sculptures. A vast quantity of artistic work is planned, to tell the whole world the story of the glorious Revolution. Also the wax images themselves could play a part in festivals and parades.'
Later I learned that it had been David himself who had commanded Marie Grosholtz to go to Marat's house when the great propagandist was assassinated, and to make a cast of the dead man's face, before the body was removed from the bathtub where it lay in a rich mix of blood and water. The fact of Marat's head not being detached (he had simply been stabbed) only made the task a little harder.
David's own face, I have been told, was rather ugly, one cheek disfigured by a huge vein. The main reason, I suppose, why there were never many artistic representations of him. And there are fewer now.
Radcliffe, thinking it all over, checked the door again, then turned back, lowering his voice to a mere whisper. 'I take it this coming visit from Melanie's cousin may have something to do with—my escape?'
'One might say so.' Then, seeing a shade of disappointment cross his face, I hastened to add: 'No, you are
