[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
Probably it is completely unnecessary for me to point out, to readers who have spent their entire lives in
the second half of the twentieth century, that the vast majority of the victims of the Terror had never had
any idea of committing the crime for which they died, never conspired in some way against the new
republican government. Most were guilty of the Kafkaesque crime of being Suspect, and that is all. One
could with perfect ease lose liberty and even life as the result of a chance remark, an anonymous
denunciation by an enemy, or by simply coming under the eye of some police agent who was seeking to
fill a quota you who read will understand such matters, from your vantage point near the beginning of
the third millennium, more readily than did I at the end of the eighteenth century.
Having located my benefactor and formed at least a preliminary plan, it seemed only reasonable to pay
him a visit and offer him hope. Whatever method of release I finally decided on, his cooperation would
be required.
I thought a prison cell would rarely if ever qualify as a legitimate habitation, in the strange calculus of
possibilities that limit the comings and goings of thenosferatu. At least I had at that time never yet found
one that I was barred from entering, be it occupied or not.
Radcliffe's cell was somewhat smaller than Marie Antoinette's, and of an unusual L-shape, with barely
room for a small table and chair beside his bed. I came in quietly. He started up from his mattress, where
he had been lying with hands clasped behind his head, and almost cried out at the sight of my shadowy
figure, standing not much more than an arm's length away from him, my finger raised to my lips enjoining
silence.
Chapter Twenty
For a long moment the young American stared at me as if he thought I was the Angel of Death, whilst I
stood waiting, wondering if I ought to have made a less dramatic entrance. But eventually recognition
dawned in Radcliffe's eyes and when it came, it brought with it a new astonishment.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
I did not hear you come in, M'sieu Legrand." In his surprise the young man spoke in English, but I
answered him in French, my own English at that time being no more than rudimentary.
I smiled modestly.."! was rather unobtrusive about it."
"But I didn't see the door open either!" Leaping up from his pallet, shaking his head in growing
bewilderment, he pushed past me to the door, seized it by the bars which almost filled the small high
opening, and pushed and pulled some more, meanwhile trying to peer out into an empty corridor. The
massive wooden construction remained closed. "Still locked!" he cried, now having switched to his
excellent French.
I made no effort to quiet him. Actually there was little chance that an outburst of noise would do our
cause any harm; in that world of confinement, strange and sudden out-cries were as much a part of
existence as were darkness and bad smells. In that prison there were always voices raised somewhere,
day and night, arguing philosophy and other trifles, debating politics of course, pleading for life, or
sometimes chattering in insane monologues, carrying on arguments with God or the devil; the guards
made no effort to enforce silence, and a prisoner bellowing or raving to himself was unlikely to arouse
any curiosity at all. The odds were very small that anyone outside the cell would be paying any attention
to the sounds emanating from it.
Instead I remarked calmly: "I don't suppose you'd want it found standing open?"
"No no, of course not." Turning his back on the door, he forced the fingers of both hands, front to
rear, through his long, dark hair. That would soon change; all prisoners under sentence of death were
treated to a haircut at state expense, on the theory that nothing, not even hair or a lace collar, ought to be
allowed to restrainla mechaniquefrom attaining its maximum efficiency.
I noted a small white bandage near the crown of his head.
Now he was facing me again. "But what are you doing here?"
"You have saved my life, M'sieu Radcliffe. Now it is my turn to be of service to you." I bowed slightly.
"In fact, I insist on doing so. What has happened to your head? I see that you are bandaged."
"A little scuffle when I was arrested." He shook his head, as if he found it hard to imagine what favor
anyone could do for him in his present circumstances. But hope would not die in his eyes, and they
stayed fixed on me.
"I had in mind revoking your death sentence," I offered modestly. "Unofficially, by means of escape. I
take it you would not object if your stay in this world were to be substantially prolonged?"
My client stared at me incredulously, made a strange sound in his throat, and took a turn of pacing round
his cell, which was inconveniently small for such activity.
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]