Tales of the Shadowmen 2: Gentlemen of the Night

by Jean-Marc Lofficier

  Spalanzani and Coppélius laughed, unpleasantly.

  “Naturally, ladies, I should delight in attending your final performance,” said the Countess, “but pressing business elsewhere summons me. I have been absent from my Summer Ball for too long. Matters there are coming to a head. My doll-makers and I are required to oversee the course of true love. A trusted servant will remain behind to supervise your fatal immersion.”

  The Countess snapped her long fingers.

  A small creature lurched into the circle of light. Christine and Trilby groaned. Irene knew that was not an encouraging sign.

  “Poor Cochenille,” said the Countess. “He has been fearfully mistreated this evening.”

  The little man’s head did not fit on properly, and several of his limbs dragged. He would not have been especially attractive at the best of times, and now he was a complete quasimodo. The Countess patted his head, and withdrew–the doll-makers trailing after her.

  “They’re mannequins,” said Trilby. “The brides. Poupée Gerard and the others. Automata.”

  “Clockwork,” said Christine.

  “I guessed as much.”

  “That lump isn’t real either,” said Trilby, nodding at Cochenille.

  “I heard that,” he shrilled. “Soon you won’t be so particular. When the wax hardens, the Countess will give you to me. As toys.”

  “Toys shouldn’t have toys,” said Christine. “It’s absurd.”

  Cochenille manipulated a winch, unrolling chain from a drum, humming to himself.

  The girls were lowered, by inches.

  Christine and Trilby took deep breaths, and twisted, knees up to their chests, feet tucked against their rumps. Irene, who’d had quite enough perilous dangling for one evening, tried her best to imitate her colleagues’ tactics, straining her shoulders and back. She yelped.

  Cochenille lowered them further. They could feel heat boiling off churning wax. Spits painfully dotted their bodies, forming solid specks on their garments. It seemed the advantages of hot wax for the complexion were decidedly overrated.

  They were hung from hooks fixed to a bedstead-sized frame which was attached at the corners to four chains which gathered up through an iron loop affair to wind around pulleys fixed to the factory ceiling. The more chain was extended to lower them, the more give there was.

  Irene looked up, and saw a dusty skylight and the roofs of Paris. For an instant, she thought she saw the billow of a cloak.

  From somewhere, three sharp notes sounded.

  Christine and Trilby threw their weight backwards, taking Irene with them, so she could see skylight and cloaked figure no more. The girls extended their legs, feet pointed like trapeze artistes. Their eyes were open, fixed nothing in particular. They concentrated on becoming living pendulum weights.

  It was a side-effect of the “music lessons,” Irene thought–the way Christine and Trilby sometimes started acting in concert like the Corsican Brothers or (and this chilled her) the mannequin dancers at the Countess’ ball. She knew her colleagues were flesh and blood, but Erik had tinkered with their minds. At times like this, she regretted not also having submitted to the special tutoring, though she usually shrunk in cold terror from the idea.

  “Stop that swinging, at once,” shrieked Cochenille. “Naughty naughty girls.”

  Irene again did her best to imitate Christine and Trilby, throwing her weight in parallel with theirs. The frame swung in a long arc, up and back, then down and forward, as if tossed on a great wave. It seemed for a moment that the girls’ feet and legs might dip agonizingly into hot wax, but their heels barely brushed the furious surface. It was fortunate that Christine and Trilby were divested of their dresses, for skirts would have trailed in the wax and anchored them in the deadly cauldron. Irene’s leotard was close enough to a circus aerialist’s costume to be suited for this venture.

  Cochenille frantically worked the winch, which seemed stuck.

  On the next pass, the frame took the girls past the rim of the cauldron, over dizzyingly empty space. Then they crossed the deadly gulf again, higher still at the height of the swing, and were pulled back.

  Irene saw what was intended.

  She hoped they wouldn’t break their legs, though that would still be better than becoming a prize exhibit at the grand opening of the Musée Grévin, the new waxworks which would supposedly rival London’s Madame Tussaud’s if it ever got finished.

  On the next pass, as they looked down, the girls stuck out their legs, bracing themselves for a shock. Their feet slammed against the lip of the vat, which rang like a bell, and their swinging stopped. They bent at the knees and waists, but stretched out as if standing up at a 45-degree angle, held by their chains but safe, feet planted on the hot metal, their weight tipping the cauldron.

  Another note sounded from nowhere.

  Christine and Trilby were out of their useful trance.

  All three girls complained of discomfort–strain on their muscles, searing against the soles of their feet, damage to their stockings.

  Cochenille hopped in frustration. If he loosened the chain more, the girls would be able to slip their bonds. He must reverse the winch and raise them higher, dragging them over the lip of the vat.

  The gnome took hold of the wheel of the winch.

  “Give it a bit of kick,” said Trilby.

  Irene strained with her thighs, putting more weight against the cauldron. The others did too.

  The vat was on an axle set in housings, so wax could be poured into moulds. By inches, the girls tipped the vat with their feet. Liquid poured out of a spout-like groove in the rim.

  The first pink gush splashed against the floor.

  A wave broke against Cochenille’s ankles, and froze solid on cold flagstones. He was trapped.

  “Harpies of the Inferno!” he shouted.

  A greater cascade fell all around him, and he broke into pieces.

  Irene took her feet off the cauldron and swung upwards, hooking her legs through the frame, taking weight off her wrist bonds, which she freed and twisted apart. She climbed the chains, as feeling came back to her fingers. Monkeylike, Christine managed the same trick, leaving Trilby to take the strain of keeping the vat, now lighter for the loss of most of its contents, in pouring position. Then, in concert, Irene and Christine lifted Trilby free.

  The vat clanged back on its axle.

  Wax spread on the floor, solidifying.

  The girls swung wildly on their frame, comparing bruises to their skin and damage to their costume. They picked deposits of wax out of each other’s hair.

  “That was horrid,” said Christine.

  “I’ve got aches in places where I didn’t think I had places,” said Irene.

  “We’re not out of the woods yet,” said Trilby. “We’ve got to get down from here and finish the job. Some men have to learn that their brides are lifesize dolls without minds.”

  “Some men might not care,” observed Irene.

  Fortunately, the mannequin factory had an extensive store of suitable costumes for their products. The trio found playroom clothes which would pass among the giant dolls and toys at the Summer Ball: Irene as a buck-skinned cowgirl of the Wild West, Christine as a bold Brigadier of Napoleon’s army, and Trilby as a parti-colored Harlequin. .

  In the factory’s stable, they found a light carriage, with a pair of horses tethered and ready. Pinned to the seat was a hand-drawn map showing the best route between the factory and the barge’s mooring, signed P.O., for Phantom of the Opéra.

  “He thinks of everything,” said Christine.

  “Always watches over us,” said Trilby.

  “He might have been more help when we were about to be dunked in the boiling wax,” said Irene.

  Her colleagues looked at her, shocked.

  “Irène, Erik works best in the shadows,” said Christine. “This you know.”

  Irene shrugged and climbed up onto the box.

  She knew now who had been up on the r
ooftops. She wondered about those strange, skull-piercing musical notes and their effect on her colleagues.

  “Yee-hah, giddyup,” she shouted, taking the reins.

  The vehicle charged out onto the street, knocking over a brazier at which a night-watchman had been warming his hands. Hot coals spilled on the cobbles.

  The watchman made an impertinent gesture at the departing carriage.

  Christine and Trilby argued over the map, feeding Irene instructions at each turn. The horses seemed to know their way already, which Irene didn’t find all that comforting.

  The Angels of Music tore through the streets of Paris.

  At midnight, three happy couples were escorted by creaking wooden soldiers from the ballroom of the barge into a smaller, equally well-appointed chamber where the company was far more select. Here, music was provided by intricate automata whose instruments were parts of their bodies. The orchestra had been constructed by skilled Venetian craftsmen a century earlier.

  A stiff-backed, golden-faced toy conductor–a marvelous engine in itself, clad in a gold swallow-tail coat with jewel-studded epaulettes–precisely ticked off the seconds with a baton.

  The Count, the Baron and the Duke each escorted a tiny dancer. Barbée, Cyndée and Dépenaillée Annette had entirely captivated their newfound fiancés with artificial charms, augmented by certain drugs administered through tiny scratches from sharp glass fingernails. Nothing was left to chance.

  Each couple joined the dance, moving elegantly to the automata’s tinkling. The other couples on the floor would have been familiar to Erik’s Agents, for their documents had been examined. Here was Grand Maréchal Gerard, the Duke of Omnium, the Chevalier del Gardo, Magistrate Simon Cordier, Mr. Thatcher of New York, Cardinal Tosca and all the other “husbands,” partnered with–and, in some cases, propped up by–deceptively fragile, hard-eyed wives. Indeed, a careful observer would have noticed these men were led around the floor by their painted dolls, in an advanced state of befuddlement verging on somnambulism.

  At length, the dance concluded, and the couples stood in neat rows as if for inspection, male heads hung, female faces turned up. A trap slid open and a podium raised, upon which stood the masked Josephine Balsamo, swathed in pure white furs, from arctic wolves and polar bears. She presented a savage, commanding aspect–like the chieftain of a marauding tribe clad in the skins of fallen enemies.

  “Tonight, at last, our company is complete,” she announced. “The men in this room can claim between them to control the world. Every sphere of human activity is represented–politics, finance, arms, faith, letters, industry, science. Beside you are your perfect wives, so demure, so devoted. You are theirs, entirely. Through them, you are mine entirely. You serve the Cause of Cagliostro. I have played a long game. You all had to be in place. Nothing in this world cannot be decided among the men in this room. Wars can be arranged. Fortunes shifted. Governments changed. On my whim, I could choose what people will say, think, eat, hum in the bath. This has been my goal for more years than I care to remember. My sole regret is that, at this moment, I am essentially talking to myself, for you, the wives, are but my instruments, unliving tools who express only my will. And you, the husbands, are sleeping, dreaming what I have deemed you will dream, dancing at the end of strings I control. Shall I feel lonely? Is this game solitaire? Earlier tonight, it was revealed to me that forces–pathetic, perhaps, set beside this company, but not to be despised–were set against me, against us. Agents have been dealt with. But there may be others. Believe me, I am glad of this. For we must test our strength. We must seek out the other players of this Great Game and destroy them utterly.”

  China palms clapped together, in approval.

  Beneath her moon-mask, the Countess smiled on her creatures.

  From the Pont du Caroussel, Christine, Trilby and Irene watched as carriages ferried away the Countess’ lesser guests. Thus was the chorus dispensed with, ejected from the Ball–only members of the exclusive Marriage Club remained on the barge with the Countess and her minions.

  “Is that an unwound turban floating by the bilges?” asked Trilby.

  Irene had not had time to explain fully the fate of the Persian.

  Christine gasped and clutched her throat, apprehending at once that something dreadful had transpired.

  Irene drew six-shooters from her leather hip-holsters, and thumb-cocked the hammers.

  “Come on, Angels,” she drawled, “a gal’s gotta do what a gal’s gotta do!”

  The trio advanced through the barge’s ballroom, stepping tactfully over drunks and suicides, avoiding staff clearing away the débris, posing briefly among giant toys when it seemed they might be noticed. They came to a locked door. Irene put away her guns and picked it. The party was continuing, inside, in more select fashion. Christine, Trilby and Irene crept in, and sat at the back without attracting attention.

  The Marriage Club was in session.

  All around, on the polished wood floor, sat tiny artificial brides, cradling husbands like babies, whispering musically into their ears, caressing them intimately, giving tender orders.

  The automated orchestra played a lullaby. The toy conductor swiveled on his podium, seeming to stare at the interlopers–then turned back to his musical machines.

  The Countess sat on a throne, weighed down by white furs.

  Irene drew a bead on the Countess’ forehead and fired.

  A bullet spanged against the red mask, cracking the face of the moon–but the Countess did not flinch. None of the husbands reacted to the shot, but all the wives looked up at once, glass eyes fixed malevolently on the newcomers.

  Irene sighted with her other Colt, aiming for the spot where the Countess ought to have a heart. Knowing it wouldn’t be any use, she fired again. A black, smoking patch appeared on the Countess’ furs.

  “It’s just another doll,” said Trilby.

  They looked around the room, wary. So many automata, so many painted eyes.

  Christine had drawn a sword, which she held up like an expert ready for attack.

  In concert, the wives got to their feet, letting husbands fall or roll where they might. One or two of the men groaned, scratched their heads and tried to stand–then sprawled again.

  There were at least 30 mannequins, clockwork-and-porcelain-and-wax sisters, costumed in high fashion finery. As they moved, clicks and whirrs suggested their interior workings.

  “I’ll wager they do more than dance,” said Christine.

  “I’d not take that sucker bet,” said Irene.

  The Countess’ throne revolved. The puppet Countess’ broken head fell unnaturally. On the turntable dais were two identical thrones, back to back. The Countess had been hiding behind a mannequin in her own image. She wore a fresh mask, a rainbow-winged butterfly of silk over steel, and a suit of scarlet, lightweight armor decorated with Chinese dragon motifs. Quantities of loose dark hair fell over her shoulders and down her back.

  Irene fired at once, but the Countess–with supernatural swiftness–bent one way and then the other, avoiding the bullets which smashed into her throne or the wall behind her. She struck elegant poses as Irene missed with several more shots.

  In the end, in frustration, she pitched the guns at the Countess as if she were shying horse-shoes. With mailed gauntlets, the Countess knocked them out of the air, and they skittered uselessly across the floor.

  The pack of brides took a march-step towards the three girls.

  “You escaped the wax,” said the Countess. “Well done. I could use ladies like you in my service.”

  Irene knew that was not going to work. And so did the Countess. She shrugged, rattling the shoulder-pieces of her armor.

  “What do you think you look like, dearie?” asked Trilby.

  “Red Jeanne, evil twin of the Maid of Orléans?” suggested Christine.

  The Countess seemed to consider the idea.

  “She dyes her hair,” said Irene. “You can always tell.”

 
; The Countess made angry, spike-knuckled fists.

  “What say we do this fair and square?” said Trilby. “Just you and us. One to three. Not bad odds for a supposed immortal.”

  “That’s just how it will be,” said the Countess. “I don’t count these puppets as people. But as tools.”

  Christine, Trilby and Irene were backed against the wall. Only Christine had a usable weapon. She extended her sword-point.

  One of the wives stepped out of formation and walked up to Christine. The sword dimpled against her chest, then slid through her torso. She stepped calmly up to Christine’s face, blade emerging from her back, sword-hilt against her copper-wire ribs. She angled her head from side to side, looking into Christine’s face–then reversed her walk, like a music box wound backwards, wrenching the sword from Christine’s grip.

  The orchestra still played, but the tinkling tune was running out, as if the music box were winding down. The conductor’s baton slowed.

  The Countess made a gesture, and there was a whooshing sound.

  The wives’ fingernails extended by an inch, razor-edges glinting.

  “This is probably where we get cut to ribbons,” Irene told her colleagues.

  Trilby and Christine held hands. Irene took a fighting stance–she’d had an afternoon of boxing lessons from a bare-knuckles champion. Before she went under, she’d break a few toys.

  The music stopped. The baton was still.

  “Goodbye, Angels,” said the Countess.

  Then the automaton conductor twisted, suddenly loose-limbed, on his podium, baton falling from gloved fingers. A curtain tore away from the complex works underneath the clockwork musicians and the real conductor could be seen–faceless, broken and stowed away under the bandstand. Several barrels were wired into the workings of the grand Venetian device, marked “gun-powder.”

  The girls just had time to realize who had taken the place of the mechanical music master.

  The golden face-plate was lifted from a lipless horror of a mouth.

  The girls’ hearts leaped. The Countess whirled, enraged but still confident of victory. The mannequins attacked.