Chapter Fourteen
When the heavy wooden door swung open, Melanie got her first close look at the man leaning against the wall just outside. She drew a breath and started to speak, but the words were never uttered. Under the stranger’s gashed forehead, his dark, tormented eyes briefly met hers, before both people looked away.
“Are you alone?” Radcliffe asked.
The pale-skinned, almost skull-faced figure drew a soft breath. “Very much so.” His French was precise, but Radcliffe, who had absorbed the language at his mother’s knee, could hear traces of some foreign accent, one that he could not identify.
“I see you have had an accident,” said Philip.
“One might call it that.”
“Well, come in, man, don’t just stand there—but stay, do you need help walking?”
“I think not.” And even as he spoke, the stranger displayed a surprising burst of strength, lurching forward as if his life depended on the advance, and he dared not risk delay. This effort carried him for two or three short steps, just enough to bring him through the door, where he halted, leaning against the wall again, as if in the last stages of exhaustion. He had the used-up look of a man who had just run a long distance. There was one notable anomaly: He did not appear to be gasping.
And only now, when he moved forward, was the extent of his wounds, and their number, obvious to the onlookers. A drop of fresh blood fell to the floor.
“Let us help you, sir!” Radcliffe cried.
A brief nod in reply.
Radcliffe pulled one of the stranger’s thin arms over his own shoulder and put his own much better-nourished arm around the other’s waist. Meanwhile, Melanie had come up behind Radcliffe and was staring past him toward the visitor. The young woman did not speak, but slowly lowered the weapon she was holding.
Once more the stranger’s gaze rested on Melanie, and now for a slightly longer time; but his eyes were almost vacant, and there was in them no sign of recognition.
The old servant Jules, watching, almost unconsciously made the sign of the cross. A moment later his granddaughter Marguerite imitated his action.
The very first direct rays of the morning sun came grazing through distant treetops to strike first upon the whitewashed outdoor wall, and then the very lintel of the door.
The visitor, momentarily left standing alone just inside the entry, had managed to get his body entirely in shadow, but still he winced and seemed to shrink within himself. Behind him Radcliffe was pushing the door closed, blocking out the direct sun. Old Jules, at a nod from his master, secured the portal with a bar.
Oblivious to most of this, the supposed hunter was trying to gather what strength he had remaining. He took off his hat and said, in a low rasping voice: “You had better bar the door behind me. Admit no one.”
“We have already done so. Are you pursued, then?”
“Not to my knowledge. But it is only fair to warn you that I may be.”
Philip and Melanie exchanged a glance. Each would have described the man before them as certainly aristocratic.
Radcliffe growled: “Damned Jacobins. Republicans, they call themselves. Bandits, I call them—are they close on your trail?”
“I think not,” the victim repeated patiently. “But it is possible.”
“And by what name shall I call you, sir?”
“My name is Legrand.” A year ago the name Corday, that of Marat’s assassin, had acquired attention-grabbing connotations.
Philip muttered hasty introductions, then, assuming his uninvited guest to be a persecuted aristocrat, impulsively swore that he would never give the man up to his enemies.
He was not really sure what was available in the way of beds and couches in the house; Radcliffe had not yet had a chance to try any of them for himself. But Vlad, once the freedom of the house was granted him, ignored any suggestions along that line. Instead, he groped his way, weakly but unerringly, as if the location of his goal were somehow clear to him, back through the house to the kitchen, then past the kitchen into a kind of ancient storeroom, to the spot where his cache of native earth had been buried so long ago. He could feel its presence beneath him. His undead bones perceived a certain radiation, like that of fire-warmed stone on a frozen night. With a groan he lay down there, right on the stone floor, directly over this hidden source of joy.
Even on the brightest summer days the light back here would always be dim, with the room’s one small window on the north side and covered by a heavy wooden shutter.
Blessed relief flowed through all his ancient vampire bones, coursing in what remained of his blood.
Lying for the moment with his eyes closed, oblivious to the curious stares of those who had befriended him, he thought: Let me lie here all day unmolested, shielded from the blasting sun, and at least I will not die before nightfall. He would remain too weak, though, to do much more than survive. Unless he could find nourishment.
Dracula’s host, a long way from perceiving the fugitive’s peculiarities, offered his strange guest first bedding, and then food—though of course it never occurred to him to offer sustenance of the only kind that would have been of real benefit.
“Again I must ask you—would you not prefer a bed?”
“I tell you no.” The voice, though somewhat stronger, was still no more than an agonized whisper. “If you would truly help me, let me be as I am.”
“Very well. At least you had better let me see to your wounds.” And the American wondered if his guest might be delirious.
But his next speech sounded entirely rational. “If you wish.” Pause. “I thank you for your help. There is no doubt that you have saved my life.”
The servant who had been sent for water and bandages now returned, and Melanie, the physician’s daughter, with Radcliffe’s somewhat awkward assistance, undertook the job of binding up the patient’s wounds.
Weak as their bearer was, these had started to mend already, so to the uninitiated they appeared to have been made several days ago—but they were not as far restored as they would have been had not the spearpoints that made them been poisoned.
She muttered, uncomprehendingly: “This looks as if you had been—gored, by some horned animal. Or stabbed with a sharp stick.”
The victim had nothing to say about that. There were other spots where his pale skin looked bruised and swollen, as if he had been beaten with some blunt object.
Melanie, who had been her father’s frequent assistant in medical emergencies, firmly and naturally took full charge of the job of washing and bandaging, in which she had both skill and experience.
Radcliffe watched her working on the gash in the visitor’s right side. “Ugly gash,” she muttered. “I would think it needed stitches, and the one in your forehead too, but already they seem halfway healed. How did you get them? It must have been days ago.”
“Would you believe I suffered a hunting accident?”
The American shook his head. “Not without a considerable effort. Were you hunting with spears and swords? And you said that you might be pursued.”
In reply the victim only grinned, stretching the taut skin of his face, making it even more skull-like.
They offered him various items from their modest supply of food and drink—Old Jules’s granddaughter had made delicious soup—but the patient firmly declined. Even in his condition, he could be very firm. When pressed, he rinsed out his mouth with a mixture of wine and water, then spat out the red stuff violently.
After sunset came, the main event of the evening, as far as the weakened, hunted vampire was concerned, was the return of the doctor’s daughter. Melanie was accompanied by the servant girl, who was carrying a lantern, a jug of water, and some soup. Even at midday the room remained very dim.
The servant girl paused in the doorway, while Melanie, advancing across the room, knelt down on the stone floor and murmured softly: “Is there anything I can do for you, Citizen Legrand?”
“You and your husband have done
very much already. You have saved my life.” The victim’s voice was stronger than his deathly appearance suggested.
For some reason Melanie thought it necessary to make the situation clear. “He is not my husband.”
The visitor only looked at her, and again she felt it incumbent upon her to explain.
She sat back on her heels. “Philip and I are friends. We knew each other as children. Philip is an American now, but he was born here on this estate. The land is—was—in his mother’s family. Before she took him to America, he and I often played together in this house, on these grounds … that was almost twenty years ago … so we are old friends.” Pause. That is all.”
“Ah.” And something in her listener’s eyes seemed to alter. “I think that ‘Radcliffe’ is not a French name.”
“Philip was telling me about that last night. His mother married an American called Radcliffe years ago, and her young child took that man’s name.”
After a moment’s pause she added: “Philip’s natural father was Benjamin Franklin.”
Almost any resident of France would have been interested at the mention of the late American celebrity, who had lived in France for so many years, and the wounded vampire was no exception. His low voice murmured: “Now that you mention it, our host does bear a certain resemblance to Franklin, around the eyes.”
“You were privileged to meet the great M’sieu Franklin, then?”
“Once, years ago, I had that honor … and how is the elder statesman now?”
“I regret to say that he died four years ago, across the sea in Philadelphia. I am surprised you did not know.”
“It is the world’s loss.” A thin arm bent and straightened in an elegant gesture. “One falls out of touch with many things.”
* * *
With the situation now a little clearer to both Vlad Dracula and Melanie (though in fact each still labored under a fundamental misunderstanding), the kneeling woman at last slid closer and reached out to inspect the patient’s bandages. At her gesture, the silent young girl who had been hanging back in the doorway now brought the light closer. The patient made no effort to sit up, and to examine him the doctor’s daughter was compelled to sit right down on the stone floor, which she did with a natural and very non-aristocratic movement.
But it was an awkward position in which to try to work, and in a moment she asked irritably: “Can you not sit up?”
The patient shook his head slowly. “At the moment, you must believe me, I am vastly more comfortable, and even stronger, as I am. Healthier, lying flat on this stone floor, whether you examine me or not. It may seem strange to you, but it is so.”
“Come, though, at least turn over a little and let me see,” At first glance, she could tell that the main bandage over the ribs had loosened notably, as if the man could have lost weight over the last few hours. The physician’s daughter, a briskly persistent nurse, looked under the bandage, then blinked her eyes at what she saw. “Mon Dieu, but you heal fast! There is a notable difference from just a few hours ago.”
He grunted. “At times in the past, when I have been injured—others have told me that I heal with great rapidity.”
There was a persistent hesitancy between them, and at last the young woman, having pulled off and thrown away the patient’s bandage which was no longer really necessary, decided to deal just as firmly with the other matter, the one lying unmentioned and unresolved between them.
Sitting back on her heels again, running a hand through her long hair, she announced briskly: “Citizen, I think that we have seen each other before.”
Once more settled in the unlikely looking position that gave him greatest comfort, he blinked at her benevolently. “That is possible. Perhaps we shared a dream.”
“No.” She shook her head, being firmly practical. “You must know what I mean, and it was not a dream at all. This morning, even while you still were standing outside the house, I recognized you. We met in Paris, one night near midnight, at the cemetery of the Church of the Madeleine, the place where the bodies from the place of execution are brought to be buried.”
“Yes, I am familiar with it.”
“We had a very strange conversation in that cemetery, you and I. I still remember it pretty well, though it took place a year ago, or even more. I was there with my cousin, my teacher, Marie Grosholtz.”
The man on the floor did not comment. He waited, as if withholding judgment.
“You came upon the two of us while we were at our work there in the churchyard, and you startled us.”
“For that I apologize.”
“You are forgiven. But the good God knows what you must have thought that we were doing. With the heads.” Melanie tried a little smile, which brought no response. “You made a strong impression on me.”
He watched her, steadily.
She drew herself up a little and tried again. “From certain remarks you made at the time, Citizen Legrand (I think that then you may have given us a different name), I understood you to be completely convinced that my cousin and I were up to some … that we were cutting up dead bodies in the pursuit of some kind of black magic. But I want to tell you that was not the case at all … and it occurs to me that now, meeting Citizen Radcliffe here with me, you may believe he is also involved in that sort of wickedness. But the accusation is not true of either of us. I can explain.”
Slowly the supine man shook his head. “I make no accusations. You may have noticed that I offer no reason for my own presence in the graveyard.”
Melanie Remain looked at her patient—if it was still possible to call him her patient—carefully, studying him for the space of several breaths. Then she said: “I do not think you were there on any business of witchcraft either.”
“Certainly I was not.” There was more than a touch of asperity in the answer.
And somehow, without either party seeming to be fully aware of the fact, he had taken her hand in both of his, and had absently begun to stroke her wrist, a procedure to which she made no objection—indeed, she hardly seemed to notice.
Then abruptly he released the hand of the young woman, saying: “And it is all one to me, whatever the cause may be for your unusual interest in the bodies of the dead.”
Meanwhile the young servant girl, who was still faithfully holding the light, had inched a little closer, and a little closer still. She continued watching in silence, fascinated. Her gaze had become locked on the dark eyes of the man lying on the floor, who was taking no notice of her at all.
Melanie too was gazing intently at the visitor, and now she shook her head decisively. “I see you do not believe me, M’sieu Legrand, when I protest my cousin’s innocence and mine. But I tell you no, it is not what you are thinking. Some deluded folk may still believe that bits of flesh and bone cut from rotting corpses have magical value, but to me that is all superstition. Did I say anything to you at the time, to give you the wrong impression?”
The man who reclined on the floor shook his head again. Once more he raised himself a little on one elbow, and his voice strengthened. “It makes no difference to me what you said then, and I have told you that I require no explanations now. You and your cousin Marie may dig up all the dead bodies in the world, and play games with all the loose heads—my only concern is that nothing you do will bring harm to our host I now owe my life to M’sieu Radcliffe. I heard him swear to defend me against my enemies. In my time I have heard many men swear many things, and I believe I can tell which ones mean what they are saying. I can do no less for him in return.”
Melanie bunked. “But I have no intention of harming him.”
“Good. Then you will readily comprehend that he should not become involved in any dangerous graveyard operations—whatever their object.” Legrand’s voice suddenly sharpened. “Is he connected with such matters now?”
“No!” The young woman was quietly vehement. “He knows nothing about my cemetery work.”
“Good. And I think it will be well if h
e remains in ignorance … you see, from this day forth I am bound to take a strong interest in the welfare of Monsieur Radcliffe. It has become a matter of honor for me. So I should like to have your assurance that you, whatever your other interests may be, will do him no harm.”
For a moment the young woman appeared confused. Then she shook her head in silence, but quickly and eloquently; the gesture indicated, as convincingly as any words, that doing any damage to their host was indeed the farthest thing from her thoughts.
The wounded man let himself sink back, so that again he lay flat on the floor. For the moment he was satisfied. And he was very tired.
And also his need of nourishment was, growing steadily stronger.
As his two visitors were leaving him to his rest, his gaze flicked restlessly from Melanie’s back to fasten on the enthralled eyes of the servant girl. The girl’s bare feet were barely moving, and it almost seemed that she did not intend to leave the room at all.
* * *
Whatever the sources (in fact there were more than one; but we need not go into details) of the good red food that over a matter of a few hours became available to the vampire, the strengthening effect was immediate and strong.
Radcliffe, when he saw his guest again early the next morning, blinked at the remarkable transformation. This hardly seemed like the same man who had staggered up to the door at the point of death. Health and vigor had been amazingly restored; in fact the visitor actually appeared to have grown younger overnight.
“You are feeling better, then, M’sieu Legrand?” the American asked, thinking even as he posed the question that it was obviously unnecessary.
The lithe figure, in its stained and tattered clothing, bowed. “Very much so, thank you. Thanks to your hospitality. This evening I shall be on my way.”
Vlad Dracula, in conversation with his brave host, declining to share the last of the wine, mixed with some local well water—the fact that it was now breakfast-time was a good excuse—referred again to his passing acquaintance with Radcliffe’s father, Benjamin Franklin.
A Sharpness On The Neck (Saberhagen's Dracula Book 9) Page 16