William Gibson - The Difference Engine

"I have no desire to see you return to England, Miss Gerard—"

"Tournachon. I'm Sybil Tournachon. French by marriage."

"Your husband is here in Paris?"

"No," she said, lifting an oval locket of cut-steel on its black ribbon. She snapped it open, displaying a daguerreotyped miniature of a handsome young man. "Aristide. He fell at Philadelphia, in the great inferno. He volunteered, to fight on the Union side. He was real, you know; I mean, he actually existed, and wasn't just one of them the clackers make up… " She gazed at the little image with a look of mingled longing and sadness, though Oliphant understood that she had never in her life set eyes upon Aristide Tournachon.

"It was a marriage of convenience, I take it."

"Yes. And you've come to take me back."

"Not at all, Miss… Tournachon."

"I don't believe you."

"You must. A great deal depends upon it, not least your own safety. Since you departed London, Charles Egremont has become a very powerful, a very dangerous man. As dangerous to the well-being of Great Britain as he is no doubt dangerous to you."

"Charles? Dangerous?" She seemed suddenly on the verge of laughter. "You're gulling me."

"I need your help. Desperately. As desperately as you need mine."

"Do I, then?"

"Egremont has powerful resources at his command, branches of Government easily capable of reaching you here."

"You mean the Specials, and that lot?"

"More to the point, I must inform you that your activities are even now monitored by at least one secret agency of Imperial France… "

"Because Theophile chose to help me?"

"Indeed, that seems to be the case… "

She drank off the last of the vile-looking concoction in her glass. "Dear Theophile. What a lovely, silly sort of cove he was. Always in his scarlet waistcoat, and madly clever at clacking. I gave him Mick's set of fancy cards, and he was terribly kind to me then. Spun me up a marriage-license and a French citizen-number rat-tat-tat. Then, one afternoon, I was to meet him here…"

"Yes?"

"He never came." She lowered her eyes. "He used to boast of having a 'gambling modus.' They all do, but he talked as if he meant it. Someone might have believed him. It was foolish of him… "

"Did he ever speak with you about his interest in the Engine known as the Great Napoleon?"

"Their monster, you mean? Your Paris clacker speaks of little else, sir! They're mad for the thing!"

"The French authorities believe that Theophile Gautier damaged the Great Napoleon with Radley's cards."

"Is he dead, then, Theo?"

Oliphant hesitated. "Alas, I believe so, yes."

"That's so vicious bloody cruel," she said, "to spirit a man away like a rabbit in a conjuring trick, and leave his loved-ones ever to wonder, and worry, and never rest! It's vile."

Oliphant found that he could not meet her eyes.

"There's a deal of that about in this Paris, there is," she said. "The things I've heard their clackers jest about… And London, they say, is no better, really, to them as know. Do you know they say the Rads murdered Wellington? They say the sappers, the sand-hogs, hand-in-glove with the Rads, cut a tunnel beneath that restaurant, and the master sapper himself tamped the powder and set the fuses… Then the Rads lay the blame on men like…"

"Your father. Yes. I know."

"And knowing that, you'd ask me to trust you?" There was defiance in her eyes, and perhaps a pride long-buried.

"Knowing that Charles Egremont betrayed your father, Walter Gerard, unto his destruction; that he betrayed you as well, bringing about your ruin in the eyes of society; yes, I must ask that you trust me. In exchange, I offer you the complete, utter, and virtually instantaneous negation of your betrayer's political career."

She lowered her eyes again, and seemed to consider. "Could you do that, really?" she asked.

"Your testament alone will serve. I shall be merely the instrument of its delivery."

"No," she said at last, "if I were to denounce him publicly, then I would expose myself as well. Charles isn't the only one I need to fear, as you yourself have said. Remember, I was there that night, in Grand's; I know how long an arm revenge can have."

"I've not suggested denouncing him publicly. Blackmail will suffice."

Now her eyes were far away, as if she walked the distant pavements of memory. "They were so close, Charles and my father, or so it seemed… Perhaps if things had taken a different turn…"

"Egremont lives daily with that betrayal. It is the crucial grain of constant irritation around which his depraved politics have been allowed to form. Your telegram galvanized his guilt—his terror of those early Luddite sympathies being revealed. Now he would tame the beast, make political terror his constant ally. But you and I stand in his way."

The blue eyes were strangely calm. "I find I wish to believe you, Mr. Oliphant."

"I will keep you safe," Oliphant said, quite startled by his own intensity. "So long as you choose to remain in France, you shall do so under the protection of powerful friends, colleagues of mine, agents of the Imperial court. A cab awaits us, and a stenographer, to take down the details of your testimony."

With a tortured, flatulent wheeze of compressed air, a small panmelodium was activated at the rear of the cafe. Oliphant, turning, caught the eye of the mouchard Beraud, who was smoking a Dutch clay pipe amid a cluster of chattering kinotropistes.

"Madame Tournachon," Oliphant said, rising, "may I offer you my arm?"

"It's healed, has it?" She rose in a rustle of crinoline.

"Entirely," Oliphant said, remembering the lightning-stroke of the samurai's sword, in Edo, amid the shadows. He had been attempting to hold the fellow off with a riding-crop.

As the Engine-driven music of the grand panmelodium brought the grisettes from their chairs, she took his arm.

A girl burst in, then, from the street, her naked breasts daubed with green. About her waist were strung angular constructs of copper-foil, like the leaves of a date-palm approximated by a kinotrope. She was followed by two boys in a similar lack of attire, and Oliphant felt utterly lost.

"Come then," Sybil said, "don't you know they're art students, and been to a bal? It's Montmartre, you know, and the art students, they've such a mad and lovely time."

Oliphant had entertained the gallant notion of personally delivering to Charles Egremont a transcript of Sybil Gerard's testimony. But upon his return to England, those symptoms of advanced syphilis which Dr. McNeile had incorrectly diagnosed as railway-spine temporarily overcame him. Disguised as a commercial traveler from M. Arslau's native Alsace, Oliphant went to ground in Brighton's hydropathic spa, to take the waters and dispatch a number of telegrams.

Mr. Mori Arinori arrives in Belgravia at a quarter past four, driving a new-model Zephyr gurney leased from a commercial garage in Camden Town, just as Charles Egremont is departing for Parliament and a most important speech.

Egremont's body-guard, on assignment from the Central Statistics Bureau's Department of Criminal Anthropometry, a machine-carbine slung beneath his coat, watches as Mori descends from the Zephyr, a diminutive figure in evening-clothes.

Mori marches straight across the new-fallen snow, his boots leaving perfect prints upon the black macadam.

"For you, sir," Mori says and bows, handing Egremont the stout manila envelope. "Very good day to you, sir." Donning round goggles with an elasticated band, Mori returns to his Zephyr.

"What an extraordinary little personage," Egremont says, looking down at the envelope. "One hasn't seen a Chinaman, got up like that…"

Recede.

Reiterate.

Rise above these black patterns of wheel-tracks,