time Kit was sufficiently recovered to walk around the little attic room where they'd hidden him, his mysterious savior had arranged for passage on a small trading ship bound for Portugal. Their eventual destination was a conference in the neutral port of Lisbon. “Dr. Pierce” explained ironically that since the New Republic of France had been criticized by other nations for persecuting its scientists, it had decided to polish its reputation by allowing Dr. Colbert to travel with his American friend to the meeting of a scientific society, so long as he left his daughter behind in Paris.
The doctor's retinue would be a curious one. “Dr. Pierce” had ostensibly been visiting France to consult with his colleague on a particularly interesting case, a half-wit servant who had been struck dumb after being knocked unconscious in a drunken brawl. This unfortunate had (so the story went) been privileged to receive the most modern trepan surgery, and his physicians had great hope that his speech would eventually be restored. Zoe, dressed in her oldest clothes, would play the part of the half-wit's wife, included in the party to tend to her afflicted spouse. The explanation covered the obvious physical damage, and relieved St. John of the need to speak the commoner's French that he couldn't manage—though he really thought that making him a half-wit was an unnecessary bit of embroidery.
He appreciated the doctor's good judgement on that score after he'd tottered down a flight of stairs, stopping more than once to rest. His injuries and convalescence had left him with no strength at all; having half his wits working would be an improvement. And when he first saw a scruffy wretch with a shaven head—the fever, of course—and nearly a month's untrimmed beard staring back at him from a looking-glass, he was reassured that no one would ever mistake him for the dapper, well-tailored Lord St. John who'd been shot dead in the street.
He had long since concluded that the doctor was some kind of agent, presumably for the British government, though his opinions were somewhat unorthodox. During their conversations, the physician had revealed a detailed knowledge of the political situation here in France, and although he admitted having had hopes that the Republic would be a success, he had been revolted by the violent excesses of the Citizens’ Committee. “All the potential, the possibilities for freedom and human dignity, and they have sunk to a worse level than the despots they overthrew."
"You are not a Royalist, then?” St John had asked.
"I think there may be better ways to govern, though at least our monarchy has Parliament to offset the excesses of power. Unfortunately, despite all that was admirable in France, the late King Louis had no such check, and he cared nothing for his people. But the new tyrants are worse—cannibals and hypocrites claiming to do the will of the French people. When you see a government persecuting its most intelligent citizens, my friend, you see a danger flag. They have let the mob rule—well, they will learn that the mob is a bloodthirsty beast. That villain Robespierre will eventually find it at his throat. God help France when this gang is overthrown—I feel sure something worse will follow."
The intensity of feeling in the plain little man had surprised St. John when he first saw it, but over time he came to recognize it as the source of the determination that made the surgeon's hands steady enough to go into a living skull and bring a man back from the dead. Kit wondered if he might know anyone who could find out more about the doctor, once he was back in England, then decided against it. If the doctor were involved in secret work, any inquiries about his identity might endanger him, and to make them would be a betrayal in itself.
Two things were clear: the first was that his rescue was only a footnote to some other effort that was prolonging their stay in Paris; the other was that the
The doctor's retinue would be a curious one. “Dr. Pierce” had ostensibly been visiting France to consult with his colleague on a particularly interesting case, a half-wit servant who had been struck dumb after being knocked unconscious in a drunken brawl. This unfortunate had (so the story went) been privileged to receive the most modern trepan surgery, and his physicians had great hope that his speech would eventually be restored. Zoe, dressed in her oldest clothes, would play the part of the half-wit's wife, included in the party to tend to her afflicted spouse. The explanation covered the obvious physical damage, and relieved St. John of the need to speak the commoner's French that he couldn't manage—though he really thought that making him a half-wit was an unnecessary bit of embroidery.
He appreciated the doctor's good judgement on that score after he'd tottered down a flight of stairs, stopping more than once to rest. His injuries and convalescence had left him with no strength at all; having half his wits working would be an improvement. And when he first saw a scruffy wretch with a shaven head—the fever, of course—and nearly a month's untrimmed beard staring back at him from a looking-glass, he was reassured that no one would ever mistake him for the dapper, well-tailored Lord St. John who'd been shot dead in the street.
He had long since concluded that the doctor was some kind of agent, presumably for the British government, though his opinions were somewhat unorthodox. During their conversations, the physician had revealed a detailed knowledge of the political situation here in France, and although he admitted having had hopes that the Republic would be a success, he had been revolted by the violent excesses of the Citizens’ Committee. “All the potential, the possibilities for freedom and human dignity, and they have sunk to a worse level than the despots they overthrew."
"You are not a Royalist, then?” St John had asked.
"I think there may be better ways to govern, though at least our monarchy has Parliament to offset the excesses of power. Unfortunately, despite all that was admirable in France, the late King Louis had no such check, and he cared nothing for his people. But the new tyrants are worse—cannibals and hypocrites claiming to do the will of the French people. When you see a government persecuting its most intelligent citizens, my friend, you see a danger flag. They have let the mob rule—well, they will learn that the mob is a bloodthirsty beast. That villain Robespierre will eventually find it at his throat. God help France when this gang is overthrown—I feel sure something worse will follow."
The intensity of feeling in the plain little man had surprised St. John when he first saw it, but over time he came to recognize it as the source of the determination that made the surgeon's hands steady enough to go into a living skull and bring a man back from the dead. Kit wondered if he might know anyone who could find out more about the doctor, once he was back in England, then decided against it. If the doctor were involved in secret work, any inquiries about his identity might endanger him, and to make them would be a betrayal in itself.
Two things were clear: the first was that his rescue was only a footnote to some other effort that was prolonging their stay in Paris; the other was that the
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