The Companion Series

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SIX

Even with gloved hands, Mary was able to manipulate the tongs to securely hold the escargot. She urged her petite fork into the opening, felt as it dug into the succulent meat, and twisted and dragged the delicacy from its helix to place it upon her tongue. She savored the flesh until it all but dissolved, and gave Monsieur Aldini a knowing smile as he took his first bite. After reaching for a small chunk of torn bread, Mary dipped it into the buttery, garlic concoction and popped it into her mouth.

“You must forgive my manners, monsieur.”

“Oh, no, no, no, madame, it is the only way to enjoy this treat. Every last morsel demands to be devoured with gusto.” Monsieur Aldini nodded and smoothed his moustache with his fingers as Mary selected her last chunk of bread.

“I can only agree.” Mary looked out through the windows of the salon’s conservatory. “It is such a shame the weather is so miserable. Dining in the gardens outside would have been a joy if the sun were shining.”

“I am afraid, my dear Madame Shelley, this is not the best year for your grand tour.”

“How so?”

“It is expected there will be no summer at all this year. Scientific articles attribute the unseasonal conditions to a volcanic eruption in the Dutch East Indies.”

“So far away? The other side of the world?”

“Most definitely, madame. Volcanic clouds of ash drifting in the upper atmosphere. An enormous amount, unheard of in recorded history.”

Mary stared at the rain splashing against the glass. “Incessant rainfall. Such a wet, ungenial summer it has been so far. We’ve had but a handful of days and nights when I could venture out without use of an umbrella, though the evening of your lecture was fine—following the afternoon shower.” She thought for a moment of the body in the ditch. Then, pushing it from her mind, she thought of her Percy in the higher reaches of the Alps where, instead of rain, he might be enjoying snowfall. “Tell me, monsieur, has the snow on the Italian side of Mont Blanc, Monte Bianco, really been red this past winter? Is that also due to the ash from the antipodes?”

“These are strange times, that is for certain.”

Turning back from the windows, Mary saw the table had been cleared of the hors d‘oeuvres and her water glass refilled. Even the crumbs had disappeared from the pristine white tablecloth.

“I am disappointed Doctor Frankenstein was not able to join us today,” she said.

“As am I, for I am rarely able to meet with him in a social setting.”

Mary hoped her host would continue his discussion, but he said no more.

“This is a fine salon you have discovered, monsieur. The papering on the wall is magnificent. It must have taken the artisans months to carve the blocks and stamp the portions of the landscape scene. The detail is breathtaking.”

Monsieur Aldini nodded once and peered around the room and up at the ornate ceiling. Mary followed his gaze. White plaster filigree surrounded an oval panel, painted the brightest of summer blues. From its center hung a chandelier twice the size of any of the salon tables. Even in the dull light of the afternoon rain, it shimmered and sparkled. “Just delightful.”

A waiter set the salade frisées before them on the table, and the aroma of Dijon and sherry vinaigrette tantalized Mary’s taste buds before she could even lift her fork to her mouth.

Monsieur Aldini took but one mouthful of his salad before slouching back into his lounge, his fork absently pricking the egg yolk to let it ooze over the luscious chunks of bacon. “May I confide in you, Madame Shelley?”

“But of course, monsieur.” Mary dared to hope for the subject of his intended discourse.

“You are a well-traveled and educated woman, singularly bold and, without doubt, more versed in the social niceties and etiquette of our current society than I. Hence, I do feel at ease to discuss my concerns about an acquaintance, that you might offer me some advice.”

“I would gladly and humbly supply any of my knowledge that may assist you.”

“Thank you. I have concern over the health of my friend, Doctor Frankenstein, and am uncertain how to approach him regarding my anxiety. I have known of him for a number of years, having been introduced at the University of Ingolstadt by a mutual friend, Mr. Henry Clerval. At first we corresponded regularly by letter, discussing both his work and mine in the areas you are acquainted with. And then the communication ceased. I became worried and inquired after his health among others I knew at the University, but they also saw him very infrequently and, when they did, he looked pale and drawn as though he had not slept for many days and nights.

“He had been working on his project, locked away in his rooms, and eventually Mr. Clerval visited to find our friend a wretched shadow of his former self. On the very night of their reunion, the doctor had seemed overjoyed at meeting with his dear friend and invited him back to his rooms. But afterward, his joy and laughter took on a maniacal pitch, and ended when he apparently saw a specter from the corner of his eye and yelled, ‘Oh, save me! Save me! The wretch has returned to destroy me!’ He struggled before falling down in a fit, and dear Clerval nursed our friend through a nervous fever that lasted several months.”

“Oh dear, I never could have imagined. How terrible for you all. But the doctor has appeared well on the two occasions I have seen him here in Montreux.”

“I had thought so, too, until I honored an appointment to meet him at his summer residence up in Hauts-de-Montreux. I arrived at his chalet and waited in the library for over an hour. His servants assured me he would be down momentarily, and yet he did not come. A note was delivered to me that I should enjoy his library and service, and that he was to join me for dinner. I accepted his hospitality, as several manuscripts had caught my attention as I’d paced around the dark, wood-paneled room with its low ceiling. I settled into Book III of Ovid’s Metamorphoses near the squat fireplace for a number of hours, and when supper came, I ate alone at Frankenstein’s table. I could hear him shuffling around upstairs and inquired whether my host would be joining me at all. I was finally appeased that he would be with me for brandy and cigars.”

Mary noted that they were now the only guests remaining in the salon. The waiter removed their salads and set their entrees before them as Monsieur Aldini continued.

“I saw nothing of the doctor on that evening.” He dug his fork into a fat dill Spaetzel on the plate that showcased his filet de saumon au beurre rouge.

“May I inquire as to the night of this strange hospitality?”

“Certamente, it was the night after the Châtelard conference. The doctor made the appointment before leaving the château and I was most pleased to accept, intrigued to discover the progress of his line of work and also to inquire about our friend, Mr. Clerval.”

Mary peered out the windows of the conservatory, the distant snow-covered Alps shimmering like a hallucination, a waking dream, as the rain splashed down the panes of glass. “It would seem the doctor has once again thrown himself into his work to the detriment of his relationships.” Mary pulled with her fork at the moist flesh of the lamb Noisette, releasing an invigorating perfume of fennel and lavender. “Perhaps it would be wise to contact Mr. Clerval. The doctor seems to have a trust with your mutual friend that may be beneficial at this time.”

“Yes, yes. I agree and am glad you came to that conclusion also, for this very morning I sent a messenger to Ingolstadt University where Mr. Clerval continues to study the languages of the East.”

Mary nodded, satisfied she had been of some reassurance at least, before a watery memory distracted her. “What of the young man who accompanies the doctor? Might he assist in your intervention?”

“Young man?”

“On the château’s grand terrace, Doctor Frankenstein appeared possessed by a young man.” Still the monsieur showed no recognition. “A tall, robust, well-muscled youth of strikingly large stature, in fact . . . I saw his countenance for but a moment and, though another’s perspective might differ, I would, without a doubt, classify him as truly beautiful.”

Monsieur Aldini went white and set his forkful of sauerkraut back down onto his plate beside the half-eaten salmon. “I saw no such man on the terrace. He was walking, you say? He was alive?”

Surprised by the monsieur’s response, Mary also rested her knife and fork on her plate—the sweetbread and roasted shallot stuffing to remain untasted for a while yet. “What an odd question. He was perhaps nineteen or twenty—a ward of the doctor?”

Monsieur Aldini took several gulps from his water and two from his wine. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at beads of sweat that had appeared on his forehead.

“Are you all right, monsieur?”

The maître d’hôtel was immediately at their table but the monsieur waved him away before taking another gulp of wine.