2、The Death of a Nobody ...
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On the 10th of October, 1800, Napoleon Bonaparte descended the steps of the Paris Opera, treading cautiously into the abyss of a dark, rainy night. His secretary held an umbrella aloft, trailing behind the footsteps of the Republic's First Consul.
As the entourage prepared to board the carriage, two men abruptly leapt forth from the shadows of a nearby corner. With relentless determination, their gleaming daggers lunged toward the central figure.
"Guard the First Consul!" his attendants immediately assumed defensive positions.
The assailant in the front was swiftly disarmed and held firmly on the ground. Two guards unsheathed their swords, attempting to apprehend the other. Suddenly, a bolt of lightning streaked across the sky, briefly illuminating a pallid countenance seething with fury, before swiftly fading away like a spectre.
The guards pursued the fugitive to the corner, only to find no trace of the elusive escapee. Sounds of chaotic footsteps and clashing bayonets reverberated from behind as several other lurking assassins, successfully lured into the trap, were brought forth into the hall.
Preparations had been meticulously made for this operation, with even the distribution of the assassins' daggers orchestrated by spies sent by Fouché's police agency. Consequently, those present quickly regained composure amidst the pandemonium, while the First Consul, who had narrowly escaped the assault, exhibited an especially calm demeanor.①
Only one man stared with hollow eyes, gazing towards the direction from which the failed assailant had fled. In a trembling voice, he muttered, "It's the ghost of Andre Quenet! He has returned to seek revenge upon us!"
The one uttering these words was a man named Vardon, a nobody in the Thermidor. His character, much like his name and appearance, was unremarkable, devoid of any attractive qualities.
This man, throughout his childhood and youth, consistently ranked in the middle of his class. He possessed an average height and build, neither tall nor short, neither fat nor thin. His speech lacked wit, yet not considered too dull as well, thereby neither attracting the affections of young ladies nor repelling them. In short, he belonged to that class of characters easily forgotten when discussed years later.
If Vardon had any exceptional talent, it was his remarkable skill at playing hide-and-seek. At the age of five, while playing the game with his pals, he concealed himself so perfectly that he remained undiscovered even as night fell. His family grew too anxious and nearly alerted the police.
This talent of his was also carried over into adulthood. Initially, within the National Convention, he cautiously positioned himself among the lowest row of seats, always a discreet member of the Plain. When it came to voting on the fate of the king, through careful observation and calculation, he successfully hid within the majority's ranks. By the end of ninety-three, he went into hiding in the camp of the Montagnards, authoring dozens of flawlessly worded letters of flattery to figures like Andre Quenet.
However, in the Thermidor, he once again relied on his keen sense of smell to hide himself near individuals like Fouché and Tallien. In order to curry favour with the latter, he even personally oversaw the funeral ceremony for Quenet and others, with quicklime. A few days later, he composed lengthy letters enumerating the countless crimes of Quenet and others, ensuring a tighter cover for his hiding place.②
Unlike many clever heads during the Thermidor, Vardon, with his unassuming nature, managed to escape the early purge of the Directory. After the Brumaire, he simply made slight modifications to the humble and respectful words of praise he had written to Quenet, blending them among the documents on Napoleon's desk. Consequently, he achieved his desire to hide among the entourage of the First Consul, becoming a nondescript commis.③
This man was so adept at hiding, and there was every hope that he would live to a ripe old age in these tumultuous times. But tonight, when he returned home, he completely lost his usual composure.
"I saw it clearly. It was Quenet himself," Vardon curled up in an armchair, his teeth chattering with the trembling of his body. "His face was ghastly pale, his upper lip curled, revealing two sharp fangs! I saw bloodstains on his neck from the guillotine, and scars from the burning lime on his face. This is an evil spirit risen from the grave! We're all finished! Quenet will kill us one by one! It's all over! Completely over!"
His family attempted to comfort this terrified middle-aged man, repeatedly explaining that it was merely an illusion brought on by his recent work stress, but their efforts proved futile.
This Vardon harboured no grand ambitions and always saw himself as a nobody, seeking nothing more than self-preservation in troubled times. Now, in his soul-scattered state, he was truly pitiable.
Until midnight, Vardon once again asked his family to lock the doors securely and tightly shut every window. After personally inspecting them for the fifth time, he finally consented to retire to bed.
In the early hours of morning, a torrential downpour commenced again, and a thunderclap awakened a woman in Vardon's house. She walked into the dining room to fetch some water to drink.
It was at this moment that a heart-stopping lightning bolt struck, illuminating the entire house in a blinding white glare. The woman then heard a piercing cry of utmost despair emanating from Vardon's room upstairs:
"Ah! Save me! Spare me, Quenet! I didn't intend to frame you! It wasn't me! Mercy, have mercy! Spare me, I beg you!"
She hurriedly ran up the stairs and pushed open the door to Vardon's room. The middle-aged man lay on the bed, his eyes rolled back, his face devoid of colour. His mouth gaped open as if beholding the most horrifying sight, struggling to draw breath while his entire body convulsed.
Inside the bedroom, the woman did not spot anyone else. However, with a glance to the side, she noticed the window wide open, rainwater relentlessly splashing in, and the crimson curtains billowing upward with a rustling sound in the chilling wind.
"Nemesis! Nemesis!" The man lying on the bed seemed to regain a trace of strength, murmuring to himself in a voice tinged with despair, while his fingertips fiercely clawed at the sheets.
The family were all alarmed and gathered around, hastily relighting the candles. Believing that the middle-aged man had been frightened in the midst of a nightmare, they consoled him in a flurry of voices until his breath barely steadied, and he closed his eyes once more.
The following morning, the maid ascended the stairs to call the master down for breakfast. She knocked on the door several times, but there was no response.
The family members forced open the door, only to find the man on the bed with his eyes wide open like those of a lifeless fish, mouth slightly agape, body stiff and motionless, having already drawn his last breath.
After examining the body of this nobody, the doctor displayed peculiar expressions. Several experienced physicians were subsequently summoned and, following a series of autopsies and collective discussions, they arrived at an astonishing conclusion: the cause of death was excessive blood loss.
Strangely, not a single wound was found on his body.
A few superstitious ones within the family, filled with apprehension, drove additional peachwood nails into the four corners of Vardon's coffin when he was laid to rest.
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"Hahaha! Mr.Viscount, this story of yours is truly ridiculous!" exclaimed the Marquis de Sèvremont, slapping his thigh and bursting into hearty laughter. "It's already 1800, and yet there are still people who believe in the existence of vampires!"
"If that Ogre of Corsica could truly meet his end at the fangs of a vampire, it would indeed be cause for celebration!" chuckled a respected gentleman, his eyes narrowing with amusement.④
The beautiful and intelligent Countess covered her mouth as she giggled and said, "I dare say the culprit behind this story isn't some supernatural monster, but rather the chameleon burdened himself with too much guilty conscience that he frightened himself to death!"
"But what about those weird symptoms he displayed in the end?" inquired Fletcher, a stern and dull-looking middle-aged nobleman.
"This is what happens when you can't keep up with the times, Mr. Baron," Viscount Fitzwilliam responded with a smug air. "It's called 'psychological effect.' It is said that a curious young medic conducted an experiment with a monkey, inserting a needle into its veins while making the monkey watch as it appeared to be drawing its blood, although it was, in fact, just an illusion created with red ink. The monkey soon fainted and died, bearing exactly the same appearance as if it had been drained of blood! If humans were like monkeys, there would be nothing strange about it!'
"Hahaha! Crosses and holy water no longer have the power to kill vampires. Today, everything must be explained by tasteless science!" The Marquis's tone brimmed with a sense of delight.
Another noble lady nodded in agreement, smiling. "In any case, the era of priests and churches is over. The future belongs to doctors, chemists, and laboratories! How does that saying go? 'Marching into the nineteenth century!'"
"Let's set aside these boring topics for now, ladies and gentlemen," Viscount Fitzwilliam announced mysteriously to the gathering, assuming an air of intrigue. "We have a far more enchanting subject at hand. Tomorrow evening, the Marquis has an unprecedented surprise to unveil!"
"Oh? Pray, do tell."
"Miss Sèvremont is having a debut," replied the Countess. "The Marquis has just brought her back home from Saint-Matilda. They say she is an incredibly sweet little belle."
The Marquis de Sèvremont swayed his cane in front of his seat with dignified pride.
The debonair Viscount Fitzwilliam, his expression exaggeratedly ecstatic, raised his voice in a theatrical tone, "A bashful rose! Cultivated meticulously for over a decade, all for its splendid bloom at tonight's ball! This is a star, destined to illuminate the entire monde of Plymouth."
"I cannot wait to befriend her, dear Marquis de Sèvremont," said the young Baroness Fletcher, gently placing her delicate hand on the Marquis's forearm.
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On a December night in the Wicklow Mountains of Ireland, in a village, Edith braved the roaring gusts of wind and covered another precious stack of wheat with a rainproof tarpaulin in the yard. The moon had disappeared behind the dark clouds, and every sound of nature heralded an impending storm.
After hastily inspecting the chicken coop and the barn one last time, she lifted her apron and turned back towards the house, feeling an indescribable melancholy welling up within her.
As she neared the door, Edith faintly heard what seemed like footsteps slowly approaching from the nearby bushes behind her. At first, she thought it was merely the sound of tree branches rubbing against each other in the strong wind.
But suddenly, she experienced an inexplicable sensation coursing through her body, prompting her to turn around, and behold an elongated phantom standing silently behind her, like a wandering ghost drifting in the darkness.
In an instant, Edith felt a chilling coldness envelop her entire being. She timidly stepped back.
Just then, a lightning bolt, precursor to the impending downpour, illuminated the small courtyard, revealing a pale, handsome, yet sorrowful face within her line of sight.
"...Andre?"
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第2章 The Death of a Nobody
