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later that this modern technology argued against the magical explanation of
the women's presence, which I had so unthinkingly assumed. Also, for would-be
sorcerers, the pair seemed remarkably unconcerned about an idler who stood by
and watched.
"Good evening, citizen." By now the older worker had observed me too. There
was nothing frightened or uncertain in either woman's manner. If this was
Satanism, it had grown bold indeed.
Both of the women were obviously hardened to their work. And the elder, as she
worked on, informed me that they were there by order of the Convention.
Is the Revolution dabbling now in magic
? I asked myself; but did not bother to voice the question aloud.
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While the woman of thirty kept talking to me, mostly banalities about the
weather and the price of bread, her hands kept busy with what was, as I
thought, some kind of would-be magical hocus-pocus with the freshly severed
head in her lap. Illumination from the bright Argand lamp bathed the sallow
skin, the half-
exposed teeth (somehow their whiteness was surprising, suggesting health),
gray lips, and matted hair.
Meanwhile her younger assistant, who so far had paid me little heed, was
digging methodically through the grisly pile of stiffened, chilling flesh,
inspecting and discarding, one after another, the heads that she discovered. A
few she chose and put down on the ground in a row, sluicing them with water
from a pail to wash away the earth and blood from their faces, to get a better
look at them. At last she seemed to find a head she definitely wanted, and set
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it aside, with a little murmur of satisfaction.
Meanwhile the older woman worked on. Her skilled technician's fingers, dipped
in what appeared to be clear oil, carried on a deft anointing of the skin of
the dead face which she was cradling. I caught the dim flash of a small needle
in the lamplight. The eyelids had already been sewn shut, just a little tuck
in each would do, and now the lips, which at one corner of the mouth still
tended to sag open.
Deftly her young fingers smeared a thin layer of clay over the fringe of hair
around the dead face. The man, whatever his name, had been clean-shaven,
rather handsome, with a receding hairline.
That's good," his attendant muttered to herself. The less hair the better; it
only gets in the way."
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In the way of what
? I wondered, but indolently did not pursue the question.
The younger woman, straightening her back, remarked: They say the beard keeps
on growing after death."
I looked at her, and found her comely. But at the moment I felt no great
hunger.
Casually I observed: They say many things which are not so."
Though I lingered near the women, I was not watching their work very keenly.
The scene, with its ghoulish pair, reminded me of my first encounter, hundred
of years earlier, with Constantia, who as a mere breathing girl had been
aching to try her hand at witchcraft, not at all afraid to turn up some
supposed wizard's grave. Also of several other episodes, involving would-be
witches and magicians, which I had observed down through the centuries. Long
ago I had realized that not one in ten of the folk who thought themselves
adept in those dark practices were actually in contact with any powers beyond
those generated in their own sick minds.
The two women now before me seemed perfect examples of such self-delusion.
But at least their magical paraphernalia struck me as unique. They were using
a device of a good size and shape to fit into a hatbox, containing some kind
of blocks, screws, and clamps to grip a detached human head and hold it in
place, face uppermost, upon one woman's lap, while she and her fellow
technician worked.
I assumed, without giving the matter any real thought, that the decorations on
the hatbox were some kind of amateurish magical symbols.
Only one face, the dead one, that of some poor breather who would breathe no
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more, was in full light, while the live countenances of the two women remained
in shadow.
* * *
What would the attitude of the Revolutionary authorities be toward witchcraft,
satanism? The question was seldom asked openly but there can be no doubt that
those fanatics were generally against black magic; the devil no less than God
was a rival authority, jealously demanding allegiance. Another dreadful
superstition. On the other hand, he would have offered an ally against all
churches, synagogues, and mosques. I have sometimes wondered whether it might
have been some hint, or even stronger indication, of that darker worship
showing itself among his colleagues, which induced Robespierre to formulate
his cult of the Supreme Being but that was to come later.
Whose face were the women working on? It was only logical for me to satisfy my
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curiosity by asking. They murmured something, being evasive; I did not press
the point.
After a thin coating of oil had been applied to the subject's face, it was
time for the plaster of Paris, the latter swiftly mixed in a handy bowl or
basin.
They had recently been working on a woman's head, which now lay discarded and
forgotten again, and the process suggested some ghastly beautician's work.
Thinking back a century or two, I recalled having seen breathing women subject
themselves to mudpacks and the like.
To me the younger of the two breathing women, who had not spoken a word to me
as yet, was the more attractive and therefore the more interesting. Though her
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face remained in shadow, as seemed only fitting for one engaged in black
magician's work, darkness gave no protection against inspection by a vampire's
eyes. Hers was a striking face that stayed easily in my memory. As did her
voice.
But at the time, my thoughts preoccupied with other matters, I didn't even
bother to learn her name. That would come later&
"I have no need to ask what you are doing," I remarked. In this, as we shall
see, I
blundered seriously on the side of overconfidence. I thought I knew
essentially what was going on, though some of the details were unique in my
experience, strange enough to make me curious. Whatever thoughts I had of the
two women in that hour were confined to the universe of magic, and of evil. In
my defense, I
can only plead that ascribing such motives to whomever I encountered in that
place, and at that time, was a natural mistake.
She was unperturbed by my question. "We have perfectly valid business here,
citizen. Have you?"
"It is the business of my life."
Your home lies near here?"
Chapter Seven
"Very near." I gestured vaguely. "It is at most times a peaceful
neighborhood."
Generally the Radcliffes' masked guardians spoke to the gypsy girl with an air
of wary respect. One or two of them called her Constantia, while others more
casually used the name of Connie; the woman answered indifferently to both
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