by I. J. Parker
Stiebel shook his head. “That footman knows nothing about hair, but he’s very accommodating. You’d better change into your uniform. Here,”—he delved into an inner pocket of his cloak—“take the letter. The sooner that’s delivered, the better. I confess, I’ll be very glad to be rid of it.”
Franz took the letter and his own portemanteau into the next room. Pouring water from a very handsome pitcher into a very handsome bowl, he washed his hands and face, then combed his hair over his healing scalp wound, and retied the black ribbon of his queue. He changed his shirt and put on his uniform and boots.
When he was dressed, he took up the letter. It was badly creased from the time it had spent in his boot. With a sigh, he put it in the pocket of his coat and returned to Stiebel.
The dapper Reinhard was back, vigorously flicking a brush as Stiebel turned. The sprucing up was deft and expert. Reinhard’s fingers flew from straightening the collar band and ruffling the lace jabot to tucking-up stockings and dusting buckled shoes. He adjusted the wide cuffs and pulled down the skirts of the coat, unbuttoning and re-buttoning to achieve a perfect fit. When he was done, he stepped back to study the effect. “Much better, your honor.”
It was much better, and Franz let the clever fellow give his uniform the same attention. Another silver piece passed hands, Reinhard bowed, and they set out for the palace.
Franz had seen little of the city beyond his hospital room and the road to the post station. Now he looked with wonder at the wide paved streets and modern buildings. Mannheim was nothing like Lindau or other cities with their narrow, winding medieval streets. The avenue they were on ran straight as an arrow from the Paradeplatz to the palace gates. All was order and clarity in Mannheim, and at its center was the enormous palace. He remarked on this to Stiebel.
The old man grumbled, “All the princes have a mind to be sun kings. This looks a good deal like Versailles.”
“But where does the money come from? The Kurpfalz is a very small country compared to France. How do they do it?”
Stiebel snorted. “Taxes and debts, I think.”
The palace gates stood wide. Coaches and pedestrians passed in and out between uniformed guards standing at attention. Stiebel headed for the central building.
Franz gaped. Surely Versailles could not be larger. East and west wings embraced an enormous cour d’honneur and extended on either side as far as his eye could see. It was dusk, but lights glimmered everywhere, from lanterns on carriages, walls, and doorways, and behind hundreds of large windows. There must be thousands of candles. A fine church stood at one corner, to show that an enlightened ruler could also be a good Christian. It was an impressive and intimidating display of power and faith, and yet, with its lights and pale colors, it was beautiful and welcoming.
“What are all these people doing here at this hour?” Franz asked.
“Some festivity, no doubt.”
The liveried footman at the door looked down his nose. “Baron von Winkelhausen no longer resides here.”
Franz caught sight of the hall, three stories high and entirely of white marble. Oversized marble statues of the elector Karl Theodor and his wife Elisabeth Augusta stood in marble niches, and the shining marble floor was like a sheet of shimmering ice. A massive double staircase, its marble banisters adorned with gilded lanterns and marble putti at play, led up to some heavenly realm. Franz’s dazzled eyes took in an enormous ceiling fresco of richly dressed men and women mingling with ancient gods and goddesses. It looked as if the palace roof opened directly onto paradise or Mount Olympus—he knew not which.
He returned to earth reluctantly. Stiebel was speaking in French to a gentleman in a suit of rich dark blue silk with gold lacing.
Franz’s French was not altogether fluent, but he understood the gentleman to say that Baron von Winkelhausen had retired to his country house in Schwetzingen. He added, “His health has been indifferent since he lost his only son last year. May I be of some assistance? My name is Moritz.”
Stiebel bowed. “Nepomuk Stiebel, privy councilor from Lindau. And this is my friend, Franz von Langsdorff. He served with the baron’s son at Freiberg.”
“Did he indeed? An honor, Lieutenant.” Herr Moritz looked at Franz with interest, taking in his crippled leg and the cane. “If you will both come with me, we shall enquire about the baron’s condition. You arrived for a special court concert. Young Mozart is to perform. Everybody is here tonight.”
They climbed the stairs, slowly, to accommodate Franz’s limp and Stiebel’s age. Franz’s eyes were drawn again to that magnificent ceiling. He was ascending into a realm where humans conversed with gods, perhaps toward an apotheosis. Filled with exhilaration and awe, he wondered if that forbidding-looking gentleman on the next landing was about to pass along some portentous message or warning.
The marble staircase did not lead to paradise or Olympus but to more splendor. They turned down a wide corridor and then passed through a series of beautiful rooms lit by enormous chandeliers and gilded sconces. They walked on glossy parquet floors inlaid with arabesques and across deep carpets adorned with flower garlands. The flower garlands also festooned the walls in gilded stucco, and more gold sparkled from the frames of large oil paintings and the ormolu detailing on furniture. Large mirrors reflected lights of crystal chandeliers, and enormous tapestries depicted tales about the gods.
Franz gazed and gazed, trailing heedlessly behind Stiebel and Moritz. Violins and flutes accompanied their progress, weaving melodies so light and gay that even a cripple might wish to dance. He was floating on an invisible cloud toward some grand destiny.
When a pair of wide doors of gilded ebony opened onto a large gathering of men and women, he was disappointed that they were mere mortals. To be sure, they wore gowns and suits in such colors of rainbows that they took his breath away, and he realized that these were the gods and goddesses of this world, amusing themselves in their Elysian fields.
The women in their low-cut dresses wore flowers and pearls in their powdered hair and at their breasts. Augusta could have made four fine gowns out of their enormous skirts, and they showed far more of their bodies than Augusta did the day he had told her she looked like a whore.
These elegant creatures, these goddesses, sat or stood, moving their fans languidly to the sound of the violin, tapping dainty feet in beribboned shoes to the rhythm of the clavichord, and Franz was besotted by their beauty.
The center of this magnificence was the elector. Karl Theodor sat in a large gilded chair and looked still quite handsome, while his wife, the Electress Elisabeth Augusta, was a matronly figure beside him.
Zeus, the all powerful, and Ceres, the bountiful, Franz thought.
But then his eyes moved on to a beautiful little girl who sat on the elector’s other side, a little princess, twelve at most, but already a grande dame in miniature. Half child, half woman, her perfection seemed unearthly.
But all eyes were on another child, on a little boy, who played the harpsichord like a master. He was so small that someone had placed several hefty tomes on his bench so he could reach the keys. His tiny hands flew back and forth like playful birds, and sometimes he laughed out loud with delight.
When the piece was finished there was great applause, and an older man with a violin stepped forward to announce that “Wolferl” would now play one of his own compositions. The violins and flutes were silent, and the boy played—so happily and cleverly from memory, that Franz smiled with everyone else.
That, too, was a wondrous thing, for he thought he had forgotten how to smile. Enchanted, his eyes moved back and forth between the talented boy and the young princess.
Perhaps she felt his gaze, because she turned her head and looked at him. Her eyes were cornflower blue and wide with curiosity as they swept over him—and then she smiled.
Such a smile!
Franz put his hand over his heart and bowed.
At that moment the music stopped. Applau
se. Movement, and chatter, and she turned away.
Stiebel nudged Franz. “Wake up! Herr von Moritz wishes to introduce us to the baron’s doctor.”
Franz bowed to this Doctor Mai, and then to a Colonel von Rodenstein, a Count Schönborn, and another colonel, whose name escaped him. A small group of men, some in court dress, others in uniform, gathered around them.
“The lieutenant served at Freiberg,” Moritz explained. “He carries a message from poor Captain von Loe to his father. Lieutenant, this is Doctor Mai, who can speak to the baron’s condition.”
The doctor wore a fine dark blue velvet suit and a very elegant lace cravat. He looked sharply at Franz. “I think I must advise against a visit,” he said. “The baron is in poor health and should not be upset.”
Franz’s hatred for doctors flared up. He said stiffly, “Thank you, Doctor, but under the circumstances, I think we must go to see for ourselves.”
Doctor Mai’s face reddened. “Surely you are not so heartless as to trouble a sick man, especially with such a message?”
Stiebel intervened. “We will certainly wait until tomorrow. Perhaps then we may catch the gentleman on one of his better days.”
Rodenstein, tall and somewhat corpulent and with the broad ribbon and diamond-studded order of the White Eagle of Poland on his heavily laced uniform coat, addressed Franz, gesturing at his leg. “He was injured during the recent campaign?”
“Yes, sir. At Freiberg.”
“We lost many fine young men there besides von Loe. Why has he come to see Loe’s father?”
To be addressed in the third person like those of lower rank was disconcerting, though common enough. Franz said, “I’m the bearer of his son’s letter, sir.”
“In that case, he can surely leave it with someone.”
“By your leave, sir, I think I must attempt to deliver it. It…it’s a matter of honor. I’ve given my sacred word as a soldier and a gentleman.”
Colonel Rodenstein frowned and turned away. The others were silent.
Stiebel touched Franz’s arm. “Come, we have troubled these gentlemen enough.”
On the way back, Stiebel was preoccupied with his own thoughts, and Franz thought of the little princess in her magnificent palace, and the enormous distance that separated crippled lieutenants from goddesses and men of privilege.
Later, during dinner, he asked, “Who was that small boy playing the clavichord?”
Stiebel looked surprised. “God love us, where was your mind? All the talk was about the Wunderkind. His name’s Wolfgang Mozart. He’s seven and travels with his father and older sister from court to court, giving performances. They’ve come here from Vienna where he played for Empress Maria Theresa. I’m told the empress took him on her lap. She’s a very motherly lady—quite unlike this princess, I think.”
Franz thought of the little princess with the cornflower eyes. “Surely she is much too young to be motherly?”
Stiebel laughed. “Too young? Elizabeth Augusta’s nearly forty. And probably barren. She finally had one pregnancy last year, but the little prince died the next day. A hard birth, they say, and no chance of another. So there’s no hope of an heir.”
“But whose children were those?”
“They belong to Elizabeth Augusta’s sister, the Countess Palatine of Pfalz-Zweibrücken. Another dynastic house of the Wittelsbach family. The Count Palatine Michael is Karl Theodor’s heir, by the way. Gossip has it that the Countess Palatine had an affair with an actor, got pregnant, and was banished by her husband. She’s said to be in a convent. Elisabeth Augusta is raising her daughters.”
Repelled by these details, Franz grumbled, “I don’t see where the marital troubles of the sovereigns are any of our concern.”
Stiebel pushed away his empty plate. “You’re quite wrong about that. There’s a good deal of ill will between Karl Theodor and his wife, as well as heirs waiting to succeed him. It makes for a delicate political atmosphere.”
Franz digested this. “But why this talk about lovers?”
Stiebel raised his brows. “I’ve noticed before how very prudish you are, Franz. Colonel Rodenstein has been warming Elizabeth Augusta’s bed for a decade. Did you notice the Polish Eagle? She bestowed the decoration on him. He’s her Master of Ceremony. Elisabeth Augusta favors military men.”
“If it is indeed true that these women have taken lovers, why don’t their husbands divorce them?”
“The Count Palatine is protecting his children, and Karl Theodor is Catholic and…well, they are cousins, but hers is the direct line. Her grandfather made certain she would rule by making the marriage a condition for Karl Theodor’s succession. Karl Theodor consoles himself with actresses.”
Franz did not want to think about royal affairs, not merely because he disapproved on moral grounds, but because he thought his little princess—innocence personified—would sooner or later be exposed to such a life.
That night he did not have one of his usual nightmares. He dreamed instead of the gods and goddesses in green forests. Nymphs and satyrs danced to the flute of the goat god Pan, and he himself chased after a half-dressed nymph who cast teasing glances back at him and beckoned with a dainty fan. His crippled leg dragged, he stumbled, nearly lost her, but persisted with superhuman effort and finally caught her. They fell laughing into soft green moss, and he bent to kiss her. A moment later, she slipped away, her cornflower blue eyes full of mocking laughter.
*
The great man was at his desk, and a smirking Fox lounged against one of the book cases.
“Ah, there you are,” said the great man coldly.
The assassin suppressed his irritation. “Could we speak in private, sir?”
“Reynard is a man of many special skills. He has done us a great service today.” The great man held up a very dirty and creased letter. “One that you have signally failed at.”
Anger curled like a lit fuse in his belly. So the odious creature had managed to steal the cursed letter. He glared at the fox. “What special skills?”
“I used to be a pickpocket.” The fox wiggled his fingers and grinned.
The assassin turned back to the great man. “I’m the one who warned you of their coming.”
“But it was Reynard who got the letter. And let me point out that it was your carelessness that caused the trouble in the first place.” He held up the letter again. “Take a look.”
“He stole the wrong letter?” the assassin asked hopefully.
“Oh, it’s the right letter. See the blood stain? But take another look at the seal.”
“They haven’t opened it!”
“Precisely. Too honorable for their own good.” The great man broke the seal and unfolded the two sheets of paper. He read, pursing his lips.
The assassin watched impatiently. The letter had already caused him enormous trouble. He was not sure if he wanted the contents to be harmless. Yet, if the dying captain had been in possession of certain details, then he might have told the cripple something of the affair, perhaps even mentioning names. Especially his own.
The great man looked up. “Not so very dangerous after all,” he said, then held the letter into the flame of his candle. It caught fire and flashed up, illuminating for a moment the faces of the three men, their expressions distorted into ugly masks.
The Fox detached himself from the book case. “So I wasted my time, did I?”
“Not at all, my good Reynard. You did well.” The great man opened a desk drawer and took out a fat purse. “You may go to bed now.”
The Fox snatched the purse and bowed. “A thousand remerciements, your honor.” He smirked and left the room on silent feet accompanied by a soft clinking of coin.
The assassin bit his lip. “What was in the letter, sir?”
“Nothing of importance. You may forget about it.”
So he was not to be trusted. “Well, I suppose that finishes our business then,” he said resentfully.
“
Not quite. You’ve left me in a difficult position,” said the other, studying his fingernails. “When that young man and his legal friend discover the loss of the letter, they will get suspicious. They will almost certainly try to make contact with the old man, and he will smell a rat. He is our greatest enemy.” He shook his head and glared at him. “I wish I had never taken you into our confidence. If this has further repercussion, I shall hold you responsible. And I do not forget those who have injured me.”
The assassin was speechless, but it did not matter. The great man waved him away with a peremptory, “That’s all. Good Night!”
13
Highway Robbery
Murder most foul, as in the best it is,
But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.
William Shakespeare, Hamlet
The day before Franz’s departure for Mannheim, Augusta’s mother, angry with both of her children, withdrew to her room and emerged only when she wished trays of delicacies brought to her. Augusta was relieved.
She was also relieved that Franz seemed to have forgotten about the scene in the parlor. She went about her household chores, buoyed by a quiet happiness. Soon, very soon she need never again fear her mother’s ill temper or her brother’s censure.
Franz left at dawn in a carriage hired by Doktor Stiebel. His mother did not see him off, but Augusta got up to fix his breakfast. He ate it absent-mindedly and in a great hurry. When he pushed his empty plate away for Augusta to remove, he looked at her as if he had only just remembered her existence and said, “I’ll only be gone for two days, or at the most three. I trust you and Mama will manage for that long, and that you will consult Mama before you go out.”
Consult her mother? He clearly did not know that she had taken care of this household for many months now, and that Mama rarely emerged from her bedchamber until midmorning. But she bit her lip and only said, “We shall manage.”
This was clearly not enough. His frown deepened. “You are not to have any contact with that man, do you hear?”
Her anger flared, but nothing was to be gained by another violent argument. Franz would be gone in a little while. She turned away and went into the scullery with the dirty dishes. “I hope you have a safe journey,” she called back to him. “Pray give my regards to the good Doktor.”
