by I. J. Parker
It had fortunately not been a hard fall, and she was a charming burden as they lay there, he looking up at her and she down at him. Both liked what they saw and smiled, and neither was in a great hurry to get up.
The inn’s servants pulled them apart and put her back on her feet. Franz, propped on his elbows, looked up at a dainty creature in a gown of green-sprigged muslin trimmed with black velvet ribbons, her small head of dusky curls topped by a lacy cap, her black eyes sparkling, her red lips moist. An enchanting beauty patch was placed cunningly on one white breast just above the tightly laced bodice. She giggled, then saw his cane and the crippled leg and gasped instead. “O, mon Dieu! Le pauvre gentilhomme! Je vous demande mille pardons!”
Franz struggled to his feet, flushing a deep crimson with mortification. The beauty meets the beast, he thought. “Pas de tout, Mademoiselle,” he said with a bow, worried about his limited French.
It was almost worse when she shifted to German, heavily accented German, though from her lips the words fell with a particularly musical sound. “Eet vas my mistake, Monsieur. Are you pained badly?”
“Not at all.” His crippled knee hurt furiously, but he was not about to admit to it. Instead, he became miserably lost in admiration of this altogether bewitching creature. Stiebel finally took his arm and pulled him away. Climbing the stairs feeling her eyes on his back was sheer agony. Nothing could hide his deformed leg, and the pain in his knee was so agonizing that perspiration ran down his back and he bit his lip bloody to keep moving.
“That was one of the actresses,” remarked Stiebel when they gained their room.
It was of an adequate size, but they would have to share the bed, and their bags took up much of the remaining floor space between the bed, a large wardrobe, and a small desk. Still, above the desk was a window which looked out over the town’s market and, being open, it let in the sounds of music and song.
“How do you know she’s an actress?” asked Franz, taken aback. “She was very well dressed. I took her to be the daughter of some visiting French gentleman.”
Stiebel’s eyes twinkled. “Trust me, she’s an actress. The inn’s full of players. Princes like theater, and there are always players about the court. The females make good money if they’re young and pretty—or talented. Yours was clearly young and pretty.” He paused. “Dear me. It was unkind of me to assume that she’s not talented.”
Franz was oddly disappointed. This enchantress, hardly older than Augusta, was an actress? Franz knew that such women were thought to be only a small step above ordinary prostitutes. The students in Heidelberg had frequently bragged about their affairs with them. “I’m a great fool,” he said sadly. “I thought she liked me. Proper women have no time for a penniless cripple.”
Stiebel smiled. “Franz, you cannot have looked in the mirror lately. You have just such a face as girls swoon over and a nice manly shape to your body. And never underestimate the power of a uniform. That small defect with your leg makes you more interesting rather than less. A hero who has been wounded in battle arouses the tenderest feelings in a woman’s breast.”
Franz said bitterly, “You’re quite wrong, and besides I’m done with all of that.” He thought it nothing but the most barefaced flattery from his friend but, like all flattery, it worked in insidious ways; he wondered what an affair with the little actress would be like and felt quite warm at the thought.
Stiebel watched his face and cocked an amused eyebrow. “I confess I hadn’t thought of it, but since you seem to have settled for the life of a monk all too unwillingly, I think you must reassure yourself at your earliest convenience. Abstinence can lead to madness, you know. So let us rest a little and then descend to the public rooms to take our supper with the other guests. I hope to learn some things while you’re about the business of making eyes at the little lady.”
*
When the assassin finally called on the great man, he found him at breakfast in an elegantly appointed dining room with pearl gray paneling and Dutch still-lifes of dead fowl among fruit on the walls.
“Where the devil have you been?” the great one snapped.
“I beg your pardon?” the assassin said, raising his brows.
The other’s scowl faded, and his tone became slightly warmer. “Oh, what does it matter? Sit down, sit down.” He waved to a chair and called a servant. “Another cup and more coffee.”
He sat. “Thank you. No coffee. I’m in a hurry.”
“In a hurry?” The great man’s cup stopped halfway to his mouth. “What’s the matter with you? I expected you sooner.”
The assassin studied his fingernails. “I’ve been rather busy with my own affairs.”
The great one set his cup back down. “Why this double talk? I take it you heard of the baron’s death?”
He said nothing and smiled.
Turning rather pale, the great man said, “You don’t mean…what did you do?”…you surely didn’t think I’d send you to—” He broke off, his eyes startled.
Just what had the pompous bastard expected him to do? The assassin controlled his temper. “Sir, I may do a friend a favor, but I shall not be sent to do his bidding like a common lackey.”
The great man’s jaw sagged. “Dear gods,” he muttered. “You must be mad.”
The servant came in with fresh coffee, and nobody spoke. The assassin drew out his pocket watch and clicked it open. He waited until the servant had left the room, then said, “You worry too much. An old, sick man died, that’s all. As I said, I have no time for coffee. The court is to go to Schwetzingen. There will be an Italian opera and perhaps also Voltaire’s new play.” He tucked his watch into its pocket and rose. “I shall be busy for the coming months.”
The other man still looked sick. “Yes. The last occasion for the year—except for the hunt.”
“Hunts no longer interest me,” the assassin said grandly. With a very small bow, he departed—happy in the knowledge that he had left the great man looking very worried.
*
When Stiebel and Franz entered the public room that evening, they found all the tables occupied. At one end of the room was a large and cheerfully noisy party of young people who—a waiter informed them—were musicians and players with the court theater. Franz found his French charmer among them, and gaped, struck by the easy manner of such men and women. They laughed and talked with the familiarity of old friends or siblings.
She was one of five females and six or seven males gathered around two tables that had been pushed together. To Franz, she was the youngest and most beautiful of the women, though all were quite handsome in looks and fashionable clothing.
He was still staring when she saw him. Her dark eyes widened, and she sent a devastating smile and a wave of her small hand his way. As a gentleman cannot ignore a lady’s welcome, Franz said to Stiebel, “Surely we should at least introduce ourselves.”
Stiebel smiled. “But, of course.”
They went across, bowed, and Franz kissed the pretty actress’s hand.
“Mon chèr ami blessé!” she cried, dimpling. “All dis time I ’ave been ’oping to see you again. Le voilà,” she said, turning to the others at the table, “Dis is de ’andsome ’ero I talk you about.”
They all smiled, the men rising and making their bows. One of the women joked about the wounded hero having wounded Desirée’s heart, and Franz blushed. Introductions followed, invitations to join them were given. Franz hesitated in spite of a fervent wish to sit beside the delectable Desirée—never was woman more aptly named! Before he could speak, Stiebel accepted for both. Room was made, food and wine appeared in abundance, and Franz thought he would never spend a more pleasant evening than this. It brought back memories of happier days with fellow students in Heidelberg. But this was immeasurably improved by the presence of an adoring woman.
Because she was something of a distraction, he missed a good deal of the general conversation, but when the talk
turned to the Elector’s imminent arrival—Franz was dimly aware that Stiebel had raised the subject but had been looking too deeply into pansy-brown eyes to follow the exchange—someone praised the gardens of the summer palace, which were said to outshine even those of Versailles.
“Oh, you ’ave not seen?” asked Desirée, opening her pansy eyes in surprise. “You must. Eet is très charmante. We walk dere many days.”
Greatly daring, Franz said, “I would enjoy it above anything with such a guide as you, Mademoiselle.”
She giggled and slapped his arm. “I vill not deny you, mon brave.”
And so Franz climbed the stairs to their room that evening happy in the prospect of taking Mademoiselle Desirée to the palace gardens very soon.
“A useful evening,” said Stiebel as they undressed for bed. His eyes twinkled. “I trust your own investigations also bore fruit?”
Franz blushed. He had quite forgotten about the baron’s murder. “Did you really learn anything useful from them?” he asked.
The little lawyer draped his fusty brown velvet coat lovingly over the back of a chair and chuckled. “Indeed, yes. Never underestimate your actor for knowing all the intimate details of the lives of the great. They tell me that His Highness is bedding another member of their troupe, a dancer by the name of Françoise. Actresses hope to catch a great man’s eye so they can retire from the boards. And a handsome young actor may do equally well with a great lady.”
“But surely their reputations will be lost,” Franz protested, thinking of his Desirée. “It sounds both mercenary and immoral. Not much better than—” He broke off.
Stiebel removed his large wig and placed it over a wig stand he carried in his trunk. Franz saw that his own hair, cut very short, was white and so pitifully thin that his pink scalp showed through. It struck him suddenly that his beloved friend was quite as old as the murdered baron and might not live long.
Stiebel, unaware, said, “No, not much. Though to be truly successful at that sort of seduction takes a good deal of beauty and talent. I had the pleasure of meeting the French king’s maitresse once. She’s the Marquise de Pompadour now, an extraordinary woman with great style, charm, and intelligence, in addition to being an enchanting beauty. All the foreign ambassadors pay her every attention because she has the king’s ear. Here, both the Elector and his wife have their favorites. He’s on familiar terms with dancers, while his lady prefers military gentlemen.”
Franz said, “I cannot hope to compete with such information, sir. We only talked of the local sights. I’m to be shown the gardens the day after tomorrow.” Then had the grace to blush and added, “Perhaps I should not have accepted?”
But Stiebel’s eyes twinkled. “Go on, my boy, enjoy yourself. Why not look in on a rehearsal tomorrow? Keep your eyes and ears open for more gossip from the actors. I shall manage quite well on my own.”
*
Franz hardly laid eyes on Stiebel the next day. They breakfasted together, then parted to meet again over dinner, but Franz was too full of the delights of the opera rehearsal, the beauty of the music, and the indescribable charm and talent of Mademoiselle Desirée, who had a small but impressive dancing and singing part between acts. Stiebel listened, but he seemed distracted or bored with Franz’s enthusiastic descriptions, and Franz eventually fell silent.
The following day, the actors made up a party for the palace gardens. Besides Franz and Desirée, there were two young men and two of the younger women.
Desirée wore a black and white striped silk gown, tightly laced and long-waisted, with a froth of lace barely covering her breasts above the bodice and a larger froth peeking out under the full, rather short, skirt. Below the skirt, Franz spied dainty white-stockinged ankles and red high-heeled slippers. A lace cap with red ribbons perched on her dark curls. He looked at her, lost in admiration, and then blushed for having stared.
Later he recalled little of the conversation among the three couples and retained only the vaguest memory of laughter and a sense of his own great happiness that these friendly young people accepted him into their midst with such camaraderie. They teased each other freely, and after a while they also teased Franz and Desirée with gentle hints of romance.
Desirée had taken Franz’s arm right away and sent many melting glances up at him. He still could not quite believe that any woman would take an interest in him, even if Stiebel had pointed out that his crippled leg might have that effect on a soft female heart. She was such a pretty creature, one who could have had any man she wished, and yet she seemed to want him. Though there was an autumn chill in the air, he felt warm all over and, willy-nilly, he fell half in love.
It did not help that the princely garden was another Eden, fraught with a million seductions of the senses. The scents of ripe oranges and lemons hung about the orangerie; intricate patterns of flowers, colored sand, and clipped box accompanied neat paths; fountains rose into the limpid blue sky with the shimmer of molten silver and fell into marble basins with the liquid music of a multitude of glass harps. It was a place made for strolling arm in arm down broad allées of clipped trees and for playing innocent games of hide and seek in dense bosquets so green and secretive that a man might snatch a kiss without blame. Marble temples beckoned—belvederes to see all the beauties of this world spread out below and make a young man feel godlike and randy and his nymph breathless with desire.
The temple of the god Apollo was such a place. Its gilded cupola and white columns crowned a small hill. Inside a slender, white marble youth stood under a golden sun, holding a lyre.
“The German princes all think they are sun kings,” said one of the actors with a laugh. He said it in French, but then added in German, “Apollo, god of the sun and of poetry. What a pity, he’s left-handed.” He laughed again.
And so he was, and the others mocked the sculptor’s mistake, but Desirée squeezed Franz’s arm and whispered, “’E is beautiful. ’E looks like you. Come, we go up.”
Franz blushed a little—the god was quite naked—but he let her pull him away from the company and into a dim grotto underneath. It was dark and cool there, with the smell of earth and mold of a grave. Desirée shivered and clung to Franz. He held her close. Through a narrow, winding tunnel they climbed upward—slowly, very slowly, because the darkness and the contact of their warm, young bodies hampered their progress to the light. But eventually they reached the top, and Franz blushed again when Desirée directed his eyes to the god, whose nakedness was all too close now, and whose left-handedness reminded him of his own imperfection.
They stood together and looked down upon the Elector’s gardens and across the lush greenery into the adjoining hunting preserve. All the beauties of this world seemed spread out before them.
Franz was thoroughly seduced by all this earthly beauty and fell into sin more readily than Eve.
They descended into the grotto again, where they kissed passionately and hungrily, letting their hands explore each other’s bodies. Once out of the damp darkness, they found a hidden place in some thick shrubbery, and there in the smooth grass, Desirée lay down with Franz.
He was taking and giving pleasure—oh, Desirée, my desired one!—far from the Elector’s palace and its playing fountains and white marble gods, when a cool voice drawled, “Well, well, what have we here? A satyr at play with his nymph?”
Franz froze. Shame and fury fought with a wish to hide Desirée’s face and bare breasts.
The intruder continued, “What very white buttocks you have, my goatish fellow. And whose charming thighs are wrapped around you so passionately?—What? It’s not our Desirée, by God?”
Desirée muttered a French expletive and pushed Franz away. He was still trying to extricate himself, when he felt a stinging pain across his buttocks.
“Up, cripple!” snapped the voice.
Franz snatched down the girl’s skirts and pulled up his breeches with his other hand as he stumbled
to his feet and turned. He was livid.
The man, a gentleman by his fine clothes, had a sword in his hand and a look of cold hatred on his handsome face. Apparently he had used the flat side of the blade to strike Franz—an odious offense.
“You, sir, are a scoundrel,” snarled Franz, aware that he only had his cane and was standing above the little actress in her disordered clothes while still holding up his breeches with one hand. He made a ridiculous figure, something from an Italian farce. In fact, the whole incident seemed theatrical, almost staged. His voice unsteady with the shock of the insult, he said, “I demand satisfaction. Be so good as to appoint a time and place.”
The other man laughed. “Why as to that, my awkward swain, dueling is against the law hereabouts. But then I daresay your rustic amusements are proof of your ignorance of civilized manners.”
Franz took a step forward and struck the stranger across the face with such force that the man staggered back. An ugly outline of Franz’s fingers spread across his cheek. With a curse, he raised his sword.
“Non!” screeched Desirée, jumping up from the mossy ground in a flurry of black-striped silk, white petticoats, and pink breasts. She flung herself down on her knees before the stranger, and wailed, “Je vous en prie, mon chéri! Pas de scandale!” Pressing her breasts against his thigh, she seized his hand and kissed it. “Pour le Bon Dieu, mon amour.”
He snatched away his hand and slapped her face so hard that she collapsed with a cry and lay there, her shoulders shaking with sobs.
Franz snatched up his cane and raised it.
The other man curled his lip. “As you may have gathered by now, I’m the injured party in this case. It is for me to ask for satisfaction.”
Franz understood finally and was ashamed. He had allowed himself to be seduced by Desirée without taking thought to her character or her connections. Perhaps these two were even man and wife. He let his arm sink helplessly.
