by I. J. Parker
He went upstairs to his bedroom and opened the door. Good, Desirée was still here. And she had cleaned up like an obedient little slut.
She jumped up from a chair and stared at him, pale and terrified. “Pardon, monsieur, I go now.”
“Non, ma petite,” he said. “You will stay a while longer.”
The brown eyes filled with tears. “I am not well. Je vous pris! Tomorrow per’aps.”
He laughed. “Don’t worry. I haven’t come to bed you. I need you to play chambermaid to a young lady. You will make her comfortable. She’s a little feverish.”
Desirée’s eyes narrowed. “You want me to go like zis?” she asked, pointing to her blue silk dress.
“Go find an apron and cap. There must be something left behind by the servants.” He raised a monitory finger. “Remember, my girl, if you behave yourself, I’ll reward you. But if you mention our dealings to anyone—least of all to the girl below stairs—you’ll regret it.”
She nodded, and he saw with satisfaction that the look of hopelessness had returned.
The angel was nodding off again on the settee and jerked upright when he closed the door of the salon behind him.
“My brother?” she asked anxiously.
The rosy color brought on by the fever suited her well, he thought. He shook his head. “I regret that the young man has escaped us again. You look a little feverish. Are you feeling quite well?”
“I…I shall be all right as soon as I find Franz.” She made an attempt to stand but swayed on her feet.
He came to steady her. “You must rest here. I found one of my maids. Tell her what you need, and she’ll procure it. Meanwhile, I shall go hunt down the elusive Franz.”
She gave a little sigh and sank down again. “Thank you. You’re very kind. It’s too much trouble, but I do feel a little dizzy.”
He stood for a moment, looking down at shiny brown curls, charmingly tangled about the graceful curve of neck and shoulder, and imagined what lay beneath the plain woolen cloak. “Would you like a little water? Or wine?”
“No, thank you. Nothing.”
She had deep blue eyes ringed with soft lashes. Small beads of perspiration shimmered on her upper lip. The situation was delicious. Should he help her off with that heavy cloak and those dusty shoes? Make her stretch out on the settee? What a very fine neck she had! How he longed to kiss that small ear and then slowly uncover the hidden charms. He felt the stirring of lust again and controlled himself with an effort. With a bow, he took his leave, repeating his promise to leave no stone unturned in his quest for Franz—which was no more than the truth after all.
*
With the gentle snores of Stiebel in his ears and the warmth of his body close by, Franz lay stiffly, staring into the darkness. All his blackest thoughts returned, angry demons with outstretched claws and open mouths that denounced him for murder, cowardice, disloyalty, lust, and weakness.
He had failed at everything he had ever attempted. He had failed his father by not following in that good man’s footsteps, failed as a soldier by leading his regiment to destruction, failed to be a support to his family, failed to be a friend to Stiebel, failed to protect poor Desirée, and now he was about to fail himself, for he was afraid to face a duel.
The question of whose honor had been injured most was murky at best. True, striking Franz in such an indelicate manner and at such a moment could not be allowed to pass. But there was the matter of Franz’s flagrant act of copulating with the other man’s woman. Perhaps the matter could have been settled at that point with an explanation (on Franz’s part) and an apology (on the other’s), but Franz had then slapped the man.
By morning, Franz had decided that he must confront Desirée’s lover as soon as possible. Then perhaps they could discuss the situation while they were both calmer. Feeling his ears burn at the lie, Franz told Stiebel at breakfast that he thought he would pursue their inquiries on his own that day.
Stiebel sighed. “Very well. I have a mind to visit the summer palace today and make the acquaintance of someone close to Karl Theodor. We need to get an audience with the prince. But I can manage by myself.”
Franz had no intention of joining the actors, who would be engaged with rehearsals until the afternoon, or of meeting Desirée. Instead he took his sword and walked to the nearest woods.
In a clearing covered with a layer of multicolored leaves like a fine Turkey carpet, he reviewed the moves of swordplay.
He had not drawn his sword since Freiberg and swallowed down the bile rising at those memories. He had killed many men with his sword then and now proposed to kill again or be killed.
He managed the salute creditably, but that was the first and last of the approved moves his crippled body could assume. His right knee would not bend and, as he was right-handed, that was the knee employed in lunge, attack, parry, counter parry, demivolte, coupe, and reposte. It was a crucial joint, and no manner of agility of wrist or strategy of mind made up for it.
But he forced himself, taking fall after fall, until his knee burned like fire, until he lay groaning on the ground and knew that even an untrained swordsman would skewer him within seconds. Bathed in sweat, he eventually gave up all pretense.
He was a cripple. He could no more use a sword than the left-handed Apollo could play his lyre.
Stiebel—who loved all the weak things in this world and grieved for the baron’s chickens and the loss of his little bird—had adopted him because he, too, was one of the weak in need of care.
In a contest between the weak and the strong, the weak must lose.
Franz gathered himself up from the gaily colored leaves—how beautiful nature was in death—picked up his useless sword, and limped home.
Desirée’s lover was waiting outside the inn.
Franz stopped, leaning heavily on his cane. They measured each other. The other man noted the sword and, smiling coldly, drawled, “A word, if you please, Lieutenant Langsdorff.”
Franz took a breath. “You have the advantage, sir, but I’m very glad to meet you,” he said. “Having thought the matter over, I find that I also behaved badly. Under the circumstances, I’m willing to overlook the incident and apologize for my part in it. I assure you I had no idea the young woman was your…friend or I wouldn’t have…” His voice trailed off when he saw the sneer on the other man’s face.
Desirée’s lover took a visiting card from his coat pocket and handed it over. “What, are you a coward besides being a scoundrel?” he asked.
Franz stood up a little straighter. “You mistake, sir…” He glanced at the card. “I’m perfectly willing to meet you, Major, but my injury”—he gestured at his leg—“makes swordplay awkward.”
The other man raised a brow. “You should have thought of that before you insulted me.”
Franz flushed. “As you wish it, sir, swords it shall be.”
“No. I’ll not be blamed for killing a cripple. We’ll use pistols. But no seconds. As I told you, duels are forbidden. Keep the matter to yourself.”
“Of course. But I’m afraid I did not bring pistols and am a stranger here.”
“I’ll bring a set of dueling pistols. You may inspect them. Shall we say midnight tonight? At twelve paces? There is to be a moon tonight.” He curled his lip. “And what more suitable place than at the feet of Apollo—where you committed the offense.”
Franz bit his lip and bowed.
*
Desirée could not understand what her tormentor had seen in this girl. She was plain, without a bit of paint to her face, or powder on her hair, and her clothes—mon Dieu!—such a fusty gray cloak and such worn black shoes. She must be very poor.
And she had fallen asleep.
“Mademoiselle?” Desirée asked, bending over the strange guest.
The girl opened her eyes, looked at her blearily, and struggled upright. “I’m sorry,” she said hoarsely. “I’m not feeli
ng well. My brother, is he here yet?”
Desirée put out her hand to touch the girl’s forehead, then snatched it back. “Mademoiselle, vous êtes malade. Is fever!”
“Some water, if you have it, please,” murmured the sick girl. “It’s very hot in this room.” She frowned at the empty fireplace, then struggled with her cloak. She managed to take it off, revealing a dark blue dress with a bit of lace at the high neck and sleeves. The lace was good, and Desirée, who had a shrewd eye for such things, revised her estimate of the girl. She was of good birth but little fortune, perhaps a schoolmaster’s daughter. She felt a twinge of pity for her, both because she was sick and because she was in the Major’s clutches.
“I go fetch water,” she said, making a little curtsey, and tripped from the room.
*
Stiebel was frustrated and uneasy about the lack of progress. While all sorts of possibilities had occurred to him, he had no proof that they were, in fact, related to any adulterous behavior of the Kurfürstin or her spouse. The actors talked freely and with some pride of such liaisons, citing case after case of actors, actresses, or dancers becoming official lovers of kings and princes and being given noble titles and large properties. But it seemed to Stiebel that Karl Theodor, and anyone who supported him, had more reason to have his wife murdered than him.
The very air of Schwetzingen seemed filled with the electricity of imminent catastrophe. He feared that Franz was as helpless as a newborn babe in the face of such danger. By involving him in the investigation, he had hoped to give Franz the self-confidence that was so sadly lacking after his experiences in the late war, but instead he had made things worse. He had pushed the boy into the arms of a French vixen and caused no telling how much additional damage. Something had happened during the rendezvous, and Stiebel thought that Franz having caught the pox was the least of his worries.
It was time to make an end of this mad excursion and take the boy home. Stiebel decided to take his surmises and suspicions to the Kurfürst himself, and thus rid himself of his responsibilities. He dressed with some care. The brown coat and breeches were brushed and assorted spots removed, and the old periwig was freshly powdered by the local barber, who also shaved him. And thus he presented himself at the summer palace and requested an audience.
He was told to join a number of other gentlemen and a few ladies, all of whom waited patiently in the anteroom. He sat on a fine but uncomfortable chair, his feet not quite reaching the floor, and watched as soberly dressed officials passed back and forth through the fine doors to His Highness’s rooms. At no time were any of those waiting called to the double doors.
After an hour, Stiebel slid down from his chair and went to speak to a haughty individual with a beak of a nose. “Have you passed my request to His Highness?” he asked.
The man looked down his nose at him. “What request?”
Stiebel raised himself on the balls of his feet. “As I told you quite a long time ago, I am Nepomuk Stiebel, attorney at law from Lindau, and have urgent information of the greatest importance to His Highness. How long will it be before I may speak to him?”
“His Highness is very busy with affairs of state, sir. Besides, he rarely sees anyone without a proper introduction. You will have to wait.”
Stiebel went back and sat down again. He felt very tired, but he was determined. And patient. The sun reached its zenith, and many of the others left, discouraged or in search of their midday meal. Stiebel sat on. A lackey replaced the man with the beak, so that he, too, could refresh himself.
It was not until nearly two o’clock that Stiebel saw a familiar face. It belonged to the same accommodating gentleman who had taken him to the music room in the Mannheim palace. Moritz, that was his name. Stiebel hopped down again and went to meet him with a smile.
“My dear Dr. Stiebel,” Freiherr von Moritz said, shaking his hand warmly. “I had no idea that you were still in our country, let alone here in Schwetzingen.”
Stiebel sighed. “I have been waiting to see the Kurfürst since early this morning. Not so very long as such things go, but I’m an old man, and I confess I’m no longer up to the challenges of court attendance. I was about to declare myself defeated.” It was true. He felt positively lightheaded with exhaustion.
“Well, I’m afraid I cannot be much help. His Highness worked all morning and has now gone to rest a little before this evening’s entertainments. But perhaps you will do me the honor of taking a glass of wine with me and telling me what brings you here?”
Stiebel accepted. They repaired to a small room on the ground floor, furnished as a gentleman’s study with bookcases and a writing table. Here Herr von Moritz produced a bottle and two glasses from behind some books and poured. The port did much to give Stiebel back some of his spirit and determination. He decided that he must trust this man. Moritz had no ties to Elisabeth Augusta and was all old-fashioned courtesy and kindness.
“You’ll be aware,” Stiebel began, “that Baron von Winkelhausen died before my young friend could deliver the son’s letter?”
Moritz nodded. “Yes. I was sorry to hear of the death. He had served His Highness with great loyalty. But you seem to attach some significance to the event?”
“The timing, rather. We arrived the very morning after. That in itself might have been a tragic coincidence if not for the fact that the letter had been stolen and a substitution made. Naturally, this raised our suspicions, especially since both my young friend and I had been attacked and robbed before. Franz is a very honorable soul and had not opened the original letter, but I, being in the legal profession, suspected from the start that this was no ordinary communication. When Franz was nearly killed by a footpad in Lindau and my house was searched, I was afraid that the letter was putting his life in danger. In short, I decided to read it.”
Moritz’s brows shot up. “Did you indeed? And?”
Stiebel shifted uncomfortably and took another sip of port. “I’m rather ashamed of going behind my young friend’s back and breaking a confidence, but you see, there was a reason for us to rush to Mannheim. The son was warning his father about a dastardly plot against His Highness.”
“What? What sort of plot? Who is involved?”
“I wish I knew. Alas, the letter was not at all clear. Captain von Loe used a sort of code, perhaps because he thought his mail might be opened.” Stiebel had the grace to blush. “Whatever he suspected, he did not expect to be murdered for it.”
“I thought he died in battle.”
“No. My young friend saw him get shot. It happened very early, before the troops engaged. He thought the bullet came from our side.”
Herr von Moritz’s face closed. “Forgive me, but this is an extraordinary tale—if it is true.”
Stiebel felt this comment like a stab to his heart. He gasped a little, then slid from his chair. “I’m afraid you take me for a senile fool, sir—or worse. It will be best if I give up my endeavors on behalf of your master—who is not in any case my sovereign but merely a fellow human being—and concentrate on protecting my young friend instead. I bid you farewell.” He made a slight bow.
Moritz rose. “Wait. I’m sorry if I have offended you, but you, being a lawyer, must surely see that I cannot take this tale to His Highness without proof.”
“Perhaps not, sir. We’re dealing with a very clever murderer. But I have discharged my moral obligation and leave the warning in your hands.” And with that he turned to go.
“Sir,” pleaded Moritz. “Can you not tell me anything else? Anything at all?”
Stiebel paused. “Who among Her Highness’s particular attendants served at Freiberg?”
Stiebel saw thoughts chasing each other on Moritz’s expressive face. “I’m not sure. I think perhaps Eberau did. He’s the theater director and reports to her. But he served directly under General von Meyern, and Meyern withdrew before the battle was over. It caused considerable comment later. I shall enquire about others.”
Stiebel nodded. “Thank you for the port, sir. I wish you well.”
*
Franz went upstairs. After sending for paper and ink, he sat at the small table by the open window and wrote his will to the accompaniment of the violins and flutes of musicians.
It was customary to settle one’s affairs before a duel, though he had little enough to bestow. His simple will left his meager possessions and whatever was still due of his pension to his mother. He enclosed the will in a letter to Stiebel in which he explained the circumstances of the duel and that he did not expect to live. He begged Stiebel’s pardon, asked him to serve as his executor, and then poured out his heart in gratitude for Stiebel’s friendship and in grief that he had proved a disappointment. He wept a little, moved equally by his wasted life and the melting melodies produced by a particularly fine violinist, then added as an afterthought a request to assure his sister Augusta of his brotherly love and his hope that she would be guided by wiser heads than his. These two documents he sealed and left in his portemanteau.
A separate note to Stiebel explained that something had happened and he would be late returning. He left the note on the table. It was the truth, after all—though he did not think he would be back.
Franz dared not stay in case Stiebel returned, but he changed into a clean shirt and combed and retied his hair. Then he put on his sword and his cocked hat and left the inn. The sun had set, and he was uncomfortably aware of a gnawing hunger. How persistently the human body clung to life!
He spent the next hours in the Catholic Church of St. Pankratius, not in worship but in idle speculation about a faith that filled its churches with an abundance of art and beauty, ornamentation, and color until they resembled the palaces of princes. Where was the soul in all of this celebration of the abundance of life? For that matter, how was he to leave all he held dear about his life—his home, the lake, Stiebel, music, and the love of women—when all about him touched on the senses? The paintings and statues of Christ and all the saints showed him human beings filled with an excess of life and emotion. The very angels had been transformed into cupids, fat laughing babes with wings, and the mother of Christ was a voluptuous figure in shimmering blue silk.
