by I. J. Parker
*
Eberau slipped into the festival hall from the orangerie. The Mozarts were giving their performance. The court, in full attendance on their Highnesses, stood in two large groups, gathered around the Kurfürst at one end of the room, and his wife at the other. The little Mozart boy was playing a pianoforte whose keys had been hidden by a piece of velvet. His father and older sister accompanied him on their violins. When the musical piece ended, applause broke out.
Eberau used the moment to move through the crowd toward Elizabeth Augusta. Young Mozart hopped down from his stool and made his bow. He wore a fine little velvet suit with gold lacing and a small powdered wig—exactly like a miniature courtier, except that he jumped and clapped his hands in childish glee and then scampered across the shimmering parquet floor to climb on the lap of the Kurfürstin and throw his arms around her neck.
Lèse-majesté!
The guests gasped, and Her Highness’s somewhat protuberant eyes bulged alarmingly. Mozart senior started after his son, but Eberau was quicker. He slid to a halt before Elizabeth Augusta and snatched the boy from her lap. With a chuckle, he told the child, “My boy, your eye for beauty is even better than your ear for music. You dared what the rest of us only dream of.” Abandoning the prodigy to his father, he turned to his sovereign and looked deeply into her startled eyes. Placing a hand over his heart, he said fervently, “Oh, that I had been that child, Madame.”
Elizabeth Augusta fluttered her fan. “He is a terrible liar, Karl. I’m an old woman and well past such foolishness.”
“Never!” Eberau sank on one knee and kissed her hand. “You wound me, my goddess. I would die for you. Nay, I would die happily to hear one kind word.”
To his delight, she did not take her hand away. Her smile was warm, but her teeth were bad. Eberau quickly lowered his eyes to the white bosom, most of which rested invitingly before his eyes and swelled with every breath. Tight lacing and low-cut dresses did wonders for the full breasts of older women, he thought, and was half tempted to lean forward and kiss them, when Her Highness finally bethought herself and detached her hand. “Not here,” she said softly.
Eberau thought he had not heard correctly. Flushing with pleasure, he murmured, “I shall become a hermit then,” and rose with a long, warm look into her pale eyes. As he moved aside, his eyes met those of the lady’s husband across the room. The Kurfürst glowered. Was the old goat jealous? Surely not. His ill temper was more likely directed at Elizabeth Augusta. Everyone knew there was no love lost between the two. Eberau placed his hand over his heart again and bowed toward His Highness. He planned to console the lonely lady.
At that moment, there was a disturbance. A servant entered and walked quickly to Baron von Moritz, who sat near Karl Theodor. He whispered to him, and Moritz turned to Karl Theodor, who started up, crying, “Shot? What does he mean: the fellow was shot?”
The room fell quiet. Eberau stepped behind Elizabeth Augusta’s chair and watched, his heart pounding. The Kurfürst looked agitated, and questions buzzed among the guests like a swarm of angry bees. A lackey closed all the doors to the garden.
Elizabeth Augusta turned and pulled his sleeve. “What happened, Karl? Who was shot?”
“I don’t know, Madame. Allow me to find out for you.”
As he crossed the room, he heard the name Brandt and wondered who the devil Brandt was, and what had happened. There would be an investigation, and he would be kept in the palace all night.
He looked back at Elizabeth Augusta and saw her watching him. She smiled and nodded. The prize was his, but he must first play his cards well. Once he was in her bed, all would be accomplished.
*
Franz and Stiebel, both a little unsteady on their feet, walked to the palace and told their story to the local gendarmes and the Kurfürst’s officials. Stiebel said he had attempted to prevent a duel and had followed Franz with the unfortunate Brandt, who knew the park better than he did. Franz admitted that he was to meet Freiherr von Eberau at midnight in an affair of honor.
They were told to wait.
Sometime later, Eberau was brought in to confront Franz. The major denied having made the assignation. This astonished Franz, who pressed him about the duel. Eberau admitted to having exchanged words with him the day before when he found him engaged in copulation with one of the actresses in broad daylight and in the palace garden.
“Instead of showing shame, he had the stomach to challenge me,” he told his listeners. Hostile faces turned to Franz, who could not deny it and flushed guiltily.
“And did I not,” continued Eberau, waving a finger at him, “inform you at the time that dueling is against the law here?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then clearly your tale must be a lie.” Eberau turned to the officials. “I reprimanded him and the girl because the players are in my charge and it is my duty to watch over them. Her Highness is very strict about their morals. In any case, a man of my rank does not engage in duels over a French strumpet.”
The officials nodded, and Eberau departed. Franz looked for help to Stiebel, but his friend merely compressed his lips and shook his head.
In the end, they let Franz and Stiebel go because a search of the park and gardens had turned up nothing, and Franz had no weapon. It was decided that the shot had come from the adjoining game preserve, where a thief or poacher had been careless, and thus Brandt’s death was likely an unfortunate accident.
It was getting light when they left the palace: a gray and chilly day with clouds scudding overhead and an icy wind blowing. Franz saw that Stiebel looked exhausted. He was deathly pale, and his lips had a bluish tinge. Feeling guilty, Franz refrained from further protests and was silent on the way back. They were near the inn, when Stiebel suddenly stopped.
“Franz,” he said, gasping a little, “I forgot. Augusta’s lost.”
“Augusta?” Franz stared at him.
“The dear girl followed us.” Stiebel grasped Franz’s arm for support. “She was on the coach from Mannheim.” He took a few steadying breaths. “Yesterday. You must hurry and find her.” He swayed a little and gasped again.
Clearly the events of the night had been too much for Stiebel. Franz said, “I’m sure you’re mistaken, sir. Augusta would never travel so far alone. Come, lean on me; you need to rest. We shall order some hot food brought to our room.”
Stiebel clutched his arm more desperately and stared around. The dark clouds scudded across the sky, and a gust of wind caught his hat. Franz caught it and returned it. Stiebel muttered, “I don’t feel well. That apothecary and his sleeping potion. Find Eberau. Quick.”
Franz feared that Stiebel’s mind had become deranged. “Come, sir. You must rest.”
Stiebel gave him a sorrowful look and fainted.
*
Colonel von Rodenstein received the summons from the Kurfürst in the early morning hours. He had gone home and was startled by its urgency. A short while later, he faced an atmosphere of suspicion. His Highness was with his private secretary, Freiherr von Moritz, who looked grave. The Kurfürst did not address Rodenstein. He did not even look at him.
Moritz asked him quite bluntly for information about the director of the court theater.
“Karl von Eberau? Her Highness suggested his appointment as theater director, and he attends court functions. I believe he has carried out his duties satisfactorily.”
“What is his personal relationship with Her Highness?”
“Personal? What do you mean?” As he was her Master of Ceremony, it was appropriate that he should be consulted about those who served her, but this question was troubling. Rodenstein suspected that Karl Theodor knew of his own close “relationship” with Elizabeth Augusta.
“You may answer as specifically as you please,” said Moritz coldly. His Highness drummed his fingers on the desk and stared at the wall.
Rodenstein knew Elisabeth Augusta was innocent of any affair with Eberau—so far—and he i
ntended to warn her against the man. He said firmly, “Her Highness takes a lively interest in the theater. She may, from time to time consult with the director about the choice of plays and operas and about the performers. To the best of my knowledge, that is the extent of it.”
It did nothing to dispel the frigid atmosphere. Rodenstein realized that Eberau—and by implication, Her Highness—were suspected of being somehow involved in the shooting.
Moritz eyed him thoughtfully for a moment, then pushed a piece of paper toward him. “Do these names mean anything to you?”
Rodenstein took up the paper. Someone had written “Cato – Spartacus – Minos – Ptolemy” across it and added a large question mark. He made a superhuman effort to remain calm and replaced the paper on the table. “Only as famous men among the ancients,” he said in a reasonably steady voice and looked back at Moritz.
Moritz said nothing for several moments. Then he remarked, “It would be best if Her Highness avoided any connections that might be construed to be of a political nature. And you would be well advised to keep a close eye on her associates. I trust you take my meaning?”
It was a warning. Rodenstein bowed and wished he could accuse that villain Eberau and be rid of him once and for all.
The meeting ended in mutual stiff hostility. Rodenstein returned to his quarters and sent for Eberau.
*
Eberau had relaxed with a sigh of relief and a bottle of wine in one of the anterooms, when a lackey came to take him to the colonel. Muttering a curse under his breath, he straightened his shoulders and followed.
Rodenstein looked apoplectic, his face mottled and his double chin quivering. “What the devil have you been up to now, you cretin?” he ground out between clenched teeth after Eberau had closed the door and sat down near him.
Eberau said coldly, “I beg your pardon, sir, but I have no idea what you refer to. Having just assured the local authorities that I did not challenge that lieutenant to a duel over an actress, it would pain me to have to challenge you for calling me a cretin.”
“Oh, give over,” snarled Rodenstein. “Karl Theodor suspects you, me, and Her Highness of plotting something very nasty indeed. Surely even you comprehend the seriousness of that?” Rodenstein leaned closer and hissed, “I want the truth. Was it you who shot Brandt?”
Eberau said, “Of course not. How dare you, sir, when I have just said that I am innocent?”
“You, innocent?” The colonel gave a sharp bark of a laugh. “We both know better. I think you’ve finally gone mad. It’s time we sever our relationship. You will stay away from me and from her. Let people think that I’ve taken umbrage at your tasteless flirtation.”
Eberau was furious but took satisfaction from the knowledge that he was close to success with the lady. The great man was about to lose his place as favorite. He shrugged and looked bored. “As you wish.”
Rodenstein’s face mottled again. “You’re very cool. I must warn you that you are in very hot water and may be arrested. My advice is to go away instantly. Go to Italy. Let it be known that you wish to see the antiquities and study the opera there.”
Eberau raised a brow. “Are you serious?”
“Very serious. If you don’t…” Rodenstein let his voice trail off.
Eberau almost laughed. So the fat bastard was jealous enough to try to frighten him away. “Aren’t you a little presumptuous?”
Rodenstein got to his feet. “Good day to you.”
Eberau did not bother to reply or to bow. He got up and left, slamming the door behind him.
His anger carried him outside where he saw preparations for the court’s return to Mannheim. It reminded him of some small problems before he, too, could leave to pay assiduous court to Elizabeth Augusta.
There was the matter of his rifle in its hiding place. It was not safe to collect it and he decided to leave it behind.
The other dilemma was more complicated. The girl at his house must be got rid of quickly. Her condition made it unlikely that she would remember much, and Desirée could be bought off. It would cost him dearly, but he would soon have more wealth than he ever imagined. She was a very good liar—and so was he.
*
With the help of two of the inn’s servants, they got Stiebel upstairs and into bed, where he regained his senses. Franz loosened his collar and offered to send for a glass of port.
Stiebel, his eyes closed, shook his head and clutched his chest.
“What is wrong, sir? Are you in pain?” Foolish question. Remorse struck like a sledgehammer. “Why did you need an apothecary?” Franz asked belatedly.
Stiebel compressed his lips and shook his head again. His wig had slipped. Franz took it off and looked for Stiebel’s night cap. His hands were shaking. “I’ll send for a doctor,” he muttered.
Stiebel looked shrunken, like a child with an old man’s head, or rather like a dying dwarf. “Just a rest,” he breathed. “Don’t fuss.”
Franz ran for the doctor.
Downstairs, the innkeeper told him that Stiebel had collapsed the evening before and that they had sent for the apothecary.
Panic took hold of Franz. “Who’s the best doctor in Schwetzingen? Run and get him! Hurry! I think my friend’s dying.” The innkeeper gaped, and Franz cursed, searched his pocket, and pressed a taler into the man’s hand.
Upstairs, he undressed Stiebel as best he could, then sat beside him, looking at the drawn features, watching for every slightest breath. Stiebel seemed asleep, but Franz feared that such a sleep might pass imperceptibly into death, into the great void. He thought of praying, but God had turned his back on him long ago at Freiberg. That was almost a year ago now—a year in which he had found himself again because of Stiebel. If Stiebel died, he would be truly alone in the world.
There was a knock on the door. The innkeeper had returned in a surprisingly short time. The man with him was Dr. Mai, who nodded to a startled Franz and went past him to Stiebel, taking his pulse and asking questions, which Stiebel, awake again, answered in a weak voice. When the doctor turned to Franz, he looked grave.
“There is little I can do,” he said in a low voice. “The night’s excitement upset an already dangerously weak condition. Your friend is not a young man any longer. I’m told that both of you were involved in the shooting last night?” He eyed Franz’s bloody hair.
“He saved my life. I think he must have run all the way.” Franz looked away, ashamed of his tears. “And then they kept us all night, asking questions. Some foolish apothecary had given him a sleeping draft, but I didn’t know. It’s all my fault. What will I do?” The last almost sounded like a wail.
Mai looked confused. He came to inspect Franz’s head. “That is just a superficial cut. Any vertigo?” he asked. “Or vomiting?”
“No, no. I’m not hurt. I only fell and cut my scalp a little. But what about my friend?”
“The constitution weakens with age. Much like a flame consuming the candle. There is little to be done except to have him rest. May I ask what happened?”
“Someone fired a gun in the palace gardens and killed one of the servants. My friend thinks the bullet was meant for me, but the police say it was a poacher. The Kurfürst’s game preserve adjoins the garden just there.” Franz looked at Stiebel, who was watching them from the bed. The mention of the candle reminded him of the old baron. He looked at Mai. “Are you still certain that the baron died of old age?” he asked.
Mai glanced at Stiebel. “We don’t die of old age. It is some critical part of the body’s engine that wears out.”
“But you still have no suspicion that it might have been murder?” Franz persisted. “We were told that the poor old gentleman had suffered a bruised arm and had upset his glass. The door to his room gives onto the terrace and was unlocked.”
Mai sighed. “Why would anyone murder Winkelhausen?”
“Perhaps because he suspected someone. He is said to have been very loyal to His Highness.”
From the bed came the sound of a slight cough. Stiebel waved the doctor closer. “Not Her Highness,” he said in a faint voice. “But someone near her…or who expects to be…”
Mai relaxed a little. “That would include me.”
Stiebel’s lip twitched. “We did consider it.”
Mai sat down abruptly on Franz’s chair. “I cannot believe it. This…shooting last night, do you think that was part of…some plot against the Kurfürst?”
Stiebel nodded. “We think so. But I’m very tired and know little. If you wish to serve Her Highness, speak to Herr Moritz.” He closed his eyes.
The doctor rose. “I can hardly credit it,” he said uncertainly, then turned to go. At the door, he paused. “He must rest at all costs. Any more activity or excitement will be certain death. I’ll have the apothecary send some calming drafts. After that he’s in God’s hands.”
20
Matters of the Heart
What is the life of man? Is it not to shift from side to side?—from sorrow to sorrow?—to button up one cause of vexation!—and unbutton another!
Laurence Sterne, Tristram Shandy
Frau von Langsdorff poured out her grievances and sufferings to Jakob Seutter as the carriage rushed through the rain toward Schwetzingen.
“There I was, hardly alive, and Augusta left me! She didn’t even tell me. The inn’s maid brought the message with a bowl of pottage. Dreadful food—not that I could eat a morsel. I ask you, sir, is there anything more painful to a mother’s heart than to find herself abandoned by her children? Without money in a strange place—fighting for her life?”
Seutter grunted. He was past caring about anything but Augusta’s safety and no longer capable of even common courtesy to the woman he held responsible for what had happened.
