The Left-Handed God

by I. J. Parker

  He and Max had traveled without resting the whole way from Lindau, a feat that could only be accomplished by pouring gold into innumerable outstretched hands, paying extra for couriers to ride ahead between stages to have fresh horses and a new post-boy ready every 15 miles, paying heavy bribes to snatch away promised teams from other travelers, buying a new carriage rather than having his own repaired when an axle broke, and bribing local officials whenever they threatened to slow down his progress.

  Max had proved useful in these transactions, though Seutter knew well that some of the gold found its way into Max’s pockets. Seutter did not like Max. He had disliked him all along and finally, irritated past tolerance by Max’s continuous claims of being devoted to serving him, countered that he must be burdened with a very bad conscience. This had the astonishing effect of a confession by Max that he had done things he was sorry for but had become a new man who hoped to atone for his mistakes. Seutter suspected that Max had attacked Franz and befriended the Langsdorff women for some evil purpose. But the fellow seemed at least sincere in his avowed devotion to Augusta and anger at her foolish mother.

  The rumors that the women had been raped were laid to rest by the gendarmes in Heidelberg. Seutter’s love for Augusta had made him imagine the worst even when his good sense told him that people had morbid or prurient imaginations.

  When they found Frau von Langsdorff in Mannheim, her face was no longer swollen, but she was appallingly bruised and looked a fright. She had made such a nuisance of herself that the innkeeper had been about to show her the door. He complained bitterly until Seutter paid him an exorbitant sum to release her from debts she had incurred by ordering special delicacies and sending the inn’s servants on errands.

  In spite of her pitiful condition, their meeting was awkward. She was happy to see Max, calling him her hero and savior. To Seutter she said merely, “I must say, Herr Seutter, that you have done the Christian thing in coming to the rescue of a fellow citizen.”

  He ignored this and asked, “Where is your daughter?”

  “Oh, don’t speak to me about that girl! She’s run off to Schwetzingen to be with her brother, leaving her poor mother at death’s door.”

  “That’s not like Augusta. When did she leave?”

  When she told him, Seutter was too angry to speak more than a few words to her on the way to Schwetzingen.

  *

  The door to the sick girl’s room was locked. Desirée put her ear to the key hole. Silence.

  She knocked and called out, but there was no reply. This worried her, but she did not dare go for help. In the end, she gathered all the keys in the house and tried them, one by one, until the lock clicked open.

  The lieutenant’s little sister was curled up stark naked on the bed, and the room stank of vomit. God only knew what the devil had done to her. Desirée was sick to death of his perversions and cruel whippings for the empty promises of a good part. She had hoped to attract a wealthy man who would marry her, or at least keep her in luxury, but it no longer seemed worth the sacrifices. Besides, she doubted he would keep his word.

  “Cochon!”

  She spat, then bent over the girl. At least she was still breathing. Desirée shook her by the shoulder but got only a moan of protest. Then she saw the brown bottle and the empty glass on the bedside table.

  A sniff told her what the bottle contained. He had given the girl laudanum to put her to sleep so he could have his way with her, and the girl had thrown it up all over him. Good for her! But that meant he would be back to finish what he had started, and then it would be all over with the poor thing. Girls like her took the loss of their virginity very hard.

  Desirée sat down‌—‌carefully, for the devil had whipped her buttocks raw‌—‌and pondered what to do.

  In the end pity for the girl overcame her self-interest. She gathered the clothes, and tried to wake her, but the girl muttered and pushed her hands away. Desirée spoke soothingly and persisted. She got stockings on her legs, and tugged the petticoat up to her waist. Hardest were the shift and dress. For this Desirée had to raise her, and she kept slipping from her grasp.

  Desirée fell to admonishing her in French. Her fear made her eloquent, and finally the girl opened her eyes and asked hoarsely, “What?”

  “Mademoiselle, écoutez! Il faut s’enfuir vite.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “Parbleu!” Desirée shook her. “Zere is danger,” she managed in German. “You and me‌—‌we run, escape. Vous comprenez? Ah, mon Dieu, quelle bêtise!”

  The girl must have understood something for she let herself be dressed, but when Desirée had slipped the ugly shoes on her feet, she fell back on the bed. It took another struggle to get her up and walking. A nightmarish descent of the stairs followed. She kept sitting down. In the end Desirée pulled her the rest of the way by her feet.

  At that point, Desirée considered the sick girl in desperation. She could not walk and, as she was taller and heavier than the petite Desirée, she could not be carried.

  A decision was taken from her, for there was the sound of a key in the front door.

  *

  Franz sat beside Stiebel’s bed and felt wretched. Where was the justice in this world? The person who had saved him from himself now lay near death’s door because of him.

  The light was dim in the room, and gusts of rain slashed at the window. Stiebel lay so pale and still in his bed, with his eyes closed and his breathing so shallow that it was imperceptible, and Franz wondered if he was dead. At one point, he flung himself across Stiebel’s body, racked with grief, but Stiebel opened his eyes and asked, “Have you found your sister?”

  Franz retreated to his chair, wiped away the tears, and smiled with relief. “No, sir. Not yet. I’ll ask downstairs later.”

  Stiebel’s pale face flushed. He glared. “Why aren’t you out turning the town upside down for her? For God’s sake, man, she’s your sister.”

  Franz stammered, “Why, I…‌I thought to sit with you, sir.”

  Stiebel struggled upright, pressed a hand to his heart, and gasped, “I don’t know you any more, Franz, and I don’t like who you’ve become. You don’t have a heart in your body. Leave me. I’m weary to death of you.”

  Franz got up. “What have I done? What would you have me do, sir?” he asked helplessly.

  Stiebel fell back, exhausted by the outburst. “Search your heart. If you can find it.”

  *

  When Eberau realized that the two women had been about to walk out of his house, he slammed the door behind him and locked it. “What the devil are you up to now?” he snarled at Desirée.

  Desirée raised her chin. “Elle est trés malade. Il y’a grand besoin d’un médecin.”

  “Oh no, you don’t,” he snapped, shoving her aside and sweeping up an unresisting Augusta in his arms to take her back upstairs. He managed two steps, but Desirée pulled him back, and he stumbled. Augusta slid from his arms as he tried to keep from falling. In a fury he turned on Desirée, who saw his face and ran. Augusta called out weakly for him to stop.

  He did‌—‌in the kitchen, when common sense returned and told him that he was making things worse. By then, Desirée’s nose poured blood from a vicious slap.

  “Wash your face and keep your mouth shut,” he told the girl more calmly. “I decide what will be done. If you obey me, this is yours.” He pulled a purse from his coat and emptied it on the kitchen table. Desirée’s eyes grew large when she saw how much gold there was. “And you get twice that much again in Mannheim, if all goes well. If you don’t obey, then you get nothing and you’ll never work again. So what is it going to be, my girl?”

  Desirée counted the money, then nodded.

  When he returned to the hall, he saw Augusta struggling to her feet. She looked at him fearfully. Why, oh why, did fate put such obstacles in his way?

  “Forgive me, my dear,” he said smoothly, “for frightening you, but I lost my temper when she caused me to dr
op you. Are you hurt?”

  She shook her head. “I want to leave,” she said. Her voice was hoarse and weak. “I don’t know you, and I don’t know this house.”

  He breathed a small sigh of relief. If she did not remember him, then all was not lost. “Don’t be afraid. Desirée always makes a big outcry because she knows I’ll pay extra when she does. French maids are born actresses.” That was true enough, truer than this girl knew.

  She stared at him uncertainly. “I want to leave. Please let me go.”

  He raised both hands in a gesture of defeat. “But of course, if you wish it. Only there’s a freezing rain outside. It will be the death of you.” He gestured at his wet cloak.

  She shuddered and swayed a little on her feet.

  “Come, I’ll light the fire in the salon, and Desirée will heat some milk and honey for your throat. Meanwhile, I’ll put the horses to the carriage. It’s covered and will carry you back to the inn dryly and quickly.”

  He saw her weaken and was careful not to touch her but just to open the door to the salon. She walked in unsteadily and sat while he busied himself lighting a spill and holding it to the kindling in the small fireplace.

  *

  Outside their room, Stiebel’s words rang in Franz’s head.

  Leave my sight!

  Search your heart!

  Had Stiebel been in his right mind? He was very sick. And now Franz was forbidden to care for him, no matter how much he longed to repay past kindness.

  Perhaps Stiebel had fired him.

  For long minutes, Franz looked at the closed door, wanting to go back, to kneel beside the bed and ask again how he had offended.

  Stiebel had been strangely insistent about Augusta. Franz still did not believe that she was here, but in the end, he turned and went out into the rain to ask the grooms and stable boys who dealt with post coaches.

  They told him a young woman had indeed got off the stage two days ago but she had been met by a gentleman with a carriage. Franz thanked them and started to leave.

  That was when the youngest of the stable boys, a filthy urchin with a dripping nose, piped up, “It were that Baron Eberau what took her. I seen ’em.”

  Franz felt his heart stop. It could not be, must not be. Not that man! Not the one who had vented his rage on Desirée and who hated him enough to want to kill him. His voice strangely distant in his ears, he asked, “Where does he live?”

  They told him, and he hurried back to their room. He was very quiet, but Stiebel was asleep, and Franz found his sword and left.

  As he trudged through the rain to Eberau’s house, his leg ached and the roadway was slippery with mud. Fear for Augusta‌—‌he no longer doubted that it was she‌—‌and hot fury filled his heart. He plodded on, memories crowding in of happier childhood years together and of Augusta caring for him tenderly after his attack. He was ashamed. He had thought only of himself and never of his sister’s hardship.

  The shame fueled his fury. Franz had allowed Eberau to mock him and manipulate him. He had accepted this because he was crippled, unfit, less of a man.

  But Eberau had overreached himself when he took Augusta to avenge himself on her brother for taking his woman.

  He would die for what he had done‌—‌and surely he had done it by now.

  He slowed when he saw the house. Unlike Stiebel, he did not think it was empty. There was smoke coming from its chimney, and a carriage had left fresh tracks in the rain-soaked drive. He compressed his lips and put his hand on his sword.

  He was near the house when a covered chaise came from a nearby farm and pulled up at the door. Franz ducked behind a large shrub.

  The driver jumped down and tied the reins to a post. It was Eberau, great-coated but unmistakable. He took the steps in two strides and disappeared inside.

  Franz emerged from cover and walked as quickly as he could to the house, climbing the steps more slowly because of his leg. Leaving his cane, he drew his sword, and opened the door on a small entrance hall.

  Stairs to the upper floor faced him. To his left an open door led into a parlor. Eberau was there, bending over a woman on the settee. He turned his head. “What the hell‌—‌?”

  The woman was Augusta. A very pale Augusta with frightened eyes.

  Franz stumbled forward, raised his sword. “Leave her alone, you swine!”

  Eberau straightened, perfectly in control again. “Why, Lieutenant! How convenient! I was about to drive your sister back to the inn. Do put that sword away.”

  Augusta struggled up. “Franz?” She seemed barely able to stand.

  “I’m going to kill you for what you did to her,” Franz said, lunging toward his enemy.

  Augusta cried out, and Desirée appeared. She shouted, “Non! Arrêtez. mon brave!”

  Impossible. Franz’s gorge rose at the thought that this animal had spent his days and nights with both women, subjecting them to God knew what torment and degradation. Oh, if only he could move as well as Eberau, who was backing away, dodging Franz’s blade, his hands raised beseechingly while he shouted something about being innocent.

  Franz ignored it and concentrated on catching the other man so he could deal the fatal blow. He pushed forward, turning only on his good leg and using the other as little as possible until he had driven Eberau into a corner.

  But before he could strike, Desirée flung herself at him, grasping his arm, and jerking him off balance. Flailing madly, he fell. Eberau slipped past with a grunted “Merçi, ma petite,” and fled.

  Cursing Desirée, Franz stumbled to his feet, looking wildly about. Both girls now tried to restrain him and a struggle resulted in more delays. Finally, he pushed the French girl away roughly and moved Augusta out of his way. Hobbling back out into the hallway, pursued by pleading females, he saw Eberau coming back down the stairs with a leather satchel in one hand and the naked blade of his sword in the other. Franz blocked his way at the bottom of the stairs.

  The women cried out and fled, Augusta back into the parlor and Desirée through the front door, leaving it open behind her.

  Eberau stopped on the stairs. He looked desperate. “Stand aside,” he warned, “or you’ll never walk again.”

  “You’re not leaving alive,” Franz replied with deadly calm.

  There was the merest spark of uncertainty in the other man’s eyes as he glanced past Franz through the open door. “Look, Langsdorff,” he said, suddenly conciliatory, “you made a mistake. I found your sister lost and very ill and gave her shelter until you could be found.”

  Franz laughed bitterly. “If you think I believe that, you must be a fool besides a villain. Come down and fight.

  Eberau warned again, “Don’t make me kill you. I have witnesses that you forced this quarrel on me.”

  “I don’t give a damn. You’re a murderer, and this time you won’t get away.”

  “You’re mad.”

  “You killed Captain von Loe at Freiberg and his father a few days ago in his bed. You tried to kill me, and you intend to kill the Kurfürst. If you think you’re safe, you didn’t reckon with me. I don’t care what happens to me as long as I kill you. Come on! You still owe me a duel.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Then Eberau dropped the satchel and vaulted down the steps, his face contorted with rage, the point of his sword aimed at Franz’s chest. Franz twisted aside, but the attack had been too sudden, and his bad knee buckled. He staggered and gasped with pain.

  Before he could recover, Eberau’s sword flashed toward his belly. Franz parried at the last moment and moved a step back. Eberau attacked again in an instant. They were so close in the confined space that their moves could not follow the rules of fencing. Each man was out to kill the other as quickly as possible. Eberau drove his blade forward and kicked at Franz’s crippled knee. He missed the knee, and Franz parried, then lunged, and their swords locked. Eberau gave Franz a vicious kick in the stomach to separate the blades. Stumbling back against the wall, Franz could not catch his br
eath. He gagged and doubled over just as Eberau came again. At the last moment, he found a remnant of strength to push himself away from the wall and forward into the coming sword.

  It was surely suicide, but he would not be skewered like some collector’s butterfly or rare insect; he would die fighting like a man.

  Perhaps because his knee put him off balance, the blade just missed him, and the force of Eberau’s attack drove his sword deep into the doorjamb where it stuck fast.

  Franz turned, still clutching the red hot pain in his belly with one hand. Eberau was pulling and twisting his weapon, and the blade broke near the hilt. He dropped what was left, and stood, waiting for the coup de grace.

  Franz took a ragged breath and gathered his unwilling muscles. Some primal thrill caused him to stretch out the moment, to move in slowly and to put the tip of his blade to the soft underside of Eberau’s chin‌—‌just close enough to cause a thin line of blood to appear.

  Sweat beaded Eberau’s face. Somewhere in the room beyond, Augusta sobbed.

  Franz looked into his enemy’s eyes and saw his fear. His triumph was complete. The monster was about to die. And Eberau no doubt saw his death in Franz’s eyes, just as had all the Prussian soldiers.

  The gloating words on Franz’s lips died unspoken. Eberau’s eyes had become those of the Prussian Captain on Trois Croix, and of the captain’s faithful sergeant, of every man Franz had killed that day in close combat. That look in their eyes, the recognition of death as they looked into his own eyes, struck horror into his soul.

  He let his blade drop and stepped back, sickened. “Go,” he said, his voice hoarse, “go and be damned!”

  Eberau blinked, then swallowed and ducked past Franz. Snatching up his satchel, he dashed out the door.

  *

  It poured steadily when Jakob Seutter arrived in Schwetzingen. He was the first out of the coach, leaving Augusta’s mother to fend for herself while he splashed through the puddles to the inn and asked for Franz von Langsdorff. A servant told him that the lieutenant had just left but that his companion was sick in bed upstairs.