Writ in blood : a novel of Saint-Germain

by Yarbro, Chelsea Quinn, 1942-

  “I will want the white waistcoat, and the swallowtail coat.” Von Wolgast was stripping off his jacket, tossing it aside as he began to unbutton his waistcoat and the shirt beneath. “I must bathe quickly.”

  Schmidt had gathered up the jacket, and stood uncertainly in von

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  Wolgast’s dressing room door. “Shall I draw one for you, sir?”

  “Yes. And be quick about it.” His waistcoat was cast aside; he shrugged out of his suspenders and began to unfasten his cufflinks. “Here,” he went on, throwing them to Schmidt. “See you don’t lose them. I’ll want the onyx studs tonight, and the onyx-and-gold cufflinks.” He paid no attention to Schmidt as he continued to undress; he left his garments strewn about, knowing they would be tended to by Schmidt or Malpass. “Get the bath going. I like the water warm.”

  Schmidt retreated across the hall to the bathroom, and checked the water heater standing behind the tub, to be certain its little gas flame was shining, and the thermometer registered sufficient heat. Satisfied that the water was hot enough, he put the plug in the drain and began to run the water, adding salts and the sponge as the level rose. Schmidt was just stepping back from the tub, von Wolgast’s jacket still clutched in his arms, when he collided with the Baron as he pushed the door open.

  “Clumsy oaf!” von Wolgast stormed. “Where are your wits, you turd?” “I’m sorry, Baron,” said Schmidt automatically, backing away from von Wolgast, and reaching behind him for the edge of the door. “I should have been more careful.”

  “That you should. Have my clothes ready in ten minutes. I will shave myself.” This last was a great concession. He dropped his robe on the floor and prepared to enter the bath. “Well, man, get on with it!” Schmidt hastened out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him before going back to von Wolgast’s dressing room to set out the garments the Baron had demanded.

  Von Wolgast was half-dressed by the time Malpass returned; he favored his valet with a fulminating glance that was not the least mollified by the two canvas cases Malpass carried over his arm. “You’re late.” “The tailor kept me. There was something wrong in the hang of the trousers in the herringbone suit,” Malpass said, his German strongly accented with English. “I made certain it was corrected.”

  This was a reasonable enough excuse, and ordinarily von Wolgast would not have minded his valet’s taking the time to correct any flaw in his clothing, but this evening he needed to vent his spleen. “It was an idiotic thing to do.”

  “It was what you instructed me to do,” said Malpass sensibly, which only served to make things worse.

  “You knew I have to attend the Chancellor’s reception tonight.” He shoved Schmidt away from him. “Now you’re here, you might as well do what you get paid for.”

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  Schmidt and Malpass exchanged glances as the butler left the dressing room; the valet assumed his most soothing manner as he took over the task of making von Wolgast ready for the reception.

  There was no fault to be found with von Wolgast s appearance when he arrived at the Chancellor’s reception not quite an hour later; his formal attire was as elegant as any in the vast ballroom. Without seeming to, he took careful stock of those who had already arrived, then he stepped into the reception line, praticing an affable smile. He greeted Theobold von Bethmann-Hollweg with an effusiveness that bordered on sycophancy, thanking him for the magnificent evening before it had truly begun.

  “May your thanks be well-founded,” said the stuffy Chancellor, and gave his attention to Volger Kraftig, who was behind von Wolgast in line.

  Satisfied that he had performed his social duties well enough, von Wolgast strolled off across the floor to where champagne was being poured for the guests; he took the tulip glass and lifted it in the general direction of the Chancellor before downing his first sip. Feeling restored, he exchanged a few words with the Italian Ambassador’s Undersecretary, then went in search of more impressive company; he noticed the Austrian Ambassador in conversation with Lottelise, Graf-fin von Bingen, and set out to join them. He had not got far when he was intercepted by Leopold Oberstetten.

  “Good evening, Baron,” said the journalist affably. “Quite an occasion, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is,” said von Wolgast as curtly as was acceptable; he tried to escape Oberstetten without success.

  “We’re hearing some promising things about your new guns, Baron,” Oberstetten went on, linking arms with von Wolgast to keep him from getting away.

  “That’s very flattering.” Von Wolgast spotted Egmont von Rosenwiese with his skinny, vapid wife in tow; he would have to deal with the Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs later, as Reighert suggested.

  “Not flattering at all. I am curious—all journalists are, you know— about your guns. If half what we hear of them is actually true, you stand to make a great deal of money from them.”

  “That will depend on many things,” von Wolgast said, disliking the insinuating tone Oberstetten was taking with him. “Guns are not of much use during times of peace.”

  “How long can peace last with men like you and Krupp selling arms to everyone from Ukranians to Turks to Serbs? Don’t you think your sales might be seen as provoking war? You give Generals new guns,

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  they will want to try them out.” He kept up his ruthless smile as he continued. “How do you reconcile your product with your hope of peace?”

  “I have a business, Herr Oberstetten, as do you. What I do is not intended to bring about war, but if war comes, we must all be as ready as we can. I am of the opinion that having superior weapons ensures a continuing peace.” He drank down the rest of his champagne. “Many Generals share my opinion, as you must know.”

  “But think, man,” said Oberstetten, unwilling to release von Wolgast quite yet. “You have to consider the consequences of such weapons.” “Weapons are nothing more than objects. If men do not use them to kill, they are harmless as andirons.” He finally succeeded in pulling his arm free of Oberstetten s grasp. “You journalists may not like rearmament, but you will have to admit that in times such as these, only an imprudent ruler would refuse to arm his country.”

  “Some journalists are calling for more guns,” Oberstetten reminded him politely as he moved away from von Wolgast to comer other guests of the Chancellor.

  A passing waiter refilled von Wolgast s glass, and a moment later, Eu-chary Apfelobstgarten appeared at his elbow. “Good evening, Baron,” said the Undersecretary of the Office of Procurement.

  “To you, as well, Apfelobstgarten,” said von Wolgast; he was eager to be on good terms with this man, and with the Office of Procurement.

  “Quite a crowd,” said Apfelobstgarten. “I wouldn’t have expected so many.”

  “It is an honor to be invited,” said von Wolgast, downing half his champagne. “Anyone would make an effort to attend.”

  “No doubt,” said Apfelobstgarten, his manner faultlessly polite. “I noticed we have had some dealing with you at the Office,” he went on. “I have also been told you sell to nations other than Germany.”

  “In these times, men in my business must,” said von Wolgast, being as direct as he could, for he did not want to have any misunderstanding with this man. “But it has never been my intention to put Germany at any disadvantage. In fact, I believe that so long as a German company supplies the arms, our enemies will think twice before they act, knowing how excellent our weapons are, and that once they attack us they can have no more, and we will continue to avail ourselves of our weapons.” His mouth hurt from smiling.

  “In fact, your sales are gestures of patriotism,” said Apfelobstgarten. “I had not thought of it in that light.”

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  “You can see the sense of it, can’t you?” von Wolgast asked as if it were obvious to everyone. “What better way to ensure our security than by making the finest weapons in
the world and then making sure the world knows it.”

  “I suppose I see your point,” said Apfelobstgarten, bowing slightly to von Wolgast. “I don’t know that it is as clear to some others.”

  This was not the reaction von Wolgast had been hoping for; he straightened himself and gave Apfelobstgarten his most candid look. “If the world were not as uncertain as it is these days, such precautions would not be necessary. But look at Austro-Hungary. Look at the Balkans. Gott im Himmel! We would be contemptible if we ignored the threat they represent.”

  Apfelobstgarten nodded and allowed himself to be called away by one of the Deputy Ministers, leaving von Wolgast to continue to prowl, so that by the end of the evening, he was satisfied that he had spoken to most of the men he had come to see, and that he had not encountered any outright opposition. He began his search for von Rosenwiese, and found him at last by the balcony door.

  “Baron!” exclaimed von Rosenwiese as he caught sight of von Wolgast bearing down on him. “I ... I noticed you earlier, but. . . I—”

  “You have been trying to avoid me,” said von Wolgast silldly. “I know that. But now it is time we had a word or two.” He secured von Rosen-wiese’s elbow in a firm grip and guided him away from the small knots of remaining guests. “I need you to do a few things for me.”

  “What?” von Rosenwiese yelped softly, looking about apprehensively. “My wife is looking for me.”

  “Don’t let her concern you just now,” von Wolgast recommended. “Listen to what I tell you: I want the -endorsement of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs for a shipment of guns to Greece. You are in a position to be certain that happens.”

  “I might be able to . . . move things along,” said von Rosenwiese, his doubts making him stammer. “I don’t have a great deal of authority, you know.” It was a desperate attempt to dissuade von Wolgast and it failed.

  “You do not have sufficient regard for your post, von Rosenwiese,” von Wolgast admonished him. “You need only sign off on the forms and there will be no delays and no questions to answer. I think you would want to do this for me, von Rosenwiese, when you remember all I have learned about you.”

  Von Rosenwiese went pale. “You would use the letters?”

  “If you force me to. I would rather not have to be compelled, of

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  course, but that is out of my hands.” He did his best to reassure his victim. “But so long as you are reasonable, I will be reasonable, too.” He patted von Rosenwiese on the shoulder. “You and the Bishop have nothing to fear from me as long as I am able to ship my guns without hindrance.”

  With a numb gesture of consent, von Rosenwiese stumbled away, muttering disjointed phrases of leavetaking.

  Von Wolgast watched him go with dawning triumph; he would not have any more trouble from von Rosenwiese, he was certain of it.

  Text of a letter from Nadezna to Franchot Ragoczy.

  Berlin October 19,1910

  Franchot Ragoczy, Count Saint-Germain Leonardostraat, #44 Amsterdam, Holland

  My dear Count;

  I do not mean to impose on your patronage of my school, but I fear I must do so. We have recently had an increase in expenses that have made it necessary for me to write to you in the hope that you will be able to extend your support a little further than you have done before. I am sorry that I must come to you, for I was convinced that we had secured a degree of sponsorship that would cover our additional expenses. Such has not turned out to be the case.

  You have been more than generous, 1 am aware of it, and I am truly grateful for all your kindness and assistance in years past. You have rescued me from my own stupidity before, and it was my intention never to call upon you in that capacity again. Had I not misplaced my trust, I would not have ended up in this predicament, and would not have to impose upon you: I ask you for this help not so much for my benefit as for the benefit of my students. As you are aware, some of them are nearing readiness to begin careers of their own. If I am unable to continue with them it is possible that they will not have the opportunity they so richly deserve.

  I apologize for having to ask you for this. I am most despondent that in my naivete, I permitted myself to be deceived by one who claimed to wish to encourage me and my students. Now that I have realized how

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  much I have erred in my judgment, I hope you will not require my students to pay the price for my lack of perception.

  In supplication, Nadezna

  P. S. Von Wolgast has planned to go to his Austrian hunting-box for ten days. I would be glad of your answer before he returns from his holiday; in that remote place, he will not know what I have done.

  7

  A swath of burnt sienna was the first paint on the canvas, covering over the drawing beneath. “Are you certain you have to go away?” Rowena asked as she glanced up from the charcoal lines to their subject, seated about ten feet across the studio from her; wan October mizzle turned the studio a soft, pale grey, with blurred edges to all shadows in contrast to the firm delineations of her brush.

  “You know that I must; early tomorrow,” Ragoczy replied, regret in his voice. They were speaking English, although she occasionally practiced her French and Italian on him. “I will not be long. You will have me sitting for you in fewer than ten days. I promise you.” If he was unable to convince the British delegates that King George s support of the Czar s agreement was essential in a week, additional time would make no difference.

  “And if someone should take a shot at you once again? What will you do if they try to murder you? You could be at risk, continuing with the mission.” She kept her hand as steady as her eye, although it was an effort.

  “You need not worry. Those of my blood are notoriously hard to kill,” he said, doing his best to assuage her anxiety. “If anything untoward should happen, Roger will inform you by telegram at once. I do not intend to delay my return.”

  “You had better not; you will not like how I paint if you do not come back quickly. I might give you two heads, or something worse.” She daubed up some more of the paint and continued to apply it, her brush

  moving as if she were still sketching him; the shape of his head was now haloed in dark paint.

  “Ah, the revenge of artists; is there anything more dreadful,” said Ragoczy in mock solemnity. “Like Michelangelo and the Popes secretary.”

  “How do you mean?” she asked, most of her attention on her work.

  Ragoczy knew her focus was on the painting, but answered her anyway. “The Pope had a secretary with whom Michelangelo did not get along—he was one of many; Michelangelo was sharp-tongued and did not suffer fools gladly—and Michelangelo wished to punish him for his interference, so he painted the secretary’s face among those in the Last Judgment waiting to be judged. The secretary complained to the Pope, who ordered Michelangelo to remove the secretary’s portrait from where it was. Michelangelo promptly painted the man’s face among the damned; when the secretary complained of this greater indignity, Pope Paul III, Alexander Farnese, told his irate secretary that those damned to hell even the Pope cannot save.”

  She laughed, shaking her head. “Is that really true?”

  “If it isn’t, it ought to be,” he answered, his dark eyes holding hers for an instant; he gave a single chuckle. “So far as I know, it is true.” He remembered how caustic Michelangelo’s wit was, and how prickly he could be; the story was typical of him.

  “He was a very great artist,” said Rowena, sighing. Her brush became still.

  “He certainly thought so,” said Ragoczy, aware that she was comparing her efforts to those of Michelangelo. “Not everyone agreed with him.”

  Her grin was like lightning, come and gone in an instant, but all the more dazzling for its brevity. “I suppose he had to have some appreciation of his talents, or he could not have done as much as he did. No one who painted as he did could have been modest about it, could he?” She went back to p
ainting with enthusiasm.

  “Not on the scale he worked,” said Ragoczy, not meaning size alone, but theme as well. “Do you mind if I move my legs a bit?” He did not have to do this, but he had been sitting in the same position for more than twenty minutes; most models had to break their poses from time to time, and he should be no exception. In addition, he was cognizant of the many questions Rowena still had not asked him.

  “Oh, yes.” She stood back from the canvas, regarding it critically, seeing the finished work superimposed over these beginning strokes. “I

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  would keep you in that chair for two hours at a time if you didn’t remind me.”

  “It is tempting to try,” he said lightly as he rose to his feet.

  “You would be a solid knot if you did,” she said, matching his tone as she put down her palette and walked over to him and into his arms, welcoming his gentle kiss, and answering it with a more emphatic one of her own.

  “You will not finish the portrait until next summer at this rate,” he teased her affectionately.

  “Would that distress you?” she asked, deliberately provocative.

  He was spared the necessity of answering by an energetic ringing of her bell far below. “Were you expecting anyone?” He was surprised at the interruption, and saw that she was upset by it. “Would you like me to answer it?”

  “No. My housekeeper will tend to it. But I may have to go downstairs.” She shook her head impatiently. “I hate having my concentration broken.”

  “Hence the kiss?” he asked, amused and ardent at once.

  “That improves it; it reminds me of what I want to have in the portrait.” As the front door opened, she listened to her housekeepers barely audible inquiry.

  “Let me in, I say. Stand aside,” came the brusque command in response in English.