The room restored itself. The world was the same. Icht was still sitting bolt upright in his chair. Both he and Baron Löhm looked aghast. Over by the press Müller, the secretary, was on his hands and knees. He was surrounded by letters that he must have just let drop on the floor.
'I – wish it were not so,' the man was saying. 'But I must assure you . . .'
Oh Mother Mary, no! His words were like the opening of a great, dark pit in the floor, swallowing her and all the house with it.
Surely, no!
Alba!
'You meant my son Albrecht, I suppose,' said Mother.
'I do. And I regret to tell you . . .'
'I had thought it would be some such story,' she said calmly. 'No, it is ridiculous. We have only just had news of him, and he is well. And now there is no more of this stupid fighting. That is all. Maria, finish your reading please. Really it is inexcusable that you have not.'
Maria realized that she was still holding out the book. She withdrew it. Her finger was on the place, but the lines had no meaning. Her mind was clinging to her mother's words. It was not true. Albrecht had sent them a letter. It had reached them after news of the peace . . .
What had been the date on his letter? Oh saints, please . . .
'Madame,' said the newcomer earnestly. 'I do not know when your news came to you. But it is my painful duty to tell you that there was an action on the twenty-third of April against the enemy . . .'
'Any news of import would have come to me from either his servant or his commanding officer,' Mother said, overriding him. 'Either would have informed me instantly, I assure you.'
'I regret, madame, that both his servant and his commanding officer are also . . .'
'But you change your story, sir! What, has there been a massacre, now? After the war is over? I do not credit it . . .'
'Madame!' exclaimed the man once again. 'I would not bring you news that I knew to be false. Least of all news such as this . . .'
'Again you contradict me, sir,' said Mother wearily. 'Must I give you lessons in manners, too?'
Manners? thought Maria dazedly. Now?
Mother – let him speak, for God's sake! Mother would not. She was stopping him, preventing him, denying him in any way she could. And the man was just saying the same thing, over and over, because it was the only thing he could say.
Because it was the truth.
It was true. Alba was dead.
He was dead!
'I suppose this is a prank,' Lady Adelsheim said. 'If so, it is a very poor one.'
Maria gripped the book, hard. Mother! her mind shrieked Stop it!
'Mother . . .' she murmured aloud.
'A very poor prank of his. He is always doing such things – letting us think he is in some trouble and then producing himself safe and well a few days later.'
'Mother . . .' said Maria again, more urgently.
'My Lady . . .' said the Baron, agonized.
'It is most selfish of him!' said Mother, overriding both of them. 'Indeed it is nonsense] I will not listen to it.'
'But you will hear me, please, all the same!' cried the man, angrily. 'It is my duty to tell you that it is true!'
She stared at him, and he stared back.
'And,' he added more slowly, 'I grieve deeply at it, for while he lived he counted me a friend.'
Mother's mouth parted in her pale face. 'Ridiculous,' she said deliberately. 'It is quite ridiculous.'
But now her voice shook as she said it.
'Indeed, Madame,' the man said grimly. 'Quite ridiculous. That any son of yours should make a friend of me.'
In the horrible, horrible silence he bowed, and turned to Tieschen.
'I suppose you may now escort me from the house.'
Tieschen hesitated, looking to his mistress for a sign that the interview was at an end. But the newcomer would wait no longer. He stalked out of the door and down the corridor towards the hall.
Mother put her hands on the desk in front of her and looked at them for a moment. Her head bowed.
Then, abruptly, she was rising from her place, small and shaking. Maria, released by her movement, was up and reaching for her. Mother turned up to her a face that was not Mother's, but like a bad wax image of it, twisted and working with appalling things. The mouth was open. A series of high sounds came from it, like the whimpers of a tortured lapdog. Maria caught her by the sleeves. Icht, murmuring helplessly, tried to take the other arm. Between them, the creature that was Mother writhed and began to shriek.
'Tieschen!' called Maria desperately. 'Tieschen!'
Tieschen had gone after the invader. But Müller was there, and Löhm was there, and neither were any more use than Icht. Mother screamed and screamed, and tried to push them away. And Maria clung to her sleeve, with her own heart crumbling within her, and thought that she would never, ever trust her mother again.
Wéry stalked down the corridor, raging. His boots clattered on the flooring and the short, high-pitched cries of the woman were in his ears.
He had done it badly. They had made him do it badly They had not wanted to hear him. They had sat there, playing games with him, to prevent him saying what he had come to say, because if he did not say it, it could not be true.
So he had blurted it out. He had shouted it at them: He's dead!
What else could he have done?
There was an action on the twenty-third of April. What did that mean to a woman whose son had been torn apart by cannon-fire?
They had looked at him as if he had fired the guns himself.
The corridor was very short – far shorter than it had seemed when he had forced his way down it a few minutes before. The cries pursued him. Here was the hall, and the foot of the empty stair. Albrecht had always climbed stairs two at a time. Perhaps these were the ones on which he had begun, running across the floor and pounding loudly up them, yelling to the house as he went. He would never climb these again.
The frock-coated servant had not followed. He must have been called back by the daughter. No matter. No one was going to trouble themselves if Wéry let himself out.
But he needed his coat! His hat and gloves, which they had taken from him at the door! He could hardly go riding off into the rain without them. There was not a gulden in his purse with which to replace them.
He was going to have to hover in the hall, like a leper or a ghoul, until someone who knew what he had said and done in the house came, tight-lipped, to assist him.
God! Why was it so difficult to come and go in this place?
Opening off the hall was the waiting-parlour. Someone was in there. He stalked in, and found a servant. The fellow was on his hands and knees, blowing on a fire he had just kindled in the hearth. He looked up as Wéry stalked in. His teeth were bared like a rat's.
'Would you please fetch . . .' Wéry began.
There was another man in the room.
A tall, heavily-built figure had been standing at the window, looking out at the late, wet afternoon. Now the man turned to stare at him. His face was lined and fleshy. He wore a white wig, a long square-cut coat with large elaborate cuffs and a richly embroidered waistcoat. He glowered at Wéry from under heavy brows.
Wéry looked into the face of the master of the house.
This was the mysterious Imperial Knight himself, August von Adelsheim. This was the Prince of this tiny state in the heart of the Empire. His word was as good as law on the soil of Adelsheim, and might well be heard in Erzberg, too. And Wéry had just offended his wife and family as deeply as it was possible to do.
But . . .
The wig on the great head was slightly askew.
The rich clothes were impeccable, yet the face seemed to have retreated from them. It was as if they were somehow worn by some other body, and the mind had nothing to do with it.
Drunk? No, not drunk . . .
There was no surprise on the Knight's face, as he turned and found a stranger in his house. There were so many strangers,
the eyes said. Some they knew, but hardly remembered from where. Others they might not know, but that did not mean that they had not met before.
Wéry stared at the man before him, and the creature of Empire stared back, and did not understand.
A shrill cry echoed down the library corridor.
'They have killed their King,' said the man sombrely.
'The – the French, sir?' stammered Wéry.
It was more than four years since Louis XVI had gone to the guillotine.
The man frowned, as though this answer was probably correct but not what he had been expecting or hoping for.
'Yes,' he said eventually. 'On the cross. They nailed him.'
He bowed his head. A dribble of spit rolled from the corner of his mouth and down his cheek. He seemed unaware of it.
'It will rain now,' he muttered.
The Knight of Adelsheim was demented. Albrecht had never told him that.
'I think it is passing, sir,' said Wéry, carefully.
Dear God, just let him get to the door and he would go without hat, coat or gloves! He would fetch his own horse from the stables if need be!
The man nodded, and looked at the patterned rug on the floor. He paid Wéry no more attention. After a moment Wéry counted himself dismissed, and turned for the door again. But it was too late.
Crossing the hallway in a rustle of skirts was the young woman who had been reading aloud in the library. The little frock-coated servant was at her elbow. She stopped in the doorway when she saw Wéry. Then she looked past him to the man at the window.
'Father!' she cried. The man mumbled.
The daughter glared suddenly at Wéry. 'You have not told him, too!' she exclaimed.
Wéry bowed. 'I have not.'
She did not seem mollified. Again, she spoke past him. 'Father. Please would you come? Mother needs you.'
The Knight frowned, and mumbled again. The girl swept past Wéry and took her father by the arm.
'Please come, Father. It is – it is very important.'
The man growled, but allowed himself to be led to the door. Wéry backed away to make room for them, and bumped against a chair. They ignored him. But again the daughter stopped, as though she had remembered something. She looked back at Wéry.
'Would you forgive us, sir?' she said. 'For a few moments. I should like to speak with you.'
Wéry, aching to be gone from the house, could only bow once more.
And she left, shepherding her father along by the arm, down corridors that echoed to a woman's grief.
IV
The Wounded Hand
He paced wretchedly up and down. He was grateful for the fire, which the servant had made up for the master of the house before both had been called away. But otherwise there was nothing to recommend that little room. The carpet and wallpaper, the elderly chairs and settee, were all shades of pale green, which seemed almost grey in the light of the window. Everything was dusted and clean up to the height that a man could reach, but above that smudges appeared on the wall and cobwebs hung in the corners of the ceiling. There were cracks in the ceiling plaster, high above his head.
He paced, aware of these things, but aware above all of the fine features of his friend in the portrait, smiling down on him. The hand of the artist had diminished the stomach to a gentle curve: flattering, for Albrecht had been definitely fat ('plump as an onion', as he himself had said). And the skin was unnaturally white, Wéry thought – almost as white as the uniform, as if the artist had had some premonition of the man's death. But the eyes were still alive. Tolerant and amused, they followed him around the room: him, the man who had wrecked this home.
'Father has a good heart, and mother a great wit. I declare it must be impossible to combine such virtues in the same measure into one person. There would not be room! And Franz is a dear, and Maria delightful. Tell me, Michel, was there ever anyone more blessed than I?'
Voices passed in the hall, sighing, 'Such a want of sympathy! Shameful, that you should have been told in such a manner!' Outside, a carriage was at the door. The little round man in black, the Baron, was taking his leave. 'My sincere condolences . . . a dreadful loss . . . Really it is a tragedy that the finest should be taken . . . 'The answering murmur must have been the daughter's voice. He heard them pass through the door, saw through the window the carriage drive away, and heard again the daughter's footsteps as she returned to the house. He thought she would come into the room now, but voices called her from up the stairs, and she answered and went after them.
He was left waiting, like a dog in its kennel.
Damn it!
His hand clenched in a fist before him. Then he swore. Such a want of sympathy! Shameful! God damn it! Aristocrats!
Albrecht was dead. And with Albrecht dead it was more obvious than ever what the rest of them were. Privileged, undeserving, mincing, blind! Blind to their faults; blind even to the end that stared them in the face! The world was changing, and they did not know it. They were finished, and yet they tutted about sympathy!
And he was shackled to them. Yes, like a dog. A dog that was useful, so long as it did not think to bark for itself!
From the portrait the mocking eyes looked down on him.
'Hey, Michel! Old Blinkers wants to see you. I think he's decided to like you. He says any man who can be that rude to his face must have something honest about him. He's got ideas for you – things you might do for us, if you're willing. And he's going to write to the Prince and have him offer you a commission – a commission, mind you – in the glorious regiments of Erzberg. You must take it, Michel! It will be rare fun to have a rebel and a democrat in our ranks. The more we can get, the better, I say.'
A rebel and a democrat. Something in Albrecht had transcended all politics, so that it had been possible to like and respect – even love – a man who should have been an enemy. Now the man was lost; and he was a dog; and his leash was held by men with hearts as corrupt as a row of month-old corpses.
God damn, damn, damn, damn! Damn them all to hell!
A voice sobbed. It was his. He shook his fists, not knowing what he was doing. He jammed his right hand into his mouth and bit upon it. He bit hard, hard to make the pain come. Something gave, and there was blood on his tongue. Warm, salty . . .
He drew a long, shaky breath, and looked at what he had done. The marks of his teeth were livid, white and red. He had broken the skin in two places, below the first finger joint and at the base of the thumb. Blood, bright red and fresh, was beginning to trickle across his hand. It hurt.
Stupid. But . . .
On the blotched skin there were the other, older marks, dull and pale beside the new wounds. The same teeth, the same rage. Different causes, and so many of them to do with his own failures. He could no longer remember which he had done when. There had been the time he had heard that the French had fired on crowds in Brussels; the time he had heard of the annexation; the time when, drunk on the Rhine, he had remembered his own words in Paris. The white scars overlapped one another, blending into one, gnawing rage.
Wéry knew himself to be sane. He knew that aristocracy must be destroyed. The Catholic Church, as it was constituted, must be destroyed. But the French republic had to be destroyed first, and most completely of all. If it could not be destroyed, it must be opposed and opposed and opposed, with every weapon available. It must be opposed because of the tyrannies it had set up in the Lowlands, and now in the Rhineland, which had so corrupted the republican causes there that the people would welcome their former imperial overlords in relief if the Empire were ever able to return. It must be opposed because so long as it existed, with its string of crimes around its neck, all the old order of Europe – all these mincing aristocrats with their manners and quarterings – might point to it and say,'See what comes of democracy!'
Agh!
That was why he fought for the powers that had once been his enemies. Only when the slate was wiped clean could their fate be considered again
.
He knew himself to be sane, but he could explain himself to no one. Even Albrecht had laughed at him gently And so many times he had drawn his own blood, since the first night that he had bitten his hand and wept in the winey cellars of Paris.
Stupid!
What passion are you slave to, Captain?
He was bleeding now. If he was not quick he would leave stains on the carpet, on top of everything else he had done. His handkerchief was not the cleanest, but . . .
He was still trying to knot it one-handed when he heard a step and the rustle of skirts approaching again. The door opened. The sister of Albrecht entered the room. Quickly he hid hand behind his back, keeping the rag in place with his thumb, and bowed. As he did so a voice somewhere in the house called,'Maria!'
'Sir,' she said to him. 'I beg you to forgive me for my delay.'
She offered him her hand.
He hesitated. Of course he must take her hand with his right, and his right was bleeding, wrapped in a dirty handkerchief behind his back.
She saw his hesitation and frowned.
Cursing to himself, he snatched at her hand with his left and bowed over it awkwardly, as if he were unschooled and performing the courtesy for the first time. He straightened in time to catch the look that flickered across her face. And his anger rose in him again, like vomit. God damn all aristocrats!
In the corridors someone was still calling 'Maria', but she ignored it. She nodded to him to sit, and they settled opposite one another before the fire.
'I regret, sir,' she said, 'that we have not treated you with the courtesy that we should have done.'
'For my part,' he replied gruffly, 'I regret what I have had to tell you. I also regret that I – was not permitted to give you the news in a manner more fitting.'
'It was unfortunate, sir,' she said.
(Unfortunate! And that little frown at his words 'I was not permitted'!)
'Unfortunate indeed,' he said, his tone hardening. 'Although – if you wish to treat me with courtesy – perhaps I should say that I prefer not to be called "Sir". "Captain" will do.'
If they would be aristocrats, then he would be a revolutionary. And in Paris no one called another Monsieur now.
The Lightstep Page 4
