Once more, as if to underline his point, he ran his eye over the row of sullen officers. Someone muttered, angrily. But no one contradicted him.
Wéry counted to three. Still no one else spoke.
And so he did.
'You are right, Your Highness.'
There was a sharp, warning look on Gianovi's face. But the Prince beamed and nodded his head, as if it were perfectly natural that the most junior man present might have something to say.
'Do speak, Captain. We are all friends here. Although I cannot promise you that the First Minister will suffer you to be as brisk with his notions as he is with mine.'
'It is a matter of will,' Wéry said. 'The French themselves have proved that. In '93, they were opposed by every power in Christendom. Yet they were not overwhelmed because the Republic had the will to demand of its people things that we all would have thought impossible. They conscripted their fighting men en masse. Even women fought for a while. All experience was that such armies were too big, and must swiftly starve, disperse, and beggar the state that raised them. And maybe they did. But still they kept fighting. In the end it was the will of the Princes that failed.'
'An interesting parable. I have thought of this too. Is it our conclusion, then, that to fight this Republic we must become more like it?'
Wéry looked into the watery blue of the Prince's eyes. It was as if the affable voice had spoken his deepest, darkest thought.
'No, sir!' he said emphatically.
'I agree we must not. Justum et tenacem propositi virum. But you are saying we should be ready to do things that habit informs us against.'
'Yes,Your Highness. Exactly.'
'I beg the Captain's pardon,' said Gianovi. 'But my wits are slow this morning. He says "exactly". But I do not see exactly. When Hoche has marched upon us, knocked down our walls with his guns (since we were so disobliging that we did not do it ourselves at his request) and proposes to accept the surrender of the city, what exactly are these things that we should do?'
'One does not have to surrender simply because the walls are breached,' said Wéry.
'That's right,' said Balcke. He sounded surprised. 'You stand fast, they have to take you down man by man.'
'So,' said Gianovi. 'If I have understood, we have – in our imaginations – defied the ultimatum, manned the walls, seen them breached by our enemies and are now fighting street by street while the city burns, the women are dragged from the cellars and the children hoisted on bayonets. Very good. I have two questions. One. Shall this course lead to victory? I doubt it, but perhaps our young friend could explain. Two. Even if it led, improbably, to victory, would it be worth it? The issue for which we would burn our city is simply this: whether a certain foreign nobleman – dear to our hearts, if not endearing in his ways – should be permitted to remain here. General Hoche claims that d'Erles and his party are agitating and arming against Paris. Well. I suppose d'Erles and his friends have a pistol or two between them and would remember how to load one if only they could stay sober for long enough. I do not imagine that he is so pressed for other havens that he would actually wish to remain here during the unpleasantness itself. That is beside the point. But let us suppose that after all is done, the Comte d'Erles is able to return freely to our smoking ruins, as we are dragging our dead from the rubble. Shall we hold ourselves vindicated when his gilt coach rolls by?'
The gaze of the Prince swung from one side to the other. How deftly he had removed himself from the argument! Now it was a joust between the First Minister and the army, with the Prince waiting to award the laurels to the victor.
'Let me propose your answer, gentlemen,' said Gianovi. 'For I believe I do understand you. You will say that it is not for our dear d'Erles, or even for the city, that we are concerned. For the sake of Christendom, the church, virtue, truth, the French phenomenon must be defied. No matter that the phenomenon cannot be defeated. By defiance, even by sacrifice, you propose to set an example that others may follow. I admit it is not inconceivable that you may succeed – although history does not encourage me to believe that you will. The ruins of Heidelberg have stood for a hundred years, and what of that? It is a rallying cry for a few bourgeois scholars who dream of a German nation that does not exist. Nevertheless, the virtue that flows to you from your ancestors demands this. Am I correct?'
'If you mean it's a matter of honour,' grated Balcke. 'Then yes, I'd say you've understood. Just about.'
'Honour, yes. Dear me. Honour. I had forgotten,' sighed Gianovi. 'Honour lies in fulfilling obligations. The Prince has an obligation to his godson d'Erles, granted. It is for His Highness, and not for you gentlemen, to judge whether the baptismal oaths he has made should extend to sheltering d'Erles in the city when the most powerful force in Germany demands his removal. He has higher obligations, too, you would say. Although such obligations are curiously difficult to define, let alone fulfil.
'But His Highness has yet more obligations: to the Cathedral Chapter, who elected him; to the Estates, through whom his territories are run; and to the thousands of his subjects who live in the city where you would make your stand. These are obligations he can fulfil. Should he not consider these too?'
He waved his arm over the battlements at the tiles and chimneypots and wreaths of blown smoke below. The town looked quiet this morning, subdued under the bluster of the wind. A barge drifted below the New Bridge, heading for some port downstream. A cart clattered distantly on the cobbles. There were people moving in the streets. Away on the roof of the great cathedral, which rose like a second citadel on its hill in the heart of the city, tiny figures moved like ants on a small scaffolding around one of the lesser spires.
Think, cursed Wéry to himself. Think! None of the other officers could debate with this man. He was too quick, too clever. And none of them, not even Balcke, was yet ready to commit themselves to the Prince's logic – not for a fight against odds of twenty or forty to one. But Wéry had lived his life by the same logic. He knew what the Prince had been saying, and what he was looking for from the rest of them. If only he could find the words to say it himself!
And yet, as he stared out over the city, all the arguments seemed weak. Gianovi had stated them and dismissed them. And the things Wéry had said already sounded foolish now – not because they were foolish, but because of the way he had said them. He looked at the scaffolding on the spires, and his mind, unbidden, conjured a vision of the burnt towers of the cathedral at Mainz. In his confusion he could not help wondering whether there was scaffolding around those too, at that moment. And if so, what did it mean?
'In any event, this is idle talk,' said Gianovi. 'There has been a development, Your Highness.'
'Indeed?'
'The Canon Rother-Konisrat has sought an audience with you, which he hopes will be granted as soon as the Privy Council has finished. It seems that he has heard some story from his cousin Lady Adelsheim that Your Highness's officers declined a truce, immediately before the action at Hersheim.'
'Really! Which officers?'
'The officer named in the story is present, Your Highness,' Gianovi said, inclining his head towards Balcke.
The Prince looked down at the little First Minister, and his face was set like stone.
'I do not doubt, of course, that there has been some exaggeration in the telling . . .' said Gianovi, with an apologetic smile.
'Dear, dear,' murmured the Prince. 'Has there been, my dear Colossus?'
Balcke's face was red. 'There's not a word of truth in it, Your Highness,' he said.
'. . . Nevertheless,' continued Gianovi smoothly, 'I believe we can all appreciate that, given the current mood of the city, this rumour would be enough to make any call to arms most inadvisable.'
'You believe the guilds would not respond.'
'I believe they would respond with alacrity, Highness. I believe they would be clamouring at the doors of the armouries. But I fear that, when the doors opened, the direction in which they employed the
ir arms might be less than helpful to us.'
There was a short, thick silence. Balcke stood like an oak in the middle of the group, and no one met his eye.
After a moment, the First Minister continued: 'In the circumstances, I have felt it necessary to indicate to Canon Rother that Your Highness may consent to the War Commission conducting an inquiry into events at Hersheim.'
'I see,' said the Prince. 'And shall I?'
'I suspect the – ah – will of the Chapter, and of the estates and city, may brook nothing else, Your Highness.'
1 see.
'And in the meantime I am sure the army will consider itself employed in obliging the French in the matter of the city wall.'
The First Minister ran his eye once more down the line of uniformed men. No one answered him. He turned away.
'Your Highness.'
'Indeed, indeed. We are interrupting these gentlemen in their work. And the Privy Council must be waiting. Let us return to our duties.'
The officers stood to attention. The Prince smiled, and turned to pace down the bastion wall with the First Minister at his side and Bergesrode shadowing them, a few paces behind. Gianovi was speaking to his master, but the wind bore his words away. There was no way of telling whether the Prince was nodding to some pleasantry, or to some earnest warning about the dangerous men they were leaving.
'Blow up the walls!' exclaimed someone. 'Is he in the pay of the French, that man?'
'No city, no nice nest for Gianovi,' grumbled someone else. 'I never could stand foreigners in the service.'
'Hum!' exclaimed the hussar colonel angrily.
'Dammit, Altmantz. I didn't mean your man here. Good stuff that, Wéry. Well done.'
Silence fell again as the officers contemplated their defeat. The Prince and his First Minister were diminishing along the bastion wall. Still the big man was listening, the small one speaking, waving his hands like a conjurer.
'That about Hersheim,' ventured Knuds. 'Damned awkward, at this time.'
'Propaganda,' said Altmantz. 'They're sowing dissension.'
'I've a bottle of brandy on my table, if you fellows wish,' said Knuds.
'First sensible thing anyone's said today . . .'
'Not for me,' said Balcke abruptly, and stalked off.
There were embarrassed looks among the colonels. Altmantz cleared his throat.
'Coming, Wéry?' he asked. 'Something to cool that hot head of yours?'
Wéry shook his head. He was speechless with anger. The uppermost thought in his mind was: how was it possible?
'Hey, Wéry? Are you dreaming, man?'
'I – I don't know if I will be able to, sir,' said Wéry.
Bergesrode had dropped back behind the Prince and the First Minister. He was looking over his shoulder, jerking his head.
'What's the matter?'
'I think I am about to be dismissed.'
XI
The Priest
Dismissed? He would have dismissed himself, for sure.
He would have torn up his commission in his own face, yelling, 'Idiot! Fool! Half-baked ideas!'
'You had the chance, and ruined it!'
He had had the chance – exactly the chance he had prayed for. Now that it had vanished, he could see it so clearly: the chance to step up from the endless, meaningless drudgery of spy work to strike a real blow! A city armed and defiant! A fight to the bitter end! The Prince had been willing to listen. He had even given Wéry the cue. And then they had all been out-talked by the quick-tongued First Minister. The army had been made to look foolish. Balcke was declared a villain, fit only to be investigated. And what Wéry hated most of all was that his own wits had been slower than Gianovi's.
Politics!
He understood, dimly, that the other officers were not displeased with him. Balcke had even backed him. Altmantz, who normally averted his eyes at the sight of Wéry, was now almost friendly. But that was beside the point. What they thought did not matter. They did not see things as clearly as he. Bergesrode did. Bergesrode, who had prepared the Prince for this meeting and had made sure Wéry was included, would understand that he had failed. Now Bergesrode was waiting for him.
The face of the priest was like 'weathered sandstone, hard and lined and pitted. His thick, dark brows sloped naturally, so that he was forever frowning. The smudges beneath his eyes matched his brows so perfectly that they might have been reflections in some pool. All four dark marks slanted towards the bridge of his nose, as if they were the remains of a diagonal, ashen cross that dour saints had traced there at his birth, to show that the child was one of their own. His hair was black and his priest's robe was black, and he never wore anything else.
'Well?' said Bergesrode.
'I said what I believed to be true,' Wéry replied stiffly. 'I still believe it.'
'I don't mean that. Your report about Hoche. Can he rely on it?'
'Oh.' Wéry gathered his thoughts. 'Yes, I believe so.'
'I need more than that.'
When Wéry hesitated, he said,'Come on. We can talk as we walk. But I cannot be left behind.' He turned to follow his master.
'You want to know the sources?' Wéry said, hurrying to keep up.
'Tell me no more than you need to. But yes.'
'There is a merchant in Kassel, who has contracts to supply one of the French divisions. There are two peddlers. There is also a money-lender whose clients include French officers.'
'A Jew?' Bergesrode looked at him sharply.
'Does it matter? Their officers visit him, eat with him, get drunk and talk.'
(With Bergesrode, as with Balcke. Keep to the truth, short and direct. Loathe his every instinct, churchman and aristocrat, but loathe in silence. On the one point that mattered most, they were agreed.)
Bergesrode walked a pace or two, brooding. At length he shrugged. 'The end justifies the means. So this is chit-chat among the officers at Wetzlar. Is that all?'
'I have confirmation from the Rhine.'
'Who do you have beyond the Rhine?'
'I will not say.' And as Bergesrode opened his mouth, Wéry cut in again. 'He is not doing it for the Prince's gold. I do not owe you his rank or name.'
'I have to trust what you say he says,' snapped Bergesrode. 'I have to advise the Prince to trust it too.'
'He can be trusted. The difficulty is bringing his news back to Erzberg.'
'And how do you do that?'
'So far, by crossing the Rhine myself.'
'You could have been arrested!'
'I have not been.'
'Yet. But if you carry on with that we will lose you. You must not go into French-held territory again. You must think of a better way.'
'I'm trying to!'
And that was weakness, that outburst: weakness shown to Bergesrode, who knew no weakness. Wéry was still struggling to adjust, still wondering why there had been no word about dismissal or even reprimand. Perhaps the question of dismissal had never crossed Bergesrode's mind. A chance had been lost – what of it? Continue, with the tools that you have. Discard them only if you think you can find better ones.
In some ways Wéry wished he could be more like Bergesrode himself.
But what a chance it had been!
So, no dismissal. Or not yet. Perhaps the Prince, strolling ahead of them with Gianovi at his side, would remember him at some point in the weeks ahead and pronounce his sentence then. In the meantime, he must continue.
'Very good,' said Bergesrode. 'But from now on you must double your efforts. You must watch Hoche like a hawk. We need his correspondence, his plans, his preparations – anything you can learn about his intentions. If he is going to move against us, we need as much warning as you can give.'
'I understand,' said Wéry, sorting in his mind the possible from the impossible among Bergesrode's demands.
(Hoche's plans? As well whistle for the moon.)
(Correspondence? Well, if there were a corrupt clerk, and the money to bribe him with. But could
he find either?)
No. It would be counting tents, watching wagon-loads, listening to what Bergesrode called the chit-chat, sorting fact from rumour. No army, not even the French, could move anywhere without some sign of stirring.
They turned the corner of the palace. The Prince and First Minister were some fifty paces ahead of them, approaching the gate to the inner courtyard. A coach, rolling out of the archway, stopped at the sight of the pair. Its occupant, a long, languid young man in a yellow coat, climbed out of the carriage to accost them.
'D'Erles,' murmured Bergesrode. 'Our causus belli!
'Do you need to join them?'
Bergesrode shook his head. 'Let the First Minister catch it, whatever it is. It will serve him for forcing himself in on a meeting to which he was not invited. In any case, with d'Erles it will be about his lodgings or his allowance. It won't be high policy.'
'I'm surprised he doesn't ask the Countess.'
Bergesrode glanced at him coldly. Wéry shrugged. No one would admit to him that the Countess Wilhelmina Pancak-Schonberg – the huge and brainless noblewoman who dominated the Prince's court – was the Prince's mistress. But what other explanation for her influence could there be? And she doted on the handsome d'Erles. It galled Wéry to think that his final confrontation with Paris might come about not for the sake of Freedom, or Truth, but because an eccentric female aristocrat was besotted with a feckless, self-centred, exploitative young man whom France had every right to hate.
Bergesrode watched the group ahead of them. After a moment he said, 'There will be agitators.'
'Agitators?'
'Republican agents. Illuminati. Sent to foment discontent here.'
Wéry shrugged again. 'If I hear anything, of course I will report it. But they won't be in Wetzlar. They'll be in the city.'
'Then look in the city.'
'Isn't that for the city police . . .'
'Yes, and for you, too. This is important. The Illuminati are the danger. They are the ones who controlled the Revolution. Abbé Barruel had proved it. Never forget that.'
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