The Lightstep

by John Dickinson

  'I suppose it is natural that the men should feel strongly,' she said in a low voice. 'But I hope that no ill-will comes of it.'

  Madame Kaus looked at her. The laughter was gone from her face and in her eyes was the same weary look that she had seen in Emilia Jürich's. She put a hand on Maria's arm – perhaps it was to reassure both of them.

  'I believe not,' she said in a low voice. 'For my sister's sake and mine, if not for their own. But it is hard. Hofmeister tries my husband sorely. It is unwise of him, as well as unkind. Oh, that wretched psalm! He must not speak like that. Sometimes I believe he is willing us to denounce him, as if that would prove him right about the evil of it all. And yet we are lucky, compared to so many. Have you seen your cousin Maximilian?' she asked Anna, who had joined them.

  'I called on him in his room before dinner,' said Anna sadly. 'He knew me. Certainly he did. But I do not think he cared.'

  'I am very sorry,' said Madame Kaus.

  That night Maria dreamed. She was sitting in a dark room, in a house she knew quite well, but could not remember from where. Friends and members of her family came and went through the doors of the room. She was waiting for one of them to stop and say something to her: something important. But those that did speak to her only said that she should go on waiting, and others seemed to pass without paying her any attention. Gradually the comings and goings ceased. She watched the doors, and they did not open. And after a while she understood that she was alone. Everyone else had gone, and left her. And a great sense of desperation and urgency rose in her, for there was still something important, something very important, that she should know, and know soon. Terrible things would happen if she were not told quickly. But all the people who could tell her were gone.

  Then, as the gloom deepened around the far corners of the room, she realized that not everyone had disappeared. Somewhere on another storey, behind another door, there was someone else. And she and they were alone in the house together.

  She woke, sick and urgent in the darkness. Her bedroom had two windows, but the night outside was very black. She could see almost nothing. The bedclothes, the little night noises, the very thickness of the air were all strange. She thought of the other people in the house, all asleep: Ludwig, the judge; his wife; his lunatic nephew; the servants, the horses, all around her. She thought of the leagues and leagues that lay between herself and home.

  Why had she come? She longed to fly home at once, and be safe. But that was impossible. And the long, long journey to dawn seemed impossible, too.

  She lay awake, and listened.

  XX

  The Breach

  Major Jean-Marie Lanard, of the Army of the Republic of France, stood in the sunlit field below the walls of the city. He was dressed in an immaculate blue-and-white uniform and looked at the world with pale eyes and a permanent, slight smile upon his lips, as if he was amused by what he saw.

  All the gaiety of Erzberg thronged around him. They had come, in their carriages and glittering cloths, with their bonnets and buckles and polished boots, to fete him as a society hero, and to watch the final surrender of the war party. They gathered in a long, chattering, brightly-coloured crowd in the mild October sun. Among them were a number – chiefly the young married men and women – who wore the new fashions that were emerging from France: simpler, country-style dresses for the ladies, with plumes of feathers in the hair. For the men, no powder, no wigs, no swords, and coats with no embroidery. Bobbing in the sea of tricorns, a dozen high-crowned, narrow-brimmed hats punched towards the sky.

  Between the crowd and the moat a rope had been pegged at ankle-height, patrolled by grey-uniformed engineers who now and again called respectfully to persons at the front of the crowd to move back, please, sir; move back. The crowd obeyed, good humouredly, and went on chatting, and the wind wavered over the bonnets and tall hats, teasing feathers and light veils and planting its cold kiss on a hundred wealthy cheeks.

  An elderly engineer officer was watching the wall, shading his eyes with his hand. 'It will be any minute now, sirs,' he said.

  'As it has been for the past quarter hour, I believe,' said the Frenchman cheerfully. 'But perhaps they have changed their minds after all, and are readying the guns instead.'

  Someone near him laughed, nervously.

  'Oh, I am serious, madame,' said Lanard. 'You should stand well away from me. You can never tell what these heroes will decide to do— Ah, no, I am mistaken. See there your signal, Captain.'

  'That's it! That's it!' cried the engineer. At his nod the soldier beside him lifted a great pale flag and waved it in a wide arc above his head. On the point of the nearest bastion, another flag echoed it. The bearer, a tiny figure, disappeared.

  Hundreds of eyes watched the wall. Nothing happened.

  'Perhaps the powder . . .' began Lanard.

  Smoke billowed in a thick, tight cloud below the ramparts. The line of the wall above it sagged gently, and disappeared in an up-rush of dust and rubble. The great, rolling boom! reached the crowd, accompanied by the roar of tons of stone pouring down into the ditch.

  'Oooh!' they cried, and some started clapping.

  The cloud of dust hung, and hung, obscuring the wall. Slowly it parted. In the angle between two great bastions the neat lines of ramparts and glacis had been wrenched out, as if by a giant's fist, and rubble lay strewn all down the slope, choking the moat before them.

  'Let peace reign!' cried a gentleman in the crowd importantly.

  Wéry, standing a little aside among the engineers, did not applaud. He had not taken his eyes off the Frenchman.

  Since he's here, Bergesrode had said, you had better watch him. Make sure you know who he talks to, and what he says . . .

  That, and a hard look, was all Bergesrode had said about the arrival of Major Lanard in the city. They did not seem to have guessed yet how the Frenchman had obtained his papers. And for the time being the palace was not going to risk uproar by revoking them. Perhaps the Prince had even decided that it suited him that the Inquiry should have such a witness.

  Nevertheless, Bergesrode had sent him out here to be the palace eavesdropper. He would not be the only one. At this instant there were probably a dozen other ears of the Prince or Chapter or city police in the crowd, straining to hear what was said.

  Wéry also had the impression that an intelligence office that produced no intelligence was suddenly worth rather less of Bergesrode's time than it had been. But at least they had not taken Asmus from him yet.

  Lanard had not applauded or commented. His eyes ran over the damage to the wall, and over the two great bastions on either side of it. Any storming party that tried to gain the breach would still be subject to fire from left and right.

  'Yes,' he said at length. 'A small hole.'

  'We are constrained by the closeness of the houses on the inside of the wall, sir,' said the engineer quickly. 'But the same operation will be repeated on the citadel, as your authorities have requested.'

  'On the east wall, no doubt?'

  The east wall of the citadel faced over the town, and was the least exposed to any assault.

  'It is the best for the purpose, sir.'

  'Ah.'

  The crowd was beginning to drift back to its carriages.

  'You are coming to the levee, Major Lanard?' said a woman, who had ventured out into the fields in fine yellow silks. 'I insist that you should.'

  'It is needless, madame,' said the Frenchman, with a bow and a smile. 'For my hostess has already insisted.'

  'Wonderful! And how charming you are! I declare you are not at all what I expected.'

  'From the cartoons I have seen,' sighed Lanard,'I imagine you expected a monkey with bloody hands and the cap of liberty on its head. But there has been some poverty of understanding between my country and its neighbours of late.'

  'It is all the fault of the Paris mob and the excesses they committed,' said a gentleman on the other side of him. 'Are you from Paris, Major?'
r />   'I am from Poitou. But I have studied in Paris, and know its shortcomings.'

  'Yes, we must take issue with you sir, for the sake of your countrymen. Come, is it not madness that descended upon your people? Such behaviour as no civilized nation should understand, or permit!'

  'Indeed, sir,' said the Frenchman. 'Would that our folk were so contented as the Germans, who to please their lords would allow themselves to be sold to an English king to make battalions for his wars.'

  'Aha! Touché, Baron, is it not?' cried the woman.

  'Indeed, indeed. But you must beware of speaking too broadly, Major. That outrage was committed only in Hesse and Ansbach. Not all princes comport themselves so towards their subjects.'

  'I am well aware of it. Yours, I believe, is in some ways considered a model. And yet to be a prince at all – is that not to steal something from his subjects? Do not misunderstand me – I am not here to preach the Rights of Man. But these are ideas that long precede our revolution . . .'

  'Of course, of course! You are speaking of Rousseau.'

  'If you like . . .'

  Wéry knew this was exactly the sort of conversation that Bergesrode would want him to report. But the crowd around the Frenchman was thick, and he had no wish to waste his energy burrowing through it. He had no stomach for this mission in any case. So far, he agreed with everything the speakers had said.

  And now they were reaching the carriages, and the conversation was broken off, with both men promising that they would resume it as soon as they could. Wéry supposed that he should find out in which carriage the Frenchman rode, and who shared it with him, and so on. It was all useless information, yet if he reported less than other spies he would fall further from Bergesrode's favour.

  But it was a bright day, perhaps the very last of the year, and what he most wanted to do was walk slowly back to his quarters and think of things that had nothing to do with intrigue, espionage, or the old, ugly memories that the sight of the Frenchman brought up within him.

  A hand tapped him on the shoulder. He looked round into the face of Franz von Adelsheim.

  A message? At last? But . . .

  'M-mother wants you to come in our coach,' said the young man, whose gaze had already wandered away into the crowd.

  Wéry did not know what to say. 'This is most unexpected.'

  'The Frenchman wants it. He wants to meet you.'

  The Frenchman? Yes, of course he was staying at the Adelsheim house.

  'I think Mother was surprised, too,' said Franz, with the alarming clarity of the mentally affected.

  'I . . . am most grateful, but . . .' He did not want to face the Frenchman. He did not want to face Lady Adelsheim, either.

  'They're waiting for us,' said Franz and shambled off into the crowd.

  And of course he could not refuse – not without giving mortal offence. And perhaps – just perhaps – this invitation had been arranged by Maria, so that she might pass something to him? (But under the nose of her mother and Lanard? Surely not!)

  He hurried to keep up with Franz. 'Is your sister well?' he asked, falling in beside the young man. 'I have not seen her for some weeks.'

  'Oh yes, I think so.'

  Useless! Where was she?

  But there was no more time to speak. They were at the door of the Adelsheim carriage – a closed coach, drawn by four black horses. Lady Adelsheim was inside, looking down at them. Two other women were already in the gig. One he recognized as Lady Machting, and the other he supposed must be the Machtings' daughter. There was no sign of Maria, or Madame Poppenstahl.

  'My Lady,' he said.

  'Major,' said Lady Adelsheim, coldly.

  'I – er – trust your daughter is well?'

  'She is quite well, sir,' said Lady Adelsheim. And she looked pointedly in another direction.

  He climbed up to join them. Franz followed. The Frenchman was seated in the far corner. And Wéry found he must sit opposite him. The pale, amused eyes watched him as he struggled into his place. Wéry noted, too, that Lanard's uniform was that of a general's aide-de-camp. The man had risen since the day he stood with his infantrymen at Hersheim. No doubt it was the correspondence with the peace party in Erzberg that had drawn him to his masters' attention.

  'Ah, the Brabançon!' said Lanard, who did not wait for an introduction. 'I have heard much of you.'

  'I dare not think what you have heard, sir.'

  'Many things. You are quite a swimmer, I understand. Now tell me, because we are all friends these days – how did you manage to pass out of a city under siege?'

  How?

  Wéry shifted, and tried to find a comfortable position. 'They say the Rhine is good to its children,' he said. 'Perhaps it adopted me.'

  'Oh come! I am a soldier too. The river must have been the least of it. What of the walls, the patrols, the boats? A remarkable feat, and very subtle.'

  Wéry smiled tightly.

  'You will have had help, of course,' said Lanard. 'Perhaps you are reluctant to speak of that. But come – the city of Mainz is in Imperial hands again. No harm can come to your friends now. Nor do I wish them any. Is it not proper that men who have opposed one another in war may share their reminiscences in peace? Or are the Erzberg officers – I have had some experience of this, of course – still reluctant to believe in peace when it comes?'

  Wéry smiled again and did not answer. The coachman called to the horses. Slowly the carriage began to move.

  Lanard shrugged. 'Perhaps your friends are not as safe from us as I suppose them to be. Very well, we will speak no more of it.'

  The carriage bumped and jolted on its way. It was one of a long train of vehicles snaking from the site of the breach around to the city gates. Every now and then it halted, waiting for the carriage in front to pick up speed again. The skirts of the three women took up four-fifths of the interior space. Lanard and Wéry were crammed into their corners with their knees against the doors. Even in this uncomfortable position the Frenchman seemed serene.

  'All the city holds its breath for your testimony, Monsieur,' said Lady Machting.

  'Then they may soon exercise their lungs again, my Lady. I understand the Commission desires to see me this afternoon, and also that Count Balcke has won the right to attend. I must say I did not think that I would meet that man again.'

  'Indeed! Are you not nervous? You must stand no nonsense from the Inquisitor, sir. I have known Steinau for many years. He has his opinions but he is far from the worst of his set.'

  'I believe the Canon Steinau is concerned to establish whether I am Christian. But I suspect it will be in my capacities to persuade him.'

  'And will you also attend the Mass at the cathedral tomorrow, Monsieur?' asked the Machting girl.

  'Naturally, Lady Elisabeth.' said Lanard. 'If you are to be of the party.'

  'The Bach is a master of his profession, and must be heard.'

  'Forgive me – the Bach?'

  'The chapel-master. A relative of the great Bach.'

  'Every prince must have his Bach,' said the Lady Adelsheim, in tones of mild scorn. 'As every cathedral must have its organ.'

  'I fear I am no judge of music,' said Lanard. 'But I shall be delighted to see the cathedral. I have heard that the roof is a wonder.'

  'The painted ceiling? Oh indeed! Do you admire such things?'

  'Very much. It is curious in me, I know. But for me it is the highest of moments, to walk through a doorway and find, instead of a dull ceiling looming over my head – behold! One stands beneath a heaven.'

  'Then,' said Lady Machting firmly, 'we must arrange a private audience for you with His Highness. For his office, it is said, is from floor to ceiling a depiction of Heaven, and widely admired!'

  'So I have heard. But my Lady, supposing that you, with your infinite resource, were to obtain such an audience for me, it would be a sore trial indeed. For I doubt that it would be thought proper that my eyes should rove wall and ceiling while His Highness seeks to address
me. Fortunate are those who have had the chance. Have you seen it, Major?'

  'I?' said Wéry 'No.'

  'But are you not curious?'

  'I confess I had not thought of it,' said Wéry coldly. 'I have seen the antechamber, but that room is often busy. If you look too much at the walls, you may miss your chance to be heard.'

  'Ah yes. The offices of His Highness are often busy. And often to no purpose.'

  'Quite so,' murmured the Lady Adelsheim.

  'You do not agree, Major?' said Lanard. 'Yet it seems to me obvious. I understand that when my General Hoche returned to the Rhine in the summer, it was supposed in Erzberg that he was come to lead an advance on the city, and this was the cause of much excitement. Shall I discover to you the true reason?'

  Wéry paused. 'If you wish,' he said.

  'My General's return – in which I took part – was not an advance but a retreat. You will know there were political tensions in Paris over the summer. My General had been called by those who considered themselves faithful to the Revolution to come and set things right. The planned expedition to Ireland, of which you may have heard, was used as an excuse to move some of his force close to Paris. For a week or two he was lauded in the streets. He was Minister of War. He was the pillar of the government. But his enemies attacked him most viciously, and he sickened of it, resigned, and we withdrew our force as if defeated. That was all. Erzberg? We had opinions, to be sure, and I believe we communicated them to His Highness here. But our minds were in France, not Germany.'

  'I see,' said Wéry, keeping his face as impassive as he could.

  Was this true? If so, his report of the danger to Erzberg would have been false. His interpretation of it, to Bergesrode, to the Prince and the colonels on the battlements, would have been false. The one thing he thought he had achieved, the one blow he had struck, might be nothing at all – worse than nothing.