She was cold, and shocked and angry. She was confused. She had been told that she could not have what she had come for, and had been given instead some vague words about soldiers marching up and down, which was supposed to be alarming. She had been told that she must leave. And she had been accused of manipulating Anna for her own ends – yes! No matter that Anna had wanted to come, and that all Maria had done was to make it possible. That was the worst of it.
It was the worst, because in her heart she knew it was true.
Back at the house, she could not settle. She did not join Emilia and Anna in the drawing room, although they sent to tell her that the fire was made up high and that they were sure she must be chilled to the bone. She paced her room, and the corridor, and into her room again, thinking. Her thoughts did not calm her. They made her angrier yet.
What she hated most was that he had discovered her. He had known from the very first evening why she had come to the house. And he had watched her all the time.
Who had Michel Wéry spoken to, if not to Ludwig Jürich himself? Hofmeister? Kaus? Some unfortunate servant, who had since been dismissed?
And after weeks of waiting, she had nothing to show. That depressed her. How would he know how much thought, effort, patience this had demanded from her? He would think she had spent her time playing cards and word-games, and had come back as soon as she was bored.
Bored? She had been bored for weeks, in this hateful, depressing place! She had been bored, bewildered and frightened – yes, more frightened than she had ever been in her life! She had been pining for home, pining to see her father again, and yet staying here out of duty. And now she was being told to go – dismissed, like a poor cousin. This was not right! On this at least she should be the master! She was the daughter of a Knight of the Empire. He was a gentleman-judge, and a poor one at that. What was this talk of departments and billets and canvas? He would not tell her when she might stay or go. Nor would he decide when he would speak to her and when not!
She looked in the mirror. She saw herself, poised and imperious, and the arch of her brow was a cool command. She turned, and with the spirit of her mother rising in her, made her way downstairs to the corridor outside the judge's office.
Even as she knocked at the door she had not decided what she would say. She might tell him, scornfully, how much his hospitality lacked of what she expected, and therefore they would indeed leave his house – not because he wished it but because she did. Or she might tell him that she would leave when she pleased, and she pleased not to tell him when this would be. She was not sure which. She was sure only that she wanted the revenge of words.
There was no answer to her knock.
He was hiding from her. He was pretending that he was not there. He did not want to be trapped in his study, like a rat. She turned the handle and stepped in.
The room was empty.
It was a dark place, panelled and furnished with polished wood. Here too the pictures were gone from the walls and the carpet from the floor. There might have been a desk and presses once, but there were none now. Piles of paper, closely written, were stacked against the walls. On a rough table, placed beneath the one window, there were more papers. There was also a book.
Thinking, perhaps, that he had been called away somewhere, and that if she waited he might return, she walked softly to the table. The papers on the desk were letters and petitions. One that caught her eye begged, in ill-spelled, incoherent German, for His Honour to intercede with a certain French commander to remove his troops from their village, where everything including all livestock, hats, shoes, bed-linen and even neck scarves had now been taken by the soldiers, and the people feared starvation.
On the table beside it, in Ludwig's own hand, was the draft of a letter in French, likewise entreating that the troops should be moved on. But the page was incomplete, as if the judge had stopped in thought. (Moved on? Where, indeed, should the villainous soldiers to be moved on to? Which other village must suffer them now?)
Beside both papers was a Bible. It was open, as if Ludwig in his doubt had sought some counsel from Scripture. She lifted it, and read it.
The page could have given him little comfort.
Therefore when they were gathered together, Pilate said unto them, whom will ye that I will release unto you? Barabbas, or Jesus which is the Christ? For he knew that for envy they had delivered him.
When he was set down upon the judgement seat, his wife sent unto him, saying Have thou nothing to do with that innocent man: for I have suffered many things this day in a dream because of him.
But the chief priests and elders persuaded the multitude . . .
There was a sound behind her. She whirled, with the book in her hand.
It was not Ludwig. It was one of the footmen. It was the servant Hartmann. She had not seen him for weeks, since the demented Maximilian had sent him to Koblenz for brushes. He was looking in through the doorway.
They stared at each other for a long moment. The thought floated in Maria's mind that neither of them, neither she nor Hartmann, should be where they were, standing in the study of the master of the house, as if it were some waiting hall.
Hartmann's eyes had the same, quiet, mournful look that they always had. He held a plain package, wrapped in brown canvas, in his hand.
'You must take this with you,' he said softly. 'For your friend. He must have it as quickly as possible.'
She stared, unbelieving, at the package.
'Yes,' she said. 'Yes, at once.'
It felt very light when he handed it to her.
They left the room together, and she made her way upstairs to hide it in the folds of one of her dresses, which she then placed into her trunk. Then she added a few more things, folding them and placing them around the dress with the package. After a few minutes she rang for her maid and left her to get on with the packing, while she made her way downstairs to tell Anna and Emilia that, on the advice of Cousin Ludwig, they should prepare to leave as soon as possible the next day.
XXV
The Lost Border
Ludwig Jürich rode with them in the coach, just as he had done on their journey from Mainz the month before. And just as before, he got out and approached the French pickets outside the city on horseback. But once they were through to the gate he stopped and took off his hat.
'I should dearly like to pass one more evening with you, cousin,' he said to Anna. 'But I have decided that it would be better if I returned at once. I do not know what may happen in the space of the next day.'
'Oh you must,' said Anna at the coach window. 'I am sure Emilia is already anxious for you. And we will shift very well for ourselves tonight.'
'Sir,' said Maria, over Anna's shoulder. 'I shall always carry good memories of your house, and of the people in it.'
He bowed. 'And I wish you good speed to Erzberg. Only be sure that you start early in the morning.'
He placed his hat once more upon his head, turned his horse and rode away down the track, followed by his groom. Maria watched him go, riding with his shoulders straight and his head high, back towards the ragged pickets of his oppressors.
When he was set down upon the judgement seat, his wife sent unto him, saying Have thou nothing to do with that innocent man . . .
That line had followed her into her dreams.
'I was angry with him yesterday,' she said. 'When he told us we must go, I was angry. But he carries so much. Both he and Emilia do. Now I feel ashamed.'
'My dear, I knew there was something.'
There was indeed something. There was the package, concealed deep in her trunk, which Ludwig had been so anxious to prevent from leaving his house. And it had come, in the end, from one of his own servants. Strange how one always overlooked the servants! Even one who had a perfect excuse to travel up and down the Rhineland, hunting for impossible supplies for the madman in the long room. So she had defeated Cousin Ludwig after all. She was sad about that. It was inevitable, but it was als
o sad, like the theft of the golden apples from the gardens of the Hesperides.
Outside the guards had finished looking at their papers, and the coach lurched forward, on into the fortified city.
Having cheated her host in the one thing that mattered, Maria was anxious to keep faith with him in every other way possible. So she reminded Anna, before they went to bed, that they were to leave Mainz early the next day, and she gave orders to the servants and the grooms that the coach was to be ready to move at a good hour. And so they were up and watching things being loaded back into the coach before it was fully light. The streets were quiet. The other people in the inn were mostly still abed. It was cold, and Maria was glad when the landlord came out to tell them that their breakfast was set.
There was broth, very hot. Maria wanted something warm inside her, but she did not want to burn her tongue. She blew on it, and tried it. Then she waited a little longer, and tried it again. It was still too hot.
She was dipping her spoon into it hopefully for the third time when a kitchen boy came banging in through the front door. His face was pale and his eyes were staring.
'The Austrians!' he cried. 'Austrians're leaving!'
The landlord stopped in the act of putting more bread on the table. 'What? What's that?'
'Paul saw'm in the main street,' the boy cried. 'They're up and away, carts and all!'
The landlord swore. Other faces appeared in doorways, calling out to know what was happening. Half a dozen alarmed conversations broke out around the room.
Maria put down her spoon. 'If the garrison is leaving,' she said slowly to Anna. 'Then I think we should go too.'
Anna blinked at her.
'I'm sure it is nothing, dear,' she said. 'People say and hear all sorts of things, and then they become excited.'
Maria stared at Anna, who was looking firmly at her bowl. Somehow she had managed to begin eating it. The landlord had abandoned the table and run out into the street.
'Anna, I think we should go now.'
'After breakfast, of course. But it is silly to leave what the poor man has set for us.'
Eat your breakfast, dear, and don't fuss.
'Anna!' Maria thumped the table. 'Ludwig told us the French were moving their soldiers. He thought something was about to happen. He wanted to make sure we were away before it did. We must hurry!'
'You are too directive,' said Anna crossly. 'I do not wish to leave without breakfast, and I certainly think you should not. It is not good for you.'
Shouts broke out in the street, urgent and alarmed. They brought Maria jumping to her feet.
'Oh, Mother of God! You cannot make me eat, you silly woman!'
The servants were staring at her, arrested in their meal by the sudden excitement. 'Ehrlich,' she called to the groom at the head. 'Ehrlich, we are going now. You can pocket the bread, but we must be on our way.'
The servants exploded from their table. A bench went over. Maria caught Ehrlich, who had the purse, and made him go and put money on the landlord's table for when he should return. The others hurried out to swarm around the coach and bring out the horses.
'Oh, very well!' exclaimed Anna and began to gather herself.
Still it seemed a long time, an agonizingly long time, before the team was hitched and the women were seated aboard the coach. It was fully light. The streets, which had been quiet before, were busy with people, not at their daily business of stalls and workshops, but hurrying along, crowding down towards the main street in search of whatever was happening. The coach followed along in the direction of the crowd, slowing to a crawl when the press of bodies grew too thick under the close, over-hanging house fronts.
'The French are at the west gate!' she heard someone exclaim.
'The French! The west gate!'
In the main street the press was thicker still. The carriage stopped. Leaning from her window, Maria saw a group of cavalrymen, part of the retreating garrison, forcing their way through the crowd a hundred yards ahead. People were calling to them, booing them, snatching at stirrups and begging them to remain. She saw one of the horsemen raise a hand. They had all raised their hands, and their hands were holding drawn swords. Under the threat of the steel the crowd gave back a little, and the horsemen moved on.
A cart had drawn up behind them. There was a family in it. The man at the head bellowed for room. Another wagon appeared further back. Other people were trying to leave the city. But they were all stuck, all stuck!
'Ehrlich,' she called, leaning as far out as she could and peering up to the driver's perch. She could see only his boot and the top of his tricorn hat. 'Ehrlich, for Heaven's sake move on.'
'I can't, my Lady.'
'You may have to use the whip,' she said.
She heard him mutter doubtfully. She wondered if she should order him to do it. She did not want to. Whip people because they were afraid? And what would the crowd do to them if he did?
But what would the French do to them if they could not get away? They would be robbed! Or worse!
And they might turn out all the trunks. She remembered the pleading letters on the table of the green judge – shoes, hats, neckties – all stolen. They stole everything.
They would find the package. They would open it.
She thrust her head and shoulders out of the carriage window.
'Ehrlich . . .' she began.
'Friends!' cried a voice in the crowd. 'Hear me. If the French enter the city, we must all keep calm . . .'
It was a stout, sober-suited man who was standing on a water butt to make himself heard. Perhaps he was a guild-master. He must have been running, for he was red in the face and sweating on that winter day. The crowd turned their faces to him.
'They've abandoned us!' yelled someone. 'They've handed us over – like goods!'
'As God wills,' said the man. 'Remember that our duty is to God, our Elector, and to our families. We can serve none of them if we lose our reason . . .'
'Sir!' cried Maria. 'Please – could you make them move?'
The man looked her way, and frowned.
'Sir,' begged Maria. 'For pity's sake, we shall be trapped here!'
'Trapped right enough,' said someone.
'Come now,' said the man, still frowning. 'Where is our courtesy, in Mainz? Move away from the horses, there, I beg you, friends. Let them pass.'
'Why them and not us?'
'Let them pass, friend, and then come reason with me,' said the man. 'Thank you, there. Now, friends, we do not know what lies ahead for us . . .'
The horses were moving. Thank God, they were moving! And they kept moving. She heard Ehrlich calling for room, again and again. She heard the whip crack threateningly. Then the coach stopped, and her heart stopped with it. But it started again. A few minutes later it stopped once more. They had reached the bridge.
There was a great throng of wagons and carts at the bridge already, crowded around and waiting to cross. Many people seemed to have snatched up whatever belongings they could lift and climbed into their vehicles in whatever clothes they had on. Maria saw more than one fugitive still in their nightshirts, with blankets thrown around them. Ehrlich roared and roared for room, forcing their way to the bridge with all the habits of privilege. People yelled at them, and cursed, and Maria, ashamed and fearful, shrank back inside. She heard the whip again, and a horse whinny, and more cursing. Then they were moving once more, and the window showed her the grey Rhine flowing steadily north, deaf to the human terrors on its banks.
No one checked papers at the far end of the bridge. A few Rhinelander soldiers stood about, looking helpless as the ragged column of townsfolk debouched into the fortifications and out onto the east bank. An infantry battalion – part of the Imperial garrison – was drawn up by the roadside there. Officers were moving down the ranks, inspecting packs and boots and the contents of wagons. The men looked idly at the people who poured past them, with faces that said it was no concern of theirs.
Maria sat back
once more, with a horrid, guilty, empty sense of relief inside her.
'Anna,' she murmured. 'I'm sorry. I was unkind to you in the inn. It was very wrong of me.'
'Oh,' said Anna dismissively. 'You said nothing that I do not know well enough. Look, I have saved some of the bread for you. Will you have it now?'
It had been something to do with the Treaty. Clauses had been signed in secret between the Austrian representatives and the French General Bonaparte, handing over Mainz, the city of the first-ranking Elector of the Empire. The innkeeper in Frankfurt, an Imperial city, declared that this must certainly have been done without the knowledge of the Emperor himself. And anyway, when the news reached the Congress at Rastatt, the ambassadors of the princes would surely protest at once.
'No doubt,' said Maria. 'I am sure they will protest most vigorously. In the meanwhile, I wonder what else has been given away.'
'Oh do not fret, my darling,' said Anna. 'Remember, it is just two days now, and we shall be home.'
'Yes,' said Maria dully. 'I hope so.'
They slept late after the demands of the day before, and gathered themselves at about mid-morning for the journey up the north bank of the Vater. Another weary, jolting coach journey, thought Maria, with nothing to do but watch the landscape pass. She had had enough of the steep hills and woods and of the sound of the coach-wheels grinding over stones and into mud. She very much wanted to be home. She wanted to see Father again, and embrace him, and read to him. And once she had done that, she thought she might live her life between Erzberg and Adelsheim, and never travel again. Oh, that it would soon be over!
They changed horses at Hanau, paid a toll and ate a meal; then they pressed on into the grey afternoon. Steep, wood-covered slopes rose to their left. To their right the Vater rolled brownly on down towards Frankfurt and the Rhine, and on the far bank were more woods and hills, and the occasional hamlet, clustered at the waterside. There was little traffic on the river. The road was bad, much damaged by winter rain. The going was slow.
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