by Leo Perutz
Then the door burst open and one of my men came in, thick with snow.
"Lieutenant, a strange officer wishes to speak with the commander of the guard."
We jumped up, exchanging glances of surprise and perplexity. Brockendorf hastily thrust his arms into the sleeves of his tunic.
All of a sudden Eglofstein burst out laughing.
"Had you forgotten, comrades?" he cried. "It's our privilege tonight to welcome His Lordship the Marquis of Bolibar!"
CAPTAIN DE SALIGNAC
Captain of Cavalry Baptiste de Salignac may well have thought us blind drunk or utterly insane when he entered the room, which rang with merriment. Boisterous laughter greeted him. Brockendorf was brandishing his empty wine glass, Donop had flopped back in his chair and was roaring with mirth, and Eglofstein, with a sarcastic air, performed a low and deferential bow.
"My respects, Lord Marquis. We've been expecting you this past hour."
Salignac stood in the doorway, looking uncertainly from one to another. His blue tunic with the white revers and his stock of two colours were torn, crumpled, and stained with red and yellow mud, his cloak was wrapped around his hips, and his white breeches were sodden with snow and bespattered to the knees with the mire of the highway. The bandage that encircled his head, turban fashion, lent him a resemblance to one of General Rapp's Mamelukes. He was holding a bullet-riddled helmet in his hand, and in the doorway behind him, laden with a pinewood torch and two valises, stood a Spanish arriero or muleteer.
"Come in, Your Lordship," called Donop, still laughing. "We're eager to make your acquaintance." Brockendorf, who had jumped to his feet, planted himself in front of the newcomer and looked him curiously up and down.
"Good evening, Excellency. Your servant, My Lord Marquis."
Then, because it seemed to occur to him that it was improper to joke with a traitor and a spy, he proceeded to stroke his black, waxed moustache and bellow at the man with a ferocious expression.
"Your side-arm, if you please! At once!"
Salignac, looking astonished, retreated a step. The light of the torch fell full on his weather-worn face, and I saw that it was bloodless, almost yellow, as if stricken with the ghastly pallor of some dire disease. He turned indignantly to his servant, who was bending down to extinguish the flames of the torch in melted snow.
"The wine in these parts must be dangerous," he said in a testy voice. "Anyone who drinks it loses his wits, by all appearances. "
"Yes indeed, Señor Militär," the muleteer replied obsequiously. "I know it too well."
Salignac must have judged Donop to be the least drunk among us, for he strode up to him.
"Captain de Salignac of the Horse Guards," he said curtly. "I am under orders from Marshal Soult to report to your regimental commander. May I know your name, sir?"
"Lieutenant Donop, by your kind and gracious leave, most noble Lord Marquis," was Donop's mocking response. "Entirely at your service, Excellency."
"Enough of this tomfoolery!" Salignac's hands were trembling with suppressed fury, but his voice was cold and his face as bloodless as ever. "Which do you prefer, swords or pistols? I have both to hand."
Donop was about to make some bantering retort, but Brockendorf forestalled him.
"My compliments, Your Lordship!" he bellowed drunkenly, leaning across the table. "How fares Your Lordship's precious state of health?"
The captain's chill composure deserted him from one moment to the next. He drew his sabre and proceeded to belabour Brockendorf furiously with the flat of the blade.
"Gently, gently!" cried Brockendorf. Surprised and bewildered, he sought refuge behind the table and strove to parry the blows with an empty gourd.
"Stop!" shouted Eglofstein, seizing the furious captain's arm.
"Let me be!" Salignac cried, and continued to thrash Brockendorf with his sabre.
"You can duel all you please, but afterwards. Listen to me first!"
"No, let him be!" Brockendorf yelled from behind his table. "I've broken wild horses enough before now, and never got bitten yet. Oh, damnation!"
The flat of the sabre had caught him across the back of the hand. He promptly dropped the gourd and stared with sullen resentment at his hairy fingers.
Salignac lowered the sabre, threw back his head, and eyed the rest of us with a mixture of triumph and defiance.
"Did I hear aright?" cried Eglofstein. "Salignac, you said. If you are Captain Baptiste de Salignac of the Horse Guards, I must know you. I am Captain Eglofstein of the Nassau Regiment. We met some years ago, when riding courier."
"Quite so," said Salignac, "between Küstrin and Stralsund. I recognized you as soon as I entered the room, Baron, but your behaviour —"
"Comrade!" Eglofstein exclaimed, aghast. "I cannot believe it!" He went right up to Salignac and looked closely at his sallow face. "You've undergone a curious transformation since those days at Küstrin."
Captain de Salignac pursed his lips in annoyance. "I caught a recurrent fever years ago. I've suffered from bouts of this kind ever since."
"You caught it in the colonies?" Eglofstein inquired.
"No, in Syria, and a long while ago," said Salignac, looking singularly old and weary all of a sudden. "But enough of that. It's a mischance I regard as proper to my profession."
"You've been the victim of another mischance, comrade. We were awaiting the arrival of the Marquis of Bolibar, a dangerous Spanish conspirator. It's reported that he intends to pass through our lines in French uniform."
"And you mistook me for this Spanish conspirator?" The captain rummaged in the pockets of his blue coat and produced his credentials. "As you see, I'm instructed to join your regiment and take command of a squadron of dragoons whose captain, so I was told, has been either wounded or captured by the British."
I myself had commanded the dragoons since the wounding of Captain Hulot d'Hozery, their squadron commander, so I went up to Salignac and stated my name and rank.
We were standing in a semicircle round the new squadron commander. Brockendorf was rubbing his smarting hand behind his back. Günther, the only one to remain aloof, was standing beside the window, his angry gaze directed at the darkened street. He was still brooding on Françoise-Marie and on what Brockendorf had drunkenly divulged about her soupers d'amour and their four "courses" of carnal delight.
"It seems I came at the right moment," said Salignac, shaking hands with each of us in turn. "I should tell you," he pursued, and the eyes in his sallow face shone with eagerness at the thought of an adventure in store, "— I should tell you that I have some experience in the detection of spies. It was I that captured the two Austrian officers who infiltrated our ranks at Wagram. Duroc himself entrusted me with several such missions."
Although I did not know who Duroc was, the name sounded familiar. I supposed him to be one of the Emperor's confidants - possibly the man responsible for his personal safety.
My new squadron commander went on to ask Eglofstein for all the information we had about the Marquis of Bolibar and his plans. His eyes gleamed and his gaunt face grew taut. "The Emperor will be pleased with his old grognard!" he said when Eglofstein had concluded his report. Then, turning to me, he inquired the way to the colonel's quarters and requested a dragoon for an escort.
"So there's work for me again," he said, filled with impatience. The dragoon and the Spanish muleteer kneeled down beside him and began to brush the grime from his gaiters. "My last mission was to escort a convoy of forty waggons laden with shot and shell from Fort St Fernando to Fergosa. A tedious business. Much shouting, bickering and ill temper, continual inspections, endless delays on the road." He broke off. "Are you done, you two?"
"And the journey here?" asked Eglofstein.
"I rode the entire way with sabre drawn and carbine cocked. Beyond the bridge near Tornella I was attacked by bandits. They shot my horse and my servant, but I repaid them in kind."
"You're wounded?"
Salignac ran a hand o
ver his turban. "A graze on the forehead, nothing more. The only soul I encountered on the highroad since morning was this fellow here, who carried my baggage." He turned to the arriero. "Are you done? Very well, remain here with my valises until I return."
"Your Honour," the Spaniard began, but Salignac cut him short.
"Didn't you hear me? You'll remain here till I send you home. You may dig your herb garden tomorrow."
"Sit down and drink with us, Excellency," Brockendorf urged. "There must be more wine." He was so fuddled that he continued to mistake Salignac for the Marquis of Bolibar and address him as Excellency. Seeing the rest of us converse with him amicably, however, he had quite forgiven him the blow on the hand and his treacherous schemes.
"There's no wine left," said Donop.
"I should have three bottles of port wine in my valise. I take it with the juice of an orange and a little hot tea as an antidote to my fever whenever it recurs." Salignac fetched the bottles from his baggage, and we were soon seated over brimming glasses once more. He himself drew his cloak around his shoulders and sheathed his sabre.
"This marquis will rue the day his path crossed mine," he growled as he opened the door. "Before another hour is up, I shall either march him in here for a glass of port, or —"
His concluding words were drowned by the snow-laden wind that came whistling through the open door, so I never heard what Salignac vowed to do if the Marquis of Bolibar evaded capture.
THE COMING OF GOD
Eglofstein, Donop and I got out the cards as soon as Salignac had left the room. Fortune being kinder to me than usual that night, I won at Eglofstein's expense. He drew fours and doubled several times, as I recall, yet he continued to lose. Donop was just dealing another hand when the sound of a quarrel came to our ears. Lieutenant Günther had again fallen out with Captain Brockendorf.
Brockendorf, leaning back in his chair with his port wine in front of him, was bellowing for a bottle "of the best" as if he were in a tavern. Günther stood over the table, glaring down at him with baleful, narrowed eyes.
"You insist on the respect due to your rank," he hissed angrily, "yet you guzzle like a Moor and swill like an ox!"
"Vivat amicitia, comrade," Brockendorf replied in a drowsy voice and raised his glass, for all he wanted was to go on drinking his wine in peace.
"You swill like an ox and wear linen fit for a waggoner," Günther said, louder still, "yet you claim to be an officer. From what Jew, buffoon or chimney-sweep did you buy that shirt of yours?"
"Either be silent or speak French," warned Eglofstein, who had sent for two dragoons to sweep the floor clean of melted snow.
"Shall I anoint my hair with eau de lavande into the bargain, M'sieur Popinjay?" sneered Brockendorf. "Shall I attend balls and routs and slaver over women's paws as you do?"
"You?" said Donop, turning on him. "You prefer to sit all day in village inns and have the peasants ply you with ale. "
"And he claims to be an officer!" Günther chimed in.
"Not so loud!" said Eglofstein. He glanced uneasily at the dragoons who were sweeping the room. "Do you want your squabbles bandied about and brought to the colonel's ears?"
"They understand no French," Günther replied, and turned again to Brockendorf. "What of that fracas at the 'Hairy Jew' in Darmstadt? Didn't you duel there with fist and cudgel, like any guttersnipe? You're a disgrace to the regiment!"
"For all that, my lad," said Brockendorf, hugely pleased with himself, "like it or not, I enjoyed myself in the arms of your beloved. Scowl as much as you please, it makes no odds: I was lying beside her on Candlemas Eve while you stood below in the snow, tossing pebbles at her window."
"You've lain with tavern trollops and street-walkers," Günther bellowed in a fury, "but never with her!"
"Candlemas Eve?" Captain Eglofstein exclaimed, knitting his brow. "Damn you, Brockendorf! I think it was I that stood beneath her window that night, not Günther."
But Brockendorf was too far gone to heed him.
" Yes," he said, "you threw pebbles at her window, we heard you. And I climbed back into her bed and said, 'Hark, that's Günther below.' And she rested her head on her hands and laughed. 'The poor boy,' she said, still laughing, 'he's so clumsy, he never knows where to put his arms and legs when he's with me.'"
Brockendorf's voice was as raucous as a waggon wheel creaking across a bridge, but our anger waned as we listened. We looked at him, and all we heard issuing from his drunken lips was the distant sound of Françoise-Marie's merry laughter.
"I thought the colonel was at home when I saw the shadow on the windowpane," said Eglofstein, hanging his head. "Had I known it was you, Brockendorf, I would have gone upstairs and thrown you out of the window into the snow, hanged if I wouldn't. Still, that's water under the bridge, and love passes like a fever."
Brockendorf, however, was not yet done with Günther.
"Many's the time she laughed," he bellowed. "Many's the time she said, 'He wants me to go up to his room with him, the silly boy, and do you know where he lodges? Behind some farmyard. Over a chicken-coop and below a pigeon-loft - that's the love-nest he has in mind for me!'"
Although the mocking words he hurled at us were Françoise-Marie's, none of us felt angry. We stood there listening, and it was as if our dead beloved were speaking to us once more through the lips of a drunken sot.
Donop always waxed melancholy and philosophical in his cups. "Comrades," he said quietly, "it fills me with remorse that we stole the colonel's wife."
Brockendorf guffawed. "I know, comrade, I know. You wrote her Ciceronian love letters aplenty - I had to translate them for her while we lay in bed together."
"Hush, not so loud!" Donop said fearfully. "If the colonel gets to hear, we'll all be done for."
"So you're afflicted with stridor dentium, are you, comrade?" roared Brockendorf. "A fell disease, that - it causes a man to wet his breeches. Myself, I don't give a fig for all the colonels and generals in the world."
"I regret what I did," Donop said sadly. "Here we sit, the five of us, with nothing left to us of that time save disgust, jealousy and hatred."
He put his head in his hands, and the wine in him proceeded to philosophize.
"Right and wrong, comrades, are an ill-matched team. Each has a different gait, but there are times when I seem to discern the hand that holds them both on the rein and ploughs the world's tilth. What name should I give it, the mysterious force that has made us all so wretched and foolish? Should I call it fate, or chance, or the everlasting law of the stars?"
"We Spaniards call it God," said an unfamiliar voice from the corner of the room.
Startled, we looked round. The two dragoons had gone — their brooms stood propped against the wall - but the Spanish muleteer who had brought Captain Salignac's baggage was squatting in the corner, wrapped in a brown, homespun cloak and saying his rosary. The torchlight fell on his broad, red, exceedingly ugly face, and his thick lips were shaping an endless prayer. He had spread a coarse woollen cloth on the floor, and on it lay some bread and garlic.
We were more surprised than dismayed, I think, when first we perceived that it was the Spaniard whose simple words had intruded on our conversation, but we quickly grasped what had happened.
The man had overheard our secret. It had taken only minutes to betray the thing that each of us had so carefully concealed for a twelvemonth: that Françoise-Marie, our colonel's wife, had been the mistress of us all. We were at a stranger's mercy. I seemed to see the colonel's bearded face close to mine, convulsed with murderous rage. My knees trembled and an icy torrent coursed down my spine. This was the moment we had been dreading for a full year: the hour of doom had struck.
We stood there in silence, appalled and nonplussed. One long minute limped by. Befuddled no longer, I was suddenly as sober as if no drop of wine had ever touched my lips, but my head ached and my heart was heavy with fear. I could hear a dog howling outside in the yard. The muffled, plaintive sound s
eemed to issue from my own throat, almost as if I myself, wild with terror, were moaning and lamenting in the snow.
Eglofstein recovered his composure at last. He squared his shoulders and walked over to the Spaniard with a menacing air, riding crop in hand. "What, not gone yet? Why are you sitting there eavesdropping?"
"I am waiting as instructed, Señor Militär."
"You speak French?"
"A few words only, señor," the Spaniard mumbled, looking frightened and confused. "My wife came to these parts from the town of Bayonne - I learned them from her. Sacré chien, she taught me, and sacré matin and gaillard, petit gaillard, and bon garçon, and vive la nation. That's all I know."
"Enough of your litany!" Günther shouted. "You're a spy. You stole in here to glean what intelligence you could."
"I'm no spy!" the muleteer protested. "Holy Mother of God, I did no more than show that strange officer the way and carry his baggage. Ask Brother Francisco of the Barnabite Fraternity about me - ask the reverend chaplain of the Eremita de Nuestra Señora. They both know old Perico - ask them, Señor Militär!"
"To hell with your priests and your poetry!" cried Brockendorf. "Speak when you're spoken to, spy. Till then, hold your tongue!"
The Spaniard fell silent. He spat a morsel of bread and garlic on the floor and looked uneasily from one to another, but all he saw were grim and merciless faces devoid of compassion.
We put our heads together over the table and held a whispered council of war. The howling of the dog grew louder. It was now quite close at hand.
"He must go," said Donop. "He must quit this town at once. If he blabs we're lost - all of us."
"Impossible," I said. "The sentries are under orders to let no one past the gate."
"I'll never rest while that fellow's at liberty to tell what he overheard here," Donop whispered.
"He must die," Günther said softly. "Protest and lament as he may, he must die, or by tomorrow our every word will be common knowledge throughout the regiment."
"He must," said Brockendorf, "or this business will ruin us."
