by Leo Perutz
Veiland was gone all that night, the following day, and the night thereafter. He returned having gleaned everything the Swedish cavalier required to know.
“The dragoons have been in Schweidnitz for some weeks now, purchasing remounts,” he reported, “and Red Lisa and her corporal are lodging with a tailor in the lower part of the town–you need only ask for the house ‘at the sign of the Green Tree.’ The best time is the hour before midnight, when Red Lisa is alone in her chamber and the corporal sits in the tap-room of the ‘Raven,’ drinking deep enough to turn a millwheel. At midnight, when he’s well and truly drunk, he comes blundering upstairs and they start quarrelling fit to be heard from one end of the street to the other. The neighbours, being accustomed to this din, no longer heed it. I’ve also contrived a way for you to enter the house unobserved. At the point where it abuts on the courtyard and garden, there’s firewood stacked against the wall. If you fetch the ladder from the garden shed and lean it against the woodpile
The Swedish cavalier cut him short. “How I get in is my business. Have you anything further to report?”
“Only that you owe me twenty-two kreuzers and a half for my food and two jugs of ale,” said Veiland. “Tavern fare is mighty dear.”
Late that afternoon the Swedish cavalier rode off to Schweidnitz escorted by Veiland. Wryneck remained behind in the hut with the pack-horse and valises, for he was known to several of the townsfolk and could not afford to show his face. When the other two reached the town they inquired the way to the best inn and turned in there. Rather than eat downstairs in the dining-room, the Swedish cavalier ordered an evening meal to be brought to his room. He had ridden far and was weary, he said, and his servant would wait on him at table.
The two men lurked unseen in their quarters until ten o’clock, when they slipped out of the inn and made for the lower part of town. Veiland led the way along sundry lanes and alleys to the courtyard adjoining the house “at the sign of the Green Tree.”
“The tailor’s still about–he’s sitting in his workshop,” he whispered, “but Red Lisa’s room is in darkness. She can’t be home yet.”
“Unless she’s abed,” the Swedish cavalier whispered back, “having blown out the light and gone to sleep.”
“No,” came Veiland’s whispered response, “she never goes to bed before her corporal returns.”
The moon had disappeared behind a bank of cloud. The Swedish cavalier produced a bull’s-eye lantern from beneath his cloak and shone it on the wall of the house–for a moment only, but long enough to gauge the distance between the window and the top of the woodpile and satisfy himself that he could reach it without the aid of a ladder. He also perceived how to open the shutters with little noise.
“Take this, I’ve no more need of it,” he said, handing the lantern to Veiland. “And now, hurry back to the inn. Pay the landlord, fetch the horses from the stable, and station yourself nearby. Imitate the call of a goshawk or a buzzard so that I know when you’re back and where to find you.”
“Have you primed your pistols, Captain?” Veiland asked.
“Yes. Now hurry, in the name of a thousand devils!” commanded the Swedish cavalier, and he began to scale the woodpile as Veiland disappeared into the darkness.
Red Lisa came in and closed the door behind her, slipping off her heavy shoes as she did so. The fire that smouldered on the hearth cast a faint glow over the floor. She took a few steps toward it and deposited a basket of eggs on the table in passing. Then, just as she was about to open the window, the room being smoky, she abruptly raised her head and listened: it seemed to her that she had caught the sound of someone breathing.
“Is that you, Jakob?” she called.
There was no answer. She could hear nothing, yet something told her that she was not alone in the room.
“Who’s there?” she called in a hesitant voice.
Still no answer. She groped for a piece of kindling and thrust it into the embers. It flared up to reveal the figure of a man sitting motionless on her bed. Although she saw at once that it was not her Jakob, she was simply curious, not alarmed.
“Let’s see what the wind’s blown into my room,” she said, and lit the stranger’s face.
She uttered a low cry and staggered back in a shower of whirling sparks. An icy shiver ran down her spine. The hand holding the makeshift torch began to shake convulsively, the other hand clutched in vain at the air for support. The Swedish cavalier continued to sit motionless on the bed, gazing at Red Lisa from under his bushy eyebrows with a bold, mocking smile on his lips. His shadow danced wildly up and down on the wall behind him.
The piece of kindling fell to the floor and went out. Confused, disjointed thoughts raced through Red Lisa’s mind.
Was it really the Captain? Was it possible? How long was it since she’d seen him? Did he know that she’d . . . Who could have told him? He’d looked at her with murder in his eyes. She ought to raise the alarm, call for help, but who would hear? The tailor had gout, and before the neighbours awoke . . . How he’d looked at her! Yes, that was how she’d remembered him all these years. What should she do, God help her? If Jakob . . . But Jakob wouldn’t hear her. By the time he came at midnight it would be too late, she would be . . . The Captain would have . . . Jesus, who would come to her aid? He would make off through the window and disappear–no one was more elusive than the Captain–but he mustn’t get away. She had him and must keep him there. No more need to go looking for him, and tomorrow, when the Bloody Baron . . . “We have him, Your Excellency!” All that money . . . She would never be poor again. He mustn’t get away, even if she had to . . . Oh, Jesus, all that money . . .
“Why do you leave me sitting in the dark?” she heard her erstwhile captain say. “Strike a light!” She fetched a brand from the hearth and lit the tallow candle in the earthenware candlestick on the table, and while she did so she managed to set her thoughts in order. Having seen the pistol in his hand and the look of anger in his eyes, the look familiar to her from bygone days, she knew why he had come: her life was at stake. But she behaved as if she had nothing to fear from him–as if he were still a good companion whom she was overjoyed to see again after so many years. She began to speak, piling word on word to gain time. Meanwhile, she racked her brains for some way of saving her life and delivering her former lover into the Bloody Baron’s clutches.
“So it’s really you,” she said, her tone conveying that she would never have dared to hope for so great a stroke of good fortune. “My hand is trembling, I can’t think why. It must be my joy at seeing you again. How can I repay you for sparing the time to visit me? How did you get in, through the window? Still up to your old tricks, eh? You’ll ruin my reputation with the neighbours. The next time you come, be sure to enter by the door–I’m a respectable housewife these days. Well, just look about you. Do you find my home comfortable?”
“Exceedingly so,” he replied. Looking at her, he detected a callous, cunning expression that was new to him. It was clear that he had nothing to hope for from her love, which had long since faded and died. Red Lisa stood between him and his happiness, so she must be silenced for ever. He continued to hold the pistol steady, awaiting Veiland’s signal.
“What of you?” she went on. “How have the years treated you? You haven’t prospered unduly, from the look of you. Well, not everything has gone as I myself would have wished, but what matter? When I was troubled and afflicted with sleepless nights, I sought refuge in the bottle. Now, however, I’ve no more need of such consolation. Have you come to see how I’m faring in my new married state, Captain? If so, tell me by what name and title to present you to my Jakob, who’ll be here before long. I’m for ever fancying that I hear his step on the stairs.”
“Let him come,” said the Swedish cavalier. “I’ll send him back down the stairs and into hell.”
“Goodness, what are you saying?” she exclaimed. “Can you really be so jealous as to have designs on my Jakob’s life?”
Just then it came to her, quite suddenly, what she must do to ensure that her erstwhile lover fell into the Bloody Baron’s hands. The plan that had taken shape in her mind was a terrible one, and she shrank from putting it into effect, deterred by a vestige of her former love. So tight were the iron bands around her heart that she almost cried out in fear and distress, but the moment soon passed. The hatred within her was stronger than all else. Had she not entreated God on her knees, time and again, to deliver this man into her hands so that she could repay him for what he had done to her? Well, now the moment had come: he was at her mercy. She looked about her. Jakob’s bag of tools lay beside the hearth, and the embers still glowed red. Her mind was made up, and her voice, as she continued to speak, betrayed no sign of what had taken place within her.
“Are you truly jealous?” She laughed. “You should have paid me greater regard instead of leaving me alone for so many years. Now it’s too late. Take my advice: resign yourself. Don’t pick a quarrel with my Jakob, he’s very quick-tempered. You could be friends, after all. But now it’s time for me to prepare his supper. The fire’s going out, and I’ll rue it if he returns to find no food on the table.”
She took some eggs from the basket and broke them into a frying pan. Then she bent over the bag of tools and removed the iron with which regimental chargers were customarily branded on the left side of the neck. The regiment took its mark from the name of its colonel, Baron von Lilgenau, alias the Bloody Baron: it was an inch-high “L” which, when inverted, resembled a gibbet. Red Lisa thrust the iron into the fire as though stirring the embers into new life.
“He’s very particular in that respect,” she said as she straightened up, leaving the iron in the fire. “If his supper isn’t ready betimes he grows quarrelsome. I’ve no other cause for complaint. He won’t hear of my having a child–children would benefit neither of us, he says–but who knows? When he gains his promotion, and he’s very well-liked by the officers of the regiment . . .”
Outside in the garden, the cry of a goshawk pierced the night. The Swedish cavalier rose and went over to her.
“Enough!” he said in a low but commanding voice. “Say a Paternoster–pray to Jesus and confess your sins. Your time is nearly up.”
“Why should I say a Paternoster? What do you mean to do with me?” She fell back a step. “Have you taken up your old trade again? If you mean to ply it here, save yourself the trouble. I’ve no money in the house.”
“I’m not after your money. You know very well why I came–you knew it from the first. Aren’t you in league with the Bloody Baron? Didn’t you offer to deliver me into his hands if he granted your husband an officer’s commission?”
She brushed the hair out of her eyes and shrugged.
“So that’s the way the wind blows,” she said. “Who fed you such an arrant lie?”
Without waiting for an answer, she knelt beside the hearth and proceeded to poke the fire as if the omelette were her sole concern.
“You’ve nothing to fear from me,” she went on, gripping the iron tightly. “I’ve always kept mum and shall continue to do so. I call heaven and earth to witness that I mean you no harm.”
She heard a faint sound: the creak of the front door opening and closing. Her Jakob was home at last. She must do it now, before he entered the room–before his step was heard on the stairs. “Strike!” the voice within her whispered. “He’s your enemy–yours and all mankind’s, so strike without mercy!”
“Only a fool would believe that,” she heard him say. “Stand up! Can you swear it by the cross that was made on your brow at baptism?”
She was on her feet in a flash. They stood facing each other for a fraction of a second. Then she thrust the red-hot iron at his forehead.
He gave a muffled cry and reeled backwards, clutching his brow, his face and body contorted with pain.
A moment later he regained his self-control. Slowly he straightened up, gritting his teeth to stifle an involuntary groan, and slowly, inch by inch, he raised the hand that held the pistol.
She had planned to blow out the candle when the deed was done and make for the door under cover of darkness, but now she stood rooted to the spot by the terrible look on her enemy’s face. Her limbs refused to obey her, but not her voice. Jakob’s footsteps could be heard approaching the door–she must warn him.
“Have a care, the Desecrator!” she screamed, and her voice was filled with terror and triumph, mortal fear and wild exultation. “Don’t come in! I’ve burned the gibbet into his brow! Run as fast as you can, raise the alarm! I’ve branded him with the . . .”
The pistol roared. Red Lisa fell forward on her face, silenced for ever.
He had climbed down again and was leaning unsteadily against the woodpile when Veiland appeared out of the darkness.
“Here I am–over here!” Veiland hissed. “What happened? What was that I heard her shout about gibbets and branding? I was afraid for you.”
“Away, away!” groaned the Swedish cavalier. Veiland seized him by the arm, led him to where the horses were tethered, and helped him into the saddle.
Wryneck sprang to his feet when they entered the hut. He stared in horror at his master’s face.
“Holy Mother of God!” he cried. “What have they done to you? It’s enough to frighten a Turk.”
“Give me a drink,” groaned the Swedish cavalier. “They’re after me. I can never show my face again–I’ll have to hide myself away like a frightened beast.”
Wryneck handed him the pitcher, which he drained.
“I’m to blame,” said Veiland. “I shouldn’t have left him alone with her.”
“What’s to be done, Captain?” Wryneck cried. “Where to now?”
“Where to indeed,” the Swedish cavalier muttered, his teeth chattering. “To the Devil’s Ambassador, that’s where! Into the spitting, crackling flames of the bishop’s inferno–that’s where I must go, now that I’ve been denied an honourable place in which to live and die.”
The man known in the bishop’s smeltery as “Poker” because of his unrivalled skill at tending the furnaces with a heavy iron rod–this Poker, a tall, broad-shouldered young fellow with cheeks scarred by fire and muscles as hard as rock, was making his way up the forest track that led from the bishop’s domain to the outside world. He walked with slow, hesitant steps as though unused to going where he pleased. Nine long years he had spent as one of the living dead that served the bishop and tended his furnaces, and nine different tasks had been allotted him in that time. He had been a human draught-horse harnessed to a cart, a stone-breaker, a furnaceman, a stoker, a porter, a smelter, a foundryman, a coal-master, and, last of all, a kiln-master. As a kiln-master he had been spared continual thrashings from the bishop’s foremen, and now he was free at last. Incredible though he found it, his servitude was at an end and the wide world lay before him with all its highways and byways, straight and crooked.
On he strode, heedless of the wind that pierced the rents and holes in his coarse smock. Whenever the fancy took him he reached in his pocket and jingled the money which the clerk in the bailiff’s office had counted out on the desk the day before. Six guilders and a half–that was the extent of Poker’s worldly wealth, and now he would see how far it took him. His foremost desire was to extricate himself from the forest. Reaching a fork in the track, he paused irresolutely, wondering whether to turn right or left–to take the bellows or the windward side, as his luckless comrades in the smeltery would have termed it.
“I’d best toss a guilder,” he told himself, producing a coin from his pocket, but he was just about to spin it when a voice hailed him.
“To the left, sir, if you please. Turn left and keep straight on, and you’ll find what you seek.”
Poker was startled. A dozen paces from him stood a man wearing a red jerkin and a waggoner’s hat with a feather in it, and in his hand was a waggoner’s whip.
“Where did you spring from, fellow?” Poker exclaimed in surprise. �
��Upon my soul, I neither saw nor heard you coming.”
“The wind blew me down from a tree,” the man in the red jerkin replied with a laugh, cracking his whip. “Don’t you remember me?”
He came closer, and Poker looked into his face. It was yellow and as full of creases and wrinkles as an old glove, and his eyes were so sunken that they lent him an alarming appearance. Poker was unafraid, however. He would not have taken fright at Satan himself because he knew that man’s cruelty to man was more to be feared than all the devils in hell.
“Yes, I remember you,” he said. “You’re the one the folk on the bishop’s estate call ‘the Dead Miller.’ They say you’re no mortal creature. They say you can walk the earth for one day only each year, and when that day is up you turn back into a little heap of dust and ashes. A dog could carry you off in its jaws, they say. Is today your day, if I may be permitted to ask?”
The man in the red jerkin bared his teeth in an angry grimace.
“Pay no heed to what the riff-raff say,” he said. “They talk a great deal, but I find their babblings tedious and nonsensical. Remembering me as you do, you must know that I’m my lord bishop’s waggoner. I’ve been on the road for a year. I come from Harlem and Liège, bringing my princely master damask napery and Brabant lace and tulip bulbs from Holland. You’ll also remember, sir, that it was I–”
“Don’t call me ‘sir,’” Poker broke in. “I’m no gentleman. My name and rank are gone with the wind.”
“You’ll also remember, sir,” the man in the red jerkin went on, quite undeterred, “that it was I that set you on the road to an easy life.”
“Yes, may the hangman reward you for it,” Poker exclaimed. “An easy life, forsooth! A dozen strokes on the back before you’ve even touched your breakfast gruel, that’s an easy life indeed!”
“Yes,” said the man who claimed to be the bishop’s waggoner, “his lordship’s bailiff rules those rogues with a rod of iron, but how should it be otherwise? Justice must prevail. When a man has served his term honestly, however, he gets his just reward.”
