The Left-Handed God (21 page)

On the way back, Stiebel was preoccupied with his own thoughts, and Franz thought of the little princess in her magnificent palace, and the enormous distance that separated crippled lieutenants from goddesses and men of privilege.

Later, during dinner, he asked, “Who was that small boy playing the clavichord?”

Stiebel looked surprised. “God love us, where was your mind? All the talk was about the
Wunderkind
. His name’s Wolfgang Mozart. He’s seven and travels with his father and older sister from court to court, giving performances. They’ve come here from Vienna where he played for Empress Maria Theresa. I’m told the empress took him on her lap. She’s a very motherly lady‌—‌quite unlike this princess, I think.”

Franz thought of the little princess with the cornflower eyes. “Surely she is much too young to be motherly?”

Stiebel laughed. “Too young? Elizabeth Augusta’s nearly forty. And probably barren. She finally had one pregnancy last year, but the little prince died the next day. A hard birth, they say, and no chance of another. So there’s no hope of an heir.”

“But whose children were those?”

“They belong to Elizabeth Augusta’s sister, the Countess Palatine of Pfalz-Zweibrücken. Another dynastic house of the Wittelsbach family. The Count Palatine Michael is Karl Theodor’s heir, by the way. Gossip has it that the Countess Palatine had an affair with an actor, got pregnant, and was banished by her husband. She’s said to be in a convent. Elisabeth Augusta is raising her daughters.”

Repelled by these details, Franz grumbled, “I don’t see where the marital troubles of the sovereigns are any of our concern.”

Stiebel pushed away his empty plate. “You’re quite wrong about that. There’s a good deal of ill will between Karl Theodor and his wife, as well as heirs waiting to succeed him. It makes for a delicate political atmosphere.”

Franz digested this. “But why this talk about lovers?”

Stiebel raised his brows. “I’ve noticed before how very prudish you are, Franz. Colonel Rodenstein has been warming Elizabeth Augusta’s bed for a decade. Did you notice the Polish Eagle? She bestowed the decoration on him. He’s her Master of Ceremony. Elisabeth Augusta favors military men.”

“If it is indeed true that these women have taken lovers, why don’t their husbands divorce them?”

“The Count Palatine is protecting his children, and Karl Theodor is Catholic and…‌well, they are cousins, but hers is the direct line. Her grandfather made certain she would rule by making the marriage a condition for Karl Theodor’s succession. Karl Theodor consoles himself with actresses.”

Franz did not want to think about royal affairs, not merely because he disapproved on moral grounds, but because he thought his little princess‌—‌innocence personified‌—‌would sooner or later be exposed to such a life.

That night he did not have one of his usual nightmares. He dreamed instead of the gods and goddesses in green forests. Nymphs and satyrs danced to the flute of the goat god Pan, and he himself chased after a half-dressed nymph who cast teasing glances back at him and beckoned with a dainty fan. His crippled leg dragged, he stumbled, nearly lost her, but persisted with superhuman effort and finally caught her. They fell laughing into soft green moss, and he bent to kiss her. A moment later, she slipped away, her cornflower blue eyes full of mocking laughter.

*

The great man was at his desk, and a smirking Fox lounged against one of the book cases.

“Ah, there you are,” said the great man coldly.

The assassin suppressed his irritation. “Could we speak in private, sir?”

“
Reynard
is a man of many special skills. He has done us a great service today.” The great man held up a very dirty and creased letter. “One that you have signally failed at.”

Anger curled like a lit fuse in his belly. So the odious creature had managed to steal the cursed letter. He glared at the fox. “What special skills?”

“I used to be a pickpocket.” The fox wiggled his fingers and grinned.

The assassin turned back to the great man. “I’m the one who warned you of their coming.”

“But it was
Reynard
who got the letter. And let me point out that it was your carelessness that caused the trouble in the first place.” He held up the letter again. “Take a look.”

“He stole the wrong letter?” the assassin asked hopefully.

“Oh, it’s the right letter. See the blood stain? But take another look at the seal.”

“They haven’t opened it!”

“Precisely. Too honorable for their own good.” The great man broke the seal and unfolded the two sheets of paper. He read, pursing his lips.

The assassin watched impatiently. The letter had already caused him enormous trouble. He was not sure if he wanted the contents to be harmless. Yet, if the dying captain had been in possession of certain details, then he might have told the cripple something of the affair, perhaps even mentioning names. Especially his own.

The great man looked up. “Not so very dangerous after all,” he said, then held the letter into the flame of his candle. It caught fire and flashed up, illuminating for a moment the faces of the three men, their expressions distorted into ugly masks.

The Fox detached himself from the book case. “So I wasted my time, did I?”

“Not at all, my good
Reynard
. You did well.” The great man opened a desk drawer and took out a fat purse. “You may go to bed now.”

The Fox snatched the purse and bowed. “A thousand
remerciements
, your honor.” He smirked and left the room on silent feet accompanied by a soft clinking of coin.

The assassin bit his lip. “What was in the letter, sir?”

“Nothing of importance. You may forget about it.”

So he was not to be trusted. “Well, I suppose that finishes our business then,” he said resentfully.

“Not quite. You’ve left me in a difficult position,” said the other, studying his fingernails. “When that young man and his legal friend discover the loss of the letter, they will get suspicious. They will almost certainly try to make contact with the old man, and he will smell a rat. He is our greatest enemy.” He shook his head and glared at him. “I wish I had never taken you into our confidence. If this has further repercussion, I shall hold you responsible. And I do not forget those who have injured me.”

The assassin was speechless, but it did not matter. The great man waved him away with a peremptory, “That’s all. Good Night!”

13

Highway Robbery

Murder most foul, as in the best it is,
But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.

William Shakespeare,
Hamlet

T
he day before Franz’s departure for Mannheim, Augusta’s mother, angry with both of her children, withdrew to her room and emerged only when she wished trays of delicacies brought to her. Augusta was relieved.

She was also relieved that Franz seemed to have forgotten about the scene in the parlor. She went about her household chores, buoyed by a quiet happiness. Soon, very soon she need never again fear her mother’s ill temper or her brother’s censure.

Franz left at dawn in a carriage hired by Doktor Stiebel. His mother did not see him off, but Augusta got up to fix his breakfast. He ate it absent-mindedly and in a great hurry. When he pushed his empty plate away for Augusta to remove, he looked at her as if he had only just remembered her existence and said, “I’ll only be gone for two days, or at the most three. I trust you and Mama will manage for that long, and that you will consult Mama before you go out.”

Consult her mother? He clearly did not know that she had taken care of this household for many months now, and that Mama rarely emerged from her bedchamber until midmorning. But she bit her lip and only said, “We shall manage.”

This was clearly not enough. His frown deepened. “You are not to have any contact with that man, do you hear?”

Her anger flared, but nothing was to be gained by another violent argument. Franz would be gone in a little while. She turned away and went into the scullery with the dirty dishes. “I hope you have a safe journey,” she called back to him. “Pray give my regards to the good
Doktor
.”

“Augusta!” He sounded impatient. “Come back here a moment. I want to make certain that you understand‌—‌” he broke off because‌—‌blessedly‌—‌the sound of a carriage stopping outside sent him to the front door instead.

Augusta waited as long as she dared, then emerged to wave goodbye from the door. But Franz had his back to her and was supervising the loading of his
portemanteau
, and only Doctor Stiebel raised his cocked hat and smiled. Franz climbed inside and slammed the door without another glance.

Augusta dropped her raised hand and looked after them as they disappeared down Fischergasse. Her brother had not even raised his hand to wave farewell. She mattered less to him than Elsbeth‌—‌except in so far as she was an embarrassment to his pride. With a sigh, she went inside and closed the door.

Elsbeth appeared soon after, having been woken by the sound of the carriage, and soon Max also arrived. The three of them set about the daily chores.

When Augusta’s mother came downstairs much later, she was dressed for going into town. Augusta wished her a good morning. Her mother pursed her lips and did not respond. Her face was set in a tragic expression as she sipped her morning coffee interspersing every sip with deep sighs. Augusta made no attempt to carry on a conversation. She felt that in this instance she had been‌—‌and still was‌—‌the victim. Between sighs, Frau von Langsdorff made a good meal of her coffee and several slices of yeast bread spread liberally with butter and peach jam, then left on her errand.

Augusta, having nothing else to do, went out into the garden with one of the books that had belonged to her father. She had chosen it because she felt a need to be close to her father in her loneliness.

The day was warm, but autumn had already brought chill nights, and she had to brush yellow leaves off the bench before sitting down. She found that that the book contained poetry by Angelus Silesius. Opening it in the middle, she read:

Jesu, du mächtiger Liebesgott,

Nah’ dich zu mir,

Denn ich verschmachte fast bis in Tod

Für Liebesgier;

Ergreif’ die Waffen und in Eil’

Durchstich mein Herz mit deinem Pfeil,

Verwunde mich!

She was profoundly astonished that a Christian poet should address Christ as the god of love, speak of languishing in desire, beg to be overcome, to be wounded, to be pierced by His arrow. Just thinking about it made her feel warm.

Was loving God like loving a man? If so, she did not love God as Silesius had. She was not even sure that she loved Jakob with such fervor. Confused, she looked up into the pear tree where the blue of the sky mingled with the gold and green of the leaves and searched her heart for such passion.

“There you are, Miss.”

She started, shutting the book quickly. Max was striding down the garden walk. With the sun on his curls, he resembled the archangel again, an archangel who carried a nosegay of red roses and smiled in that way which always made her heart beat faster.

“What is it, Max?” she asked in an unsteady voice, clutching Silesius to herself.

He extended the roses. “For you, Miss.”

“More flowers? Why?” she cried, uncomfortable with such attentions because she was not sure that she did not want them, and that wanting them was surely wrong.

“For helping me with the letter…‌and because it pleased me.” He gave her a melting glance.

She put her nose into the roses so she would not have to look at him. The petals were cool as silk against her lips, as deep a red as blood, and their scent was sweeter than any she could remember. “Thank you, Max,” she murmured, “but you mustn’t bring me flowers. Did you put the letter in the mail?”

“Yes, Miss. Auntie’ll have it before the sun sets. Isn’t it a grand thing how fast the post is these days?”

“It is indeed, Max.” She did not know how to end this conversation but knew she must.

“Augusta! Where are you?”

For once, her mother’s call was welcome. “I must go,” she murmured and, holding Max’s roses and the Silesius pressed to her breast where Jakob’s ring also rested, she dashed into the house.

Her mother was in the parlor, taking off a fetching new bonnet. On the settee lay a number of parcels. She looked excited and happy. Apparently she had soothed her wounded feelings by spending money on herself.

Augusta meant to avoid irritating her again at all costs and said, “”Yes, Mama,” as humbly as she could manage.

“What have you there? Roses? Very pretty. Wasted under the circumstances, but it shows the right spirit.” She came and took the bouquet from Augusta and smelled it. “And a book? Such an old one. Is it a romance?”

“No, Mama. It is one of Papa’s. I was reading it when you called.”

“Oh.” She tossed the book on a chair. “Sit down. I’ve come to a decision.”

This did not sound like her mother and made Augusta uneasy, but she sat down and waited.

“I’ve taken two seats on tomorrow’s coach,” announced her mother triumphantly. “We are going to Mannheim!”

“What?”

Her mother twirled around the room with a happy laugh. “We are going, my girl. You and I. Why should Franz have all the fun? I’m quite angry with him for being so selfish. In fact, I was unable to sleep and felt very ill this morning, but the fresh air did me good. I was in the middle of trying on some bonnets at Madame Annette’s…” She interrupted herself to peer into the mirror between the windows. “What do you think? Isn’t it most charming? The violet ribbons match my eyes. Anyway, I was trying on bonnets when I had my idea. Why can’t we follow Franz by post coach? He’ll be glad to see us, and even if he’s put out, it will be too late by then.” She turned around, smiling broadly at Augusta. “Now what do you say?”