The Left-Handed God (26 page)

“A useful evening,” said Stiebel as they undressed for bed. His eyes twinkled. “I trust your own investigations also bore fruit?”

Franz blushed. He had quite forgotten about the baron’s murder. “Did you really learn anything useful from them?” he asked.

The little lawyer draped his fusty brown velvet coat lovingly over the back of a chair and chuckled. “Indeed, yes. Never underestimate your actor for knowing all the intimate details of the lives of the great. They tell me that His Highness is bedding another member of their troupe, a dancer by the name of Françoise. Actresses hope to catch a great man’s eye so they can retire from the boards. And a handsome young actor may do equally well with a great lady.”

“But surely their reputations will be lost,” Franz protested, thinking of his Desirée. “It sounds both mercenary and immoral. Not much better than‌—‌” He broke off.

Stiebel removed his large wig and placed it over a wig stand he carried in his trunk. Franz saw that his own hair, cut very short, was white and so pitifully thin that his pink scalp showed through. It struck him suddenly that his beloved friend was quite as old as the murdered baron and might not live long.

Stiebel, unaware, said, “No, not much. Though to be truly successful at that sort of seduction takes a good deal of beauty and talent. I had the pleasure of meeting the French king’s
maitresse
once. She’s the Marquise de Pompadour now, an extraordinary woman with great style, charm, and intelligence, in addition to being an enchanting beauty. All the foreign ambassadors pay her every attention because she has the king’s ear. Here, both the Elector and his wife have their favorites. He’s on familiar terms with dancers, while his lady prefers military gentlemen.”

Franz said, “I cannot hope to compete with such information, sir. We only talked of the local sights. I’m to be shown the gardens the day after tomorrow.” Then had the grace to blush and added, “Perhaps I should not have accepted?”

But Stiebel’s eyes twinkled. “Go on, my boy, enjoy yourself. Why not look in on a rehearsal tomorrow? Keep your eyes and ears open for more gossip from the actors. I shall manage quite well on my own.”

*

Franz hardly laid eyes on Stiebel the next day. They breakfasted together, then parted to meet again over dinner, but Franz was too full of the delights of the opera rehearsal, the beauty of the music, and the indescribable charm and talent of
Mademoiselle
Desirée, who had a small but impressive dancing and singing part between acts. Stiebel listened, but he seemed distracted or bored with Franz’s enthusiastic descriptions, and Franz eventually fell silent.

The following day, the actors made up a party for the palace gardens. Besides Franz and Desirée, there were two young men and two of the younger women.

Desirée wore a black and white striped silk gown, tightly laced and long-waisted, with a froth of lace barely covering her breasts above the bodice and a larger froth peeking out under the full, rather short, skirt. Below the skirt, Franz spied dainty white-stockinged ankles and red high-heeled slippers. A lace cap with red ribbons perched on her dark curls. He looked at her, lost in admiration, and then blushed for having stared.

Later he recalled little of the conversation among the three couples and retained only the vaguest memory of laughter and a sense of his own great happiness that these friendly young people accepted him into their midst with such camaraderie. They teased each other freely, and after a while they also teased Franz and Desirée with gentle hints of romance.

Desirée had taken Franz’s arm right away and sent many melting glances up at him. He still could not quite believe that any woman would take an interest in him, even if Stiebel had pointed out that his crippled leg might have that effect on a soft female heart. She was such a pretty creature, one who could have had any man she wished, and yet she seemed to want him. Though there was an autumn chill in the air, he felt warm all over and, willy-nilly, he fell half in love.

It did not help that the princely garden was another Eden, fraught with a million seductions of the senses. The scents of ripe oranges and lemons hung about the
orangerie
; intricate patterns of flowers, colored sand, and clipped box accompanied neat paths; fountains rose into the limpid blue sky with the shimmer of molten silver and fell into marble basins with the liquid music of a multitude of glass harps. It was a place made for strolling arm in arm down broad
allées
of clipped trees and for playing innocent games of hide and seek in dense
bosquets
so green and secretive that a man might snatch a kiss without blame. Marble temples beckoned‌—‌belvederes to see all the beauties of this world spread out below and make a young man feel godlike and randy and his nymph breathless with desire.

The temple of the god Apollo was such a place. Its gilded cupola and white columns crowned a small hill. Inside a slender, white marble youth stood under a golden sun, holding a lyre.

“The German princes all think they are sun kings,” said one of the actors with a laugh. He said it in French, but then added in German, “Apollo, god of the sun and of poetry. What a pity, he’s left-handed.” He laughed again.

And so he was, and the others mocked the sculptor’s mistake, but Desirée squeezed Franz’s arm and whispered, “’E is beautiful. ’E looks like you. Come, we go up.”

Franz blushed a little‌—‌the god was quite naked‌—‌but he let her pull him away from the company and into a dim grotto underneath. It was dark and cool there, with the smell of earth and mold of a grave. Desirée shivered and clung to Franz. He held her close. Through a narrow, winding tunnel they climbed upward‌—‌slowly, very slowly, because the darkness and the contact of their warm, young bodies hampered their progress to the light. But eventually they reached the top, and Franz blushed again when Desirée directed his eyes to the god, whose nakedness was all too close now, and whose left-handedness reminded him of his own imperfection.

They stood together and looked down upon the Elector’s gardens and across the lush greenery into the adjoining hunting preserve. All the beauties of this world seemed spread out before them.

Franz was thoroughly seduced by all this earthly beauty and fell into sin more readily than Eve.

They descended into the grotto again, where they kissed passionately and hungrily, letting their hands explore each other’s bodies. Once out of the damp darkness, they found a hidden place in some thick shrubbery, and there in the smooth grass, Desirée lay down with Franz.

He was taking and giving pleasure‌—‌oh, Desirée, my desired one!‌—‌far from the Elector’s palace and its playing fountains and white marble gods, when a cool voice drawled, “Well, well, what have we here? A satyr at play with his nymph?”

Franz froze. Shame and fury fought with a wish to hide Desirée’s face and bare breasts.

The intruder continued, “What very white buttocks you have, my goatish fellow. And whose charming thighs are wrapped around you so passionately?‌—‌What? It’s not our Desirée, by God?”

Desirée muttered a French expletive and pushed Franz away. He was still trying to extricate himself, when he felt a stinging pain across his buttocks.

“Up, cripple!” snapped the voice.

Franz snatched down the girl’s skirts and pulled up his breeches with his other hand as he stumbled to his feet and turned. He was livid.

The man, a gentleman by his fine clothes, had a sword in his hand and a look of cold hatred on his handsome face. Apparently he had used the flat side of the blade to strike Franz‌—‌an odious offense.

“You, sir, are a scoundrel,” snarled Franz, aware that he only had his cane and was standing above the little actress in her disordered clothes while still holding up his breeches with one hand. He made a ridiculous figure, something from an Italian farce. In fact, the whole incident seemed theatrical, almost staged. His voice unsteady with the shock of the insult, he said, “I demand satisfaction. Be so good as to appoint a time and place.”

The other man laughed. “Why as to that, my awkward swain, dueling is against the law hereabouts. But then I daresay your rustic amusements are proof of your ignorance of civilized manners.”

Franz took a step forward and struck the stranger across the face with such force that the man staggered back. An ugly outline of Franz’s fingers spread across his cheek. With a curse, he raised his sword.

“
Non
!” screeched Desirée, jumping up from the mossy ground in a flurry of black-striped silk, white petticoats, and pink breasts. She flung herself down on her knees before the stranger, and wailed, “
Je
vous en prie, mon chéri
!
Pas de scandale
!” Pressing her breasts against his thigh, she seized his hand and kissed it. “
Pour le Bon Dieu, mon amour.”

He snatched away his hand and slapped her face so hard that she collapsed with a cry and lay there, her shoulders shaking with sobs.

Franz snatched up his cane and raised it.

The other man curled his lip. “As you may have gathered by now, I’m the injured party in this case. It is for me to ask for satisfaction.”

Franz understood finally and was ashamed. He had allowed himself to be seduced by Desirée without taking thought to her character or her connections. Perhaps these two were even man and wife. He let his arm sink helplessly.

The other man turned to Desirée and pulled her upright by her hair. “I’m afraid God has small regard for loose women,” he said coldly. “You’re a harlot. As for any past between us, I had no idea you offered your quim so readily and with so little discernment to every country booby.” Reaching down, he squeezed one of the girl’s breasts viciously and said, “I know you like it rough, my dear, but this is ridiculous.” She gasped and cried out. “Very well,” he said, releasing her. “I’ll let him live this time. But you will come to me tonight. I have a sudden taste for country manners.” Turning on his heel, he left.

Franz quickly rebuttoned his breeches and tucked in his shirt. The insult of being struck like this had been gross, but this man had had a relationship with the willing nymph. They were lovers rather than married, but that still meant he had been justifiably angry. The charming Desirée was a faithless slut. But as he watched her covering herself and weeping softly, his disgust faded.

“He hurt you.”

“Do not concern yourself,
chéri
,” she said sadly, finding one of her shoes and putting it back on.

“Who is he? What is he to you?”

“Eet is my business. I must obey ’im.” She gave Franz a pleading look. “Do not make ze trouble,
mon ami. Il est très dangereux
. ’E vill ’urt me and ’e vill keel you.”

Franz did not think the man dangerous. What mattered at the moment was what lay between the girl and himself. Desirée had given herself to him freely and generously‌—‌if not perhaps virtuously. She had suffered pain for it and would suffer more. Franz touched her face gently. “My dear Desirée,” he said, tipping up her chin and kissing the moist lips, the wet cheeks, the brimming pansy eyes. “Do not go back to him. Promise me. I cannot bear to have you hurt again. Nothing is worth that. I’ll take care of you. I’ll find a way.” He faltered.

He could not seriously consider marrying a French actress who evidently fell from one man’s bed into another’s without much thought.

She kissed him back and laughed a little. “You’re very sweet. But
non
, eet is over,
mon brave
. Eet vas only
un plaisir‌—‌une galanterie d’un après-midi
.” She gave him a little push, whirled, and was gone.

Very well. But what would Stiebel say? No, he could not possibly tell his kind friend and mentor what had happened.

He thought of finding this man, of challenging him and, being a fair swordsman, perhaps killing him. Better for Desirée to be free of such a villain. Satisfied of having somehow soothed his injured honor along with his debt to Desirée, Franz started back to the inn.

Stiebel was writing a letter. He looked up at Franz and chuckled. “The young lady returned in some disorder a few minutes ago,” he said. “And here you are, looking not much better. I see grass stains on the knees of your breeches. What have you been up to?”

Franz flushed, brushed at his knees, and tucked in an errant shirt tail. “Nothing much, sir,” he lied.

Stiebel pursed his lips. “If your amorous pursuits were as successful as I think, I trust you were prepared for them?”

“Prepared?” Prepared for what? For being attacked in
flagrante delicto
by the lady’s lover?

“With a French letter, Franz. Armor for the encounter. These women often harbor the pox.”

“Oh.” Yes, he should have known better. He shook his head. He had bigger problems to deal with.

“Well, we must hope for the best. I should have reminded you.”

Stiebel’s familiarity with gallantry was not as shocking to Franz as his own naiveté. He had actually thought himself in love with a wanton. But even as he thought this, he felt pity for women who must lead such lives. Whatever Desirée might be to other men, she had made no demands on him but had treated him with kindness, nay, perhaps even a little fondness. What had happened was not her fault.

16

The Good Daughter

Is it not better to be freed from cares and agues, from love and melancholy, and the other hot and cold fits of life, than like a galled traveler, who comes weary to his inn, to be bound to begin his journey afresh?

Laurence Sterne,
Tristram Shandy

F
rau von Langsdorff moaned and wept during the rest of their journey to Mannheim. Every jolt of the carriage produced a cry of pain. After they got some water, Augusta placed cold compresses on her mother’s swollen, bloody face. At first she worried that the nose and cheek bone might be broken, but as the hours passed, the compresses reduced the swelling, and her mother managed to breathe through her nose again. At last, she fell into a restless sleep.