The Left-Handed God (35 page)

Seutter beamed. “She’s a generous girl, isn’t she? I’m truly blessed that she should look with favor on such an old, clumsy, common fellow like me.” He gave a little shamefaced laugh. “What a fine day this is: my Augusta’s mending, her brother tells me he’ll give us his blessings, and with God’s help my friend Stiebel will get better soon. We shall all travel home together. Oh, how I miss home!”

Sorrow settled over Franz like a suffocating black cloth. He, too, longed for his lake, but he would miss Stiebel even more. “As to that, sir, I shall stay here. Mama has borrowed money that must be paid back, and I had hopes of giving Augusta something for a dowry. I’m afraid the house in Fischergasse must be sold. I regret very much that we cannot…‌that is, my father would have wished a dowry…‌oh, the devil, sir…‌we’re as poor as church mice, but you knew that. Only we’re much poorer now.”

Seutter shuffled through the papers on the desk and came up with one. “No need to sell the house. You may pay back the loan as you can, and it shall be Augusta’s dowry.”

Franz stared at the papers his mother had signed. “I don’t understand. How did you come by these?”

Seutter chuckled. “I didn’t like what the other fellow planned to do, so I bought the loan. I trust Stiebel pays you enough to save a little? There’s no hurry, no hurry at all. And someday soon, when you’re an advocate yourself, you may find this a very small burden indeed. I assure you, Augusta and I shall not press you, and the interest is exceeding low.”

Franz said dully, “You’re very kind, but Doktor Stiebel has dismissed me. I shall not be going home.” He laid the loan papers back on the desk and stumbled to his feet. In a moment he would be blubbering like a child. Grasping his cane, he said quickly, “Thank you, sir, for your generosity and your affection for my sister,” and made for the door.

Seutter came after him. “Wait, Franz‌—‌I may call you that, I hope, and you must call me Jakob. Surely you cannot think to leave my friend Stiebel. It would break his heart. I know he never meant to dismiss you.”

Franz turned away his face and said thickly, “I dare not go to him. If I should upset him again, it might be his death.”

“Well then, let me smooth the way, and I shall tell you when the time is right. Now take back the paper. I insist.”

*

Eberau passed through Schwetzingen without stopping‌—‌a man pursued by furies. Fate had turned against him: the cripple had won, his sister was likely to lay charges against him, Max had found him and, if he had survived the fall under the carriage, he could implicate him in robbery and attempted murder.

But eventually his old bravado resurfaced from this crushing tide of retribution, and he considered his position more calmly. There was no proof of anything he had done, and so it would be their word against his. And Desirée would support him. She was paid heavily for her testimonial.

He reached his house in Mannheim exhausted, dismissed his servants, and fell into bed.

The very next morning brought good news, a double dose, in fact. The first letter was from the palace and confirmed his position as director of the court theater for another year with a raise in salary. The second was a note on thick cream-colored paper, sealed with the private seal of Elizabeth Augusta. It was short but in her own hand, and Eberau devoured the words:

“If he will come to the small eastern entrance on the garden side one hour past midnight, he will be met by my woman of the chamber. E.A.”

Eberau kissed the note, not lustfully‌—‌though he gave a passing thought to his performance‌—‌but greedily, for it stood for titles, legitimate at last, and estates better than those of his father and equal to the hated Rodenstein’s. And perhaps someday there might even be power.

*

Franz approached Stiebel’s door fearfully. What if Seutter was wrong? What if Stiebel got angry again and the mere sight of Franz brought on a fatal fit?

He stood there for a while, stared at by a maid with an armful of linens, and then knocked softly.

“Who is it?” came Stiebel’s voice. He sounded stronger, and Franz took courage.

“It’s Franz, sir.”

“Well, come in then.”

Franz opened the door and peered toward the bed. Stiebel was sitting up. He was in his nightshirt and wore a night cap but looked more like himself, his eyes bright but unsmiling.

“I hope I see you better, sir,” Franz offered.

“Come in and close the door. Where’ve you been all night?” Stiebel demanded. “I thought you’d fallen into more mischief.”

“I…‌I slept outside the door, sir.”

“You what?”

“You told me to go away.”

“Humph.” Stiebel frowned. “And since when do you do what I tell you?”

“By your leave, sir, I strive to do what you say. I…‌I thought you were angry.”

Stiebel had the grace to blush. “And so I was. Have you made your peace with your sister?”

“Yes, sir, and also with Jakob Seutter.”

“Good. Now help me into my clothes. I want to eat my breakfast like a Christian.”

*

Eberau took great pains with his appearance on the night of his triumph. He ordered a bath to be got ready, had his manservant shave him twice, both his face and his head, so that no unseemly and uncomfortable stubble should remain, then selected his finest, lavender-scented and lace-trimmed shirt and his most flattering coat and breeches. Wearing his cocked hat and a caped cloak, he left for the palace shortly after midnight.

He was halfway down the street from his house, when it struck him that what he was about to do might hold some danger. True, he had skirted close to the abyss so many times that it seemed he had always been preserved by fate for some great purpose‌—‌the glorious future he was embarked on this night‌—‌but caution prevailed. He returned to his house to get a loaded pistol and shove it into the pocket of his coat. Then he set out again.

It was a dark, overcast, and chilly, but thoughts of the coming affair warmed his blood. He hoped his sexual powers would not fail him. The middle-aged and fat Elisabeth Augusta was quite a different proposition from the lithe young actresses and dancers he had fucked, but he had dined on oysters and sweetbreads and, if matters got too discouraging, he would close his eyes and imagine…‌what?…‌the cripple’s little virginal sister beneath him.

He found the door easily, a small one used by servants only. No matter, his was a visit that required sacrifices. But it was not a lady-in-waiting or maidservant who stood there in the dark, but a man, who immediately murmured a warning not to speak. Eberau’s hand felt for the pistol in his pocket. But the fellow had used his name and so he said nothing and followed him.

The darkness inside was dense, and his guide had only a shuttered lantern which cast a vague spot of light on floors and stairs. They climbed upward, traversed a number of small unlit rooms, then climbed again, all of it in silence. Eberau, who was familiar with the location of Elisabeth Augusta’s apartments, was content that he was being taken there. Eventually, the doors his companion opened and closed for him became more ornate and the floors changed to inlaid parquet. When they entered a room that was lit with candles in sconces, he recognized it as Elisabeth Augusta’s private study because he had reported to her here about the theater. She took an avid interest in the female performers because of her husband’s past and current liaisons.

The candles flickered in the draft from the door and cast a warm glow over dusky rose silk draperies, gilded chairs, and a Savonnerie carpet adorned with wreaths of roses and blue ribbons. When Eberau turned to see who his guide had been, the other had already slipped from the room.

He stood alone for a minute or two and waited. Then he fixed his eyes on the double doors leading to the next room, which he took to be Elizabeth Augusta’s bed chamber, or perhaps her private sitting room. He cleared his throat. When nothing happened, he took off his hat and cloak, laying both across a chair beside the doors. Then he knocked, very softly.

A female voice called, “Come.”

He depressed the handle and opened the door into the bed chamber‌—‌and what a bed chamber! It was large enough to contain an ordinary man’s house. A gilded and carved bed dominated it, its canopy and hangings of white silk with golden embroideries of birds, flowers, and butterflies. An embroidered scene of a shepherd and shepherdess hung at its head, and the cover was of deep blue velvet trimmed in gold. This was turned back invitingly to show white lace-trimmed linens covering the plumpest of pillows and featherbeds. Eberau swallowed hard: the bed of a sovereign was the stage to start his climb to power. He turned his head to look at the woman of his dreams.

Elisabeth Augusta was
en
negligee
, seated at a small, inlaid desk with her back to him. Otherwise the room was empty, its drapes drawn and its several white and gilded doors closed.

Eberau closed the doors softly behind him. He took a few quick steps toward Elisabeth Augusta and flung himself at her feet. “I came, my goddess,” he said, catching her left hand and kissing it. “I came on the wings of a hundred angels to pay homage to my Venus, my Aphrodite. I am yours to do with as you please, to live or to die at your feet.”

She drew back her hand, too quickly he thought, but then he knew that she was a passionate woman.

“Eberau! What does he want?”

Surely a rhetorical question.

She rose and backed away, but in the direction of the bed. He jumped up eagerly and followed. It was a game she wanted, and he looked forward to it. Already he gauged the distance, the heaving bosom. “My beloved,” he said and thought,
In a moment, my dear! Oh, how you shall enjoy this.

She cried, “
Au secours
!”

He stopped and made shushing noises. She had a remarkably loud voice for a gently raised princess. No market woman could have outdone her. Was she calling her French maid? But perhaps the cry for help was part of the game. Yes, surely she had made certain they would be private and wanted him to play the ravisher. He leaped forward and seized Elizabeth Augusta around her ample middle. The impetus carried her back, and they fell across the bed with him on top of her. She struggled and cried out for help, pummeling him with her fists. He pulled apart her silken
negligee
and seized her heaving breasts with firm hands, laughing as she struggled. Reading Captain de Sade’s tales would stand him in good stead in this case.

At that moment the doors burst open and people spilled in.

Eberau climbed off the half naked body of the Electress and backed away as he took in the incomprehensible arrival of several large, liveried lackeys. And that was not all, for here came His Highness, the Elector, himself, followed by Moritz.

He realized in an instant that this had been a trap, that he had been set up from the beginning. His hand plunged into his coat pocket and pulled out the pistol.

“Don’t touch me!” he snarled at a brawny manservant who came toward him.

Behind him, Elisabeth Augusta, that lying strumpet, wailed accusations. He waved his pistol around the circle of men closing in on him. “Stay away. It’s not true,” he cried. “She sent for me. She invited me to her bed. What was I to do but obey? I’m her subject.”

That was as far as he got. At least six of the lackeys jumped him. The pistol fired, shattering a large mirror. They threw him face down and tied his hands and feet with rope, and then they carried him away, bucking, shouting, and cursing. It took all six to subdue him, and they did not mind how they did it.

Epilogue

I
n time, Stiebel and Augusta were deemed sufficiently recovered for the strenuous homeward journey.

Frau von Langsdorff did not want to leave Mannheim. Seutter had given her generous funds for new clothes for herself and Augusta, and they had been shopping for fabrics and shoes and patterns for robes in the latest French fashion. For once, her interest shifted from herself to Augusta, soon be wed and in need of a trousseau fitting for the wife of a city councilman. Among her friends and neighbors, such splendor must reflect on the bride’s mother.

Seutter was so happy that he sometimes felt dizzy. How beautiful his dearest girl was in her fine new clothes and new hairstyle! He was very conscious of his own figure beside hers and took some pains to make himself fashionable. And since the worries and exertions of the past days and weeks had taken his appetite away, his new appearance was a great improvement. Yet in his foolish, loving heart, he knew what he was and would remain: a middle-aged, plain-faced man with too much belly and too little hair who did not deserve such happiness.

Stiebel and Franz dealt gingerly with each other. Franz felt a good deal of shame, and Stiebel was afraid that his angry outburst had done irreparable harm to Franz’s trust.

Toward the end of their stay in Mannheim, they received a visit. Herr von Moritz, soberly dressed in black to match a sober face, asked to speak to Stiebel and Franz privately.

“I trust I see you recovered, sir?” Moritz said to Stiebel. “I should have been greatly grieved to mourn your demise along with the other troubles caused by that unspeakable villain.”

Stiebel thanked him and waited.

“As you may have heard‌—‌gossip travels on wings hereabouts‌—‌it was thought best to have Eberau confined as a dangerous lunatic. His Highness is very conscious of his spouse’s reputation. In truth, I attended the man’s arrest and can attest to his maniacal behavior.”

“So all is safe now?” Stiebel asked.

“Oh, yes. He was responsible for all of it. When it became clear that he posed a danger to the Elector and herself, Her Highness bravely offered to assist in the capture. Eberau is now in solitary confinement and will never be released.” He paused and smiled at Stiebel. “You, sir, must be credited with alerting us to this threat, and your help has been duly and gratefully noted. But we beg that you will both keep the details of the unhappy creature’s activities to yourself as they might be interpreted wrongly by enemies of the Kurpfalz. May I have your assurance?”