The Lightstep (24 page)

'You seem well acquainted with their ways, sir.'

Very well acquainted, Maria thought. Did he have reasons
other than idle curiosity for watching the movements of the
armies?

He looked at her, mildly.

'I am a recruit of theirs,' he said.

'A recruit! For the soldiers?'

'Quite so. Until this summer, the occupiers sent their own
commissioners to rule these territories. I need not bother you
with the kind of men those commissioners were. I suspect that
most of them were selected for this task because they could not
be trusted with any other. In the end even the generals saw that
they were successful only in arousing resentment. So the
much-lauded General Hoche hit upon the quite original and
ingenious idea of requiring those who had served the former,
despotic regimes to serve the liberating Republic in their
former ranks and posts. I, as it happens, was a judge under the
Elector. So I am again.'

'I believe you consider this ironic, sir.'

'Indeed I do. Nor am I over-fond of the green cloth my more
enthusiastic colleagues adopt for their uniform – although it is
sometimes a help in dealing with the soldiers. But perhaps it will
not be for much longer. Now that Hoche is dead, the Directory
considers his ideas capable of improvement. Once again we are to
have a commissioner. What this means for my position and that
of my colleagues, I cannot guess. Although I believe the new man
is an Alsatian, and should therefore at least be competent in
German. French is an elegant language for conversation, but to
administer the law it is preferable to speak the language of the
native dwellers.'

'Perhaps peace will come soon, and the lands will be restored
to the Empire.'

'It is what we all pray for.'

He worked for the French, she thought, watching his profile
against the coach window. He was their helper. What did that
mean? Could he nevertheless be the man she was looking for?
What
was it that was to pass from Jürich to Adelsheim, and thence
to Erzberg?

She did not know. She did not know who or what she was
here for. She had had no chance to meet with Wéry before her
departure. She had not dared to put messages into the hands of
Adelsheim servants, or to risk another visit to his barracks herself.
Now she was wishing that she had done. She was west of the
Rhine, in a country teeming with a savage soldiery. She had
nothing to guide her.

And a wrong word might lead to something terrible: for herself,
or worse, for Anna. It might even mean the death of the man
she was looking for.

She was going to have to be very, very careful.

Cousin Ludwig's house was a square, pale villa on a low hill
that was part-cloaked in oak trees. In the grey afternoon it
had a plain, rather mournful look. Lights gleamed through the
windows, but not many. The grass on the hillside was long, as if
no flock had grazed there all autumn.

They were welcomed by Cousin Ludwig's wife, Emilia, a
round-faced woman with a bright trill in her voice. She was
probably some years younger than her husband and might in
other times have been gay indeed. She bobbed deferentially to
Maria and embraced Anna with a laugh. She laughed and
embraced her again when the hampers were swayed down from
the coach and carried in for the household to inspect the
contents: pickles, pâtés, ox-tongue, wines, coffee, dried fruits and
sweetmeats.

'Wonderful!' she cried. 'You clever things! How did you
smuggle it all through?'

'Ludwig spoke to the soldiers, and all seemed to be well.'

'Oh!' Emilia looked at her husband. For a moment her smile
had dropped. There was something like weariness in her eyes. 'I
hope there was no risk, sir.'

'Not much,' said Cousin Ludwig. 'And there will be none at
all if only we can dispose of it before our General hears of it. We
shall have a dinner party tonight, my dear, if you are willing.
Hofmeister will come, I am sure of it. So will Septe, if we can get
a message to him before Vespers. I think also . . .'

'I have no cards, of course. It is difficult to get them.'

'Of course. But a message may be passed as easily by mouth.
Shall we say eight o'clock? That will give our guests time to
recover from their journey. And no word of our sudden good
fortune. It is a dinner party in honour of our visitors. Let them
suppose we have dug our last vegetables from the garden for the
occasion.'

Maria was looking around her. The hallway was very bare, and
the glimpses she had of the drawing room beyond were the same.
There seemed to be no paintings on the walls, or curtains in the
windows. The fire was lit, but the supply of logs beside it looked
rather poor. The hall would have benefited from lamps and
candles on this grey afternoon, but none were lit. She must not
remark it. She must not, by one wrinkle of her forehead, let them
see that she was used to more light and wealth and beauty than
this. They would know anyway.

'Is Maximilian in the house?' asked Anna.

'Oh!' said Emilia. Once again she was looking at Ludwig, and
the weariness was back in her eyes. 'You have not explained . . .'

'Not yet,' said Ludwig. 'There were many happier things to
speak of. Anna, my dear, my nephew is in the house, but he
rarely leaves his rooms.'

'Is he still unwell?'

'He is not unwell. In fact, he has never been unwell, in body.
But he keeps to his rooms and will not willingly leave them.'

'He has been like this since the siege of Mainz,' said Emilia.

'Is it – is it possible to see him?' asked Anna, blinking anxiously.

'Normally, yes. If you wish I shall make arrangements.'

'Arrangements?' repeated Maria.

'He is perfectly safe,' said Cousin Ludwig. 'That is to say, he is
not violent. But I prefer that his footman should be in
attendance.'

'Come, my dear,' said Anna, rallying. 'Of course there is no
need to worry.'

And everyone was smiling again. Smiling, bravely.

'Magnificent!' cried Father Septe, eyeing the long dining table on
which were loaded the offerings from Erzberg.

'What our General would give to see this!' exclaimed
Hofmeister, an elderly, stout gentleman in an old-fashioned wig
and frock coat. 'Eh, Jürich, let us strike a blow for freedom
tonight, hey?'

'For freedom, or for liberty?'

'Feed me like this, man, and you may report me as you like.
Or Kaus can do it for you. Run to your masters, hey, Kaus – after
you've eaten perhaps?'

The fourth man, a thin, hollow-eyed gentleman in green,
smiled sadly. 'There is no prohibition, so far as I know, on enjoying
a dinner in the Republic. It is not our business to wonder
whence . . .'

'Republic? Republic, he says. Now sir, which republic is it
today? Is it the Cisrhenian still? Or some other one? Is there to
be another referendum? Please heaven, no! One exercise in
democracy is enough! Did I tell you when they came up to make
my village vote . . . ?'

'I believe you did . . .'

'Just four cowhands came forward, and none of them knew
where to sign, so the clerk had to do it for them! The rest of the
village all shut their doors. So back the clerk came with a troop
of French dragoons to explain it was the right of every free man
to vote for the Republic, and vote they must. No, sir, not for the
Elector. One does not elect Electors, ha ha! For the Republic –
the Cisrhenian Republic, that not half of us have heard of and not
a man among us can pronounce!'

'Gentlemen,' said Cousin Ludwig. 'I hope all differences may
be put aside at my wife's table.'

'Oh, do not worry yourself, Jürich. Kaus and I know each
other very well.'

'Very well,' sighed Kaus. 'If dear Hofmeister did not chide me
about republics, I should fear he were ill. Though a more sensitive
soul might spare me in my disappointment at the reluctance of
my countrymen to see reason.'

'Reason!' cried Father Septe. 'Reason, he calls it!'

'Gentlemen,' said Ludwig, a little more firmly. 'The ladies are
seated, and await us.'

At the ladies' end of the table Emilia Jürich sat with Anna on
her left and Maria on her right, and Madame Hofmeister and
Madame Kaus beyond them. Madame Hofmeister and Madame
Kaus were Emilia's sisters, all with the same cheerful round faces.
They rolled their eyes and shook their heads at the sparring of
their husbands, but filled their own conversations with laughter.
Maria wondered if there was not indeed something hysterical
about their laughter, brought on by the imported food and drink,
and the thought that one day – soon, God send! – the Empire and
France would sign a treaty, the world would be at peace, and all
the things now before them would be commonplace again.

Certainly they did not want to talk of politics or privation or
war. But they were eager to hear Anna talk of Bohemia, where
she and the Adelsheims had taken refuge with the funny old
Count Effenpanz during the months when French armies had
been marching deep into Germany. And they laughed with real
delight when they heard that Count Effenpanz went about his
rooms bald and wigless and had spent many hours trying to teach
them all about his collection of butterflies. 'Bless him!' they cried.

Maria nodded and smiled through the conversation, ate and
drank little, and listened. She liked the three sisters, but did not
suppose that any of them could be the person she had come to
find. Of the men present . . .

It would not be Hofmeister. He was too outspoken. He wore
his heart on his sleeve, an enemy of the Republic and a supporter
of his Prince. Perhaps it was Father Septe. He had a dark, square
head, frowned a lot and looked more thoughtful than Hofmeister.
But his sympathies, too, were obvious. He did not seem to be a
man with anything to hide. And as a priest he would be under
suspicion anyway. That left Cousin Ludwig, calm and moderate at
the head of his table, and the lean-faced Kaus, who still believed
in the republic. These looked more like men who could hide
things, and who could deal in secrets. She would not have
thought that Wéry would correspond with allies of the French.
But perhaps their politics were only a pretence: one that a man
like Kaus could feed carefully by permitting himself to be
Hofmeister's butt?

It was no use guessing. She could not – dared not – approach
anyone on the basis of a guess. She must make herself known, in
a way that only the person she was looking for would understand.
And there was only one thing that would do.

In a lull in the conversation at the men's end of the table, she
broke gently into the talk around her and said the name 'Wéry'.

Instantly, it seemed, she was rewarded.

'Wéry!' echoed Hofmeister. 'Ay, there's a man I envy!'

'Who?' asked Kaus.

'Wéry. The Brabançon who came to us in Mainz. He warned
us of French perfidy and he was right. But no one listened to him
– or to me either! You remember him, Jürich?'

Ludwig gazed at the man peaceably. 'I believe so. What of
him?'

'Oh,' said Maria. 'We were talking of what it is to live for a
while in another country, and I remarked that sometimes it is
instructive to hear a foreigner speak of your own country to you.
The things that impress them are often surprising. Major Wéry, I
recall, mentioned a particular dance we do in Erzberg, for
example.'

'Then I am sure you should teach it here,' said Cousin Ludwig.
'Dances that impress should not be kept a secret in Erzberg.'

'Oh!' said Maria. She waved her hand lightly as if to dismiss a
compliment. Now that she had Wéry's scent, she did not want to
lose it. 'But, sir,' she addressed Hofmeister. 'One sees so many
exiles, and there is often something sad about them. Why would
you envy this one?'

'Why? For his youth, and his lack of responsibilities, which
allow him to do that which he most wishes, which is to curse and
confront in arms this wretched barbarity that afflicts us and has
betrayed us – I ask your pardon, brother Kaus, but so it is and so
the night will tell you when you wake in the small hours. Wéry
may make his stand freely, and reckon the likely cost only to his
own bones and body. Would that I could do as he!'

'What sir!' cried Madame Kaus, with mock horror. 'Will you
leave us, leave my sister and her children, and go east to throw
your body on the top of some rampart?'

'No, my dear,' said Hofmeister. 'It is this that I am saying. My
heart is divided. But of course the greater part remains here, and
here I remain, where I shall resist – forgive me again, brother
Kaus – in such ways as I may. Let my General demand of me meat
for his table and wine for his glass. Let his clerks requisition my
saddle-leather. Let them call for the bells and the shoes and whatever
they like. Let them levy – what is it up to now – fifteen
million livres?'

'Twelve million,' said Ludwig.

'Twelve million livres, if you like. I shall send them the worst
and least of what I have, and write them long wearying letters of
poverty and injustice, and find for every Rhinelander and against
every Frenchman that comes before me in my court. And I shall
make believe that my pen is a musket and my desk a rampart east
of the Rhine.'

'Very well,' said Kaus. 'But does this not hasten the moment
when the army wearies of our administration and once again
imposes its own?'

'Let them, sir,' said Hofmeister, and the redness of his face
spoke of wine. 'It will be a relief to me!'

'I suggest that in this you indulge yourself still. The lot of the
people would surely be worse.'

'The lot of the people, sir, would have been better if our
Elector still sat in Mainz and we had all been let well alone! Hey,
Jürich. Do you read your Bible these days? Come, tell me that
you do.'

'For the most part I read the ancients,' said Ludwig. 'Especially
when the air is bright and the news good. But yes, when the day
darkens I find no consolation at the shrines of Reason. Then I
will take myself to Scripture instead. I am sure that I am not alone
in this.'

'Ay, sir, but the psalms – the
Misericordiam et judicium –
you
have read it of late?'

'I believe I know it . . .'

'Read it, sir! The Archduke Charles – saints strengthen his
brave young arm – would have us all read it! It is God's word, but
also the word of the Archduke and his brother the Emperor
to us here.
He that practices deceit will not dwell in my house; he that
tells lies will not stand in my presence . .
. They shall not be
suffered to remain, brother Kaus. Of that you may be certain!'
He finished, flushed, leaning across the table to point his finger
at the chest of the thin, green-clad man opposite him.

Kaus did not answer. He glared back at his brother-in-law.

'Gentlemen,' said Cousin Ludwig gently, rising to his feet. 'Let
us remember that nights have dawns and wars have peace at the
end of them. May ours not be far off.'

'Amen!' said his wife.

'And I think it is right that we drink a toast. To our guests,
with our gratitude for what they have brought us, and for their
presence most of all.'

'Our guests,' cried the women, and Septe. Someone clapped.

Ludwig remained standing. 'I have another to propose,' he said.

'Ah sir,' said Hofmeister. 'Now let us hear who you cleave to.
The Elector or the Republic, I care not. But be bold. If you are
not, I will name you a trimmer!'

'Indeed, I shall be bolder than you think, brother. My toast is
to Germany.'

'Ho!' cried Hofmeister in surprise. 'And what may that mean?'

'I will drink to Germany, if I am allowed,' said Kaus, looking
down at his fingers.

'Well . . .' said Hofmeister. 'Well, as you are my host – to
Germany, then.'

'To Germany,' the diners repeated.

'To Germany,' said Maria. She had never drunk such a toast.
But in that instant, in that place, the word had a meaning that she
had not felt before. She had no very clear idea of what it was.
She sensed a mass of neighbourhoods, spreading out from the
place in which she stood: people, people and more people,
unreachable and unembraceable. And it was only from here that
she could see that they were all one – here in the huge shadow
of something that they were not.

Later, when they gathered again in the bare and partly furnished
drawing room, Maria made sure that she spoke with
each guest, contriving, by all her art and wit, with her rank, and
with every device that she had ever seen employed in the salons
of Erzberg, to be alone with them one after another, if only for
moments. She dropped her fan for Septe, her handkerchief for
Kaus. Each was returned to her gallantly, and without the scrap of
paper she had been half-hoping for. No one gave her a sign, or
hissed a rendezvous under the pretence of telling her some gossip.
She finished the evening in the corner with Madame Kaus,
listening to Hofmeister once again berating the woman's husband
on the far side of the room.