The Lightstep (26 page)

'I?' said Wéry 'No.'

'But are you not curious?'

'I confess I had not thought of it,' said Wéry coldly. 'I have seen
the antechamber, but that room is often busy. If you look too
much at the walls, you may miss your chance to be heard.'

'Ah yes. The offices of His Highness are often busy. And often
to no purpose.'

'Quite so,' murmured the Lady Adelsheim.

'You do not agree, Major?' said Lanard. 'Yet it seems to me
obvious. I understand that when my General Hoche returned to
the Rhine in the summer, it was supposed in Erzberg that he was
come to lead an advance on the city, and this was the cause of
much excitement. Shall I discover to you the true reason?'

Wéry paused. 'If you wish,' he said.

'My General's return – in which I took part – was not an
advance but a retreat. You will know there were political tensions
in Paris over the summer. My General had been called by those
who considered themselves faithful to the Revolution to come
and set things right. The planned expedition to Ireland, of
which you may have heard, was used as an excuse to move
some of his force close to Paris. For a week or two he was
lauded in the streets. He was Minister of War. He was the
pillar of the government. But his enemies attacked him
most viciously, and he sickened of it, resigned, and we
withdrew our force as if defeated. That was all. Erzberg? We had
opinions, to be sure, and I believe we communicated them
to His Highness here. But our minds were in France, not
Germany.'

'I see,' said Wéry, keeping his face as impassive as he could.

Was this true? If so, his report of the danger to Erzberg would
have been false. His
interpretation
of it, to Bergesrode, to the
Prince and the colonels on the battlements, would have
been false. The one thing he thought he had achieved, the one
blow he had struck, might be nothing at all – worse than
nothing.

Could it be true? His faith in his work had fallen, but had it
really fallen so far? From the corner of his eye he searched the
Frenchman's face. Lanard was no longer looking at him, but away
into the air.

'And then that ape Augereau went and did the deed anyway,'
sighed Lanard. 'Troops on the streets. Out with the royalists. Long
live the Republic once more.'

Certainly there had been a coup in Paris. There would have been
months of tension before that. Of course Hoche would have
been caught up in it. Yes, it was plausible. It was more than plausible.
It was absolutely the way things happened in Paris – except that
Hoche had not spilled blood in pursuit of his ambition. He had left
that to someone else. And out of that confusion he,Wéry had spun
a lie, and nearly sent the city into a hopeless war.

And
that
was the reason there was no news. That was why his
message from the Rhine would not come! Because, seen from the
Rhine, there had been nothing to report! There had been no
movements, no preparations, nothing worth the risk of
communicating across the river! All the sources from Wetzlar had
told him nothing was happening. He had not believed them. And
in the absence of the message from the Rhine, he had read only
the most sinister possibilities.

Resign? Just let him get out of this coach, and he would resign
at once!

'So – your General had a chance of greatness, and did not take
it,' said Lady Machting. 'Did he regret it?'

'In truth I do not know, my Lady. For when I returned to
Wetzlar he was already sick, and within a few days he was dead.
His surgeon says it was a suffocating illness. I have heard others
claim it was poison. On what evidence, I do not know. But I
suspect that what you say is also close to the truth. Truly, for a few
days, he could have been the Saviour of the Republic. Certainly
he had that ambition. But he had not enough ambition to pay the
price that would make it his. He was disappointed in himself, and
disappointment sickens, I think.'

'I am so sorry,' said the Machting daughter. 'And I am sorry for
you too, Major, for I suppose you had high hopes for him, and
for yourself too.'

'You are right, Lady Elisabeth. But in the event, no, I would
not have wished to see shooting in a city, or for him to have
climbed to power over Parisian corpses. Nevertheless he is a loss.
He leaves a young wife – a German lady, in fact – as well as those
of us who knew him. Ah, there is no use regretting. But we lose
generals too easily. Our heroes fall like wheat. And mostly it is our
own fault.' The smile was back again, like a mask. 'Eighty-four
we have sent to the guillotine since the war began. Perhaps, if
he had not resigned, Hoche would have gone that way. Perhaps
Augereau will yet – though I do not think so.'

'Eighty-four!' cried Lady Adelsheim. 'To say nothing of Louis
d'Orleans, Madame Roland, Danton, Robespierre and all the
rest. Truly, sir, I find that your Revolution consumes itself!'

'Almost as fast as it consumes everything about it,' murmured
Wéry.

'Ah, that is the war,' said Lanard.

'War may be waged in different ways,' said Wéry. 'Imperial
officers may be court-martialled if they allow their soldiers to
plunder.'

He knew he was sounding graceless but he could not help it.

The discovery of his failure – yet another failure – had shaken
him.

'And yet I do not think they are altogether without sin. But if
I, an officer of the Republic, am starving because the Republic
cannot feed me, and if my soldiers bring me food that they have
found, shall I eat it first and arrest them afterwards? Or
shall I arrest them first and carry on starving? The miseries of
the war lie at the door of those who incited it – Citizen Wéry'

Wéry felt as if he had been stroked with a hot iron.
Those who
incited it – Citizen W
é
ry.
Shadows tumbled into his head – ugly
memories of Paris, and close, hot rooms crammed with faces, and
his own voice speaking words that had then seemed so good. Was
that what the man meant? What did he know?

Hadn't he done enough since, to bury all that behind him?

He glared at the Frenchman. The smile broadened.

'Now – if my Lady will forgive me, and since we are talking
of such things, I must counter-attack. You, sir, were one of us. You
were a rebel with Vonck in Brabant. You fought the Austrians at
Turnhout. You were one of the international delegates who came
to Paris. I
believe
you even addressed the Jacobin club on behalf of
your countrymen – a thing I can hardly claim for myself. Now
here you are, an obedient servant of the Empire, struggling –
vainly I may say – to contain the forces of liberty that once you
espoused. How were you suborned?'

'Suborned?'

God! He could wring the man's neck! Or at the very least,
challenge him!

'Come,' said Lanard. 'I did not mean to insult you. To be
corrupt is to be human, I think, and often preferable to the alternative.
As I believe you saw "The Incorruptible" – Robespierre
himself – it is a thing you too should understand.'

'Sir!' said Wéry. 'I think you presume on your status as a guest
here!'

He fought to control himself, aware of the women in the
coach, and of the eyes of Lady Adelsheim fixed on him in cold
surprise.

'. . . But be that as it may,' he managed, 'I tell you that it is a
question not of whether I have been "suborned" or "corrupted",
but of what has corrupted your revolution so far – so
very
far –
that its word has proved utterly different from its deed, and that
those who were most friendly to its ideals – and not I alone –
should become its most constant enemies!'

'Ah, so it is anger,' said the Frenchman smoothly. 'My General
too was an angry man, although not in your way. He used to bite
his knuckles, sometimes. I see from the marks on your hand that
you may know what that means. But when the time came for
calm, he could be calm, and so he brought peace to the Vendee
when no one else would have done . . .

'But let me make two observations, Wéry. First, to block your
charge, let me answer that a revolution is made of many voices,
and that many different things will be said before a course is
decided upon. This is plain. But also – and here I turn your flank
– that your view of us has led you to serve the very opposite of
what I know you believed. Will you tell me that is not
corruption?'

The carriage had passed the gates of the town. Now it turned
to the right, heading back along the line of the wall towards the
hussar barracks. A few minutes more, and this impossible conversation
would be over. He had only to hold out.

'I believe,' he said, 'that it would be better if we did not speak
about this further in this company. If, at another time, you choose
to repeat your words . . .'

But now the counter-attack was supported with heavy
artillery. For the Lady Adelsheim broke her silence at last.

'No, sir!' she exclaimed. 'I declare this is an interesting
discussion after all! Since my cousin the Prince chooses to
increase his power in the face of all good counsel, and then uses
that power for war and misery, are not all who choose to serve
him condemned with him?'

'My Lady,' said Wéry desperately. 'Another time I shall
endeavour to satisfy you. But we have almost reached my
quarters, and to answer you I must keep your carriage standing in
the street longer than you may desire.'

'The carriage may drive around again,' said Lady Adelsheim.
'And it is inexcusable, Major, to dismiss yourself before I am
finished. Come. You will no doubt tell me that you face a choice
of two evils. But my son has been crushed between your evils,
and I wish to ask you why any man should adhere to either.'

Wéry spread his hands, helplessly. He saw the coachman flick
his whip gently, impelling the carriage on past the barrack gates.
He knew Lady Adelsheim was watching him, preparing her next
salvo. And the Frenchman was listening, with that maddening,
amused smile on his face.

'My Lady,' he began. 'I too grieved and continue to grieve for
the loss of your son, who was the first and best friend to me in
all Erzberg . . .'

'Indeed? And you suppose this will excuse the choices you
have made?'

'My Lady . . .'

News reached Erzberg that evening. A treaty had been signed
at last between the Empire and the Republic.

No one seemed to know what the treaty contained. Everyone
assumed that Liège and the Austrian territories in the
Netherlands had been surrendered to France and that the French
would withdraw in Italy. There was no word on how far
the Emperor had honoured his pledge to 'the integrity of the
German body', or what would happen to the Rhineland in
particular. It was said that the French and Austrians would hold a
congress at Rastatt with the princes of Germany to discuss the
peace, but it was not clear what there was to discuss.

Bells were rung again in the city. Rumours hissed along the
corridors of the Celesterburg palace. In the Saint Lucia barracks
Wéry dismissed Asmus and went down to the coffee house Stocke,
to comfort himself with stimulant and the smell of tobacco.

Heroes fell like wheat, he thought, staring into the little black
pool of the cup before him. Still the world longed for the next to
appear.

Hoche had been a hero to his people. He could have become
a saviour, if he had been prepared to pay the price. But because
the price was to be the blood of his own people he did not pay
it.

Now they would wait for another saviour to come.

If Hoche could rise from grenadier to be Minister of War, if
Bonaparte, a captain of artillery, could bring an empire to its
knees, then
anything
was possible. He must remember that.
Failures did not matter. Defeats were only to be overcome. What
mattered was absolute, single-minded, purity of . . .

'There he is!'

A crowd of white uniforms surrounded him. Heiss was there,
and with him was Skatt-Hesse of the Erzberg regiment, and a
number of other captains and majors of infantry. Their
expressions were ugly.

Heiss leaned forward, planting both hands flat on the table.

'That Frenchman. Is he a friend of yours?'

'Not in the least,' said Wéry coldly.

'Is he not, now? So why is the palace saying you were the one
who requested his pass?'

The palace? God damn it!

Wéry looked into Heiss's red face. He wondered if the whole
world was tumbling around his ears today.

'They're fools,' he said.

'Come, that won't do!' said Skatt-Hesse. 'That man damned
well crucified the army this afternoon. Did you or did you not
get them to let him in?'

The wood of the partition was hard against the back of his
head, and his cheek muscles felt like wood, too.

'I did.'

'Damnation!' cried Heiss. 'Why in heaven?'

'Reasons of state.'

'Don't give me that! That's clerk's talk!'

'It is true, however. And I regret to tell you that I cannot say
any more. If you doubt it, ask yourself why His Highness did not
revoke the pass.'

Skatt-Hesse adopted a look of contempt.

'Well, he could hardly have done that after it had been issued,
could he? Not with the Chapter and the Estates and the War
Commission all panting to hear what the fellow said.'

'I cannot help what he had to say. But yes, I did help with his
papers. That is all.'

'All!' roared Heiss. 'If they take that man's word over ours, we'll
go down, and you know that! See here, Wéry! There've been
times I thought pulling you out of the Rhine was the best thing
we ever did. Now I wish we'd just pushed you straight back in.
At least we'd have to deal with fewer
lies!'

The others crowded in behind him.

'Did you feel fine, Wéry riding in the Adelsheim carriage like
a lickspittle?'

'You can be a knave or an idiot as you please, Wéry. But it has
to be one or the other!'

'And don't talk to us about honour. If we hear any more we
might be sick . . .'

'Enough,' said Skatt-Hesse coldly. 'Let's leave him.'

They turned and began to crowd back to the door of the
coffee house. Wéry watched them. His cheeks were flaming. He
saw the set of their shoulders, the shape of their ears, the lamplight
glinting on the brassy epaulettes. Their boots had a thin
patina of the dust from the streets. And if he hesitated for an
instant they would think him a coward.

'Gentlemen!' he called, keeping his voice as steady as he could.

Two or three of them turned at once. They had been
expecting this. Their eyes were blank – masks of contempt. Wéry
rose, awkwardly, in the narrow space between bench and table.

'Gentlemen,' he said, pitching his voice to carry clearly across
the room. 'In the space of a minute you have called me, I think,
a clerk, a lickspittle, an idiot, a knave, and a liar. Am I right?'

None of their faces changed. None of them would draw back
from it.

'I am a foreigner and I have my views,' he continued. 'But I
hold a commission from your Prince, and I think you will permit
me the customary recourse. I am very much afraid that I am
going to have to kill somebody.'

And he could not draw back either. He was committed. And
he did not care. He only wanted to damage something, or
somebody.

Still they were waiting for him. He drew breath.

'If you would please see that I am notified which of you . . .'

'That is enough, gentlemen,' said another voice.

From behind a wooden partition in the corner of the room
rose the vast head and shoulders of the Count Balcke-Horneswerden.

He was wrapped in a heavy cloak, as if he were cold, and he
was alone. Perhaps he too had been brooding by himself over a
cooling cup of coffee all this while. But there was nothing
mournful about him now. He leaned over the partition. His skin
was dark and his eyes black as the mouths of cannon.

'Gather round,' he said softly. 'I do not wish to shout.'

They shuffled closer to him.

In the same low tone, a rumble that was almost a mutter, he
said,'Gentlemen are gentlemen wherever they go. But when they
wear my Prince's uniform they are to be soldiers first and last.
Their lives are at His Highness's disposal and no one else's. Does
anyone disagree? No? Good. Now, I believe some question has
arisen over the commitment of one of you. Let me settle it. His
Highness has chosen Major Wéry to perform certain very exacting
duties. It is our duty to support him as we may. If you ask me
why His Highness has so chosen, I will tell you that he was so
advised by myself . . .'

He paused, and took a fresh grip on the partition before him.

'I so advised His Highness because I believed Major Wéry
would be useful to us in ways that no other man in Erzberg
could. If asked today I would so advise again.

'And I would also advise that when the Pope, and the
Emperor, every last prince in Germany, and every one of you,
gentlemen, are ready to knuckle under to the French, this man
Wéry will still be fighting them. This is my opinion, which you
will please to value above your own.

'Now. You will have duties to attend to. If you think you have
not, I can persuade you otherwise. Thank you. Wéry, wait a
moment.'

The officers dispersed silently. Wéry was alone with the man
he had betrayed. His body had locked itself into an attitude of
rigid attention.

Balcke leaned his elbows on the partition.

'Now, Wéry. Just one question, and by God I want the truth.
You said you brought that man here for reasons of state. Did the
Prince tell you to do so?'

'No, sir.'

'Did he know, or did anyone close to him know, that you were
going to bring the man here?'

'No, sir.'

Balcke let out his breath. 'If that's right, then I may beat this
thing yet. So, you were playing one of your own little games, were
you? I hope you're proud of yourself.'

'I'm not, sir. And I would like to apol—'

'Don't
give me that! Don't make me think that after all you are
one of these spineless, over-the-shoulder
back-lookers
who gets all
tearful about what they've done! See here, Wéry. I'm as guilty as
hell of the things they say I did. But the only thing I'll regret is
that I didn't handle it differently when the story first came out in
front of His Highness. I should have made a clean breast of it
there on the bastion. But that damned Italian had my goat, and
so I lied in my Prince's face. None of that changes the fact that
the Prince needs me to make sure the army is there for him when
it has to be. And he needs you to tip him the warning of when
that time will be. So . . .' he said, jabbing a thick finger towards
Wéry's face. '. . . You may make your nest in this city. You may
even play your games if you have to. But you may
not
kill my
officers. And you may
not
get yourself killed either.
Is that clear?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Hah. You'll find staying alive harder than you think, after the
things you said just now. My advice is, keep to the barracks, unless
you have some specific and immediate duty that takes you outside.
The hussars may not like you, but they won't like the other
regiments picking fights with their uniform either. They'll close
ranks around you, unless you give them a reason not to. You
understand?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Good. And I'll make sure that old woman Altmantz understands
too.'

His eyes held Wéry's for a long moment. Then, in a slightly
altered tone, he said, 'Now, man, what's biting you?'

Wéry drew breath. Twice today he had almost challenged
someone to a duel. It was as if something inside him was screaming
to find a way out of what he was doing – even at the cost of
death, wounding or disgrace.

'I – don't like this post, sir. And I don't think I'm doing it very
well.'

'That's damned rubbish! You do good work.'

'I doubt if Bergesrode would agree with you, sir.'

'Bergesrode? Bergesrode didn't appoint you. The Prince did.
He and I got drunk together and decided it would be a good
idea. We still think it's a good idea. And I'll tell you, if you didn't
realize, that Altmantz nearly resigned when we foisted you on his
precious hussars. But I spoke with him and changed his mind for
him. So don't worry about Bergesrode. If he's bothered, it'll be
about something else. He's too close to the Ingolstadt set, that
one. Ultramontanism, the ties of Rome, peg everything back to
the Middle Ages – all that. A very uncomfortable position, when
you've a man like His Highness as your master. And now there's
no threat of war to bring the Ingolstadt set behind the Prince, of
course they'll fall out. That's all it will be.'

'You may be right, sir.'

'You can be damned sure I'm right. I've known Erzberg all my
life. Now take yourself off somewhere and be useful. And get
them to send me some more coffee on your way out.'