The Lightstep (30 page)

The servant grunted and strode ahead.

'Quickly!' cried Ludwig.

The man broke into a run, and disappeared around the corner
of the wood. After a moment Ludwig returned his arm to Maria
and they resumed their walk.

'I wonder if you are disappointed with my house,' Ludwig said
suddenly.

'Oh, no! Indeed you must not think so! Your wife has striven
so hard to make us comfortable that I own I am ashamed to have
been the cause of so much trouble.'

'I am glad to hear you say it. But of course that is not what I
meant.'

Maria paced beside him, looking down at the tussocks beneath
her feet. She was alone with her host. No one could hear what
they said. Only one man – the servant – even knew they were
together.

'Sir,' she said. 'I imagine you are as much a patriot as I – which
is to say that you never thought of patriotism until the world had
forced it on you. I believe what you do to be for the good of the
people of your district, and serves them better than any empty,
prideful gesture that would surely bring the revenge of the
French.'

'Thank you. In truth they love me very little for it, and less
now that I have failed even to save poor Septe. Yet shall I abandon
the path of Reason for the Romantic? Others have done so. But
it seems to me only to be folly. Deliverance will come to us and
to all Germany only through patience and faith. The summit of
my ambition in this time is that I may yet prevent my brother-in-law
Kaus from denouncing my brother-in-law Hofmeister. If
I achieve this, I shall hold myself vindicated.'

'I believe you are too gloomy, sir!' she said, surprised that this
aloof man should suddenly confide so much to her.

'About Kaus? It is, I think, almost inevitable. The occupiers
and their acolytes suspect everyone who held positions for the
princes. And Hofmeister is not a silent man. If Kaus does not
speak against him, he may fall under suspicion in his turn.'

They walked on in silence for a few paces.

'My house is under suspicion, too,' he said. 'As you will have
observed the other day.'

'I am – sorry for it, sir.'

'I do not doubt that you are sorry. But if I may say so, I do
not think you are surprised. You spoke a name at my table on
your first night here, and I do not believe it was by chance. I
am aware that the man you mentioned has visited my house in
secret. He did not speak to me. Yet I can guess what it was that
he wanted.

'I remember Wéry well. We talked much during the siege.
There was, after all, little else to do. I was in hiding and he,
although still trusted by the republicans, was reflecting on his
experiences in Paris. He had once had a house and a small estate
in Brabant, which he loved, and people, including more than one
woman. He had locked all that away to dedicate himself to his
cause. I remember thinking even then that I was not capable of
so great a sacrifice. Nor am I yet. More and more I have come to
see that it is better to love a few – or even only one – than it is
to loathe an empire. So I hold Hofmeister to be justified by his
love and duty to my sister-in-law, and not by his opinions. As for
Wéry . . .

'You have lost a brother, Lady Maria. But you may at least
honour him in his grave. Now you have seen my nephew
Maximilian. You have seen the price my house pays every day for
having dabbled in affairs far greater than we could control. I
wonder if you can guess what I think of Wéry's demand that we
should renew our acquaintance with such things – and perhaps
pay a price far greater.'

When Maria did not reply, he went on, 'I was expecting
couriers – messengers in the night trying to tap at my windows.
Indeed I have even wondered whether I might hand the next one
over to the occupiers. But Wéry is a clever man, and also a subtle
one.' He looked at Maria. 'He must know that I wish him to seek
no more help from my house.'

'Sir,' she said, feeling her colour rising. 'I know Major Wéry,
whom I believe to be a man of honour. As for the rest, insofar as
I have understood it, I wish you to be assured I desire no harm
to your house and will do whatever I can to avoid it.'

'I thank you, Lady Maria. And I do believe you have some
affection for us. Therefore I believe that you will deliver the
message I have given.'

He should
not
talk to her so! She was not a child or a witness
in his court. Indeed, it was presumptuous of him. A man like
him, even a judge, should show her father's daughter more
respect!

But her instincts subsided. This was not a time to insist on her
status. This was about life or death. She had come for a message,
and finally it had been given to her. It was not what she had been
expecting. It could hardly please Wéry. But . . .

'There is another matter,' said the green judge.

'Sir?'

'I am grateful to you for bringing my cousin to see us. But I
now believe it would be very much better if you were to take her
back to Erzberg as soon as possible.'

'Sir!'

Now she was astonished. A host did not – did
not –
tell his
guests when they were to leave, unless some great offence had
been caused. She struggled for words.

'Sir, I assure you! Anna most desired to come to see you. She
has desired it for a long time. I – I am simply accompanying her.
It was to satisfy my mother, that is all.'

'Of course I believe that Anna has desired to visit us. But if I
believed Anna was the arbiter of your stay I would have addressed
myself to her. I do not. Recollect that I have known her a long
time, and that I have also had the opportunity of observing you.
And I know that you are capable of leading her in this direction
or that, as it may suit you. She knows it too, of course. Yet she
allows it because she loves you, and because it is simpler if
she does not think too much herself.'

'You are unkind, sir!'

'My Lady, I am desperate. I would not speak so if I were not.
And understand me. I do not know if you yet have that which
you came for. But whether you have it or not, for your own
sakes you
must
be gone. In these past days you will have observed
that I have had a number of unpleasant visitors. Most of it was
indeed about that wretched sapling we have just replaced. But I
have also learned something of the plans of the new
commissioner for the Rhineland. Neither Hofmeister nor I, nor
any other figure from the time of the princes, will hold our positions
for much longer. That is little surprise. The occupied lands
are to be divided into departments, such as they employ for
administration in France. Plainly, whatever we hoped, the
occupation will not be ended soon. The French will stay.

'Moreover, the soldiers who were present today will not
return to their billets. They will rejoin their column, and bivouac
under canvas tonight near Mainz. Commanders do not make
their soldiers change roofs for canvas without need. Some movement
of troops is underway, this side of the Rhine. I firmly
believe that if you are not across the Rhine by the time those
movements are complete, you may find it hard to cross the Rhine
at all.'

'You think we should leave.'

'For your comfort, but above all for your safety.'

Footsteps sounded on the path ahead. The servant Heinrich
came into view, carrying a long white cloak that she did not
recognize, and that must have belonged to Emilia Jürich. Ludwig
hailed him, and the secret talk was over. As the man Heinrich
arranged the cloth gingerly around her neck and shoulders, she
shuddered.

She was cold, and shocked and angry. She was confused. She
had been told that she could not have what she had come for, and
had been given instead some vague words about soldiers marching
up and down, which was supposed to be alarming. She had
been told that she must leave. And she had been accused of
manipulating Anna for her own ends – yes! No matter that Anna
had
wanted
to come, and that all Maria had done was to make it
possible. That was the worst of it.

It was the worst, because in her heart she knew it was
true.

Back at the house, she could not settle. She did not join Emilia
and Anna in the drawing room, although they sent to tell her that
the fire was made up high and that they were sure she must be
chilled to the bone. She paced her room, and the corridor, and
into her room again, thinking. Her thoughts did not calm her.
They made her angrier yet.

What she hated most was that he had discovered her. He had
known from the very first evening why she had come to the
house. And he had watched her all the time.

Who had Michel Wéry spoken to, if not to Ludwig Jürich
himself? Hofmeister? Kaus? Some unfortunate servant, who had
since been dismissed?

And after weeks of waiting, she had nothing to show. That
depressed her. How would he know how much thought, effort,
patience this had demanded from her? He would think she had
spent her time playing cards and word-games, and had come back
as soon as she was bored.

Bored? She had been bored for weeks, in this hateful, depressing
place! She had been bored, bewildered and frightened – yes,
more frightened than she had ever been in her life! She had been
pining for home, pining to see her father again, and yet staying
here out of duty. And now she was being told to go – dismissed,
like a poor cousin.
This
was not right! On this at least she should
be the master! She was the daughter of a Knight of the Empire.
He
was a gentleman-judge, and a poor one at that. What was this
talk of departments and billets and canvas? He would
not
tell her
when she might stay or go. Nor would he decide when he would
speak to her and when not!

She looked in the mirror. She saw herself, poised and
imperious, and the arch of her brow was a cool command. She
turned, and with the spirit of her mother rising in her, made her
way downstairs to the corridor outside the judge's office.

Even as she knocked at the door she had not decided what she
would say. She might tell him, scornfully, how much his
hospitality lacked of what she expected, and therefore they would
indeed leave his house – not because he wished it but because she
did. Or she might tell him that she would leave when she pleased,
and she pleased not to tell him when this would be. She was not
sure which. She was sure only that she wanted the revenge of
words.

There was no answer to her knock.

He was hiding from her. He was pretending that he was not
there. He did not want to be trapped in his study, like a rat. She
turned the handle and stepped in.

The room was empty.

It was a dark place, panelled and furnished with polished
wood. Here too the pictures were gone from the walls and the
carpet from the floor. There might have been a desk and presses
once, but there were none now. Piles of paper, closely written,
were stacked against the walls. On a rough table, placed beneath
the one window, there were more papers. There was also a book.

Thinking, perhaps, that he had been called away somewhere,
and that if she waited he might return, she walked softly to the
table. The papers on the desk were letters and petitions. One that
caught her eye begged, in ill-spelled, incoherent German, for
His Honour to intercede with a certain French commander
to remove his troops from their village, where everything
including all livestock, hats, shoes, bed-linen and even neck
scarves had now been taken by the soldiers, and the people feared
starvation.

On the table beside it, in Ludwig's own hand, was the draft of
a letter in French, likewise entreating that the troops should be
moved on. But the page was incomplete, as if the judge had
stopped in thought. (Moved on? Where, indeed, should the
villainous soldiers to be moved on to? Which other village must
suffer them now?)

Beside both papers was a Bible. It was open, as if Ludwig in
his doubt had sought some counsel from Scripture. She lifted it,
and read it.

The page could have given him little comfort.

Therefore when they were gathered together, Pilate said unto
them, whom will ye that I will release unto you? Barabbas, or
Jesus which is the Christ? For he knew that for envy they had
delivered him.

When he was set down upon the judgement seat, his wife
sent unto him, saying Have thou nothing to do with that
innocent man: for I have suffered many things this day in a
dream because of him.

But the chief priests and elders persuaded the multitude . . .

There was a sound behind her. She whirled, with the book in her
hand.

It was not Ludwig. It was one of the footmen. It was the
servant Hartmann. She had not seen him for weeks, since
the demented Maximilian had sent him to Koblenz for brushes.
He was looking in through the doorway.

They stared at each other for a long moment. The thought
floated in Maria's mind that neither of them, neither she nor
Hartmann, should be where they were, standing in the study of
the master of the house, as if it were some waiting hall.

Hartmann's eyes had the same, quiet, mournful look that they
always had. He held a plain package, wrapped in brown canvas, in
his hand.

'You must take this with you,' he said softly. 'For your friend.
He must have it as quickly as possible.'

She stared, unbelieving, at the package.

'Yes,' she said. 'Yes, at once.'

It felt very light when he handed it to her.

They left the room together, and she made her way upstairs to
hide it in the folds of one of her dresses, which she then placed
into her trunk. Then she added a few more things, folding them
and placing them around the dress with the package. After a few
minutes she rang for her maid and left her to get on with the
packing, while she made her way downstairs to tell Anna and
Emilia that, on the advice of Cousin Ludwig, they should prepare
to leave as soon as possible the next day.