The Lightstep (35 page)

'Countess,' said Mother, with one more curtsey.

'Of course you must,' said the Countess, and with a broader
smile dismissed them into the room.

'Maria, you should not support her so,' hissed Lady Adelsheim
as they made their way in among the guests.

'Mother,' said Maria wearily. 'She treats all the young women
like that. You know she does.'

'Indeed!' huffed her mother.

With that moment, and to her surprise, Maria began to enjoy
herself. Faces turned towards her and cried out in welcome. Karl
von Uhnen, in his green-and-white hussar uniform, came to beg
a dance off her. Katherina Ölich and Elisabeth Machting-Altstein-Borckstein
sortied from the crowd and surrounded her
with exclamations, telling her that it had been
far
too long since
she had last been out, asking about fashions in the Rhineland and
insisting that she must have been in hiding for a month waiting
for her dresses to be delivered.

'Why no,' said Maria. 'I did not order a single one. But to tell
you the truth, my journey was such a trial to me that I have not
wished to stir abroad until now.'

'Oh, but how
selfish
of you to deprive us of your company!'

'Now, Maria, tell us. Will you dance the Lightstep? And will
you be in our set?'

'Yes, and yes!'

'Oh – and who will you dance it for? Say it isn't for Karl von
Uhnen. I shall be so jealous if it is!'

Maria hesitated. 'As to that,' she said. 'I do not know.'

Standing alone in the gallery, looking down on the crowd, she
saw the long figure of Michel Wéry. She thought his eyes met
hers, and she looked hurriedly away In the last few weeks she had
begun letters to him.
Sir, I have had occasion to read a speech that you
gave to a certain assembly in France, and it has concerned me deeply. I
wish to know . . .
She had torn that one up, and begun again.
Sir,
I have had occasion to read a speech that you gave to a certain assembly
in France, and it has concerned me deeply. I wish you to know . . .
She
had destroyed that one too, burning both it and its predecessor in
her grate and stirring the ashes until they were truly gone.

She did not know what it was she wished him to know. And
as for what she wished to know – that he repented of his words,
that he saw all the cruelty and foolishness of them, that he understood
how the war he had called for had caused so much
suffering, and the death of her brother and his friend the last and
greatest of all its blows – she had no way of asking such questions.

She could not address him at all – not on the page, not in
word, not in so much as a look – without risking gossip and
further confrontations at home.

'You had better decide quickly then,' said Elisabeth. 'They are
about to begin.'

'Ah, ladies!'

It was the First Minister, Gianovi, performing an elaborate
bow over his buckled shoe. The girls bobbed obediently. 'Sir,'
they said.

'Permit me to avail myself of your beauty for a few moments,'
said Gianovi. 'It would be charming for me, for once, to have my
own choice of company, rather than that of every lady or gentleman
who imagines that His Highness will do as they wish me to
tell him to do.'

'Why, sir,' said Elisabeth, giving him her hand. 'If you wish to
escape such attentions, you must go to him and persuade him
to come out himself.'

Gianovi bowed once more. 'Again you overestimate my
influence, my Lady. Although I am sure he will appear as soon as
he may.'

'And what is it that is keeping him?'

'Ah, various things. Internal, external, a matter of justice and
another of order. They all seem to gather into one at the
moment.'

'Sir,' said Elisabeth. 'You are fascinating, although I think you
do not mean to be. What matters are these?'

'Well, if you want to know the truth of it . . .' said Gianovi and
knitted his brows.

'Yes, sir? Yes?'

'Well, I believe your best course would be to go and ask him
yourself.'

'What!'

'Oh no, Lady Elisabeth. You should not be offended. I meant
only that tonight you have a better chance of obtaining what you
seek from him than I. No, do not laugh. I am absolutely
earnest . . .'

'You are a tease, sir. I declare it!'

'. . . But it is the simplest matter for you. You see the doorway
at the end of the gallery? You go down there, three, four doors to
the room where you will find his secretaries. Knock at the inner
door and inform His Highness that his presence is, most
definitely is, required in the ballroom. What effect it will have, I
do not know. But one may only hope.'

Maria smiled. She knew quite well that her mother would
number Gianovi among those that one should not be seen with.
And yet his company was more enlivening than that of anyone of
whom her mother might have approved. (Was it not
always
so?)
Now this bright-eyed, bird-like Italian had Katherina Ölich
giggling so hard that she was in danger of weeping tears down
her powdered cheeks.

At the same time Maria wondered at what he had said to
them. He had a reputation for deviousness. Gianovi must know
quite well what was delaying the Prince. He had rather skilfully
diverted Elisabeth from probing too closely about it.

'I suppose it is army matters,' Maria said. 'His Highness is
forever interested in the army, is he not?'

Gianovi shot her a look and his eyes were blank. 'Lady Maria,
as to that you must ask a soldier – if you will not ask His Highness
himself.'

Again, this proposal that one or all of them should accost the
Prince. But surely he was joking?

'Oh!' cried Elisabeth in a different voice. 'Where are they all –
the soldiers?'

Maria looked around. It was true. A few minutes ago there had
been scores of uniforms mingling in the crowd. Now she could
see a bare half-dozen. Two or three of them were moving swiftly
along the gallery, as if hurrying somewhere. Wéry was still in his
place. But she looked for Karl von Uhnen, and Katherina's
brother Franz Eugen, and others that she knew. They had all
slipped out of sight. The only officers she could see were the very
youngest, cornets and ensigns, standing out like a handful of
saplings in a copse that had been cleared of mature wood.

'I wonder if something is happening,' murmured Elisabeth.

At that moment a liveried footman banged three times on the
floor with a great rod and, as the babble subsided, announced
the Lightstep. The crowd began to part to clear spaces for the
dancers. Maria looked and looked for the soldiers, hoping that
she was mistaken.

She saw one. A huge, white-uniformed figure emerged from
the corridor at the end of the gallery that Gianovi had been
indicating. He glanced down at the throng, and instead of
descending, began to make his way along the gallery, with the
uneven, stumping gait of a man with a false leg. As he passed a
footman he said something and laughed.

Katherina's hand was on Maria's arm. 'We must take our
places,' she was saying.

But Maria was transfixed. A sudden misgiving had seized her.
There was something wrong – something very wrong about the
large man who had looked down on them all from the gallery.

'Sir,' she said to Gianovi. 'Tell me, I beg you. That man up
there. It is not . . . ?'

Gianovi looked up and smiled tightly. 'It is indeed. That is your
Count Balcke-Horneswerden.'

As Maria stared, wordless, at her brother's murderer, he added.
'I believe I did say that certain matters of justice and order have
come together this evening. The reason Count Balcke is in good
humour is that he has been informed that the charges against him
will be dismissed. And they will be, shortly after ten o'clock
tonight.'

Her friends were gone, hurrying away towards the dance floor.
The candles were being lit there. Still she stared up at the man
who made his painful, cheerful way along the gallery.

'It – is most unjust,' she whispered.

'If you are to make your plea,' murmured Gianovi. 'It must be
now – before ten o'clock.'

She heard him distantly, as if his voice had come from far away.
She nodded.

'First I must dance,' she said.

'Officer's conference, sir,' said a young hussar, hurrying past. 'Now.
Down the east corridor, third door on the left. There will be
orders.'

'I've heard,' said Wéry.

He did not move from the gallery rail. Orders – whatever they
were, however urgent – could wait. He wanted to watch the
Lightstep. With all this wretched, useless skulking in the barracks,
he had not had the chance to see it for months.

He had arrived at the ball with a great sense of detachment,
and had gone at once to find a place where he would not be
bothered by anyone. His mind was full of his talk with Uhnen.
He knew he was going to have to issue a challenge. He was going
to have to fight. And he did not want to.

It was his own fault. His own damned fault. If he could only
have kept his temper in the coffee house! But no. His fault went
further back than that. He should never have allowed himself to
be tempted into his bargain with Maria von Adelsheim. He
should never have looked at her. Weakness, always weakness! And
everything he had been doing was a shambles because of it.

No, that was not true either. The latest report had been a good
one – the best he had ever done – even if the prediction of action
in January had been astray. It had been a real blow, at last, against
the enemy he had to fight. But the cost, to himself and to her . . .
Too much? If in the end he lost his life?

He would not try to kill Uhnen. He would shoot wide, if it
came to that. It would give Uhnen every chance of killing him,
if he wished. And he did.
I wanted to do it.
It was not just loyalty
to the army, or outrage at the betrayal of Balcke. Von Uhnen was
jealous – jealous of the man whose name had been coupled in
gossip with Maria von Adelsheim. In every way, she was becoming
his downfall.

And still he waited. After all, it might be the only time he
would see her dance.

She was there, taking her place in the middle set with her
candle in her hand. Because she had arrived after most of the
others, she would be one of those to begin on the outside. It
would be some minutes before her turn. He would wait at least
until she had changed in and out again. The music was beginning.
From up here he would see it all very clearly.

'This is a fine time to be dreaming about women,' said a voice
at his elbow.

It was Balcke-Horneswerden himself. He had been stumping
at his best pace along the gallery towards the east corridor and
had checked at the sight of the officer at the rail.

Wéry drew himself up, conscious of the first swaying movements
of the dance below him. 'Sir,' he said.

'I've called a conference, Wéry,' he said. 'I expect
all
officers of
Captain rank and above to attend. You especially. Come on.'

Reluctantly Wéry forced himself away from the rail. 'What's
happening, sir?'

'I'll tell you if you come with me and speak to no one until
we've got the door closed behind us. It's martial law, starting at
ten o'clock.'

'Martial law!'

The Count grinned bitterly.

'And a heavy fist. I tell you, some of those fine folk down
below will find they don't need their carriages tonight. Come on,
now. There's a new post for you – promotion again. And a
transfer. You'll have no time for daydreams after this.'

Dazed, Wéry followed him down the soft-carpeted corridors
of the palace.

The charges dismissed!
Dismissed!

She danced in a dream, barely seeing the circling women
around her. Her feet moved in time, her hands took the light and
guarded it with care. Her eyes lifted images from the room and
brought them to a mind distracted. She saw her mother making
her way brusquely through the crowd. She saw Canon Rother
and Baron Löhm conferring among a group of their hangers-on.
They had heard the news. They must have been planning to
confront the Prince as soon as he appeared, anticipating victory.
Now they would be debating whether to press their attack or to
withdraw at once. But they had not listened to Gianovi. Before
ten o'clock, he had said. And she – she, Maria Adelsheim, must
go to him. Against these old practitioners of intrigue the Prince
would be armoured. He would be expecting them. He would
not be expecting her.

She danced, with her face pale, and the ghost of her brother at
her shoulder.

She would go. She knew it with certainty. The clock at the end
of the ball room showed twenty minutes past nine. It moved
slowly. It barely seemed to move at all. The dance went on and
on, in and out and round and round. She knew every figure.
Everyone around her was smiling. What was there to smile about?
No one should be smiling at a time like this.

Now they were in the final pattern. She parted with one
candle, placed both hands on the other, and followed the line –
two-three and one-two-three and a final one-two-three and
up
to make the crown of lights above the group. The music ended.
The crowd applauded. Maria brought her candle down, and
looked at it. Then she blew it out.

'Oh, Maria!' cried someone. 'Why did you do that? Didn't you
want him after all?'

'He's dead,' she said absently, and gave her candle to the footman.
Then she slipped away into the crowd.

They knew. They all knew something was happening. She
passed someone who was talking hurriedly and low about something
the soldiers were doing. Another man was saying to his wife
that they should go home, and his wife was protesting that it was
impossible to leave before His Highness appeared. She threaded
her way onwards. Her feet carried her up the red-carpeted stairs
to the gallery. Wéry, she saw, had gone from his place. She was
glad, because she did not want to talk to him now. The door to
the west corridor was open and shadowed like a cave. There was
a footman standing by it.

'Are you lost, my Lady?' he asked. 'May I help?'

'No,' she said, and walked past him with her head high.

Down the long corridor she went, moving in a rustle of silks
that grew louder and louder as the babble of the ballroom was left
behind. The air was cooler here, away from the lights and the press
of bodies. She felt it on her skin. Her breath was coming in quick
gasps. She tried to steady herself. It was important, very important,
that she did not think too much about what she was doing.

It was the fourth door, Gianovi had said. The door was tall and
dark and, unlike the others in that corridor, it was slightly ajar.
There was a light burning inside. There were secretaries in there.
How was she to pass the secretaries? She raised her fist to knock,
then withdrew it. A distant memory dropped into her mind, of
old Tieschen at Adelsheim, begging to explain that it had not
been his fault that Wéry had tricked him.

Instead of knocking, she pushed the door violently open and
leaned on the doorpost, breathing hard as though she had been
running.

'Help!' she gasped.

There was only one secretary in the room. It was Adhelmar
Fernhausen-Loos, whom she knew slightly. That was good.

He was staring at her, pen in hand.

'The First Minister!' she exclaimed. 'I think he's having a fit!'

'What!'

'He's in the ballroom! He's saying the most dreadful things!'

'What's he saying?'

She waved her arms helplessly. 'About the Prince. About the
army! I thought he was only angry to begin with, but he's sick!
You must come quickly.' She spoke urgently and low as if to
conspire. And she spoke with all the force of her will, knowing
that if she believed it enough Gianovi would be there, reeling and
spouting the Prince's darkest secrets among the horrified crowds
on the floor of the ballroom.

Fernhausen snatched a watch from his desktop and peered at
it.
'Damn!'
He leapt to his feet. 'Who is down there?'

'No one!' she hissed helplessly. 'They've all gone somewhere!'

'The old . . .! He's doing it deliberately! There'll be the
devil to pay for this!' He hurried round the desk and out into
the corridor. He looked left and right. There was no one there.

'Come on!' she exclaimed, picking up her skirts and beginning
to stride down the corridor. He caught her sense of panic, went
with her, and in a few paces was ahead. She started to run. He
ran, too.

She let him get a little further ahead, then turned back as
silently as she could and slipped through into the empty
antechamber. In a moment, just a few moments, he would realize
what had happened. She crossed the antechamber quickly. The
door to the inner chamber was shut. She turned the handle without
knocking and went straight in.

For the first time in her life she stood in the office of the
Prince-Bishop. She had an immediate sense of space – great
space, in dark blues and golds, stretching away far beyond the
walls and up above the high ceiling. Vast, winged figures hung
there, shadowy in the dim light. There were curling drapes and
naked torsos. Saints in gleaming haloes pointed upwards, up to
the very crown of the ceiling where, in a dull sunburst, a figure
sat among battlements upon a high throne. And many eyes were
on her, from above, from all around. They brought a verse from
the Scriptures leaping to her mind.
So great a cloud of witnesses
surrounds us . .
. Was this what the writer had meant?

Out in the corridor a man was running. Fernhausen had realized
he had been tricked. She dragged her thoughts from the
paintings and looked at the man at the desk. He had risen from
his seat. He was watching her with a bemused expression.

'An unexpected assassin,' he said mildly. 'Or am I mistaken?'

She had never seen him like this. He was not wearing his
wig. His hair was short, black and grey, and his head was very
round. His cheeks and eye bags were heavy semi-circles of flesh,
and there was stubble on his chin. If ever he had been planning
to attend the ball that night, he must have changed his mind. He
wore no powder, no doublet, no finery. His shirt was rumpled.
His skin had a yellow hue in the light of the lamp on his desk.
He looked very tired.

One hand was out of sight, in a drawer of his desk.

'I am no assassin, Godfather,' she said evenly. 'And I beg your
pardon for my intrusion. I have come to ask for justice in the
name of your godson, my brother.'

Steps sounded in the antechamber. Fernhausen appeared at the
door, angry and flustered. She ignored him.

Very slowly the Prince-Bishop of Erzberg closed his drawer
and resumed his seat.

'It is Maria, isn't it? And your brother was Albrecht von
Adelsheim. He was a very fine young man. What justice may I do
him?'

'That you act on the charges laid against his commanding
officer by the Inquisitor of Erzberg.'

'Yes, I see. Of course it is very important to you that the officer
in question should be punished. And that is why you have chosen
this moment to come rushing up to see me?'

'I had heard, sir, that the charges against Count Balcke-Horneswerden
are to be dismissed.'

He nodded wearily. 'That is true.'

'May I ask why, Godfather?' She could not keep her voice
from shaking.

'Ah. That is the question that at the moment I do not feel I
can . . .'

'Your Highness!' broke in Fernhausen.

The Prince glanced at him, sourly.

'I beg your pardon, Highness,' said Fernhausen, looking pale.
'I – I had not intended that you should be interrupted so.
But I believe you would think it wrong of me if I did not now
inform you that the courier whom the dragoons rescued in the
incident was none other than Lady Maria von Adelsheim.'

The Prince's eyes swung back upon Maria.

'Truthfully? I had no notion. Not the slightest. Well . . .' he
paused and looked down at his papers, as if debating something
with himself. 'You place me yet deeper in debt to your house.
Very well. Perhaps in that case it is right that I . . .'

Instead of finishing his sentence, he picked a broad, buff coloured
sheet from his desk and peered at it in the light of the
candle.

'This unprovoked and murderous excursion
. . .' he read. 'Mark
how they will not admit they were on our territory . . .
demonstrates beyond all doubt that you persist in your hostile and
malicious intent towards the Republic of France, despite all our patience
and forbearance. Under these circumstances, the Republic has no option
but to insist upon the following conditions for a lasting peace. That you
shall . . .
Well, I do not think I need go into their terms in detail.
It is signed by their General Augereau, and was delivered this
morning. You will see that, notwithstanding what has gone
before, it is difficult to part at this moment with the most senior
and experienced officer left to Erzberg.'

'I – hardly understand you, Godfather. Are you saying something
has happened because of me?'

He frowned, thoughtfully. 'I did not mean so. I think it is no
more about you than it was ever about my unfortunate godson
d'Erles. No, I suppose it is, and always has been, largely because
of me. They know well that I hold their revolution to be among
the worst things men have invented and that, peace or war, I feel
it my duty to oppose them as I may. So now they mean to be rid
of me.'

'And what will you do?'

'I must surrender the city. Or I must strengthen myself in
every way I can, and appeal for help to the Emperor. What would
you have me do?'

It sounded – surely it could not be, but it sounded as though
he truly wanted her advice. She hesitated. Huge things, finely
poised, seemed to be revolving around her. She could put out her
hand and change them, if she chose. But to what? To what? The
eyes of the painted witnesses were on her, like a pressure in her
skull.

'It would be easier,' he said, 'if we knew the consequences of
our choices before we made them. We cannot. But you at least
have been in the Rhineland. Tell me. Should I surrender the
city?'

Memories tumbled in her mind, hopeless and incoherent. The
Liberty Tree. The litter of pigs in hiding. The face of Madame
Kaus. The face of Emilia, as the soldiers roared at her man in his
study.

'Sir,' she said, agonized. 'I – I do not believe I can advise you.'

He sighed. 'I am sure that is a wise answer. It is not your
choice, and I do wrong to lay it on you. In any case . . .' he
glanced to a long-case clock, decorated with angels, which stood
in the shadows by the door. The hands stood very close to ten
o'clock.

'Now, I have been frank with you,' he said. 'I hope you 'will be
frank with me. Who was it you were talking to, before you came
up here?'

She hesitated. But indeed he had been frank, even if he had
given her nothing she wanted.

'My choice to come to you was my own,' she said. 'And if I
have done wrong, may it be upon me. But the man I was speaking
with was your First Minister.'

'My Italian fox. I suppose he meant to remind me of the costs
of the choice I have made, just as he did with poor d'Erles. And
now . . .' His voice trailed off, and he turned his eyes to the clock
once more.

He had misjudged it. The pendulum ticked and ticked
reproachfully. They waited, listening to each second as it slipped
like a last chance beyond their reach. Then the mechanism
whirred and the light, bright chimes sang in the shadows of
Heaven.

'I think you should go back to your mother,' the Prince said.
'Tell her, if she will listen, that I too grieve for Albrecht. But
whatever you say, see that she goes home. Evidence of a
conspiracy has been laid before me, and I must pursue it. I fear
some of my guests will be inconvenienced tonight. However, so
long as she comports herself properly, she will not be one of
them. She will not be impeded. Somebody among my servants
seems to have protected her. I am glad, for otherwise I should
have had to do so myself.'

There seemed to be nothing more that could be said. She
dropped into a slow curtsey, and left the painted room.
Fernhausen pulled the door shut behind her.

'I am sorry,' she said to him. 'It was wrong of me.'

'It doesn't matter,' he said curtly.

But he still came to the door of the outer chamber to watch
her make the long walk down the corridor to the gallery.

There were armed guards at the end of the corridor now,
where the servant had stood earlier. And down in the shocked
and murmuring ballroom, the first arrests were beginning.