The Lightstep (4 page)

Mother had not offered her hand. She was looking at the
newcomer as if he were an unexpected diversion, such as an owl
flown in from the woods or a bailiff come to report on a disagreeable
matter from one of the estates. And under her gaze the
man did indeed seem to feel out of place – even flustered.

Of course, thought Maria. This must be the caller whom
Mother had said she would not see. And he had made his way in
despite that! Goodness!

'Madame, I beg your pardon for this intrusion,' said the newcomer,
bowing. He spoke French – native French, and his voice
was surprisingly soft for a man who looked so gaunt. 'I do not
know if my message was correctly reported to you. I am
Capt—'

'It is not an intrusion at all, sir,' said Mother. 'I believe a hussar
is exactly the thing we most wanted at this moment.'

'Madame, I . . .'

'No, come, sir. We are discussing heroism, and hussars are
heroes to a man – or so I am assured. You are a hero I hope, sir?'

'I . . . I am a staff officer, madame,' said the man in surprise.

'No, sir, you will not be modest. I will not allow it. See there,
Baron. A hero stands before you. You should question him.

Demand why it is that Reason, which may make Man a god,
must yet be an encumbrance to any hero of romance or tragedy.'

Again the tall man tried to speak. But he missed his chance
and it was gone.

'No doubt, dear Löhm, you will tell me that, had our heroes
been possessed of more capacity for thought, they should
have been more successful in this wretched war than they were,'
said Lady Adelsheim. 'But to be a hero, these days, is to be a slave
to passion, I believe. It is merely a question of which passion one
is slave to. Which passion are you slave to, Captain? Is it anger? I
declare that you look as if you might be angry. Pray be unheroic
for a moment, Captain, and control it. Maria, you must continue.
I am sure that Icht is most interested.'

The tall man was indeed becoming angry. He had understood
that he was being made a plaything. His cheeks were going
crimson as he stood there.

Why
had
he come?

'Maria?' Mother repeated. 'Are you dreaming, child?'

'
What is it you see?'
Maria read quickly.
'A spirit of the dead?'
And
in the Prince's voice she answered herself,
'Not a spirit of the dead,
but the dreadful spirit of Liberty. Where is the power that . .
.'

'Observe, Baron,' Mother was saying. 'Our hero has perceived
a heroine, and is now rapt in a vision of beauty.'

Maria's tongue stumbled. '
The power that
–
that can hurl it back
into the depths from which it came?'
She was cringing inwardly, for
her own sake and for the sake of the man standing in the doorway.
Really, this was outrageous! What must he think?
'Who will
dare . . .
'

'No, Maria. I believe our hero must now read the Prince, and
you the woman only. Pass him the book. There is not another
copy, I believe. I hope not. It is a most inferior work . . .'

'Madame!'
the man exclaimed.

No one spoke to Mother like that! Maria froze.

She froze in the act of offering the book to the stranger, with
her finger marking the place and her face forming a reassuring
smile. She felt that smile fix itself on her face, as though her
muscles were suddenly a mask that was no longer a part of
her.

'Madame,' said the newcomer tightly. 'I think you will permit
me to tell you that your son is dead.'

'This is impossible.'

Mother did not even seem to pause over his words.

Maria was still looking up at the man, still holding out the
book to him, and trying to smile at him because he and she were
to read aloud together and be teased and criticized for it, and –
and . . .

As if in a dream she could see nothing but his face, his hawklike
profile as he glowered down at Mother. She saw it very
clearly. There was a tiny spot of light reflected where his shining
forehead rounded back to his hairline. She had been going to do
something – say something or give him something – but she
could not remember what. Inside her something was screaming
Alba!
And something was answering:
Impossible.
She felt as if she
had swayed and almost fallen, and had only been saved by the
sound of mother's voice, firm and decided, pushing her back into
balance.

The room restored itself. The world was the same. Icht was still
sitting bolt upright in his chair. Both he and Baron Löhm looked
aghast. Over by the press Müller, the secretary, was on his hands
and knees. He was surrounded by letters that he must have just
let drop on the floor.

'I – wish it were not so,' the man was saying. 'But I must assure
you . . .'

Oh Mother Mary, no! His words were like the opening of a
great, dark pit in the floor, swallowing her and all the house with it.

Surely, no!

Alba!

'You meant my son Albrecht, I suppose,' said Mother.

'I do. And I regret to tell you . . .'

'I had thought it would be some such story,' she said calmly.
'No, it is ridiculous. We have only just had news of him, and he
is well. And now there is no more of this stupid fighting. That is
all. Maria, finish your reading please. Really it is inexcusable that
you have not.'

Maria realized that she was still holding out the book. She
withdrew it. Her finger was on the place, but the lines had no
meaning. Her mind was clinging to her mother's words. It was
not true. Albrecht had sent them a letter. It had reached them
after news of the peace . . .

What had been the date on his letter? Oh saints, please . . .

'Madame,' said the newcomer earnestly. 'I do not know when
your news came to you. But it is my painful duty to tell you that
there was an action on the twenty-third of April against the
enemy . . .'

'Any
news of import would have come to me from either his
servant or his commanding officer,' Mother said, overriding him.
'Either would have informed me instantly, I assure you.'

'I regret, madame, that both his servant and his commanding
officer are also . . .'

'But you change your story, sir! What, has there been a
massacre, now? After the war is over? I do not credit it . . .'

'Madame!' exclaimed the man once again. 'I would not bring
you news that I knew to be false. Least of all news such as
this . . .'

'Again you contradict me, sir,' said Mother wearily. 'Must I
give you lessons in manners, too?'

Manners? thought Maria dazedly. Now?

Mother – let him speak, for God's sake!
Mother would not. She was stopping him, preventing him,
denying him in any way she could. And the man was just saying
the same thing, over and over, because it was the only thing he
could say.

Because it was the truth.

It was true. Alba was dead.

He was dead!

'I suppose this is a prank,' Lady Adelsheim said. 'If so, it is a very
poor one.'

Maria gripped the book, hard.
Mother!
her mind shrieked
Stop
it!

'Mother . . .' she murmured aloud.

'A very poor prank of his. He is always doing such things –
letting us think he is in some trouble and then producing himself
safe and well a few days later.'

'Mother . . .' said Maria again, more urgently.

'My Lady . . .' said the Baron, agonized.

'It is
most
selfish of him!' said Mother, overriding both of
them. 'Indeed it is
nonsense]
I will not listen to it.'

'But you will hear me, please, all the same!' cried the man,
angrily. 'It is my duty to tell you that it is true!'

She stared at him, and he stared back.

'And,' he added more slowly, 'I grieve deeply at it, for while he
lived he counted me a friend.'

Mother's mouth parted in her pale face. 'Ridiculous,' she said
deliberately. 'It is quite ridiculous.'

But now her voice shook as she said it.

'Indeed, Madame,' the man said grimly. 'Quite ridiculous. That
any son of yours should make a friend of me.'

In the horrible, horrible silence he bowed, and turned to
Tieschen.

'I suppose you may now escort me from the house.'

Tieschen hesitated, looking to his mistress for a sign that the
interview was at an end. But the newcomer would wait no
longer. He stalked out of the door and down the corridor towards
the hall.

Mother put her hands on the desk in front of her and looked
at them for a moment. Her head bowed.

Then, abruptly, she was rising from her place, small and
shaking. Maria, released by her movement, was up and reaching
for her. Mother turned up to her a face that was not Mother's,
but like a bad wax image of it, twisted and working with
appalling things. The mouth was open. A series of high sounds
came from it, like the whimpers of a tortured lapdog. Maria
caught her by the sleeves. Icht, murmuring helplessly, tried to
take the other arm. Between them, the creature that was Mother
writhed and began to shriek.

'Tieschen!' called Maria desperately. 'Tieschen!'

Tieschen had gone after the invader. But Müller was there, and
Löhm was there, and neither were any more use than Icht.
Mother screamed and screamed, and tried to push them away.
And Maria clung to her sleeve, with her own heart crumbling
within her, and thought that she would never, ever trust her
mother again.

Wéry stalked down the corridor, raging. His boots clattered on
the flooring and the short, high-pitched cries of the woman were
in his ears.

He had done it badly. They had
made
him do it badly They
had not wanted to hear him. They had sat there, playing games
with him, to prevent him saying what he had come to say,
because if he did not say it, it could not be true.

So he had blurted it out. He had shouted it at them:
He's dead!

What else could he have done?

There was an action on the twenty-third of April.
What did that mean
to a woman whose son had been torn apart by cannon-fire?

They had looked at him as if he had fired the guns himself.

The corridor was very short – far shorter than it had seemed
when he had forced his way down it a few minutes before. The
cries pursued him. Here was the hall, and the foot of the empty
stair. Albrecht had always climbed stairs two at a time. Perhaps
these were the ones on which he had begun, running across the
floor and pounding loudly up them, yelling to the house as he
went. He would never climb these again.

The frock-coated servant had not followed. He must have
been called back by the daughter. No matter. No one was going
to trouble themselves if Wéry let himself out.

But he needed his coat! His hat and gloves, which they had
taken from him at the door! He could hardly go riding off into
the rain without them. There was not a gulden in his purse with
which to replace them.

He was going to have to hover in the hall, like a leper or a
ghoul, until someone who knew what he had said and done in
the house came, tight-lipped, to assist him.

God! Why was it so difficult to come and go in this place?

Opening off the hall was the waiting-parlour. Someone was in
there. He stalked in, and found a servant. The fellow was on his
hands and knees, blowing on a fire he had just kindled in the
hearth. He looked up as Wéry stalked in. His teeth were bared
like a rat's.

'Would you please fetch . . .' Wéry began.

There was another man in the room.

A tall, heavily-built figure had been standing at the window,
looking out at the late, wet afternoon. Now the man turned to
stare at him. His face was lined and fleshy. He wore a white wig,
a long square-cut coat with large elaborate cuffs and a richly embroidered
waistcoat. He glowered at Wéry from under heavy
brows.

Wéry looked into the face of the master of the house.

This was the mysterious Imperial Knight himself, August von
Adelsheim. This was the Prince of this tiny state in the heart
of the Empire. His word was as good as law on the soil of
Adelsheim, and might well be heard in Erzberg, too. And Wéry
had just offended his wife and family as deeply as it was possible
to do.

But . . .

The wig on the great head was slightly askew.

The rich clothes were impeccable, yet the face seemed to have
retreated from them. It was as if they were somehow worn by
some other body, and the mind had nothing to do with it.

Drunk? No, not drunk . . .

There was no surprise on the Knight's face, as he turned and
found a stranger in his house. There were so many strangers, the
eyes said. Some they knew, but hardly remembered from where.
Others they might not know, but that did not mean that they had
not met before.

Wéry stared at the man before him, and the creature of
Empire stared back, and did not understand.

A shrill cry echoed down the library corridor.

'They have killed their King,' said the man sombrely.

'The – the French, sir?' stammered Wéry.

It was more than four years since Louis XVI had gone to the
guillotine.

The man frowned, as though this answer was probably correct
but not what he had been expecting or hoping for.

'Yes,' he said eventually. 'On the cross. They nailed him.'

He bowed his head. A dribble of spit rolled from the corner of
his mouth and down his cheek. He seemed unaware of it.

'It will rain now,' he muttered.

The Knight of Adelsheim was demented. Albrecht had never
told him that.

'I think it is passing, sir,' said Wéry, carefully.

Dear God, just let him get to the door and he would go without
hat, coat or gloves! He would fetch his own horse from the
stables if need be!

The man nodded, and looked at the patterned rug on the
floor. He paid Wéry no more attention. After a moment Wéry
counted himself dismissed, and turned for the door again. But it
was too late.