The Lightstep (34 page)

'So I have learned from the coachman and the maid.
Nevertheless it was very wrong of you, as you know. And do not
proffer us your "fifteen minutes" as if it might excuse what you
have done. It would have been too much, as well you know, even
if the man you called upon were honest. But I have spoken to you
of this one already. He is the basest and most treacherous man in
all the city. One minute in his company is too much. There will
be no more.'

Maria felt herself losing control. 'Indeed, Mother,' she said
with a lift of her chin,'I think you are unjust!'

'That is
quite
what I imagined you would think. I am told you
have spent this morning reading letters from your brother. You
should be ashamed to have touched them, and yet I feel sure
you are not. I can only conclude that you are utterly blind to the
fact that you have disgraced his memory by your association with
that man. Blind, Maria!
I
knew that man was vile the first
moment I saw him. Now Major Lanard has confirmed it to me.'

Lanard? Lanard?

What had he to do with all this? And what could he have said?

'Mother,' she said. 'Lanard and Wéry are enemies after all.'

'Once again you are mistaken. You have no wit in these
matters. Lanard was quite reluctant to oblige me, I assure you. But
I remarked some words that passed between them when they
happened to be in my coach together – and I sought an
explanation. Now he has sent me this.'

She held up what seemed to be a printed pamphlet, folded to
comprise several pages.

'When your father has dismissed you, you will go to your
room and read it. If you want to know who is responsible for
Albrecht's death – who is truly responsible – this will give you
the answers. I wish you then to reflect on what you have done to
your brother's memory. His letters will be removed from your
room until I judge your conduct to be more becoming for his
sake. And you will no longer wear mourning, Maria, for it is plain
that you no longer honour him as you should.'

She looked at Pirenne. Obediently, the maid crossed the room
and took the paper from her hands. Lady Adelsheim turned her
shoulder. Speaking now to the air, she said, 'I can do no more for
you but write to my cousin Rother and arrange your marriage as
soon as possible. August?'

Father gathered himself and frowned into the space before
him.

'Go,' he said.

There was nothing Maria could say. In the icy air she accepted
the paper from Pirenne. She looked her mother in the eyes. She
looked at Franz, who hung his head. She looked at her father, and
then she left them there.

Her feet carried her heavily up the stairs. She was dazed and
miserable. She might have been ready for a confrontation with
her mother. She had almost expected it. But Mother had known
that. That was why she had brought in Father – so that Maria
could not reject her without rejecting Father as well.

And as Maria climbed, she began to understand that her
mother had taken revenge on her in the most wounding way
possible. For Father would not forget, now, that Maria was in
disgrace. She would be reading to him, or talking to him or
sitting with him, and she would see that hurt and puzzled look
cross his face as he remembered, once again, that Maria had done
something that was not to be forgiven. He would not remember
what it was, or when it had happened. But he would remember
that it had. Maybe he would remember for the rest of his life.

Mother had stolen him from her.

No, it was not the late hour. It was not even Wéry. It was
because Mother had sensed that one day, one day soon, Maria
would defy her. That was what had made her do this, using
Father, and Albrecht. And Albrecht, Albrecht, Albrecht – she was
stealing Albrecht's memory too, taking his letters, denying
him to Maria. She was making him into something he hadn't
been.

She was stealing both of them!

When she reached her room, Pirenne was making the bed.
Maria did not speak to her. She could not. She was shaking. Her
fingers gripped the paper in her hand and made it crinkle. She
looked down at it. She did not want to read it. She did not want
to do anything that her mother directed. She wanted to burn it
without looking at it and then to tell Mother what she had done.

The top sheet was headed, in French:
BRABANT HAILS
THE CHAMPIONS OF LIBERTY.

The lower line of the title ran:
A copy of a speech given by
Delegate Wéry of the Revolutionary Club of Brussels to members of the
Jacobin Club in Paris on 11th Nivoise, in Year One of the Revolution.

She read.

Free citizens of France, I, a delegate of Brabant, salute you! We
are your brothers in the struggle for liberty. Like you we have
sought to throw aside the yoke and rid ourselves of the
ancient abuses of those who would be our overlords. In this
we have been inspired by your example, and we are inspired
once again as we take up arms to return to our homeland.

Citizens of France! You are like a light that pours out far
beyond your borders, into every cranny of oppression and
obscurantism. Nowhere is there a country that has not heard
of your doings. Nowhere is there a people that does not yearn
to be free like you . . .

Maria sat down, scarcely aware of what she was doing. She
remembered prints of the revolutionaries making speeches, in
those early days when all the news had seemed to be of excitement
and hope. She could imagine him, speaking in those
crowded rooms with the eyes of Paris on him. But to see his
words! What dreams he must have had – and the chance to realize
them!

. . . there is no space left between the rightful demands of the
people for liberty, and the bayonets of the princes who oppose
it. The choice for you, citizens of France . . .

She turned the page.

In the margin in a hand that she knew as well as her own, her
mother had written one word: WARMONGER.

. . . is of action, to sustain the lights of liberty that glow
beyond your borders, or, if you believe the princes will be
content to leave you undisturbed, of inaction, to see our lights
extinguished and only yours left alone. Which will you
choose?

WARMONGER, barked the word at the side of the page,
written so deep that the pen had dug a black rent in the surface
of the paper.

Citizens of France, I say only this. That my countrymen know
your honour, your spirit, your fraternity. You are our hope.
And that if you choose action, yes, a thousand, perhaps many
thousands may die. But you will work such a great good in
the name of liberty beyond your borders that it will never be
forgotten, but continue, like a river of light down the years
and the generations to come.

Citizens of France, in the name of Brabant, and of all who
love liberty beyond your borders, I thank you.

At the bottom of the page, Mother had written her own
verdict.

Such words have brought more deaths than those of Nero against the
Christians.

Maria put the pamphlet down slowly and stared into space.
She barely saw Pirenne drop her final curtsey and make to leave
the room. She barely heard the soft knock at the door, Pirenne
opening, the low murmur of servants' voices.

Pirenne returned into her line of vision. Expressionless, the
maid went to Maria's dressing table, gathered up the pile of
Albrecht's letters and left the room.

Still Maria stared at nothing. And she thought that all the
world was mad.

If men were not mad from within, like Father, like Franz, then
the world crowded on them and drove them into madness of
another sort, like Maximilian Jürich – and like Michel Wéry. And
Alba had died because of it.

In her mind she saw again the black guilt for his death broken
out and out and passed to thousands and thousands of his
murderers, whose fingers took it in little black crumbs and put it
to their lips, and their lips swallowed it, and it was gone. And one
of them was Michel Wéry.

In a moment she would burn this pamphlet on the low fire in
the grate: a small, useless act of defiance against her mother. But
her heart was already ash.

In mid-January the world learned the Emperor's price for
Mainz. French troops withdrew suddenly from Venice.
Imperial forces moved in to occupy the ancient city and its
territories. The Doge was not restored. After eight hundred years
of independent history Venice was absorbed into the territories of
the Empire. The Venetian republicans, who had overthrown their
oligarchic rulers with French help, were abandoned to the mob
and to the mercy of the Austrians.

Wéry paced to and fro in his room, raging.
Why couldn't they
have learned from what happened to us? Had they really believed that
they would not be betrayed?
There was just one thing to be sure of
in the huge, callous calculations of powers. Whatever they said
about liberty, honour, or generosity, they would act in fear and
selfishness. It had happened in the Lowlands, Italy, Mainz
and Switzerland. Could not the republicans of Venice have seen
it coming to them?

Perhaps they had. Perhaps they had suspected that they too
would be doomed. But they had been trapped, powerless; their
only choice had been to flee or wait helplessly for the end.

In his fury he wept, and bit his hand.

A week later French troops moved into Holland to support a
republican coup. And on the Rhine, twenty leagues upstream
from Mainz, shots were fired and men killed when the French
forces seized a fortress on the west bank opposite Mannheim
from the German militia that held it.

Two days later they invaded the canton of Vaud, after
uprisings there.

But in Erzberg, January passed with no sign of an attack,
except for the constant reports of French cavalry trespassing
freely in neighbouring Hanau and Isenberg, and all the way up to
the border. Wéry cursed, and racked his brains for new ways
to find out what was happening at Wetzlar.

'Here,' said Bergesrode, in one hurried dawn meeting. 'You
had better look at these.'

'These' were a sheaf of papers from the city police. The first
was a report to the effect that Doctor Sorge had been in the city
and had been followed. There was a list of houses at which he had
been received. Wéry scanned down the names. Adelsheim was
among them.

'These are not republicans,' he said shortly. 'These are damned
fools.'

'Is that not always the case? Look at the rest.'

They were copies of letters, all written in the same hand and
signed 'Nestor'. They were addressed to colleagues called
'Memnon' and 'Diogenes', and described the writer's doings in a
number of cities, all with Greek names such as 'Sybaris' and
'Syracuse'. Most of them commented unfavourably on the rulership
of these cities and in particular on the church – yes, clearly,
and despite the classical names, the modern Catholic Church was
meant. One letter contained a report of a continuing attempt to
recruit someone by the codename 'Atlas'. Wéry looked up.

'What are they?' he asked.

'Discarded drafts taken from Sorge's office. It's the Illuminati,
of course. The Bavarians found letters just like these when they
broke Weishaupt's ring.'

'Has he been arrested?'

'Not yet, but he will be. That's not your concern. What I want
to know is when I'm finally going to receive your report on all
this.'

'These far overtake what I had.'

'I thought you would say that. Which leads me to wonder
what it was you did have – if anything. The important question
is whether there's a French hand in it. Don't forget you yourself
told us the Illuminati had a highly-placed agent.'

'Maybe. But we are jumping at shadows.'

Bergesrode slammed his hand down flat upon his desk.

'And what if there's something
in
the shadows? You don't
know until you've looked. So look hard. You've three days – until
the Candlemas Ball!'

Three days? He would hardly be able to achieve much in that
time. Bergesrode was demanding the impossible – again. Wéry
smiled grimly, and looked at the papers once more.

'"Sybaris" is Erzberg, is it?'

'That's what the city police say. But pay no attention to that.

You work it out for yourself, and see if you come to the same
conclusions. And make sure you bring them to me personally and
to
no one
else.'

'If you say so,' said Wéry, conscious of Fernhausen at the further
desk, who was studiously not paying attention to their talk.

'Now, another thing.' Bergesrode picked up what appeared to
be another list of names. A look of exasperation crossed his face.
'You have not replied to your invitation to the Ball. I know you
have been keeping to barracks, but this one you will accept . . .'

'It is shameful of him,' said Lady Adelsheim. 'It is quite shameful.'

'Yes, Mother,' said Maria.

The two women sat opposite one another in the drawing
room of the Adelsheim house in the Saint Emil Quarter, waiting
for Franz, whose cravat had failed Lady Adelsheim's inspection, to
reappear. Then the three of them would take the coach for the
short journey up to the Celesterburg to attend the Ball.
The women's hair was piled high in styles that had taken hours
to prepare, set with jewels and covered in powder. Powder was
thick upon their skin and their great silk ball dresses swathed
out over their seats. There would be no new styles tonight – no
feathers in the hair, no drapes gathered like Roman pillars in
high waists beneath the breasts. Tonight the old order, braced
with hoop and decked with ribbon, would sweep across the
dance floor, perhaps for the very last time.

'He should have decided before this! It has been almost a
month since the War Commission made its judgement. Did he
imagine we would forget?'

'Surely he cannot have done, Mother,' said Maria
automatically.

'Oh, you say so. But I know him. He is a fox, this Prince. He
will hide wherever there is a bolt hole. But tonight we shall dig
him out. Tonight we shall. And then we shall have justice on that
man Balcke-Horneswerden at last.'

'Yes, Mother.'

In the past few weeks Maria had said as little as possible to her
mother, and had agreed with her whenever she could. It did the
least to provoke her and kept the conversations short. She would
not risk another confrontation. It was better to sit with her eyes
down, and loathe her, and pray quietly for the day that she would
die.

'That man should be executed for what he did to Albrecht,'
sighed Lady Adelsheim. 'But I suppose it will just be disgrace.'

'Yes, Mother.'

That particular act of submission cost her nothing. Albrecht
was lost and Mother was a monster. But Maria could at least
agree that the murderous Balcke-Horneswerden should be
punished. He was a part of the world that had done all these
things to her. And the thought of him, still unjudged so long after
Albrecht had died, made losing her brother (the one sane and
good man who had ever lived) even harder to bear.

Now it was her turn to sigh. She was going to a ball – one of
the great balls of the year and her first since she had put off
mourning – and she could go with no sense of joy in her heart.

He was dressing in his office in the barracks and they were calling
him from below.

'Wéry! Hey, Wéry! Are you not ready yet? We're waiting!'

'A moment,' he bellowed in reply. He looked down at his boots.
The shine on the left still plainly did not match that on the right.

'Once more,' he muttered to the valet. 'And quickly!'

The man knelt before him for the fourth time, and busied
himself with his cloth.

Wéry was late. He knew that. The other hussar officers were
impatient. But he could not attend the Ball with his boots in this
state. He wanted to curse the soldier at his feet and tell him to
hurry. But he knew it was his fault and his alone that he had run
out of time. He had spent most of the afternoon over with the
city officer of police, comparing notes on Sorge's list and trying
to identify who really lay behind the Greek and Roman names
the man had used.

'The report's got to go up,' the city officer had kept saying.
'The palace wants it before tonight!'

'Then we'll have to do our best in the time we have,' he had
snapped. 'See here, if "Nestor" stands for Sorge himself, then
"Telemachus" will be a younger man he has entertained – the
younger Löhm possibly. Very good. Now what's this? You think
"Cassandra" is the Lady Adelsheim? What evidence have you for
that?'

'Who else could it be, sir?'

'If we're not sure, we don't say it.' And he had scored it out.

He had done it quickly, and never let the man go back to it.

And he had stayed and stayed, to keep his eye on the report until
the moment it was sealed and sent hotfoot up to the palace, to
make sure that the name was not reinserted.

And so he was here struggling with his boots while his fellow
officers hailed him from downstairs.

'Hey! Wéry!'

'Just finishing!' he answered. He looked down to check
progress. 'It will have to do,' he said.

He remembered to add 'thank you' as he hurried out of the
door.

A crowd of officers were waiting in the common room. The
senior squadron leader leapt to his feet as he came into the room.

'Right,' he said, without looking at Wéry. 'Let's go.'

The officers began to troop out. Uhnen appeared at his elbow.

'Where's the colonel?' asked Wéry.

'He's been up there half the day,' said Uhnen. There was
something cold about his tone. Perhaps it was just that he had not
liked to be kept waiting. 'Some conference or other – no one
knows what. But he sent word that he wanted a full turnout from
his officers. And that we were to make sure you came too.'

'Why?'

'No doubt we'll be told. Come on now. You're riding in my
carriage.'

The barrack square was dark, and crowded with horses and
carriages waiting to take the hussars up to the Celesterburg. They
found Uhnen's and climbed in.

'Thank you,' said Wéry as they closed the door. 'I'm grateful.'

'There's no need,' said Uhnen. 'I wanted to talk to you.'

Still his voice was cold – cold and distant. Wéry eased himself
back in his seat and felt the leather-covered boards press against
his spine. He had barely exchanged a word with Uhnen since his
confinement to the barracks had begun.

Von Uhnen waited until the coach had begun to move,
following the others in a long line of carriages and gigs and
barouches that snaked out of the barrack gate and down the
narrow streets towards the bridges. Then he said, 'You remember
some time ago you asked some of your fellow officers to choose
someone from among them?'

'Yes.'

'I spoke with them. It will be me.'

The carriage rocked and clattered on its way through the
darkness. From the carriage immediately ahead came the sound
of excited laughter. They passed a street lamp. The momentary
glow through the coach window showed Uhnen's face, yellow
and blank-eyed as he looked at Wéry. Then gloom took the inside
of the coach again.

'I am sorry to hear that,' said Wéry slowly.

'Oh, I wanted to do it,' said Uhnen. 'I thought you were a
good fellow. I did not believe it when they first told me about
you. Then I found out that you've also allowed your name to be
linked with that of a young woman whom you should never have
approached or laid eyes on. That's when I realized I was wrong.'

Wéry opened his mouth to protest. Then he shut it again.

They'll close ranks around you, unless you give them a reason not to.
Von Uhnen had a reason now.

'And what do the other hussars think?'

'It's none of their business. And I wouldn't try to hide behind
them.'

'I was not. But I was the aggrieved party. If there is a challenge,
it should come from me.'

'I thought you might say that. Possibly you have forgotten
what was said to you in the coffee-house. If you like, I will
remind you.'

Wéry drew breath.

'No need. If you insist, I . . . I will think about it.'

Von Uhnen said nothing, and in the darkness between the streetlamps
Wéry could not see his face. But the outline of his head and
shoulders was rigid, and the air was iced with his contempt.

'I said I would think about it!' snapped Wéry.

'I heard what you said.'

The rest of the journey was completed in silence.

The Countess was receiving the guests. She was a huge, white skinned
figure in a dress of shining blue silk, and her white hair
was piled massively upon her crown. Maria swept low in her
curtsey. She rose and smiled as she did so.

'How wonderful you look!' cried the Countess, taking her by
the hand. 'It is good to see you in your finery at last. Now my
dear, surely you will dance tonight? Will you try the Lightstep for
me? I remember you dance so well,'

'I shall be delighted, Countess, if it pleases Mother.'

'Pish!' cried Lady Adelsheim. 'One must be wary not of what
one dances but whom once dances with, in my opinion.
Countess, is His Highness not to join us?'

'Oh, there is some tiresome matter that he feels he must deal
with. But I count on him appearing before midnight and have
told him so.'

'Then we may be assured of it.'

In a flicker of the Countess's eye Maria read that her mother
was presuming too far. Fortunately, Franz provided a diversion.
He kicked his feet sullenly and said, 'Mother, can we not go in
now?'

'Ah, and you would part me at once from my dear child,' said
the Countess, still holding Maria by the arm. 'Come, my dear. You
will dance with us. Of course you will.'

'Of course, Countess.'

The fat, white-gloved hand stroked her wrist for a moment.
'There is so much love in me,' she sighed. 'I cannot keep it for just
one. I must share it with all our children.'