The Lightstep (5 page)

Crossing the hallway in a rustle of skirts was the young woman
who had been reading aloud in the library. The little frock-coated
servant was at her elbow. She stopped in the doorway when she
saw Wéry. Then she looked past him to the man at the window.

'Father!' she cried. The man mumbled.

The daughter glared suddenly at Wéry. 'You have not told
him, too!' she exclaimed.

Wéry bowed. 'I have not.'

She did not seem mollified. Again, she spoke past him. 'Father.
Please would you come? Mother needs you.'

The Knight frowned, and mumbled again. The girl swept past
Wéry and took her father by the arm.

'Please come, Father. It is – it is very important.'

The man growled, but allowed himself to be led to the door.
Wéry backed away to make room for them, and bumped against
a chair. They ignored him. But again the daughter stopped, as
though she had remembered something. She looked back at
Wéry.

'Would you forgive us, sir?' she said. 'For a few moments. I
should like to speak with you.'

Wéry, aching to be gone from the house, could only bow once
more.

And she left, shepherding her father along by the arm, down
corridors that echoed to a woman's grief.

He paced wretchedly up and down. He was grateful for the
fire, which the servant had made up for the master of the
house before both had been called away. But otherwise there was
nothing to recommend that little room. The carpet and wallpaper,
the elderly chairs and settee, were all shades of pale green,
which seemed almost grey in the light of the window. Everything
was dusted and clean up to the height that a man could reach, but
above that smudges appeared on the wall and cobwebs hung in
the corners of the ceiling. There were cracks in the ceiling plaster,
high above his head.

He paced, aware of these things, but aware above all of the fine
features of his friend in the portrait, smiling down on him. The
hand of the artist had diminished the stomach to a gentle curve:
flattering, for Albrecht had been definitely fat ('plump as an
onion', as he himself had said). And the skin was unnaturally
white, Wéry thought – almost as white as the uniform, as if the
artist had had some premonition of the man's death. But the eyes
were still alive. Tolerant and amused, they followed him around
the room: him, the man who had wrecked this home.

'Father has a good heart, and mother a great wit. I declare it
must be impossible to combine such virtues in the same measure into one
person. There would not be room! And Franz is a dear, and Maria
delightful. Tell me, Michel, was there ever anyone more blessed than I?'

Voices passed in the hall, sighing, 'Such a want of sympathy!
Shameful, that you should have been told in such a manner!'
Outside, a carriage was at the door. The little round man in black,
the Baron, was taking his leave. 'My sincere condolences . . . a
dreadful loss . . . Really it is a tragedy that the finest should be
taken . . . 'The answering murmur must have been the daughter's
voice. He heard them pass through the door, saw through the
window the carriage drive away, and heard again the daughter's
footsteps as she returned to the house. He thought she would
come into the room now, but voices called her from up the stairs,
and she answered and went after them.

He was left waiting, like a dog in its kennel.

Damn it!

His hand clenched in a fist before him. Then he swore.
Such a
want of sympathy! Shameful!
God damn it! Aristocrats!

Albrecht was dead. And with Albrecht dead it was more
obvious than ever what the rest of them were. Privileged, undeserving,
mincing,
blind!
Blind to their faults; blind even to the
end that stared them in the face! The world was changing, and
they did not know it. They were finished, and yet they tutted
about
sympathy!

And he was shackled to them. Yes, like a dog. A dog that was
useful, so long as it did not think to bark for itself!

From the portrait the mocking eyes looked down on him.

'Hey, Michel! Old Blinkers wants to see you. I think he's decided to
like you. He says any man who can be that rude to his face must have
something honest about him. He's got ideas for you – things you might
do for us, if you're willing. And he's going to write to the Prince and have
him offer you a commission – a commission, mind you – in the glorious
regiments of Erzberg. You must take it, Michel! It will be rare fun to have
a rebel and a democrat in our ranks. The more we can get, the better, I
say.'

A rebel and a democrat. Something in Albrecht had
transcended all politics, so that it had been possible to like and
respect – even love – a man who should have been an enemy.
Now the man was lost; and he was a dog; and his leash was held
by men with hearts as corrupt as a row of month-old corpses.

God damn, damn, damn,
damn! Damn them all to hell!

A voice sobbed. It was his. He shook his fists, not knowing
what he was doing. He jammed his right hand into his mouth
and bit upon it. He bit hard, hard to make the pain come.
Something gave, and there was blood on his tongue. Warm,
salty . . .

He drew a long, shaky breath, and looked at what he had
done. The marks of his teeth were livid, white and red. He
had broken the skin in two places, below the first finger joint and
at the base of the thumb. Blood, bright red and fresh, was
beginning to trickle across his hand. It hurt.

Stupid. But . . .

On the blotched skin there were the other, older marks, dull
and pale beside the new wounds. The same teeth, the same rage.
Different causes, and so many of them to do with his own
failures. He could no longer remember which he had done
when. There had been the time he had heard that the French had
fired on crowds in Brussels; the time he had heard of the
annexation; the time when, drunk on the Rhine, he had remembered
his own words in Paris. The white scars overlapped one
another, blending into one, gnawing rage.

Wéry knew himself to be sane. He knew that aristocracy must
be destroyed. The Catholic Church, as it was constituted, must be
destroyed. But the French republic had to be destroyed first, and
most completely of all. If it could not be destroyed, it must be
opposed and opposed and opposed, with every weapon available.
It must be opposed because of the tyrannies it had set up in the
Lowlands, and now in the Rhineland, which had so corrupted
the republican causes there that the people would welcome their
former imperial overlords in relief if the Empire were ever able
to return. It must be opposed because so long as it existed, with
its string of crimes around its neck, all the old order of Europe –
all these mincing aristocrats with their manners and quarterings
– might point to it and say,'See
what comes of democracy!'

Agh!

That was why he fought for the powers that had once been
his enemies. Only when the slate was wiped clean could their fate
be considered again.

He knew himself to be sane, but he could explain himself to
no one. Even Albrecht had laughed at him gently And so many
times he had drawn his own blood, since the first night that he
had bitten his hand and wept in the winey cellars of Paris.

Stupid!

What passion are you slave to, Captain?

He was bleeding now. If he was not quick he would leave
stains on the carpet, on top of everything else he had done. His
handkerchief was not the cleanest, but . . .

He was still trying to knot it one-handed when he heard a step
and the rustle of skirts approaching again. The door opened. The
sister of Albrecht entered the room. Quickly he hid hand behind his
back, keeping the rag in place with his thumb, and bowed. As he did
so a voice somewhere in the house called,'Maria!'

'Sir,' she said to him. 'I beg you to forgive me for my delay.'

She offered him her hand.

He hesitated. Of course he must take her hand with his right,
and his right was bleeding, wrapped in a dirty handkerchief
behind his back.

She saw his hesitation and frowned.

Cursing to himself, he snatched at her hand with his left and
bowed over it awkwardly, as if he were unschooled and performing
the courtesy for the first time. He straightened in time to
catch the look that flickered across her face. And his anger rose in
him again, like vomit. God
damn
all aristocrats!

In the corridors someone was still calling 'Maria', but she
ignored it. She nodded to him to sit, and they settled opposite
one another before the fire.

'I regret, sir,' she said, 'that we have not treated you with the
courtesy that we should have done.'

'For my part,' he replied gruffly, 'I regret what I have had to
tell you. I also regret that I – was not permitted to give you the
news in a manner more fitting.'

'It was unfortunate, sir,' she said.

(Unfortunate! And that little frown at his words 'I was not
permitted'!)

'Unfortunate indeed,' he said, his tone hardening. 'Although –
if you wish to treat me with courtesy – perhaps I should say that
I prefer not to be called "Sir". "Captain" will do.'

If they would be aristocrats, then he would be a revolutionary.
And in Paris no one called another
Monsieur
now.

Her eyes widened. She was astonished – astonished, and also
angry. And still she did not understand, because she never could.
She would imagine that she had offered him a courtesy, and the
chance to start again as if that ugly scene in the library had never
happened. Now he had flung it in her face.

'Sir,'
she said deliberately. 'I believe

And then she hesitated, with her colour rising and her tongue
lost for words. He glared at her, daring her to rebuke him. The
thought niggled at him that perhaps he had gone too far. Perhaps
he had. But he would not show it. And in a few moments,
now, he would be leaving. He would take his hat, cloak, gloves
and be gone; and he would never look back.

'Sir,' she began again. 'I think it is the custom, in any house or
place . . .'

But she had to break off again, dropping her eyes and tightening
her jaw in frustration. For with another plaintive cry of
'Maria' the caller from the corridors shambled in to join them.

He was a young man, perhaps a few years older than either
Albrecht or his sister, with the same fine face that Wéry was
coming to associate with Adelsheim. He wore a fashionable coat
of dark blue buttoned down to his waist, complemented by
yellow trousers and a white open-necked shirt. Oblivious to the
anger around him, he leaned on the mantelpiece. His face was a
picture of woe.

'She doesn't like me any more,' he said to the flames.

His sister glanced up at him and sighed. 'She is upset, Franz,'
she said. And looking at Wéry she added,'I believe we all are.'

Surprised, Wéry swallowed. He managed a curt nod in reply.
Then he remembered to rise to his feet, out of courtesy to the
newcomer.

The man's face had fallen further, as if he had just remembered
why everyone was miserable today. 'I want to go riding,' he said.

Riding? thought Wéry.

'It will be dark soon, Franz,' said his sister.

'But I want to go riding!' said the man, kicking at the fender.

I want. I want. This must be Franz, the older brother, the heir
to the Knight. And with his brother dead, and his mother in
hysterics, he could do no more than march in on his sister and
say
I want,
as if he were a child!

Indeed, Wéry saw, he was very much a child, although in an
adult's body. Like his father, he must be afflicted in his mind.
Father has a good heart . . . Franz is a dear.
Albrecht had never said
that his family had an inherited condition. In all the words he had
let fall, in all his dreamy fondness for his house and family, he
had never spoken of this. And yet his brother was a poor, stupid
fellow who at this moment could no more grasp the thoughts or
feelings of those around him than – than . . .

. . . than he himself, Michel Wéry, who was so wrapped in
himself that he could be rude to a family that had lost its last sane
son?

The thought hit him so hard that he grunted aloud.

'You should not ride in the dark,' the sister was saying. 'It is not
safe. And the horses have been ridden today already. But – but
why not go down to the stable anyway, and talk to them? They
will like that, won't they?'

Misery sat on Franz's face.

'They will like to see you, Franz,' she said, coaxing.

He frowned, and curled his lower lip. 'Can I go now?'

'So long as the stable-boy is there with you. You know that,
don't you?'

'Yes,' said Franz. 'Yes. And can I have Dominus? Alba won't
want him any more, will he?'

'Oh Franz . . .'

Dominus,Wéry realized, would be Albrecht's horse.

'I'm – I'm sure you can, Franz. We'll speak to Mother when
she is feeling better, shall we? Now
do
go and see they are all
right.'

'Yes, yes.'

The heir of Adelsheim left at last. His feet clattered across the
hall, suddenly eager at the thought of a new horse. He had never
even looked at Wéry, standing beside him in the room.

There was silence as Wéry lowered himself into his seat.

'Lady Maria,' he said formally. 'I must beg your pardon. I have
spoken very badly today. I – I do not know what is the matter
with me.'

(Dear God! What kind of man behaved as he had done when
bringing news of a death to a house? He could scarcely have been
more offensive – or more ridiculous – if he had started to sing
the
Marseillaise!)

She sighed. 'You have hurt your hand,' she said.

He looked down. He was still holding the handkerchief
around it, pinning it into place with his thumb. A trickle of blood
had escaped the inefficient bandage and run down one finger.

'It is nothing,' he said, embarrassed.

'You must show me.'

He almost put his hand behind his back again. But after what
had passed between them, he could not refuse. He held it out, and
allowed her to remove the handkerchief. His skin throbbed
and felt hot, and the touch of her fingers was cool as she turned
his wrist gently to see what he had done.

The bite-marks were plain. There was no disguising what they
were.

'Why did you do this?' she murmured.

'I – was upset. As you said.'

'With Mother?'

'No. Well, yes. But also with myself, you see. I . . .'

Someone was crossing the hall. She looked up.

'Hans!' she called.

The rat-faced servant, caught as he hurried from somewhere
to somewhere else about the house, looked in through the door.

'The gentleman has hurt himself,' she said. 'Please bring water
and a clean bandage.'

The man Hans hurried away to juggle this with whatever
other errand he had been sent on.

She released his hand. He grimaced. 'I am not normally this
stupid,' he said.