The Left-Handed God (17 page)

The assassin’s hand trembled, and a small amount of wine splattered on his frilled shirt cuff. This, too, looked like blood. “I…‌I…‌you cannot have considered, sir. It would be much too public!” He heard the panic in his voice.

The bushy brows rose, and the smile was gone. “I beg your pardon?”

He sweated and put the glass on the table, clenching his hands together. “Please consider, sir, the crowd of spectators.”

“You surprise me. As a soldier you should know that life is not without a few risks.” The great man laughed. “I dare say it will be much like Freiberg. Guns fire, blood flows, and when it’s all done, there is a winner.”

He knew there would be a great difference. During a royal hunt, those with guns are few, and they are watched by many. Every man with a rifle had several guests and servants beside him.

The great man emptied his glass. “The plans aren’t final. My true purpose for calling you back was to assure myself of your continued loyalty. Her Highness needs all the friends she can find.” He turned cold eyes on the assassin. “You have mismanaged this other business badly, and I had to make sure. You do understand that matters have gone too far for you to withdraw now?”

The assassin cast a frantic glance around the room. He was trapped. What a fool he had been to think he was master of his fate while serving this man’s political ambitions. He was being used just as he had used Max. Gulping down the rest of his wine, he said angrily, “You do me an injustice, sir. I proved my loyalty at Freiberg.”

“Let us not speak of that matter. It was poorly done and dangerous. And you have been paid generously with your current appointment. If you prove more reliable in the future, you may do even better.”

The assassin bowed, deciding against another warning about the dangers of killing a ruling monarch in front of his assembled court. Time would show him a way to extricate himself and emerge victorious. Already his mind turned over possibilities. The reward would be enormous, unimaginable.

The other man became all complacency. “I recently received the privilege of suggesting appointments. Quite often, a title and an appropriate estate accompany such appointments.”

That was more like it. Title and estate would certainly take care of what fate and his parents had denied him. The assassin bowed again. “My felicitations, sir. You will have, as always, my utmost loyalty and support.”

The great man refilled their glasses. “Let us drink to success.”

He raised his glass. “To the glory of
Kurpfalz
!”

*

Franz slept the rest of the day, waking only to find darkness outside his window and silence in the house. He got up to use the chamber pot and drink some water from the pitcher in his room and went back to sleep. The next time he woke, the sun was up and his head felt much better.

The house was quiet. He got up, splashed some water on his face, combed his hair as best he could around the bandage and tied his queue in back with a black silk ribbon. Then he dressed and opened the door to listen. He heard Elsbeth clattering pots around in the kitchen, but otherwise there was no noise. His mother must still be asleep, and perhaps Augusta also.

He felt a little cowardly, because he was going to turn his back on the troubles of his family and go directly to work. Sharing a house with three emotional females was hard on a man. Young Elsbeth was all prying eyes and ears and seemed to follow him about, and while he should be used to his mother’s silliness and hysterics, she still managed to upset him. He found it difficult to show her the respect due a mother. And now even Augusta’s behavior had become quite shocking. She had been such a quiet, sensible girl. What could have possessed her to pay visits to a man like Seutter? And without so much as a maid to lend some respectability? Was she so blinded by wealth that she did not care, that she did not mind Seutter’s age and appearance and‌—‌worse‌—‌his lack of culture?

He tiptoed downstairs and slipped outside, closing the front door softly behind him.

He found Stiebel with the servant from the inn who had just served him his breakfast. Not having expected Franz, the little lawyer insisted on first ordering another breakfast. Then he looked Franz over carefully and asked, “Are you quite sure you are well enough? You still look very pale. Come, take a seat.” He pushed his cup toward Franz. “Have some of my coffee. I’m sure it will set you up in an instant.”

Coffee was a luxury the Langsdorffs had never succumbed to. Feeling the need for clear thinking, Franz accepted gratefully and asked if he might have Dr. Stiebel’s advice in a family matter.

Stiebel’s face grew grave. “My good friend Seutter came to see me yesterday. He was in a very distraught state. If it’s about that, then I think we should wait until after breakfast.”

“The man’s a scoundrel!”

Stiebel said nothing.

“Augusta is not yet seventeen. A child! And he, a man old enough to have fathered both of us, played with her affections and tempted her with his wealth. He may well have ruined her. I say he’s a scoundrel.”

Stiebel sighed. “You forget that I’ve met your sister. She is not a child. She is a young woman. A very charming young woman. Why should not a man fall in love with her? Is love reserved only for the young?
Amor idem omnibus
, says Virgil.”

Franz floundered. He thought of the scene in the garden when Augusta had shocked him by displaying a good deal of bosom. Seutter had seen her nakedness also. No doubt the damage had been done that day. It was disgusting but true that even a man Seutter’s age might lust after her. “Perhaps,” he said, “Augusta has been too careless in her dress, but I’m convinced it was done quite innocently. In fact, I had to have a word with her about it. I’m afraid my mother has not paid sufficient attention while I was away.”

Stiebel looked grave again. “Poor girl. What must she have thought? I trust you have made amends?”

“Amends? She knows how improper their behavior was. To sit alone with a man, allowing him to hold her hand‌—‌and God knows what else‌—‌is surely the height of brazenness.”

They were interrupted by the inn’s servant bringing Franz’s breakfast. Franz had lost his appetite and seethed with impotent anger.

“Eat,” said Stiebel, turning his attention to his own meal.

Franz knew better than to interrupt breakfast. He made an attempt to eat and found that he was hungry after yesterday’s abstinence. They ate silently, Franz turning over in his head the arguments he meant to bring in the Seutter affair. He had just about arranged them cogently when Stiebel removed his napkin, dabbed his mouth and fingers, and leaned back in his chair to regard Franz.

Franz hurried to swallow his last bite. “Sir?”

“This attack on your poor head‌—‌it hasn’t by chance addled your good sense?”

Franz flushed. “Not at all, sir,” he said stiffly. “In fact it seems to have taken away the stutter. I feel quite well and am ready to go to work.”

“As to the stutter, yes, it seems to be gone. An excellent thing, though perhaps it may rather be ascribed to Doctor Mesmer’s treatment. But that is not what I meant. You have confirmed what my friend Seutter told me, and it seems to me that you owe your sister and him apologies.”

“Apologies?” Franz was shocked. Stiebel’s manner reminded him of certain occasions when his father had looked and spoken to him in just such a way. But he had been a boy then, and he was a man now, and the head of his family. “I have certain responsibilities, sir,” he pointed out. “You cannot know what that feels like. You have no family.”

Stiebel was silent. Then he said bleakly, “You’re right. I beg your pardon.” He rose. “Let’s go to work then.”

Franz jumped up and limped after him. “No, I beg
your
pardon, sir. I don’t know what came over me. Perhaps I’m not quite myself yet. I would not for the world have offended you.”

Stiebel stopped. “Well, my boy,” he said, “perhaps I shouldn’t have spoken as I did. Only, being a lonely man, I have long since formed a habit of imagining myself in the shoes of others. In a manner, I try to live their lives for a little while, to see the world through their eyes, to feel their pain and joy, to understand why they act the way they do. It is quite an extraordinary exercise and has occasionally been useful to me in my profession. As you show an interest in the practice of law, you might try it.”

“I shall try, sir.”

“Well, there’s no more to be said, then.” Stiebel turned and disappeared into his office.

Franz stood for a moment, trying to grasp that Stiebel, who only two days ago had been the kindest and most affectionate friend he had ever had, was angry with him when he should have understood. Then he took his wounded self to his own desk.

The morning passed slowly. Franz tried to work but his mind was not on it. He felt the pain of Stiebel’s reproof acutely and blamed his family for it. If they had not created the scene the day before, Stiebel would not have taken against him. And Seutter, no doubt, had represented the situation in a light favorable to himself while blackening Franz’s character.

The lying villain!

Around noon the post came. Since all of it was usually for Stiebel, Franz paid no attention. Perhaps a new case or two would be added to his chores. He did not care.

Suddenly the door of his room flew open, and Stiebel shot in, periwig and coat skirts flying. He waved a letter in his hand. “We have it!” he cried and hopped on a stool next to Franz’s desk. “We know who he is! Wait until you hear.”

Franz blinked. “What?”

“Von Loe, silly boy. Von Loe! How could you forget? The man your letter is addressed to.”

“Oh,” said Franz. “Yes.”

“Listen to this: ‘My dear Nepo,’‌—‌he’s always called me that, ever since we were boys together at the university‌—‌‘my dear Nepo, I am happy to be able to clear up this mystery for your young friend. It is indeed a fascinating tale. Your von Loe is none other than Baron Friedrich von Winkelhausen He is chamberlain to His Most Gracious Highness, the Prince Elector of the Palatinate. Born into the von Loe family of Heidelberg, he still bears that name, along with his new titles. When the court moved from Heidelberg to Mannheim, this branch of the von Loe family moved also.’” Stiebel lowered the letter. “You see? It’s just as I guessed. And he’s a great man.” He glanced at the letter again. “Well, there’s more here but mostly about himself. Now, what will you do?”

“Do?” Franz did not know what to think. The dying captain had been the son of a senior court official. “I suppose,” he said reluctantly, “I shall have to go to Mannheim to deliver the letter.”

Stiebel nodded eagerly. “Of course, you must. It might pertain to a matter of the highest political importance. In fact, it’s most probable that it does. I cannot like what has been happening. Thieves robbed you in Ulm. Someone broke into my chambers. And then someone tried to kill you.” He shook his head. “That attack makes me afraid for you.”

The way the muffled robber had swung his club could have cost him his life if he had not parried with his cane, but Stiebel’s suspicions were outlandish. “Surely he just wanted to steal my money,” Franz said.

“I don’t know. You did say this dying captain seemed desperate. And he told you to be careful. Would he have done that if it was just an ordinary letter?”

“I was going back to the fighting. I’m sure he wanted the letter to reach his father. That’s quite natural. Perhaps it contains his will. Perhaps he had a wife and children.”

“His will. Yes. Possibly.” Stiebel pursed his lips. “It must be very easy to murder a man during a battle,” he mused.

Franz laughed a little. “Oh, being in the legal profession, you make too much of it.” But as he spoke, a memory nagged. When the captain had galloped toward the generals, there had been the sound of a shot, and Franz recalled turning his head toward the woods behind him. Then the rider had fallen and been dragged away by the horse. Why had he turned his head? No shots should have come from their own troops at that time. Another thought crossed his mind. If someone had fired, he could have aimed at one of the generals and hit von Loe by accident. And yes, the captain had said he had been shot in the back‌—‌surely an impossibility if it had been enemy fire. But he must be imagining things.

His face had given away his uneasiness, because Stiebel said, “We will go to Mannheim together. I don’t like the idea of you taking that letter by yourself. And we will be quick about it. I shall hire a chaise for the morning. Meanwhile, keep the matter to yourself. We shall be back within the week. Until then I trust your mother can manage without you.”

11

The Betrothal

As the ancients agree, brother Toby, said my father, that there are two different and distinct kinds of love, according to the different parts which are affected by it‌—‌the Brain or the Liver‌—‌I think when a man is in love, it behoves him a little to consider which of the two he is fallen into.

Laurence Sterne,
Tristram Shandy

U
nlike her brother, Augusta did not sleep. Neither did she eat. Elsbeth knocked on her door later that terrible evening, calling out, “Miss? I brought your supper. Miss? Shall I set it on the floor?”

In a thick voice, Augusta answered, “Take it away. I don’t want it.”

The girl was persistent. “Are you sick, Miss? Shall I go for the doctor?”

Augusta dabbed at her eyes. “No. It’s just a migraine. Please go away.” It was not a migraine, but her head felt stuffy enough after hours of weeping.

Elsbeth left then, reluctantly, no doubt; the girl took the greatest interest in her employers’ private lives. If the scene in the parlor had not been so truly awful, Augusta might have smiled at Elsbeth’s fascination with Franz’s bare legs, but now this interest in Franz seemed prurient. Franz had complained that Elsbeth searched his room in his absence, disturbing his papers, and snooping through his clothing. Such suspicions had never been on Augusta’s mind until her mother and Franz accused her of carrying on a “secret” relationship with Jakob Seutter. Now she felt wretched and unclean.