The Left-Handed God (20 page)

“Hmmph,” said Stiebel and shifted to the other side of the coach to get a peek at the road ahead.

To distract him, Franz raised the subject of his sister and Seutter again. “I have decided to let the matter slide,” he informed Stiebel, feeling quite magnanimous. “Nothing good can come of making it public.”

The ploy succeeded. Stiebel turned a shocked face to him. “Surely that never crossed your mind?”

Franz flushed. “It did at first. I was very angry. But Mama will see to it that Augusta behaves in the future.”

Stiebel grunted and fell into another lengthy abstraction. The roads improved, and the coach rolled more smoothly and steadily. He finally dozed off until the next post station.

They reached Mannheim late on the third day. Their inn was on the Paradeplatz. Stiebel had sent ahead to arrange for rooms. Franz climbed out first, stiff after sitting for so long. He was helping Stiebel down when a short dapper man in black appeared at their side, bowing over his folded hands.

He had sharp, pale features and wore the small powdered wig lately fashionable among young dandies. Bidding them welcome, he said, “The name’s Reinhard. At your service, gentlemen.” Then he waved over two liveried servants who seized their baggage and carried it in while Stiebel paid off the coachman and tipped the postilion.

The inn resembled a large private house with its comfortable furnishings and handsome paintings on the walls. As usual, Stiebel’s liberality made Franz uncomfortable because he did not know how to repay it.

They signed the guestbook, then followed the servants upstairs. Reinhard skipped ahead, chattering about the fine fall weather and his hopes that their stay would be comfortable. Stiebel climbed slowly, grasping the polished banister and pausing from time to time to catch his breath.

When they reached their rooms‌—‌very handsome adjoining ones with fine beds and more pictures‌—‌Franz said, “You must rest, sir. This journey has tired you out. They can bring us dinner here.”

“Of course,” cried the dapper Reinhard. “Allow me to make the arrangements. I’m sure we can please the gentlemen with the finest dishes the kitchen can provide.”

“No, thank you, Reinhard,” said Stiebel. “Later perhaps. We have an errand first. Would you happen to know where we might find Baron von Winkelhausen at this hour? He’s chamberlain to the Kurfürst, I believe.”

One of the footmen said, “He’ll have an apartment in the palace then.”

“Thank you. Very convenient.” Stiebel pressed some coins into the footmen’s hands and turned to Reinhard to reward him also.

Reinhard accepted the silver piece with a bow, then eyed their clothes. “If you’ll allow me, gentlemen, you’ll need your court suits for a visit to the palace. And your honor,” he said to Stiebel, “may wish to replace the
peruke
. I know a very good man who can bring a selection immediately.”

“What’s wrong with my wig?” demanded Stiebel, patting it. “It was made by the French king’s own
perruquier
.”

Reinhard looked at it. “Was it indeed, sir? Which king was that?”

Stiebel snapped, “Louis XIV, of course. The sun king. It’s exactly like his. And what is it to you anyway?”

Reinhard immediately clasped his hands and bowed. “Your pardon, your honor. Nothing at all, I assure you. Several of the elderly gentlemen still wear the full wig. It does lend an air of dignity. Pray accept my humble apologies.”

Stiebel grunted and looked around for his
portemanteau
. “You can press the clothes in that for tomorrow,” he said. “Today we must go as we are.”

Franz decided the dapper man had a point. Under the fur-trimmed traveling cloak, Stiebel’s brown velvet suit looked dirty and rumpled. “Perhaps,” he suggested, “a good brushing for now?”

“Nothing simpler,” cried Reinhard and dashed off.

Stiebel shook his head. “That footman knows nothing about hair, but he’s very accommodating. You’d better change into your uniform. Here,”‌—‌he delved into an inner pocket of his cloak‌—‌“take the letter. The sooner that’s delivered, the better. I confess, I’ll be very glad to be rid of it.”

Franz took the letter and his own
portemanteau
into the next room. Pouring water from a very handsome pitcher into a very handsome bowl, he washed his hands and face, then combed his hair over his healing scalp wound, and retied the black ribbon of his queue. He changed his shirt and put on his uniform and boots.

When he was dressed, he took up the letter. It was badly creased from the time it had spent in his boot. With a sigh, he put it in the pocket of his coat and returned to Stiebel.

The dapper Reinhard was back, vigorously flicking a brush as Stiebel turned. The sprucing up was deft and expert. Reinhard’s fingers flew from straightening the collar band and ruffling the lace jabot to tucking-up stockings and dusting buckled shoes. He adjusted the wide cuffs and pulled down the skirts of the coat, unbuttoning and re-buttoning to achieve a perfect fit. When he was done, he stepped back to study the effect. “Much better, your honor.”

It
was
much better, and Franz let the clever fellow give his uniform the same attention. Another silver piece passed hands, Reinhard bowed, and they set out for the palace.

Franz had seen little of the city beyond his hospital room and the road to the post station. Now he looked with wonder at the wide paved streets and modern buildings. Mannheim was nothing like Lindau or other cities with their narrow, winding medieval streets. The avenue they were on ran straight as an arrow from the Paradeplatz to the palace gates. All was order and clarity in Mannheim, and at its center was the enormous palace. He remarked on this to Stiebel.

The old man grumbled, “All the princes have a mind to be sun kings. This looks a good deal like Versailles.”

“But where does the money come from? The Kurpfalz is a very small country compared to France. How do they do it?”

Stiebel snorted. “Taxes and debts, I think.”

The palace gates stood wide. Coaches and pedestrians passed in and out between uniformed guards standing at attention. Stiebel headed for the central building.

Franz gaped. Surely Versailles could not be larger. East and west wings embraced an enormous
cour d’honneur
and extended on either side as far as his eye could see. It was dusk, but lights glimmered everywhere, from lanterns on carriages, walls, and doorways, and behind hundreds of large windows. There must be thousands of candles. A fine church stood at one corner, to show that an enlightened ruler could also be a good Christian. It was an impressive and intimidating display of power and faith, and yet, with its lights and pale colors, it was beautiful and welcoming.

“What are all these people doing here at this hour?” Franz asked.

“Some festivity, no doubt.”

The liveried footman at the door looked down his nose. “Baron von Winkelhausen no longer resides here.”

Franz caught sight of the hall, three stories high and entirely of white marble. Oversized marble statues of the elector Karl Theodor and his wife Elisabeth Augusta stood in marble niches, and the shining marble floor was like a sheet of shimmering ice. A massive double staircase, its marble banisters adorned with gilded lanterns and marble
putti
at play, led up to some heavenly realm. Franz’s dazzled eyes took in an enormous ceiling fresco of richly dressed men and women mingling with ancient gods and goddesses. It looked as if the palace roof opened directly onto paradise or Mount Olympus‌—‌he knew not which.

He returned to earth reluctantly. Stiebel was speaking in French to a gentleman in a suit of rich dark blue silk with gold lacing.

Franz’s French was not altogether fluent, but he understood the gentleman to say that Baron von Winkelhausen had retired to his country house in Schwetzingen. He added, “His health has been indifferent since he lost his only son last year. May I be of some assistance? My name is Moritz.”

Stiebel bowed. “Nepomuk Stiebel, privy councilor from Lindau. And this is my friend, Franz von Langsdorff. He served with the baron’s son at Freiberg.”

“Did he indeed? An honor, Lieutenant.” Herr Moritz looked at Franz with interest, taking in his crippled leg and the cane. “If you will both come with me, we shall enquire about the baron’s condition. You arrived for a special court concert. Young Mozart is to perform. Everybody is here tonight.”

They climbed the stairs, slowly, to accommodate Franz’s limp and Stiebel’s age. Franz’s eyes were drawn again to that magnificent ceiling. He was ascending into a realm where humans conversed with gods, perhaps toward an apotheosis. Filled with exhilaration and awe, he wondered if that forbidding-looking gentleman on the next landing was about to pass along some portentous message or warning.

The marble staircase did not lead to paradise or Olympus but to more splendor. They turned down a wide corridor and then passed through a series of beautiful rooms lit by enormous chandeliers and gilded sconces. They walked on glossy parquet floors inlaid with arabesques and across deep carpets adorned with flower garlands. The flower garlands also festooned the walls in gilded stucco, and more gold sparkled from the frames of large oil paintings and the ormolu detailing on furniture. Large mirrors reflected lights of crystal chandeliers, and enormous tapestries depicted tales about the gods.

Franz gazed and gazed, trailing heedlessly behind Stiebel and Moritz. Violins and flutes accompanied their progress, weaving melodies so light and gay that even a cripple might wish to dance. He was floating on an invisible cloud toward some grand destiny.

When a pair of wide doors of gilded ebony opened onto a large gathering of men and women, he was disappointed that they were mere mortals. To be sure, they wore gowns and suits in such colors of rainbows that they took his breath away, and he realized that these were the gods and goddesses of this world, amusing themselves in their Elysian fields.

The women in their low-cut dresses wore flowers and pearls in their powdered hair and at their breasts. Augusta could have made four fine gowns out of their enormous skirts, and they showed far more of their bodies than Augusta did the day he had told her she looked like a whore.

These elegant creatures, these goddesses, sat or stood, moving their fans languidly to the sound of the violin, tapping dainty feet in beribboned shoes to the rhythm of the clavichord, and Franz was besotted by their beauty.

The center of this magnificence was the elector. Karl Theodor sat in a large gilded chair and looked still quite handsome, while his wife, the Electress Elisabeth Augusta, was a matronly figure beside him.

Zeus, the all powerful, and Ceres, the bountiful, Franz thought.

But then his eyes moved on to a beautiful little girl who sat on the elector’s other side, a little princess, twelve at most, but already a
grande
dame
in miniature. Half child, half woman, her perfection seemed unearthly.

But all eyes were on another child, on a little boy, who played the harpsichord like a master. He was so small that someone had placed several hefty tomes on his bench so he could reach the keys. His tiny hands flew back and forth like playful birds, and sometimes he laughed out loud with delight.

When the piece was finished there was great applause, and an older man with a violin stepped forward to announce that “Wolferl” would now play one of his own compositions. The violins and flutes were silent, and the boy played‌—‌so happily and cleverly from memory, that Franz smiled with everyone else.

That, too, was a wondrous thing, for he thought he had forgotten how to smile. Enchanted, his eyes moved back and forth between the talented boy and the young princess.

Perhaps she felt his gaze, because she turned her head and looked at him. Her eyes were cornflower blue and wide with curiosity as they swept over him‌—‌and then she smiled.

Such a smile!

Franz put his hand over his heart and bowed.

At that moment the music stopped. Applause. Movement, and chatter, and she turned away.

Stiebel nudged Franz. “Wake up! Herr von Moritz wishes to introduce us to the baron’s doctor.”

Franz bowed to this Doctor Mai, and then to a Colonel von Rodenstein, a Count Schönborn, and another colonel, whose name escaped him. A small group of men, some in court dress, others in uniform, gathered around them.

“The lieutenant served at Freiberg,” Moritz explained. “He carries a message from poor Captain von Loe to his father. Lieutenant, this is Doctor Mai, who can speak to the baron’s condition.”

The doctor wore a fine dark blue velvet suit and a very elegant lace cravat. He looked sharply at Franz. “I think I must advise against a visit,” he said. “The baron is in poor health and should not be upset.”

Franz’s hatred for doctors flared up. He said stiffly, “Thank you, Doctor, but under the circumstances, I think we must go to see for ourselves.”

Doctor Mai’s face reddened. “Surely you are not so heartless as to trouble a sick man, especially with such a message?”

Stiebel intervened. “We will certainly wait until tomorrow. Perhaps then we may catch the gentleman on one of his better days.”

Rodenstein, tall and somewhat corpulent and with the broad ribbon and diamond-studded order of the White Eagle of Poland on his heavily laced uniform coat, addressed Franz, gesturing at his leg. “
He
was injured during the recent campaign?”

“Yes, sir. At Freiberg.”

“We lost many fine young men there besides von Loe. Why has
he
come to see Loe’s father?”

To be addressed in the third person like those of lower rank was disconcerting, though common enough. Franz said, “I’m the bearer of his son’s letter, sir.”

“In that case,
he
can surely leave it with someone.”

“By your leave, sir, I think I must attempt to deliver it. It…‌it’s a matter of honor. I’ve given my sacred word as a soldier and a gentleman.”

Colonel Rodenstein frowned and turned away. The others were silent.

Stiebel touched Franz’s arm. “Come, we have troubled these gentlemen enough.”