The Left-Handed God (30 page)

It was not until nearly two o’clock that Stiebel saw a familiar face. It belonged to the same accommodating gentleman who had taken him to the music room in the Mannheim palace. Moritz, that was his name. Stiebel hopped down again and went to meet him with a smile.

“My dear Dr. Stiebel,” Freiherr von Moritz said, shaking his hand warmly. “I had no idea that you were still in our country, let alone here in Schwetzingen.”

Stiebel sighed. “I have been waiting to see the Kurfürst since early this morning. Not so very long as such things go, but I’m an old man, and I confess I’m no longer up to the challenges of court attendance. I was about to declare myself defeated.” It was true. He felt positively lightheaded with exhaustion.

“Well, I’m afraid I cannot be much help. His Highness worked all morning and has now gone to rest a little before this evening’s entertainments. But perhaps you will do me the honor of taking a glass of wine with me and telling me what brings you here?”

Stiebel accepted. They repaired to a small room on the ground floor, furnished as a gentleman’s study with bookcases and a writing table. Here Herr von Moritz produced a bottle and two glasses from behind some books and poured. The port did much to give Stiebel back some of his spirit and determination. He decided that he must trust this man. Moritz had no ties to Elisabeth Augusta and was all old-fashioned courtesy and kindness.

“You’ll be aware,” Stiebel began, “that Baron von Winkelhausen died before my young friend could deliver the son’s letter?”

Moritz nodded. “Yes. I was sorry to hear of the death. He had served His Highness with great loyalty. But you seem to attach some significance to the event?”

“The timing, rather. We arrived the very morning after. That in itself might have been a tragic coincidence if not for the fact that the letter had been stolen and a substitution made. Naturally, this raised our suspicions, especially since both my young friend and I had been attacked and robbed before. Franz is a very honorable soul and had not opened the original letter, but I, being in the legal profession, suspected from the start that this was no ordinary communication. When Franz was nearly killed by a footpad in Lindau and my house was searched, I was afraid that the letter was putting his life in danger. In short, I decided to read it.”

Moritz’s brows shot up. “Did you indeed? And?”

Stiebel shifted uncomfortably and took another sip of port. “I’m rather ashamed of going behind my young friend’s back and breaking a confidence, but you see, there was a reason for us to rush to Mannheim. The son was warning his father about a dastardly plot against His Highness.”

“What? What sort of plot? Who is involved?”

“I wish I knew. Alas, the letter was not at all clear. Captain von Loe used a sort of code, perhaps because he thought his mail might be opened.” Stiebel had the grace to blush. “Whatever he suspected, he did not expect to be murdered for it.”

“I thought he died in battle.”

“No. My young friend saw him get shot. It happened very early, before the troops engaged. He thought the bullet came from our side.”

Herr von Moritz’s face closed. “Forgive me, but this is an extraordinary tale‌—‌if it is true.”

Stiebel felt this comment like a stab to his heart. He gasped a little, then slid from his chair. “I’m afraid you take me for a senile fool, sir‌—‌or worse. It will be best if I give up my endeavors on behalf of your master‌—‌who is not in any case my sovereign but merely a fellow human being‌—‌and concentrate on protecting my young friend instead. I bid you farewell.” He made a slight bow.

Moritz rose. “Wait. I’m sorry if I have offended you, but you, being a lawyer, must surely see that I cannot take this tale to His Highness without proof.”

“Perhaps not, sir. We’re dealing with a very clever murderer. But I have discharged my moral obligation and leave the warning in your hands.” And with that he turned to go.

“Sir,” pleaded Moritz. “Can you not tell me anything else? Anything at all?”

Stiebel paused. “Who among Her Highness’s particular attendants served at Freiberg?”

Stiebel saw thoughts chasing each other on Moritz’s expressive face. “I’m not sure. I think perhaps Eberau did. He’s the theater director and reports to her. But he served directly under General von Meyern, and Meyern withdrew before the battle was over. It caused considerable comment later. I shall enquire about others.”

Stiebel nodded. “Thank you for the port, sir. I wish you well.”

*

Franz went upstairs. After sending for paper and ink, he sat at the small table by the open window and wrote his will to the accompaniment of the violins and flutes of musicians.

It was customary to settle one’s affairs before a duel, though he had little enough to bestow. His simple will left his meager possessions and whatever was still due of his pension to his mother. He enclosed the will in a letter to Stiebel in which he explained the circumstances of the duel and that he did not expect to live. He begged Stiebel’s pardon, asked him to serve as his executor, and then poured out his heart in gratitude for Stiebel’s friendship and in grief that he had proved a disappointment. He wept a little, moved equally by his wasted life and the melting melodies produced by a particularly fine violinist, then added as an afterthought a request to assure his sister Augusta of his brotherly love and his hope that she would be guided by wiser heads than his. These two documents he sealed and left in his
portemanteau
.

A separate note to Stiebel explained that something had happened and he would be late returning. He left the note on the table. It was the truth, after all‌—‌though he did not think he would be back.

Franz dared not stay in case Stiebel returned, but he changed into a clean shirt and combed and retied his hair. Then he put on his sword and his cocked hat and left the inn. The sun had set, and he was uncomfortably aware of a gnawing hunger. How persistently the human body clung to life!

He spent the next hours in the Catholic Church of St. Pankratius, not in worship but in idle speculation about a faith that filled its churches with an abundance of art and beauty, ornamentation, and color until they resembled the palaces of princes. Where was the soul in all of this celebration of the abundance of life? For that matter, how was he to leave all he held dear about his life‌—‌his home, the lake, Stiebel, music, and the love of women‌—‌when all about him touched on the senses? The paintings and statues of Christ and all the saints showed him human beings filled with an excess of life and emotion. The very angels had been transformed into cupids, fat laughing babes with wings, and the mother of Christ was a voluptuous figure in shimmering blue silk.

He heard the clock strike the hours and half hours, saw men and women enter, kneel, and pray, and then leave again, watched the light fade and the windows turn dark. A priest came to light candles on the main altar and in the altar niches on either side. He passed Franz with a nod and a smile. What did he know of agony?

Eventually Franz could not bear it any longer and left to wander about the dark town. Long as the wait was, it was also all too short. The clock struck eleven, the streets grew empty and quiet, and Franz turned his steps toward the summer palace.

18

The Duel

It is easier to be wise for others than for oneself.

La Rochefoucauld,
Maxim
132

S
tiebel’s bitter disappointment translated into activity. He would find Franz and arrange for their passage home on the next coach.

As he passed the theater, the sounds of music and song from within reminded him of the actors. Thinking that perhaps Franz had followed his
inamorata
here, he went in. An Italian opera was being rehearsed. The stage set suggested ancient Rome, and the soldiers wore short tunics, dainty gilded boots, and ostrich feathers on their helmets.

Stiebel took little interest in the performance, but he saw one of the young actors from the inn and approached him.

It appeared that the opera was
Sofonisba
, the tragic tale of the Numidian queen captured by the Romans, and, no, neither the director nor Franz was here. The director had stopped by earlier but left again. The actor thought that Franz might be with the charming Desirée who had not shown up for rehearsals, and then he suddenly recalled that a young woman had arrived by coach, claiming to be the lieutenant’s sister.

“Young Augusta here? In Schwetzingen?” Stiebel was thunderstruck. What could have happened at home? “When did you see her, and where is she now?”

“It was just striking one o’clock, sir. She must’ve got off the coach and walked into the inn. As to where she may be, I don’t know. Herr von Eberau arrived just then and sent us off to rehearsal.”

Stiebel stared at him. “Dear God in heaven, I hope it doesn’t mean what I think it means,” he muttered.

On the stage, Sofonisba drank her cup of poison and collapsed. The orchestra struck up heavy, tragic chords, and the curtain came down.

Stiebel ran nearly all the way to the inn. There he gasped out questions about Augusta but was told that nobody knew anything about her. There might have been a young woman on the coach but she had not asked for lodging.

Filled with anxiety, Stiebel asked where Eberau stayed in Schwetzingen.

The distance seemed farther than Stiebel had thought. He had to rest frequently and developed a painful stitch in his side. The house, when he finally reached it, was shuttered, and there was no answer to his pounding on the door. Stiebel sank down on the steps. He felt ill and confused.

After a short rest, he started back, his feet leaden and his breathing so painful that he almost he despaired of reaching the inn.

*

When Eberau returned to his house, he had hit on the method of having the girl with none being the wiser.

Desirée, looking tempting in her little apron and cap, met him at the door. She reported that his guest was very ill and resting in one of the bedrooms upstairs.

“Excellent,
ma
petite
,” he said with a smile and tweaked Desirée’s cheek.

She narrowed her eyes. “
Elle est très malade
,
M’sieur
.”

“Not too ill for a little sport, I trust,” Eberau said lightly. “Don’t worry, my dear. Your time will come again.” He climbed the stairs briskly.

“M’sieur,
” cried the little actress, “
je vous en prie
. Ze fever! She must see ze doctor.”

Von Eberau paused to look down at her. “Nonsense. She’s young and healthy. Clean in body and mind. And that’s more than I can say for you.” He drew a stoppered brown bottle from his coat pocket. “
Voilà
. I bought some medicine. I have a soft heart for innocence. Tincture of poppies will soothe her pains.” He laughed and continued upstairs.

The girl lay in the bedroom next to his own. He tiptoed to the bed, a narrow one with curtains à la Polonaise but adequate for what he had in mind. She was asleep, deeply flushed, and breathing raggedly. For a moment, he faltered, but he saw that Desirée had helped her undress. She wore only a thin shift. The heat of the fever had caused her to push away the covers. One charming leg lay bared to the middle of her thigh, and her breasts swelled deliciously under the thin lawn of the shift.

He went to lock the door and undressed down to his shirt. Taking the brown bottle, he poured some of the liquid into a wine glass. Then he sat down beside her on the bed, and looked at her. He was very tempted to touch her‌—‌here and there‌—‌lightly so as not to wake her. But safer not. Putting his hand on her shoulder, he shook her gently. “Wake up, my dear. Here’s some medicine to make you feel better.”

Her eyes opened, and she stared up at him. “Mmm…‌who are you?” she muttered, her voice thick.

“I’m your doctor,” he lied, smiling at his jest. “I’m here to ease your suffering and make a new woman out of you. Here, just take a sip of this medicine. I promise you’ll be better in a moment.”

She frowned and looked about. “Where’s Mama? I don’t feel well. Please call Mama.”

“In a moment. Now come, drink this.” He put his arm under her shoulders and lifted her, holding the glass to her lips. She drank a little, than pushed the glass away. “Mama?” she called, her voice louder and filled with panic.

“Ssh!” he said. “People will hear. Come, just another sip.”

“No.” She tried to push him away.

Impatiently, he grasped her firmly and forced the rim of the glass between her lips. She gasped for breath and swallowed the rest of the laudanum. “There,” he said, releasing her, “isn’t that better? Now let me make you comfortable.” He set the empty glass aside and reached down for the hem of her shift. Raising her again to a sitting position, he pulled it up over her head.

She gave a soft cry and struggled against him, but he gloried in feeling her hot, naked body in his arms. Flinging the shift aside, he caught both of her wrists behind her and lifted her so she straddled his lap. Fully aroused by now, he bent to kiss her breasts‌—‌such charming breasts‌—‌when she suddenly vomited all over him.

With a curse, he flung her aside and jumped up. A large, sticky, and malodorous stain dripped down his shirt.

“
Diable
!” he muttered through clenched teeth. His lust evaporated. He glowered at her. “I’ll be back to teach you better manners, my girl. And when I do, you won’t get a soothing draft of laudanum to save you from what I have in mind.” She cowered away from him, her eyes wide and glazed.

He stripped off his stained shirt, dropping it on the floor, then scooped up his other clothes and left, locking the door behind him and taking the key.

Desirée hovered in the dark hallway, staring at his nakedness.

“What do
you
want?” he snapped. “Find me a clean shirt.”

At that moment, the sound of knocking came from the front door. He took a step toward Desirée and clamped his hand over her mouth. “Not a sound,” he hissed.