Lady Adelsheim, Maria and Franz were in Adelsheim to receive Albrecht's body when it arrived. They remained there for the summer. But in September, when most noble families moved from their estates to the city once more, they did the same. In Erzberg, the season was beginning.
The season was beginning, but Maria was not to dance. She was not to look gay. She was not to join her friends in the ballroom. She was to sit demurely in the salons and drawing rooms, let the society of Erzberg see her, and let them remember that Albrecht had been lost. There would be no picnics or soirees or trips to the theatre. Her marriage to young Julius Rother-Konisrat was postponed until the spring. Mourning for her brother, Lady Adelsheim said, was more important than all these things.
And day after day, she must wear black.
Do not pout, Maria. It is the least you can do for him. Be thankful after all that you did not love him as I did.
Lady Adelsheim still admitted poets and philosophers to her house in the Saint Emil quarter. But other notables of Erzberg came more often, especially her cousin Canon Rother-Konisrat and his hangers-on. And they shook their heads and spoke in low voices in the intervals between music being played or poetry read to the room.
'How sad the times are! Oh, nothing can equal your loss, my dear. But did you know Lady Reisecken has also . . .'
'. . . Did you see d'Erles and his émigré friends at the Canon's soiree yesterday? I swear that half of them were drunk before they arrived! Fresh from some gambling-house, I suppose. I imagine they had left this one in ruins, too . . .'
'Really, it is shameful, after we have suffered for them . . .'
'. . . Oh, the Prince is quite persuaded that I must have my lease,' said Lady Jenz-Hohenwitz. 'He has said so. But the palace never produces it. I believe that villain Gianovi is to blame. It is impossible to trust Italians.'
'Indeed,' Mother said. 'Oh, indeed. Who could possibly trust an Italian with the running of the state?'
'Oh, Constanze. Really!'
'My dear, I have only repeated what you said . . .'
Not even Mother would criticize the Prince aloud. It was always easier and safer to speak against the army, or against the foreign-born First Minister. But Lady Adelsheim would not let the others forget that behind all the organs of the little state stood the one man who was responsible for them all, and whom she blamed most for the death of her son.
The Saint Emil quarter had been built within the last hundred years. The streets were all paved, and the houses were broad-fronted, broad-windowed, and most stood apart from one another with small gardens about them. The Adelsheim house, which had come into the family with Lady Adelsheim's marriage, was decorated with busts of classic figures, reliefs and elaborate lintels above each window. On the lowest floor were the working rooms. On the first, reached by steps from the street, were the main reception rooms. Above these were the main bedrooms, and also Lady Adelsheim's study, and the little room on the other side of the landing which served as a library. The library was walled with bookcases that rose from floor to ceiling, and the bookcases were crammed with leather-bound volumes, most of which had been bought by Lady Adelsheim from the incomes settled on her by the Rother family. There was little colour in the room to relieve the relentless browns of the book-spines, and if it had not been for the big, square, six-paned window it would have been a dark place indeed. The only pieces of furniture in the room were a chair and a settee, and only on the settee, placed under the window, was it possible to read without a light.
Maria was on the settee, and in a state of rebellion.
To 'improve her mind' that morning, Mother had given her the house copy of Kant's Perpetual Peace. Maria had leafed through it, and found that it was a short, dry work, full of prescriptions for a world without war. It was exactly the sort of thing that interested Mother these days. It was exactly the sort of thing that did not interest Maria.
Maria did not want a world without war. She wanted Albrecht back. If she could not have Albrecht back, she did not want anything. Most certainly she did not want Kant, whom Mother called 'The Sage of Königsberg'. Maria half-remembered that there had been a time when it had been supposed that Kant would meet with the Frenchman Sieyès, and that between them the two great thinkers would resolve the differences between their peoples. But no meeting had happened. Perhaps the two men had sensed that no resolution was possible. Perhaps they, too, had swallowed their crumbs of guilt for Alba's death.
She was wondering whether she was ready to read his letters again.
He had written to her many times in the years when they were parted. She had saved every letter, carrying them with her even to the family's brief exile in Bohemia and back again. They were here in Erzberg now, in a chest in her room on the top floor, tied in a great bundle with ribbon. She had not touched them since the news had come. But she had promised herself that she would – one day, when she was strong enough to look at his words once more. She was not sure that she was, yet. She could imagine herself climbing to her room, opening the chest, and then, as her fingers touched the ribbon, hesitating at last. She feared the emotion she might feel on reading them. And she feared disappointment if, in the numbness of loss, she felt nothing after all.
So she had not gone to her room. Not yet. She sat in the library, turning Perpetual Peace in her hands without opening the pages.
She was still sitting there when a footstep sounded on the stairs. It was Dietrich, the house master, climbing up from the floor below. She heard him stop when he reached the landing.
'What is it, Dietrich?' she called softly.
He shuffled to the library door.
'A caller, Lady Maria.'
'For me?'
More hesitation. So yes, it was for her. But Dietrich had been wondering whether he should consult Mother about it first. Mother was writing letters in her study on the opposite side of the landing, just a few paces away. She would certainly assume that she should be consulted about any caller for her daughter whose admission to the house was not absolutely straightforward. Even so, Dietrich was not eager to interrupt her. He knew she would immediately think of several more things that he should be doing or should have done by now.
A caller for her; and one about whom Dietrich felt it might be necessary to consult first. Maria's mind jumped to a conclusion.
'Is it Captain von Uhnen, Dietrich?'
(Poor Karl! She had not spoken with him in a year, since he had ridden all the way to Bohemia on his leave to go down on his knees to her in the orangery of the chateau at Effenpanz. Sir, you force me to remind you of certain facts. My marriage is agreed upon, and waits only for a suitable time. I am gratified by the sentiments you express, but there is no possibility that I could entertain them. Of course there was not, neither then or now. But she still hated to think that she had hurt him so.)
'No, Lady Maria.'
'Who?'
'A captain, yes . . . But he's foreign.'
Foreign?
She was puzzled. She could think of no foreign captain in Erzberg who might conceivably call on her. Unless . . .
'Captain Wéry, then?' (Surely not!)
'No, Lady Maria.'
He hesitated again. She looked her question at him.
'It was Lang, I think, Lady Maria . . . Or – or Lander . . .'
'You may show him in, Dietrich,' she said firmly. 'Whoever he is.'
If it had been Wéry, she would have had to decline – however reluctantly. Mother would never have permitted that man to enter her house again. Mother might say that it was wrong to admit this stranger too – especially since he did not seem to carry a card, and his name was so unmemorable that Dietrich had forgotten it on his way up the stairs! But Maria was happy to be distracted. The grey spirit of Kant only encouraged her towards revolt.
'Up here, Lady Maria?'
'Is Father in the salon?'
'Yes, Lady Maria.'
Father would be napping at this hour.
'Then yes – up here, please.'
She picked up her book, but did not read. Her ears followed Dietrich's slow progress down the stairs; the murmured conversation at the door; and then more steps on the stairs – this time the double beat of two sets of feet climbing towards the library. She put aside her book, and composed herself.
'Captain Lanard, of the Army of France,' said Dietrich woodenly.
If a monster with two heads had leaped through the door, Maria could not have been more surprised. She stared at the young man in the blue uniform who stepped in, carrying his hat under his arm.
He was a little under medium height, with dark hair pulled back into a neat queue, and dark, arching brows that marked the paleness of his skin with the same emphasis as a beauty spot. His features were delicate, and his eyes, a clear blue-grey, showed surprise when he saw her.
He bowed. 'Pardon me. I asked to be admitted to Lady Maria von Adelsheim. Am I correct that you are she?'
'You are correct, sir . . .' she said, recovering herself. 'My mother, the Lady Constanze von Adelsheim, is in the house. If your business is in fact with her . . .'
'On the contrary. I believe you are the author of a letter which reached my General early this summer. Is it correct?'
Letter?
The letter she had written! That had been months ago!
'I have been charged to bring you his reply,' he said.
There was a paper in his hands, held out towards her. She stared at it.
'Please,' he said formally.
She took it. The direction read:'To Maria Constanze Elisabeth von Adelsheim, residing in Erzberg or Adelsheim'.
Her first, almost childish reaction, was to glance past him out at the landing. Just a few paces away, behind the study door, Mother was sitting at her desk with her pen in her hand. Mother could hear any loud noise from where she sat. She might even know there was a caller in the house.
Maria had never told her about the letter she had written the day the news about Albrecht came.
And then she recalled herself. What Mother would say did not matter. Surely it did not, beside the letter in her hands. This letter, which Alba's killers had sent her! And she thought fleetingly that she had not expected any reply, that she did not need one, and that really it would be best in many ways if she could dispose of it quickly and have this unwanted visitor leave her as soon as possible. She stared at the letter in her fingers, and her heart was numb.
She did not believe what she was holding. She did not want to open it, to read what the murderers had written to her.
'Please,' she murmured. 'Sit for a moment.'
There was no device upon the seal. She broke it. There was a single page, with only a few lines of writing upon it.
Madame,
Your appeal has reached me. According to the senior surviving officer of the 2nd battalion of the 16th demi-brigade of the line, a parley was sent to inform the Erzberg troops of the armistice before the action at Hersheim began. This was rejected by the Erzberg commander. The 2nd battalion was then obliged to defend itself.
Words cannot describe the regret I too feel at the loss of life that ensued.
Lazare Hoche
'Thank you,' Maria said, speaking rather quickly as she folded the letter. 'I am grateful at least to have had some acknowledgement at last, and I thank you for bringing it. I hope your journey was not difficult . . . .'
She broke off, and looked at the page again. She had not been expecting any reply at all. Yet now that she had one she was angry at how short and inadequate it was. Your appeal has reached me. She had not been appealing to him. She had been telling him . . .
. . . a parley was sent to inform the Erzberg troops of the armistice . . .
She stared at the sentence – the one sentence in that short letter that meant anything – while the world turned silently on its head around her.
. . . a parley was sent to inform the Erzberg troops of the armistice before the action at Hersheim began . . .
She opened her mouth.
'Your General wishes to absolve himself from the blame,' she said.
'He is telling the truth, my Lady.'
'No doubt he is telling me what he has been told, and what he chooses to believe. But why should he have been told the truth? This officer . . .' she looked at the paper again. 'This officer of the second battalion – is he to be relied upon?'
There was a slight hesitation. 'I believe so, my lady.'
'You know him?'
'I do indeed. He is myself.'
She looked up, into the blue-grey gaze from that pale face. He was smiling ruefully, as if being the officer in question was a misfortune, but not one that he could apologize for. She saw again how his dark brows arched above his face, and she wondered for an instant if there was not something evil about them.
He was one of the men who had killed Albrecht.
They had sent her one of the men who killed him!
And . . .
How could they do this?
How could he smile at her?
'Does it please you, sir,' she said, 'to – to confront the sister of a man for whose death you are responsible?' She knew that her voice was shaking.
He frowned slightly, but as if he were puzzled rather than angry.
'I hardly know how to answer you, my Lady.'
'You have nothing to say?'
'To the contrary. There are so many things that I might say that I do not know where to begin. I might say I regret your brother's death – along with all those hundreds of others, French and German, who died with him. It was an unnecessary affair. I might say that my commanding officer, who was a good man and now is dead, tried everything in his power to prevent it, as I did everything that was in mine. I might say that nevertheless your brother and his friends – or at least their commanding officers – were doing everything in their power to kill me at the time. I do not know if any of these things excuse me in your eyes, my Lady, but since you ask, I feel that I must state them.'
I see.
She did not see. All she saw was Albrecht's death.
Oh, she understood that he was saying that he was not guilty. He was saying that his side had tried to stop the battle. That was what he had told his General. That was why he had been sent to her . . .
Of course they would say that. She should not believe them just because they said it.
But . . .
That smile. It was not really a smile. It was the cast of his face, which turned up his mouth at the corners and arched his brows over his eyes, so that he seemed forever to be smiling in private amusement at all the folly of the world that he saw. She should not have accused him so.
'There was a parley?'
She heard her question as if it had been asked by someone else.
'I carried it myself.'
'With – with whom did you parley?'
'There were many officers on your side. But I recall the commander was a Marshal Balcke – a big man, with a wooden leg.'
Balcke! Count Balcke-Horneswerden – the 'Colossus!'
She shook her head as if to clear it of her mounting confusion. 'I . . . know of him, of course. I am not acquainted with him myself . . .' Her words sounded defensive, self excusing . . .
No one had said this before! No one had ever breathed the thought that the Erzberg commanders had been told the war was over!
'You are prepared to swear this?' she insisted.
Uncertainty flickered across the fine features.
'I do not know when or to whom you would wish me to swear. My orders are to bring you my General's letter and to answer any questions you may have with it.'
New thoughts started at his words, like game birds from cover. To whom should he swear? Why, to anyone who had lost . . . to all of Erzberg, if possible! Was it possible? But – but this should not be one family's secret. It should be known! They could have spared hundreds of lives. And they had rejected it!
If it were true.
A sunbeam fell through the salon window, warming the black cloth over her knee and glinting on the letters of the book at her hand: Perpetual Peace – A Philosophical Sketch, they said. And Maria's eye saw the gleam and her skin felt the sun: and her mind staggered with the sense of huge lies shifting in the fabric of Erzberg.
Mother had been right. If this were true, then she had been right and Maria wrong. The blame lay here, with people she had moved among all her life – people whom Albrecht and all the others had trusted. It had still to be brought home.
It was a horrible, deadening thought. And all the world had turned around.
'But sir, this is important! Indeed it is most important! You may not know . . . There has been much concern over the conduct of our officers in the last days of the campaign. If what you say is true – it is indeed a matter of . . . of great importance.'
'I understand. But I am not my own master. My General has recently assumed new responsibilities in Germany, and requires me back at his headquarters as soon as possible.'
'I beg you, sir, at least . . .'
At least to speak with Mother.
She was going to have to tell Mother.
She was going to have to walk over to Mother's room, knock at the door, and tell her that there was a French officer in the house. She was going to have to tell her what he had to say. And she would have to confess why the officer had come.
She was going to have to. It was too important to hide it. It was the truth about what had happened to Albrecht.
And now she was a child again. An image rose before her eyes, of her mother's face, and how it would change as she tried to explain that, from her mother's desk and without her mother's knowledge, she, Maria, had dared to address herself to the most powerful men in France . . .
She saw that the man was watching her.
'Your . . . your General has been kind, sir.'
He shrugged. 'I will not say yours was the first such letter that he has received. And he has been much distracted by the affairs of the Republic this summer. Nevertheless when he read it, he was moved. He had us turning on our heads at the headquarters for forty-eight hours together. Erzberg this, Erzberg that. He wanted to know everything about your state. Some things we reported to him amused him. Others did not. I may tell you that this is not the only letter that we have delivered within Erzberg today.'
'I . . . it is not truly our state, sir, but . . .'
She wanted to stop, and educate him in the relationships between the bishopric and the families of Free Imperial Knights who congregated within and around it. She wanted to postpone the interview that she knew was waiting for her in the study. She knew her own cowardice, and despised herself for it. And so, angrily, she pursed her lips and rose.
'No, please remain!' she said, as he made to copy her. 'I am going to announce you to my mother. She must hear what you have to say.'
Even so, she paused in the doorway.
'Your manners are excellent, sir. Nevertheless, perhaps I should say that my mother is sometimes disposed to tease. She is fond of sparring, and likes it best if her callers respond in kind. Of course you will have to judge how far you may go. But . . .'
(She was reckless now, because of all the storms that were coming. And if she was to serve this man up to Mother, it was only fair that she should arm him as well.)
'. . . but if she becomes overbearing, you may try addressing her as "Citizen." Although I have no idea what will happen if you do.'
'Very good,' he said.
Suddenly his face broke into a real smile, amused and conspiratorial at the same time. 'Very good, Citizen Maria.'
Maria tried to smile too. And with a sinking feeling in her heart, she crossed the landing to knock at her mother's door.