Читать книгу The Rocklitz - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 6

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"Oblige me," said Count Stürm, "as far as your convenience permits, and I shall not be troublesome either to you or your friends."

He warmed his hands before the large stove of dark amber-coloured glaze, which Fani von Ilten still kept alight in her small decorous inner parlour. Both the pale spring day and the blood of the minister were chilly. She knew him for an invalid and flattered his weakness; coffee in a service of painted gold was on the table. The neat room made no parade of luxury. In everything Fani von Ilten avoided ostentation. She was a woman of fifty with the remains of a beauty that had passed even more swiftly than her youth. Count Stürm, who knew a great deal about most people, did not know her complete history; he knew, however, sufficient to be able to judge the woman and her adventures. She did not offend his own easy good-humoured tolerance, although he did not desire a close acquaintance either with her person or with her activities; he found her, as a link with matters he could hardly touch directly, sometimes useful. Not only did Fani von Ilten keep a gambling club, which was one of the most fashionable in the capital, but she was both the lure and the bait for a firm of money-lenders; she also ran a secret trade in drugs, charms and philtres, in medicinal concoctions to preserve youth and beauty; to conceal disease and deformities, to revive exhausted energies; this woman, whose violent passions had early betrayed her into living a profligate and openly-scandalous life, had now the stillness of a spent-runner; her voice was low, her movements slow, her eyes veiled, her accent careful; her intellect, however, survived the total ruin of her character. She was shrewd, alert and prudent.

Making and serving the coffee with that niceness which she had always cultivated as one of the most useful of the minor arts, she ventured to ask Count Stürm, still close to the stove, slightly shivering even in his fur and velvet as he held out his shrivelled hands to the steady warmth of the square orange-red windows, what was his immediate need of her.

He knew, she was gratefully sure, that he could always count on her poor services...he knew also, she was equally sure, that she was aware that Strattmann, his agent, had been about her establishment making enquiries regarding the two Captains von Neitschütz—Was it of these gentlemen that His Excellency wished further information?

As she leant forward with her question Stürm regarded her with an expression of reserved hostility; he took out his spectacles, adjusted them, and continued to stare at her through the large glasses...he wondered who this woman really was and if she was more useful than perilous; a courtesan, a spy, certainly worse than either, probably an agent for usurers in Venice, the presiding deity of a gambling hell, a purveyor of drugs to the cunning, of charms to the simple, an extortionist of money by every possible means of intimidation, assiduous in the service of all the vices, with the manners and the apparel of a gentlewoman—tight bodice, high folded kerchief, apron, mittens and hair rolled under a stiff lace head-dress, all neat, sad, coloured, respectable—her ruined face fascinated Stürm—those whitish yellow cheeks, the sunken eyes, so quick and restless, the fleshy curved nose, and the mouth, so loosened that it appeared to have been distorted in a convulsion, yet held together in a resolute smile that continually widened over crooked, large and greyish teeth; as if conscious of the hideousness of this feature she had a habit of holding a handkerchief to her lips, but the delicate gesture and the fine fall of lace emphasized the cruel ugliness of that corroded mouth she endeavoured to hide.

The room was like the woman, sinister in its decorum, its tidiness, its blank rigid air; the straight curtains were well drawn over the tall windows, the exact chairs painted a dull pea green were placed rigidly against the wall; in one corner was a screen, however, painted with coarse nude figures with lewd faces, who sprawled together on heavy clouds, and leered with red eyes across the hypocritical murk of the neat parlour. Stürm guessed that this screen came from some other apartment where Fani von Ilten entertained clients of another order than himself; he reflected with cool distaste that the blood would have to be hot and the brain dull indeed before any measure of sensuous enchantment could be obtained at the squalid shrine where Fani von Ilten evoked a frowsy Venus; he was grimly glad that his own one lust had always been the lust for power, and that neither the swine round Circe, nor the bones round the Sirens had ever been of his company.

Fani von Ilten, in her turn, saw in him, a little, dry, old man, peering between the frizzled manes of artificial hair, behind the spectacles, needing the glow of the stove to warm his thin blood, kept alive by doctors and infinite care and prolonged patience, a mere withered rind of a man, but one whom she could not entice or move by a jot, and one who might dispose of her and all her crew by a clap of his cold hands; she had been very, very careful to have agreeable news for him today; alert, quiet, with her abominable smile, she waited his pleasure.

Stürm put off his spectacles, gazed into the stove and spoke: "You know my situation—everyone knows it: The Neitschütz are hoping—are staking on this marriage with His Highness. I do not disguise it from you, indeed I could scarce disguise it from any that this silly youth is infatuated, has been encaged and caresses his bars, has been ensnared and adores the fowler—he is in a loud fluster of passion that will not hear reason. Now you know very well, my dear Baroness, what such a marriage would mean to me and, incidentally, to you. The mere fact that I have suffered you to remain in Dresden would be sufficient reason for the Neitschütz, when they were in power, to treat you with the strictest severity."

"How does Your Excellency think I can assist you?" asked Fani von Ilten, whose practice it was never to disclose herself until the last possible occasion.

"Through these two young men—stupid profligates, as I take them to be. Strattmann reports they are frequently here, that they are in your debt and in considerable other difficulties. I believe, too, a certain Madame de Rosny is now of your company and that she at one time was governess in Arnsdorf. I can recall seeing her there. She appeared a judicious woman."

"I can," responded Fani von Ilten, dallying over her elegant cup, "tell you very little that you do not know already. You must be cognizant both of the character and upbringing of Fräulein von Neitschütz."

"I know," said the minister, drily, "that she has been educated from her earliest youth for coquetry and gallantry, and that her father has set before her this one ambition—to marry the Electoral Prince. Young and inexperienced as she is, I know her to be of uncommon parts, and I find in her features and in her expression something dangerous."

"She will need all her arts," smiled the Baroness, "for her father is ruined—you know that his finances are in a state of hopeless overthrow. You have contrived that he should neither aggrandize himself nor elevate his sons; consequently he has been thrown upon his own resources, and these were from the first but meagre."

"These two young gallants are deeply involved with you?" interrupted Count Stürm. "Their lewdness, I hear, has always scorned the censure of sober men."

"Like other officers stationed in Dresden," replied the lady demurely, with an odious leer, "they have come here to divert themselves in several fashions. They have also recently borrowed money. I have been enabled to lend them some thousands of rix-dollars."

"On what security?" demanded Stürm, his hands still hovering before the warmth of the stove.

"Their assurance that their sister was contracted to the Elector—made with many oaths and vehement assurances."

"Bah!—you took that?—from those desperate libertines?"

"I did," said Fani von Ilten, with a shrewd look, "and you know me well enough, I believe, Excellency, not to credit that I should be imprudent or hasty, eh? From what I can hear from Madame de Rosny, Fräulein von Neitschütz is an extraordinary creature, and a handsome young miss, and he an amorous youth—so it is quite possible that she may marry the Elector, and then, despite what you said just now, Count Stürm, about the downfall of your friends—among which I am honoured of course to be accounted—I think I shall stand very well with the House of Neitschütz."

"If," asked Count Stürm, quickly, "she does not marry the Elector, what then is your reward from these rambling sparks?"

"That comes from you," whispered Fani von Ilten, with a little atrocious simper. "One of these sprightly young men, Clement, is cautious, and not so mere a slave to his appetites, he cannot be made a bubble fool on every pleasing occasion...Oh, I have tried...he is cool, sharp for his own advantage."

"Casimir, then?" suggested Stürm slyly.

"Ah, Casimir! There I have been successful—he is always in hot pursuit of every new fangle and must have her, as the moth must plunge into the candle—that boy is a mere drudge to his own vices. If he had had a swinging estate he would have lost it by now—as he has never had anything but his pay, you may suppose his beggarly condition."

"Yet you have suffered him here? Lent him money—supplied his entertainment?" questioned Stürm with a sneer. "And solely on the expectation that his sister would marry the Elector? Forgive me, my dear Baroness, but there is something more and give it me," he added sternly, "without further preamble."

But Fani von Ilten refused to be hurried in her cool narration of the wretched situation of Casimir von Neitschütz; she was enjoying the moment; her teeth showed; she forgot her handkerchief.

"When he continued to press on me the certainty of his sister's marriage with the Elector I asked for proof. 'I am a poor woman,' I said, and he showed me one night last week letters from his father and sister. Drunk and frantic as he was, I could not, for a long while, induce him to leave these letters in my possession..."

"Letters?" interrupted the minister, impatiently and delightedly. "Is it possible that he was so bereft of sense and judgment?"

Fani von Ilten raised her pencilled brows; no doubt Stürm found it difficult to credit the unbridled follies of licentious youth; but to her this was a common theme; she knew and used the fears and terrors which fall upon the lustful and the foolish.

"When Casimir von Neitschütz came to me for a further loan, not so many days ago, I demanded the retention of the letters he was continually showing me, and refused any further advances save on these conditions. Reckless, and, I think, pushed to an extremity, he brought me a packet that he had received that morning, and which, he said, he would redeem with the payment of all the capital—with interest—that I had lent him. These letters naturally remain in my close and guarded possession—they are worth a great deal of money. If I keep them secret it is quite possible that Fräulein von Neitschütz may marry the Elector."

"And if you sell them to me," said Count Stürm, at once seeing her drift, "I think it is quite likely that she will not do so. First, let me see the letters that I may judge of their value, then tell me the price of your cleverness and discretion."

"It will be a high one, practically the double of all that I have advanced to Captain von Neitschütz," and the lady coolly named a sum which startled even Count Stürm, who had been prepared to hear of fantastic extravagance.

"Why have you plunged so deep?" he asked, troubled, considering her and her odious guile and wondering if she was, even now, setting some springe for him; the lascivious figures on the screen vexed him, they seemed to mouth and leer.

"He could repay me if his sister were Electress," sneered Fani von Ilten, "and from all that I hear it is likely enough that she will be the Electress. I take Madame de Rosny's judgment of the girl. I know Madame de Rosny, and how she trained her pupil—one to line her cabinets, and get her maintenance signed, and a round sum as well, was Madame de Rosny in her day!"

"Let me see the letters," demanded the minister, sharply, "they may not be worth any price."

He rose and came to the table, leaning on his cane.

"They are worth more than I have asked." The Baroness brought a packet from the pocket of her sober and decorous gown. "These are copies." She handed them across the table. "The originals are in careful security, as you may believe."

They bent towards each other, peering suspiciously into each other's blighted faces, her head-dress and his peruke touching; age plotting the ruin of youth.

While the minister, after fumbling out his spectacles again, read the letters which the Baroness had transcribed herself in a fair clear hand, that lady touched a bell, and, when the careful-faced servant appeared, asked the company of Madame de Rosny...for a few moments, on a matter of business, eh? "Have the goodness to make haste."

There were three letters. Count Stürm first read that which was signed Johann Georg.

My darling and my love,

I will not delay any longer in thanking you for all your civility. I humbly entreat you to accept my gratitude for the two letters you have sent me. I assure you they have made a profound impression on my heart, and that I am as grateful as I ought to be...

This did not teach him any more of the Elector's character or circumstance, he knew already the young man's weakness and passion, his opinion of himself, Stürm, his desire for military glory, his gusts of pleasure in romantical fancies...

"So she sent this to her brother, eh? She seems cool, designing and artful."

"A blockhead in love," smiled Fani von Ilten, withdrawing the copy of the Elector's letter. "She has him—I think—can she make her terms quick? For I take her to be but a summer fruit, not for long keeping, a light, bright, slight creature, easily blasted."

Stürm took no heed of these bitter words, nor the corroding smile that edged them; he was reading the other two letters, which were signed "Madelon."

Château Arnsdorf,

April 20th, 1692.

Casimir, my brother:

My father commands me to write to you. He is both troubled and angered by your demands for Money and your accounts of your difficulties. Believe me, we have nothing more to give you. We live ourselves in an economy which sometimes impinges on decency. We cannot afford to come to the Capital, and must remain here exposed to the insults of neighbours and the contempt of servants. Cease then, my brother, to lament to us of your embarrassments that you have brought on yourself by futile extravagances. Have patience, contrive to flatter and oblige the Elector, if it is possible; it is very certain that I shall marry him; then do not doubt that your attendance on the caprices of fortune will be rewarded beyond your merits. For it appears to me, my dear brother, that you have done little to deserve the favours that you so earnestly solicit. Meanwhile I am your affectionate and devoted sister,

Madelon.

The other letter which had enclosed the epistle of Johann Georg was written in a more hurried strain, and evidently under the press of passion; it appeared to have been penned impulsively, in the violence of some crisis, in the hurry of some strong emotion.

Château Arnsdorf,

April 30th, 1692.

My brother Casimir,

Do not continue to importune us. Have I not already made clear to you the desperation of our immediate circumstances. How can you doubt that I shall marry the Elector? Do you not know me and him? I have his oaths, his promises, his vows—what is he but a fond and silly youth, my inferior in mind, in education, in character? I send you his last letter. There are others more vehement. We continue to press him to visit Arnsdorf. It is certain he will come, and when he is here he will not leave it till we are married. Cease to harass us with your lamentations and complaints. Have I not also need of fortitude and patience? Burn this, even as you read it.

Your affectionate sister,

Madelon.

Both these letters were superscribed:

Captain Casimir von Neitschütz

from Magdalena Sibylla von Neitschütz his Sister,

writing from the Château at Arnsdorf, a suburb of Dresden, the month of April, 1692.

Fani von Ilten eyed the minister as he read the letters; his spectacles glittered blankly, but his sharp face retained its composure; Madelon's epistles were of inestimable value to him, but he did not choose that this harridan should know it. He was a prudent man, careful with money, and she had asked an immense sum. He detested her, steering before the wind, with a full sail, to hell—he wished her there, immediately, before he paid her...

Madame de Rosny entered. She was housekeeper, mistress of the wardrobe, female doctor, matronly adviser, to the establishment run so successfully by Fani von Ilten. Her grey taffeta rustled as she moved, she was neat, sombre, precise, keys at her waist, lawn at her bosom, she had felt slippers and an erect back; she had also an air of having retired from the world which had served her so shabbily and of communing in secret with inadequate devils. She knew Count Stürm at once and guessed his business. She was extremely interested in the affairs of the House of Neitschütz, and wished all evil to its present lord. Moistening her dry lips with her sharp-pointed tongue, she noted Casimir's letters on the table, indeed she was amused to see that the spoilt, petulant, dishonourable boy who had once been in her cynical charge had become a man so worthless and so reckless.

The minister, to gain time, and considering in his own mind how much the letters were really worth and how great were the chances that he could defeat the House of Neitschütz without them, began to talk to Madame de Rosny. They conversed together in low tones, these quiet, elderly people in the neat parlour. The stove light glowed cheerfully on the green panelling, the bright cafetiere was between them on the table, the room was cozy with an agreeable warmth; the pale sunshine could not penetrate here for the plain curtains were discreetly drawn. A yellow shade blurred the sharp features of these elderly people, their dark sober garments, their pale wrinkled hands; in the background the figures on the screen writhed and leered. Madame de Rosny required little encouragement to talk of her years spent at Arnsdorf. With light irony, from which she kept the essential bitterness, she sketched that miserable household, as she had seen it, the shivering half-imbecile pedant in the unwarmed library, the shabby rooms with the threadbare tapestry, the sham antiques, the ill-furnished damp kitchen, the grumbling servants, the stables empty, save for a jade or two and one fine horse for Madelon; the petty economies of the master of the house, his mended linen, refurbished uniform, patched boots, the mortgages, the loans, the visits from creditors, the heartless extravagance of the two vicious boys growing into two vicious men; Neitschütz, foul-mouthed and violent, storming and sombre by fits, sunk now into saturnine melancholy, drinking, scheming, brooding, interested in nothing but Madelon, the increasing beauty, increasing wit, the spreading intelligence of Madelon.

"I," said Madame de Rosny, sweetly, "I have made something of the girl. I do not deny that she was born superior to most of her sex, but I have done a deal to polish her." She smiled in the depth of her hood and licked her dry lips, a little habit she had long possessed.

"Her face is very handsome," agreed Count Stürm, thoughtfully, "and her person very noble. She has great liveliness of spirit, and her repartee is ready and sparkling; she has, in brief, all the advantages that nature could give her...I speak from what I have seen of her on the surface. At Dresden she has been very gay and very talkative, and put all those with whom she spoke in a good humour...entertained us all. I have heard her sing in Italian, and seen her dance a Polish dance; but you, madame, can judge better than I the character that is beneath all this."

"Believe me, she is dangerous," warned Madame de Rosny, her voice coming sharply, though she still smiled. "I have seen to it that she should be. She is far more than a pretty young woman likely to entangle a hasty and impetuous young man. Apart from the accomplishments and fancies that she learnt from me and the Maestro Steffani, she flourishes in art and wit and has some learning, a perfection in many languages, a richness of thought and a ripeness of judgment, which few ladies of her age could have as fair a pretension."

"Consider, sir," insinuated Fani von Ilten, thinking of the price she had put upon the letters, and the necessity of getting it, "that in Magdalena Sibylla von Neitschütz you do not deal with an ordinary person. She is both lovely and handsome, of good quality, of gentle breeding; a mind set for learning, of education peculiar, diligent, mathematics her passion. She has more than a sparkling of wit or moderate stock of knowledge; from the store of books she has read she has learnt much of men and the world and become a good critic, yet none of this in a pedantic fashion which might disgust a man."

"In painting, music, gardening, she has greater skill than most," put in Madame de Rosny, quietly; watchful, adroit, she regarded Stürm. "Her Latin and Greek are well enough, and as for womanly exercises, of sewing, pastry, confectioning, embroidering, preserving, the making of drugs, and for all household economies she is equal to any other lady of her degree, and I have taught her with this," smiled the ancient governess, "to be effectively humble with all her knowledge, extremely charitable towards the ignorant, timid with gentlemen, taught her to appear to know nothing of higher subjects than the welfare of acquaintances, the state of the weather, the gossip of friends, or the Gazette—"

"Taught her, I have no doubt," sneered Stürm, "every duplicity and hypocrisy, and it appears that she was well equipped to receive your good counsel."

"If," continued Madame de Rosny, unmoved by this, "she marries the Elector she will rule Saxony. She has a shrewd knowledge of European politics and she leans, as you may be aware, entirely to the other course from that you take."

"In short," said Fani von Ilten, who wished the bargain struck, "she has both the wit and the malice to ruin you, and will do it if you do not take your precautions."

The minister handed back the copies of the letters.

"And yet she had not the wit to stay her hand in writing these—exposing herself to this encumbered rake, her brother."

"She never," remarked Fani von Ilten, slowly, revealing her teeth, "could possibly have credited him with being quite such a reckless, headstrong lunatic as to show those letters to any, and she is, for all her art, but a girl, precisely protected—with not, my dear Excellency, our advantages of the knowledge of the ways of the town."

"She is not aware," agreed the minister ironically, "of such establishments as yours, Baroness, nor of the entanglements and temptations to which men like her brothers are subject."

And he pondered on Magdalena Sibylla von Neitschütz, brought up in the midst of corruption, yet herself uncorrupt; trained and persuaded to dishonourable ends, but herself with her honour unsmirched; saved by her father's intense pride, by her ancient birth, from any vile taint or tarnish, pure and innocent herself, but being used callously as a piece in a gamester's cheating throw. More perilous, then, this Madelon, armed at once with innocency and guile, with all the weapons of truth and falsehood.

The two women, after a glance at each other, watched and waited in silence, wondering if he would pay, and what price, and if too much had been asked, or not enough.

Stürm considered his case as coolly as if he had been alone; he was conscious of the vile atmosphere of the neat, plain, shadowed room, of a certain miasma of evil that spread from the two decorous figures of the quiet women, but this did not influence him; nor was he stirred by any compassion for their victims, for the distress of Captain Casimir von Neitschütz, or the miserable position of his sister; Stürm was concerned in one question only: Would Johann Georg marry the girl if her devices to entrap him were not revealed?

If so the letters must be bought at any cost...difficult for him, old, invalidish, only conscious of his body when it ached or tormented him with exhaustion, to understand these sensuous golden follies, to imagine through what rosy glories, through what shimmering radiance, the maiden gleamed on the youth...To what a desirable paradise she beckoned...difficult for one who has never been enchanted to do other than smile at the word enchantment.

The peril lay in their innocence; Johann Georg had been guarded by that early cherished romantic love as she by her father's care; he had never faltered in his loyalty to Madelon, which his mother, a stupid, dreamy Dane, had fostered; she had coddled him, kept him at her knee, told him high mounting legends of the North, seen Madelon as the destined, the desirable, bride...Stürm thought:

"I must not underrate it—a passion and a sentiment in one."

He had observed before the terrible force of a chaste passion, when spirit joined with body in one yearning need; if the youth had been a libertine he had had more hopes, but pure love, deep-rooted, faithfully tended...it must be degraded before it could be destroyed.

The two voracious women saw calculation narrow the minister's mouth; Françoise de Rosny licked her lips, nodding, Fani von Ilten's handkerchief was pressing at her nostrils; she regretted that she would have to share the money with the ancient governess who had, however, done her part; Stürm turned his back on them and walked about; his wig and his spectacles concealed much of his face; he paused at the table.

He drank the cup of fresh coffee which Fani von Ilten had poured out for him and then again warmed his hands before the stove. The letters were worth the price she asked—worth any price. He took out his notebook and signed an agreement to pay the sum demanded.

Fani von Ilten accepted this without comment, and, rising, unlocked from a small cabinet on a table in the shadow of the screen, shrouded again by the shadows of the small high room, the three letters—that from the Elector, badly put together, carelessly written, ill spelt and those from Madelon, which were without fault, delicately penned and precisely composed.

As Count Stürm received them he smelt, even in this musty atmosphere, a faint perfume of clover, left by the bruised knot of melilot which Madelon had laid upon her letters when she had penned them, bent over her father's shabby bureau.

Madame de Rosny watched him with a chill triumph in her sunken eyes; as far as she was capable any longer of feeling any emotion she felt a pleasure in having contributed to the ruin of the House of Neitschütz. "The old man will shoot himself; the boys, bankrupt, go as ragged volunteers in the Imperial Army; the girl, she will probably marry Haverbeck—and lucky."

"Do not alarm Captain von Neitschütz," commanded Count Stürm, deliberately putting away the letters. "Never let any suspicion cross his mind that you are in correspondence with me, or that his letters are less than safe. If it is necessary to keep him quiet, lend him more money."

"What will happen to the little Madelon?" smiled Fani von Ilten, smoothing her twisted mouth with the lace handkerchief. "I swear the child interests me."

Count Stürm thought, not without distaste: "I daresay she will become just such another as you." But he said:

"I believe she will marry General de Haverbeck. Does he ever come here?" added the minister drily.

Fani von Ilten shook her towering headdress.

"Never, and as for marrying a Neitschütz, he has no fortune—and is in debt."

"He is successful," corrected Stürm, as if that word comprised every desirable quality and every fortunate circumstance to which a man might attain.

Both the women laughed; there are so many degrees of success; the old man's remark seemed to them childish; nor did they like Haverbeck, if there had been many of his type in the world, women of their kind would have found it hard to make a living; they moved the screen and opened a side door which led into a larger room where the windows were half shuttered, half curtained and the air being close with scents of orris root, tonquin bean, tobacco and alcohol; there were several screened alcoves and tables set for cards; the stove was out, the doors of it open on choked rubbish of papers, tinsel, candle ends and trumpery; several girls and young women sat about in the half-obscured light; most had a faded and sullen air, untidy petticoats and unlaced bodices; one held her face as if in pain; one was painted like a doll baby, pink, white, black brows, crimson mouth; another, before a mirror which hung against the window, arranged black patches on a pimpled chin; they all turned to look at Stürm with dulled curiosity; one began to giggle, a pure-bred Saxon, still fresh, she had lovely blonde hair that she was twisting laboriously into curls.

"This is the better way out for your Excellency," smiled Madame de Rosny. "Gentlemen will soon be arriving to play—and your Excellency would not care to meet them?"

"A charming temple of pleasure," sneered Stürm, glancing round at the lazy, untidy and fatigued young women, "and these, no doubt, beauties by candle-light."

"Candles will soon be lit," returned Françoise de Rosny coolly. "And every fool who can put the sweat of his tenants in his pockets will be here to be instructed in delight, eh?"

Stürm paused at the side door which was concealed behind a curtain of mohair and looked back into the room at the insolent votaries and reckless victims of the elegant amusements of Dresden; though they were all still and languid, he seemed to see them being hurried along with their own violence to an unappeasable tempest of darkness. He plucked at Fani von Ilten's sleeve; she was taller than he, and whispered in a curt tone of authority:

"Look you, madame. There is an alarm of witchcraft in Saxony—like a squib of wildfire; the Courts have several cases in hand. I could not, if I would, restrain the people. The Elector dreads it like all the hells."

"Maybe," murmured Madame de Rosny, "but still witchcraft is an invention of the ignorant."

Stürm poked a lean finger into her arm.

"Maybe," he mocked, "yet you know what I mean. It is but a word to cover filthy practices. You know them. They are dangerous. Even, my dear madame, to you."

Her face was blank in the shadow of her hood.

"I? I trade in other commodities."

"Keep to them. If you know anything of drugs, forget it. A woman died in the Koenigsberg the other day. On the rack."

"Bah!" Fani von Ilten broke in, with a livid glance. "We concoct a little medicine now and then—"

"Be careful how you flavour it. Avoid scandal. You deal with passionate fools. That's difficult." He shot a keen look from one to the other and was pleased to see how yellow and tumid with malice they showed.

"I'm determined against this sorcery," he added. "I will not have it, eh? A brisk trading woman like you should have no need—"

Fani von Ilten's hideous mouth frothed lightly at the corners as she wiped it, mumbling her answer behind the lace.

"If I knew any tricks of magic I'd not concern myself with these hussies and their keepers—"

"Nor relieve drunkards of their watches, or load the dice, or cadge for usurers, or sell me the letters of Fräulein von Neitschütz," interrupted Stürm, "in brief you would be a very honest woman, my dear Baroness."

The two women affected, with mutual cunning, to take this as a pleasantry; they laughed acidly, inwardly consoling themselves with the reflection that the horrid old ape was galled at parting with his money.

"Well," said Stürm, as if he too had his jest, "'tis an old saying that the harlot's house is the way to hell, so it is idle warning one so well on her road. But that I'll not have. No, madame, I'll not have it."

He slipped out of the door and peered up and down the small narrow street dim in the chill, long, grey spring dusk; the evil house looked blank and prim with blind windows and bleak façade, the neighbouring buildings were equally secretive, plain, screened; Stürm felt tired; he took a pinch of snuff and walked slowly, leaning on his cane; stupidly odd that one must deal with these boys and girls whose amours should be of no importance to a man like himself. At the corner of the street a plain chair was waiting; Stürm got in neatly and was carried immediately to the Residenzschloss; he hurried to his closet, and there completed his arrangements for the marriage of the Elector with the Margravine of Anspach, the selection of the proxy and the date of the ceremony. Then he read again those two clover-scented letters and the epistle signed "Johann Georg," after which he slowly locked them into a leather case which he put inside his coat next his withered bosom, and ordered his equipage to start early the next day for the Château Moritzburg, where the young Elector, sullen, hesitant, between his minister and his love, was endeavouring to beguile a dismal leisure with dogs, horses and the hunt.

Stürm fondled the monkey, who surveyed him with grave consideration.

"This business is a confounded lot of trouble, eh, Pug?" sighed the old man. "Almost I'd give it up and let them have their head—how can I contend with them in the height of their youth and lust! And what is Saxony or ruling Saxony? No more of a gust, zest or relish to me than a nut or a lollipop or mess of curds to you, Pug! And yet to be put out of my place by a kick from that great, gross, vindictive beast, Neitschütz—"

The monkey leaped onto his knee and closed its cold, dry black fingers round his pale wrinkled hand and blinked up into his sunken disquieted face, shaded by the huge mass of the periwig. Stürm laughed.

"Are you telling me in a plain, impartial manner to go on with the game? Well, when I've had my drops and a night's rest I daresay I shall find it worth while again."

He took off his wig, pulled a silk cap out of his pocket and drew it over his bald head, then rang the bell sharply for his doctor, his body servant, the Paris and Holland Gazettes.

"Well," he remarked to the monkey who lurked on the chair to steal his supper. "Some philosophers have been glad to creep out of the world at any hole—but a man of my parts and figure must make a push for a less ignoble exit."