defeat of France had been
secured, he would be as pleased as Balcke to see Bergesrode
and the Ingolstadt swept away. He would do it himself, if he
could.
And then . . . then it would be the turn of the very men he sat
with. These aristocrats, well-meaning perhaps, thinking themselves
reformists, but blind, blind and selfish and tyrannical in
their privileges. If they could not be brought to step down into
equality, in the end they too must go.
Von Uhnen gave him a long look, as if he had guessed at the
thoughts that had chased through Wéry's mind.
'Well then, my Virgil,' he murmured. 'You may have to watch
your step after all.'
'That's right!' exclaimed Heiss. 'See here, Wéry I like you.
Never mind what you were or what you think of us. I like
you because you work hard and you don't pretend to be
what you're not. But Bergesrode is a bad case. He'd be a Jesuit if
they hadn't been banned. So mind where you put your feet. And
don't go playing games when you shouldn't!'
'I must say,' added Fernhausen. 'I've been surprised that someone
with your past could become so close to a representative of
the – ah, what did you say? – "those of the clergy who still live
in the Middle Ages". Yes, very apt.'
'I am to report to Bergesrode, and so I do,' said Wéry bluntly.
'But yes, he and I agree about the French. The Prince thinks the
same.'
'Well, we can all do that,' said Heiss. 'Apart from Rother and
his crew . . .'
He broke off, looking over Wéry's shoulder. 'Ah, at last!'
'Thank God! At last!'
A man – a servant in a brown cloak – stood in the doorway
to the coffee house, beckoning urgently.
VIII
The Bridge and
the Barge
They rose from the table in a clatter. 'Careful now,' said
Balcke. 'Coats, and not too much hurry. We'll not be
thanked for making a mess of this.'
Balcke walked with a stick, leaning on Heiss's arm. His
artificial leg, shaped to fit into his boot, clumped as they made
their way out into the late evening. Above them the Celesterburg
palace bulked high and black against the afterglow of sunset. The
river was lined with lights. The man in the brown cloak was some
twenty paces ahead of them, at the New Bridge. He was still
beckoning. With Balcke moving ponderously in their midst, the
officers made their way over to join him.
'There, sir,' said the man, hoarsely.
'Thank you, Peter,' said Heiss. 'Fetch the coach now, please.'
Over on the far side of the river, a long musket-shot upstream,
a small crowd had appeared at the doors of the Saint Christopher
Chapel. The doors were open. There were lanterns there. Men
were bringing something out from inside, carried high on their
shoulders. That must be the coffin. And the men around it would
be Canon Rother's own servants.
Nearer, at the quay, a narrow barge was moored: a dark bulk
among the deep shadows of the riverside, waiting to take the
dead man home to his family.
A whistle broke out from the Saint Christopher square. Men
were moving there – black shadows against the glare of a brazier.
Wéry saw one stroll a few paces, hands apparently in his pockets,
to take a better look at the party at the church doors. Then he
turned and called. Others were coming, striding forward. There
were sticks and cudgels among them. And the crowd was growing.
More figures were running across the square and out of
the Saint Simeon Street. From the crown of the New Bridge the
officers watched them.
'Paid mob,' muttered Heiss. 'All the signs of it, I'd say. And
they've spent half of it on drink already.'
'If they see us, it could be ugly.'
'Best be ready to move smartly when they come our way.'
At the centre of the crowd the coffin moved. It moved like
one of the medieval relics that the guilds brought out of their
chapels on a saint's day to parade through the streets. The crowd
gathered around it, following reverently as if the thing was sacred
indeed. Many had removed their hats.
They have killed their King, thought Wéry suddenly. On the cross.
They nailed
secured, he would be as pleased as Balcke to see Bergesrode
and the Ingolstadt swept away. He would do it himself, if he
could.
And then . . . then it would be the turn of the very men he sat
with. These aristocrats, well-meaning perhaps, thinking themselves
reformists, but blind, blind and selfish and tyrannical in
their privileges. If they could not be brought to step down into
equality, in the end they too must go.
Von Uhnen gave him a long look, as if he had guessed at the
thoughts that had chased through Wéry's mind.
'Well then, my Virgil,' he murmured. 'You may have to watch
your step after all.'
'That's right!' exclaimed Heiss. 'See here, Wéry I like you.
Never mind what you were or what you think of us. I like
you because you work hard and you don't pretend to be
what you're not. But Bergesrode is a bad case. He'd be a Jesuit if
they hadn't been banned. So mind where you put your feet. And
don't go playing games when you shouldn't!'
'I must say,' added Fernhausen. 'I've been surprised that someone
with your past could become so close to a representative of
the – ah, what did you say? – "those of the clergy who still live
in the Middle Ages". Yes, very apt.'
'I am to report to Bergesrode, and so I do,' said Wéry bluntly.
'But yes, he and I agree about the French. The Prince thinks the
same.'
'Well, we can all do that,' said Heiss. 'Apart from Rother and
his crew . . .'
He broke off, looking over Wéry's shoulder. 'Ah, at last!'
'Thank God! At last!'
A man – a servant in a brown cloak – stood in the doorway
to the coffee house, beckoning urgently.
VIII
The Bridge and
the Barge
They rose from the table in a clatter. 'Careful now,' said
Balcke. 'Coats, and not too much hurry. We'll not be
thanked for making a mess of this.'
Balcke walked with a stick, leaning on Heiss's arm. His
artificial leg, shaped to fit into his boot, clumped as they made
their way out into the late evening. Above them the Celesterburg
palace bulked high and black against the afterglow of sunset. The
river was lined with lights. The man in the brown cloak was some
twenty paces ahead of them, at the New Bridge. He was still
beckoning. With Balcke moving ponderously in their midst, the
officers made their way over to join him.
'There, sir,' said the man, hoarsely.
'Thank you, Peter,' said Heiss. 'Fetch the coach now, please.'
Over on the far side of the river, a long musket-shot upstream,
a small crowd had appeared at the doors of the Saint Christopher
Chapel. The doors were open. There were lanterns there. Men
were bringing something out from inside, carried high on their
shoulders. That must be the coffin. And the men around it would
be Canon Rother's own servants.
Nearer, at the quay, a narrow barge was moored: a dark bulk
among the deep shadows of the riverside, waiting to take the
dead man home to his family.
A whistle broke out from the Saint Christopher square. Men
were moving there – black shadows against the glare of a brazier.
Wéry saw one stroll a few paces, hands apparently in his pockets,
to take a better look at the party at the church doors. Then he
turned and called. Others were coming, striding forward. There
were sticks and cudgels among them. And the crowd was growing.
More figures were running across the square and out of
the Saint Simeon Street. From the crown of the New Bridge the
officers watched them.
'Paid mob,' muttered Heiss. 'All the signs of it, I'd say. And
they've spent half of it on drink already.'
'If they see us, it could be ugly.'
'Best be ready to move smartly when they come our way.'
At the centre of the crowd the coffin moved. It moved like
one of the medieval relics that the guilds brought out of their
chapels on a saint's day to parade through the streets. The crowd
gathered around it, following reverently as if the thing was sacred
indeed. Many had removed their hats.
They have killed their King, thought Wéry suddenly. On the cross.
They nailed
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