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French
had marched deep into Germany, it had even driven the family
into exile in Bohemia, to find refuge on the estates of their distant
cousin Count Effenpanz. And while Adelsheim had survived in
their absence, many other estates and families had suffered. Now
it was over, and Albrecht would come home at last.
    That was what lit her heart, as she sat in the library with the
cold fingers of the rain tapping at the window behind her; and
the piece she was reading reminded her of it, in case she could
possibly have forgotten.
    'Scatter roses!' she ordered, in the voice of the Prince. And as
the concubine: 'But you do not see them!'
    'Tieschen,' said Mother once more. 'I have said that it is
impossible.' And Tieschen left to deliver her sentence to
whomever it was that had been applying to her.
    By chance, Maria caught the Baron's expression. He seemed
more satisfied still. Of course he would not have welcomed
another demand on his hostess's attention. And yet his brow had
also lifted a fraction in surprise. Lady Adelsheim would normally
have accepted any caller she thought capable of intelligent
conversation, and of appreciating her intelligence when she
bestowed it on them. The Baron, Illuminatus (or not), abominated
by the church (or not), was wondering what this particular
caller had done to offend.
    So did Maria, a little.
    For a moment Wéry could not believe he had heard correctly.
    'But – but did you not give her my message? I must speak
with her about her son!'
    A frown flickered on the servant's face. Perhaps he did understand
that this stranger had something to say about young
Albrecht, who was away with the Prince-Bishop's little army. But
it plainly could not matter any more, because the Lady had said
he must leave.
    'I regret, sir, that the Lady is not able to receive you today.'
    'Then I must speak with the Knight.'
    'The Knight does not receive visitors.'
    And there he stood, like a fat old sheep in the track, too stupid
to do anything but bleat the same old bleat in the face of a world
that was changing.
    'I do not believe you can have delivered my message
correctly!'
    'Indeed I did, sir. But the Lady is not able to receive you.'
    'Why in Heaven not? I have come all the way from Erzberg,
and with very important news. What is the matter – is she sick?'
    'Sir!'
    If the Lady of the house was not able to receive visitors, it
seemed, that was enough. It was not permitted to ask why. Wéry
towered over the small servant. He was nervous and angry. He
had come leagues to be here, when his duty lay somewhere else.
He was not going to start a brawl in this house, but . . .
    He puffed his cheeks to show his frustration.
    'Very well,' he said. 'Very well. Please have my coat and gloves
brought to me. And let the stable bring my horse to the door.'
    The little servant turned impassively, strode to the foot of the
stairs and clapped his hands to summon help. And Wéry stepped
lightly into the hall behind him. One, two, three paces were all he
needed. He was heading down the corridor opposite, from which
the man had come.
    'Sir!'
    'Don't be a fool!' he snarled over his shoulder, and shook the
fellow's hand from his arm. Clop, clop, clop went his heels on
the wooden floor, echoing along the walls like the guns of
invading armies.
    At the end of the corridor a door was half-open, and a
woman's voice murmured from beyond.
    The etiquette of Lady Adelsheim's salon did not permit Maria or
Icht to take part in conversations between Lady Adelsheim and
someone like the Baron, but it did permit the Baron to step down
and join in whatever was going on between his hostess and the
lesser persons present. Now he was offering them his views on
the famous romantic writers of the day, referring largely to The
Sorrows of Young Werther for examples to support his argument.
    '. . . So are we to suppose that passion – a passion so great that
the possessor of it ultimately destroys himself – should be in some
sense held up for admiration?