The Marquis of Bolibar by Leo Perutz Read Free Book Online Page B

heard her sigh. 'Can I trust you, Baron?' she asked, and took my hand. 'Feel how my heart is beating!' she said softly, and guided my hand beneath her shawl to where nature had imprinted that blue buttercup on her skin."
    "Pass the wine!" Günther cried, almost choking with anger. Ah, we had all in our time kissed that birthmark, that little blue ranunculus, but Günther, who had been the first to do so, was still racked with jealousy. He hated Eglofstein, he hated Brockendorf — he hated us all for having enjoyed the lovely Françoise-Marie's favours in succession to himself.
    "Pass the wine!" he cried again, hoarse with rage, and snatched up the gourd.
    "The wine is finished, Mass is done, and we can sing the Kyrie eleison ," Donop said mournfully, thinking not of the wine but of bygone days and of Françoise-Marie.
    "You buffoons!" cried Brockendorf, so drunk that he swept his glass from the table to the floor and smashed it. "What are you drivelling about? Which of you knew her as I did, you runts and weaklings? What do you know of her soupers d'amour ? Such dishes she served!" He guffawed loudly, and Günther turned pale as death. "Four courses, there were. 'A la Crécour' was the first. Then came à l'Aretino, à la Dubarry and, to end with, à la Cythère —"
    "And à la whipping!" Günther hissed, beside himself with jealousy and rage. He raised his glass as if to hurl it in Brockendorf's face, but at that moment we heard a loud commotion and voices in the street.
    "Who goes there?" called a sentry.
    "France!" came the reply.
    "Halt, who goes there?" called a second sentry.
    "Vive l'Empereur !" said a curt, gruff voice.
    Günther put his glass down and listened.
    "Go and see what's up," Donop told me.
    Then the door burst open and one of my men came in, thick with snow.
    "Lieutenant, a strange officer wishes to speak with the commander of the guard."
    We jumped up, exchanging glances of surprise and perplexity. Brockendorf hastily thrust his arms into the sleeves of his tunic.
    All of a sudden Eglofstein burst out laughing.
    "Had you forgotten, comrades?" he cried. "It's our privilege tonight to welcome His Lordship the Marquis of Bolibar!"
     
     

CAPTAIN DE SALIGNAC
    Captain of Cavalry Baptiste de Salignac may well have thought us blind drunk or utterly insane when he entered the room, which rang with merriment. Boisterous laughter greeted him. Brockendorf was brandishing his empty wine glass, Donop had flopped back in his chair and was roaring with mirth, and Eglofstein, with a sarcastic air, performed a low and deferential bow.
    "My respects, Lord Marquis. We've been expecting you this past hour."
    Salignac stood in the doorway, looking uncertainly from one to another. His blue tunic with the white revers and his stock of two colours were torn, crumpled, and stained with red and yellow mud, his cloak was wrapped around his hips, and his white breeches were sodden with snow and bespattered to the knees with the mire of the highway. The bandage that encircled his head, turban fashion, lent him a resemblance to one of General Rapp's Mamelukes. He was holding a bullet-riddled helmet in his hand, and in the doorway behind him, laden with a pinewood torch and two valises, stood a Spanish arriero or muleteer.
    "Come in, Your Lordship," called Donop, still laughing. "We're eager to make your acquaintance." Brockendorf, who had jumped to his feet, planted himself in front of the newcomer and looked him curiously up and down.
    "Good evening, Excellency. Your servant, My Lord Marquis."
    Then, because it seemed to occur to him that it was improper to joke with a traitor and a spy, he proceeded to stroke his black, waxed moustache and bellow at the man with a ferocious expression.
    "Your side-arm, if you please! At once!"
    Salignac, looking astonished, retreated a step. The light of the torch fell full on his weather-worn face, and I saw that it was bloodless, almost yellow, as if stricken with the ghastly pallor of some