On the Night of the Seventh Moon

  We all wore black clothes and there was a black rosette on the horse which drew our trap.

  Liesel started to sing as we drove on the downhill road but she was reprimanded by Fritz.

  “You don’t sing at funerals,” he told her, and for once Dagobert joined in to agree with him.

  Frau Graben somehow made it seem almost like a festive occasion. She couldn’t hide her excitement; her eyes darted everywhere, but she drove with a competence which was surprising.

  Crowds were already filling the oberer Stadtplatz; they were taking their stand on the steps which led to the fountain in the middle of the square. Strips of black crepe fluttered from the windows, and with the flags at half mast it was clearly a town of mourning.

  “We’ll get along to the inn while we can,” said Frau Graben, and I was quite relieved when we arrived there. The trap and horse were taken care of and we took our seats in the window as we had before.

  The innkeeper came to chat with us and talked about good Duke Carl who was dead and young Duke Carl who had succeeded him.

  “Times are troublous,” murmured the innkeeper. “We miss the good old days. Let’s hope the young Duke gets a long peaceful reign, though I’m forced to say the signs go against that.”

  I felt very uneasy and said: “What is the news?”

  “They say Napoleon’s getting more and more pugnacious.”

  “And you think he’ll declare war?”

  “That’s the way things are going.”

  Dagobert cocked an imaginary gun. “Bang! Bang!” he cried. “You’re dead.”

  “Let’s hope it won’t come to that,” said the innkeeper.

  Dagobert started to march up and down, singing the National Anthem and saluting as he came past us. Fritz fell in behind and Liesel joined them.

  “Now, children,” said Frau Graben comfortably, “we’re not at war yet, you know.”

  “I’m going to the war,” said Dagobert. “Bang! I shall lead you all into battle. My father will go.”

  “He’s not the Commander-in-Chief,” said Fritz.

  “Oh yes, he is really.”

  “No, he’s not. That’s the Duke.”

  “He is really only he lets the Duke pretend. He could be Duke if he wanted to.”

  “Now, children,” said Frau Graben, “don’t let’s have nonsense!”

  “It’s not nonsense, Graben. My father . . .”

  “We’ll have no more guns or wars or Dukes or it will be no funeral procession for you. Now, Liesel, you’d better come over here with me or you won’t see a thing there.”

  We arranged ourselves at the window and the innkeeper brought wine for Frau Graben and me; the children had a sweet drink.

  The guns booming from the tower of the royal Schloss announced that the procession was about to begin. Slowly the cavalcade descended the mountain into the town on its way to the church where the late Duke had been lying in state.

  There was the carriage on which the coffin would be placed and taken to the shores of the lake when Charon would row it over. Only a few of the nearest relatives would cross to the Island, led by Maximilian and Count Frederic.

  There was the Processional Cross glittering in the sun as I had seen it before, and there was Maximilian remote as a hero of the forest seated in his carriage wearing his robes of state—purple velvet edged with ermine and as I gazed at him I said to myself: Is he really my husband? But when he looked up, for he knew I should be at the window, and smiled he was no longer remote, and not even the sound of the ominous funeral march nor the guards with black feathers in their hats in place of the habitual blue ones, could curb my joy. Slowly they filed past.

  “There’s my father,” said Dagobert in an awed whisper.

  And there he was, the Count himself, in military uniform, medals glistening on his chest, a black feather in his helmet.

  He too looked up at the window and I fancied there was a supercilious smile about his lips.

  The duration of the church service seemed interminable to the children; they fidgeted and Dagobert wanted Fritz’s seat because he thought it was better than his own and as the eldest he should have it. He tried to jostle Fritz out of it, but Frau Graben in her comfortable way controlled them.

  At length the service was over. The coffin was laid in the carriage for its last journey to the Island. The band struck up a Dead March, and slowly the horses caparisoned in heavy black velvet, black plumes waving on their heads, drew the carriage through the streets. On either side marched the soldiers.

  The crowds were silent as the cavalcade went winding its way through the town toward the forest and lake. When it came back the carriage which had contained the coffin would be empty, and the chief mourners would no longer be there; the Processional Cross would be taken back to the church and locked away in the crypt.

  Dagobert announced that he wanted to go to the Island to see his mother’s grave.

  “Now you know nobody is allowed on the Island today,” said Frau Graben. “If you’re very good I’ll take you to see the Duke’s grave.”

  “When?” Dagobert wanted to know.

  “Not today because you wouldn’t be allowed. This is the day of the burial.”

  “When my father dies it’ll be a better funeral than this,” said Dagobert.

  “Good gracious alive what a thing to talk of.”

  “I didn’t want him dead,” said Dagobert, ashamed, “only I wanted him to have a better funeral.”

  “There’s not a better funeral than the Duke’s,” said Fritz.

  “There can be,” insisted Dagobert.

  “Now no more talk of funerals or there’ll be no trip to the Duke’s grave for some people.”

  That quieted them but they were restive.

  I suggested a guessing game which we played with moderate concentration until the Processional Cross was brought back and the crowds started to disperse.

  Frau Graben thought we might be leaving soon, but when we descended to the inn parlor it was to find the crowds were so thick that we could scarcely move.

  “We’ll make our way to the stables,” said Frau Graben. “By the time we’re ready to leave it’ll be less congested.”

  Dagobert slipped out of the inn yard to look at the crowds and I was anxious because of what had happened to him in the forest. I followed him, calling him.

  I then saw Sergeant Franck who had caught Dagobert by the arm. He pulled him round and indicated me.

  I went up.

  Sergeant Franck clicked his heels and bowed.

  “It’s too crowded out there,” he said. “Give them ten minutes and it’ll be considerably less crowded. You want to be careful no one picks your pockets in a crowd like this. All the beggars and thieves come in for miles around. It’s a field day for them.”

  Frau Graben came up.

  Again he clicked and bowed. “I was just telling the Fräulein here that it would be better to wait for a few minutes. Why don’t you pop in and see Gretchen and the children? She’d be glad to see you.”

  Frau Graben said it was a good idea, and she wished that she had brought the cordial she’d promised.

  “Never mind, she’ll be better pleased to see you than all the cordial in Rochenstein.”

  “I don’t know that that’s very polite to my cordial,” beamed Frau Graben.

  “Better still,” I said, “it’s very complimentary to you.”

  Sergeant Franck made a way for us through the crowd and we left the main street. There was a small side alley made very pretty by window boxes on the sills; it was like a little court.

  Frau Graben told me that the married guards had their homes in little squares like this throughout the town, though the single ones were in barracks close to the Schloss.

  The door of one of the houses was open; one stepped straight into a living room. There were two children sitting on the floor—one, about six years old, drawing, the other, about four, was playing with bricks.

  “Visitors
, Gretchen,” said Sergeant Franck; “and now it’s back to duty for me. You’ll make the introductions, Frau Graben, I know.”

  “You can trust me,” said Frau Graben. And she said something which I didn’t hear. For I could only gaze in shocked amazement at Gretchen Franck, for I recognized her at once. She was Gretchen Swartz whom I had met in the clinic when I was going to have my baby; the girl who had been in great distress and whom they told me was dead.

  She bowed to me, but I saw the startled expression in her face and I was aware that she knew me, even as I knew her.

  Frau Graben was smiling at us, watching us—as though we were two spiders in a bowl.

  Then she said: “And how is the new baby, eh?”

  “He’s sleeping,” said Gretchen.

  “I hear he’s going to be the image of his father. So you didn’t come out to see the show, Gretchen.”

  “I couldn’t very well take the children,” said Gretchen, her eyes still on me.

  “You could have joined us at the inn window. There was plenty of room. If I’d known I should have brought that cordial. Are you all right? You look a bit . . .”

  “I’m all right,” said Gretchen quickly. “And Mrs. . . .”

  “Miss Trant,” said Frau Graben.

  “Miss Trant.” Her eyes held mine. “You would like some . . . refreshment?”

  “We had wine at the inn. I daresay the children would like something.”

  “Yes,” said Dagobert, “we would.”

  While she brought the refreshment I was thinking: I must speak to her alone.

  When she came back, she put a tray on the table and served the wine. Her eyes held mine as she handed me my glass. She was telling me that she recognized me and was refraining from saying so for fear of my embarrassment.

  There was some cordial for the children and the inevitable spiced cakes. Dagobert said to the children: “Two bandits tried to kidnap me, but I frightened them away.”

  The children listened intently to his imaginary adventures in the forest.

  “He wore my magic hat and lost it,” Fritz told.

  Then they talked of the magic hat.

  Frau Graben sat listening; then she said: “How are your roses coming on, Gretchen?”

  “Very well,” replied Gretchen.

  “I’ll have a look,” said Frau Graben. “No, don’t bother to come with me. I know where to find them.”

  Gretchen looked at me. She moved through the open door into the kitchen. I followed.

  “I knew you at once,” she said in a low voice.

  “And I you. But I couldn’t believe it. They told me you had died and that your grandmother had taken the little boy . . .”

  She shook her head. “It was my baby who died. She was a little girl.”

  “Then why . . . ?”

  She shook her head.

  “I don’t understand why Dr. Kleine should have deliberately lied to me.”

  She seemed bewildered. “And you?” she said. “What happened?”

  “My baby died. A little girl. I saw her in her coffin. A little white face in a white bonnet.”

  She nodded. “Mine was like that. I dreamed of her for a long time.”

  “And what really happened?”

  “My grandmother took me back after all and I came home. Hans was the greatest friend of my Franz and he escorted me. He said that Franz would have wanted him to take care of me and he had always loved Franz and me too. So we married, and my grandmother was pleased because Hans was in the Duke’s Guards and gradually I began to forget that nightmare and be happy again. What did you do?”

  “I went back to England.”

  “You did not marry again?”

  I shook my head.

  “It is a pity. When our first baby came I stopped dreaming of that little face in the white bonnet. I told Hans about it and how that day I had wanted to kill myself. And how a strange English girl came to my room and because of her I went on. I never forgot you. And it is strange that we should meet like this.”

  “I came back here,” I said, “to teach the children English. Frau Graben visited England. I got to know her and she offered me the post.”

  “How strangely life works out,” she said.

  “It is all so bewildering.”

  She touched my hand gently. “I shall never forget what you did for me. I would have jumped from that window, I know, if you had not come in that day. I don’t know what it was about you. I knew that you had suffered some tragedy as great as mine; you did not talk of it. There was something stoical about you. It gave me courage . . . and to you I owe this happy life which is now mine. I have often told Hans of you . . . but have no fear I shall not mention that I have seen you . . . not even to Hans. I think perhaps you would rather not.”

  I nodded.

  “Then I shall tell no one.”

  I said: “I must find out why Dr. Kleine told me you were dead.”

  “Perhaps he mistook me for someone else. There were many people at his clinic.”

  “I don’t think that was so. There could not have been a mistake. He distinctly told me that you were dead and that your grandmother had taken the child. And yet it was the other way round. Why?”

  “Is it important?”

  “I’m not sure, but I have an idea that it might be . . . very important.”

  Frau Graben was standing in the doorway.

  “Ah, having a cozy chat. I knew you two would get on. Yes, Gretchen my dear, they’re coming on well. But you watch out for the greenfly.”

  She was smiling slyly, blandly. I wondered how long she had been standing there.

  I was impatient for Maximilian to come that I might tell him what I had discovered. This was yet another strange aspect of the mystery which overhung my life.

  I waited at the turret window and when I saw him riding up the road I was filled with relief.

  He ran up the stairs and I was in his arms. He could not stay, alas; he had ridden over from the ducal Schloss in all haste to tell me that he had to set out without delay with some of his ministers for Klarenbock. A tense situation was arising for war with the French seemed inevitable. There were certain clauses in the treaty with Klarenbock which had to be clarified in the event of such a war and it was imperative that he leave.

  The thought of his going away terrified me. I suppose I was unduly anxious because once before I had lost him.

  He would be back in a few days, he assured me, a week at most, and as soon as he returned he would come to me.

  As I watched him ride away a terrible feeling of desolation and insecurity swept over me. It would always be thus, I feared, when he went away—even for such a short time.

  It was some while afterwards that I remembered I had not mentioned what I had discovered through Gretchen Franck that day; and to stop myself brooding on Maximilian’s departure I wondered whether I might not go to the clinic, see Dr. Kleine and discover whether he could throw any light on what had happened.

  The more I thought of the idea, the better it seemed to me. I should have to tell Frau Graben that I was going but I did not wish to tell her for what reason. She was far too inquisitive and I could not bear her to ask questions.

  I said there were some people I had met in the town of Klarengen and that I had often wondered about them.

  “Have you written to them?” she asked.

  “No, but I should like to go to see them.”

  “There’s a train which would get you there in an hour or so. I wouldn’t like you to travel alone. My word, if anything was to happen to you I’d have His Highness to answer to, wouldn’t I? No, I’m all against your going alone.”

  “I could ask Gretchen Franck to go with me.”

  “Gretchen Franck! Why her?”

  “The outing would do her good. All this talk of war seems to worry her. She’s upset thinking of Hans going to the front.”

  Frau Graben nodded thoughtfully. “It would do her good. I’m glad you liked her. I
’ll get her children and bring them back here. I’ll look after them while you’re away.”

  “The baby is young, of course.”

  “Do you think I can’t handle a young baby?”

  Gretchen was surprised at first when I suggested the trip, but she quickly agreed to come with me when she heard of Frau Graben’s offer to look after the children.

  She was puzzled as to why I wanted to go back there, and I couldn’t explain to her. I just said I wanted to see my baby’s grave and she said that she would like to see hers.

  We caught the train at ten o’clock. Prinzstein drove me to the town and we picked up Gretchen there. The train journey was through beautiful mountain country which had I been in a less absorbed mood I could have greatly enjoyed.

  We went straight to an inn for a meal. The town was very small and there were only two. The one we chose was practically empty; and here as in Rochenberg the imminent war was the great topic of conversation.

  When we reached the clinic, Gretchen shivered as she looked up at the window and I knew she was thinking of that day when she had planned to throw herself out. There was the spot where I had met the Misses Elkington.

  I said: “We are going in to see Dr. Kleine.”

  “But why?” asked Gretchen.

  “I must see him. I want to ask him where my baby is buried.”

  She didn’t demur and we mounted the steps to the porch and rang the bell. It was answered by a servant and I asked to see Dr. Kleine.

  I was expecting her to say that he was no longer there in which case it seemed that my journey would bring no results, but to my relief we were ushered into a waiting room.

  “I want you to wait here, Gretchen,” I said, “while I go in and see Dr. Kleine.”

  After ten minutes or so I was taken to the room where Dr. Kleine received his patients. I remembered it so well: here Ilse had brought me when we had first come here.

  “Please sit down,” he said benignly.

  I sat down. “You don’t remember me, Dr. Kleine. I am Helena Trant.”

  He was too late to hide the shock I had given him. I had taken him completely by surprise for he had scarcely looked at me as I entered and it was so long ago since he had seen me.