“But . . .” I began as Dürckheim pressed down the door handle.
“Never fear,” he told me. “The king is not here. He is pacing up and down in the Singers’ Hall like one of the undead. At the moment the bedchamber is the safest place. The servants know that the king never spends the night here, only the day. So no one will think of spying on us.”
His Majesty’s adjutant pushed me into the cold room and closed the door behind us. With the gray light of morning falling through the window, the outline of the huge bed with its magnificently carved canopy could just be seen. All around us were imposing murals telling the tragic story of Tristan and Isolde, from the fatal love potion to their union in death. The two ceramic figures above and at the side of the tiled stove also showed the lovers. I could not help thinking of Maria and myself; in one of the paintings the loving couple embraced as closely as the two of us had done a few months earlier at Herrenchiemsee.
Count Dürckheim, exhausted, sat down in one of the armchairs and looked at me with red-rimmed eyes. He did not seem to have had a wink of sleep.
“The counter-proclamation is written and printed,” he said, rubbing his temples. “We have had thirty thousand copies distributed, but, to be honest, I don’t think it is going to work. Presumably the police will confiscate most of the pamphlets before they get into circulation.”
“Then what are we to do?” I asked.
“We?” The count smiled wearily. “You overestimate my powers. I’ve already received orders from the War Ministry, three times, to return to Munich at once, on pain of arraignment for high treason. Now that Luitpold has taken over as regent, I serve another master.” He sighed at length. “The way it looks, Marot, you will soon be the last of our little group of conspirators able to stand by the king.”
“My God, Dürckheim, don’t leave Ludwig now, when he needs you most,” I exclaimed. In desperation, I sat down on the blue damask coverlet and ran my hands through my hair. For a moment I entirely forgot that I was sitting on the king’s bed.
The count raised a hand to soothe me. “Don’t be alarmed. I am going to leave, but before I reach Munich, I’ll make sure a message gets to the equerry Hornig and a few friends to tell them to do all they can to prepare for the king’s flight.”
I frowned. “For that, we’d need to know first where Gudden and Holnstein mean to take His Majesty.”
“Ah, here at least, there’s a glimmer of hope.” For the first time a slight smile passed over Dürckheim’s face. “I still have a few reliable sources of information, and they report interesting news. Dr. Gudden plans to detain Ludwig at Linderhof Castle. They intend to make the place a kind of prison. So we must act fast.” He stood up, smoothing down his uniform jacket. “I have several capable people in the Linderhof area, and they will organize an escape. From the castle, it is not far to the Tyrol. All is not yet lost, Marot.”
Suddenly he put his hand to his breast pocket. “Damn it, I almost forgot. The letter.” He took out the large envelope and the small folded note. “I gave the king my word to hand it over in Linderhof. But now I must go straight to Munich if I don’t want to end up in front of a court martial.”
I thought for a moment and then put out my hand. “Give it to me. I’ll take the letter to Linderhof with me and give it to the recipient there.”
Dürckheim looked at me doubtfully. “I gave my word,” he said. But then a sigh escaped him. “What does it matter? If I can’t trust you anymore, whom can I trust? But remember that the letter is to be given only to the person named in the note. And you are not to open the note until you are at Linderhof.”
I nodded, then took the letter and the note, stowing both safely away in my vest pocket just below my heart.
“I must go.” The count gave me his hand in farewell, and the first pale rays of the morning sun fell on his face. “For God and the king.”
“For God and the king.”
Without another word, Count Dürckheim turned away and hurried down the stairs of the palace to the first floor. A little later I heard a horse neighing, and I looked through the window, where nocturnal drifts of mist were dispersing. Leaning low on his horse, like a miscreant, the count galloped out of the castle gate.
The morning twilight quickly swallowed him up.
29
A KNOCK AT THE door brought Steven out of his reading. It was Albert Zöller, standing in the doorway of the small hotel room that the bookseller shared with Sara.
“Adolf the photographer reporting for duty,” he announced, saluting like a soldier. Around his neck hung an unwieldy camera that he had scrounged up a few hours ago in a photographic equipment store in Schwangau. “Always wanted one of these,” he said, grinning as he waved the old-fashioned camera in front of Steven’s face. “I thought it looks more professional than those newfangled digital cameras.” He looked at his watch. “Eight thirty already. We’d better go up to the castle quickly, if we don’t want to miss our date.”