Ludwig almost screamed those last words. Embarrassed, we all looked at the floor. The king’s financial difficulties had increased and multiplied in those last few years. The building of the new castle of Hohenschwangau (known as Neuschwanstein by the peasants), the castles of Herrenchiemsee and Linderhof, as well as a whole series of other projects, swallowed up huge sums of money. The king had only a restricted budget available, the civil list, as it was known, and he had more than exhausted that. By now he was in debt to several craftsmen, and the council of ministers was pressing him to discontinue the building works. In vain—Ludwig designed palaces the way little boys build castles out of sand or snow. One after another, a fairy-tale world in which he took refuge to be the kind of king he imagined himself. He was Arthur, and we were his knights of the Round Table; we were brave Germanic warriors—or, alternatively, as now, we were Saracens rattling our sabers and smoking our water pipes.
After a moment’s silence, Dürckheim began again, low-voiced. His mustache was trembling, but he tried to sound composed. “Your Majesty, the ministers will not put up with this much longer. I am afraid that an attempted assassination . . .”
“An assassination? By my ministers? Dürckheim, don’t be ridiculous.” Ludwig laughed so hard that his belly bounced up and down under the Turkish costume like a pig’s inflated bladder. “That corrupt band of civil servants is capable, at the most, of spoiling my dinner. An assassination attempt? More likely by the anarchists, if anyone.” Suddenly he was serious again. “Apart from that, I’ve been asking you for years to get a bodyguard together for me. True knights of the Grail who would go to their deaths for me. And what has come of that, pray?”
“There aren’t many left who can be trusted,” murmured Dürckheim. “I’ve heard news that Bismarck—”
“That’s enough of such gossip.” The king pointed to Hesselschwerdt, the postilion who had risen to become a kind of second adjutant in the past year. I considered the little turncoat a hypocritical lickspittle, but unfortunately Ludwig had fallen for him hook, line, and sinker.
“Our good Hesselschwerdt will solicit money from abroad next week. England, Venice, Genoa—isn’t that so, Hesselschwerdt?”
The skinny postilion, who looked even more ridiculous than usual in his Turkish garb, nodded obsequiously. “Very good, Your Majesty,” he said. “Always at your service.”
Ludwig let himself drop back again. “And now let us go on celebrating my birthday,” he purred like a fat, contented cat. “I’ve found a wonderful fairy tale here. I would like to read it aloud to the best of my ability. Compris?”
A LITTLE LATER Dürckheim and I were standing out on the balcony of the hunting lodge. In silence we looked at the many bonfires slowly going out around us. Although it was August, an icy wind blew over the mountain.
“What in God’s name did you mean when you spoke of an assassination attempt just now?” I asked at last. “You mentioned Bismarck. Do you really think that—”
“Shhh.” Dürckheim put a finger to his lips. “Even here on Schachen I don’t know who’s still to be trusted. That postilion, Hesselschwerdt, plays whatever tune the king wants to hear. Damn lackey!” He kicked the balcony, while the king’s monotonous voice droned on inside. Ludwig had reached his third fairy tale.
“But you’re right,” he said at last. “I did find out something that makes me uneasy. I know a few people in the Ministry of the Interior. It’s rumored that one of Bismarck’s men will soon be coming to Munich. None other than Carl von Strelitz, an agent whom the chancellor has employed in”—he drew a finger briefly across his throat—“in, well, rather delicate affairs. Von Strelitz has already worked for many different powers. He is regarded as one of the best spies in Europe, and one of the deadliest.”
My heart missed a beat. “You really think that the chancellor of the German Empire plans to have Ludwig killed?” I asked in a hoarse voice. “Why?”
Count Dürckheim was speaking so quietly now that I could hardly hear what he said. “Do you remember the king’s last furious outburst against the Prussians?” he asked. “When he said he’d sooner let the Austrians have his kingdom than stay in the German Empire under the heel of the Hohenzollerns?”
Diffidently, I nodded. It was a fact: Ludwig had never forgotten that early in his reign he had lost the war against Prussia, and therefore had to fight against France in 1870 on the side of the Hohenzollerns he despised. The German Confederation had won the war, and King Wilhelm of Prussia, who as it happened was a distant relation of Ludwig, had put on airs as German Emperor ever since. Ludwig had made several attempts to hand over his crown to the Austrians and simply abdicate.