Across the Endless River (32 page)

Baptiste is relieved to be in Ludwigsburg, though perhaps it is more accurate to say that he is relieved to be out of the coach. “Always going,” as he says, “and never getting there.” On a number of occasions he insisted on riding alongside the carriage, not, I think, to be free of my company, but to be out in the open. He is still uncomfortable having matters taken care of for him, and his conversations among my relatives and friends throughout Europe often lack nuance. But he is a son of the New World, a true American, whose signal feature seems to be the propensity to address any subject at all with direct questions, even to perfect strangers, in order to learn from what he presumes to be their equally direct responses. In this respect he is still made up of rough edges.

For example, he did not appreciate the hunting party in Fontainebleau. He wanted to know if the
chasse à courre
was common in Europe. When I assured him that it was, he said, “I don't see the point of going after a deer that has been driven to exhaustion by forty riders in a closed park.” I responded that it was one of the differences between savagery and civilization, and he laughed. I admitted that where procuring food is the principal concern, stalking an animal in the wild requires wiliness, courage, and luck peculiar to life on the frontier. Here, I explained, food is not the point. The hunt is a ceremonial, with a single animal serving as a representative for all the others. “It is what we call a tradition,” I told him, but Baptiste was unsatisfied with my explanation.

His uncomplicated directness is well tolerated by most of my acquaintances, though, partly because they regard him as an exotic who does not know better, partly because of his youth, and partly because he has a charm that sets him apart. To be sure, the wonder is not that he has so many rough edges, but that he has so few. He has fit in almost everywhere we have traveled together, and has never made a spectacle of himself.

His facility with languages is impressive. He is able to turn an attentive ear to any new language and then faithfully reproduce its sounds and inflections—if not its sense—soon after. Professor Lebert tells me he has a faculty similar to some rare individuals for reproducing music they have heard. How jealous I am! My English, never more than approximate, has deserted me, as his German improves. He shows a robust confidence in French that, though lacking in polish and form, is ever practical and adaptable to the street. Last month in Paris, I found him trading jokes with Uncle Franz's groomsman in a vernacular I had trouble following.

His relations with the ladies have met with no great success, which I attribute to plain ignorance and naïveté. He has had his face slapped more than once for what he regarded as perfectly acceptable advances. I despair of his understanding the ways of the salon as concerns the fairer sex. This is one language he does not yet master. The pleasures of the bordello are always available to him, but the one time we talked about his experiences—I had given him an address in Paris—he told me, “It was more like dessert than a real meal.” Nothing is said between us about our personal assignations, but he knows I keep a mistress in Stuttgart. His liaison with Theresa is a mystery to me. I worry that she sees him as a plaything, though they seem to be good friends. His origins are a useful cover for her interest, and both of them are masterfully discreet. In this, Baptiste shows himself to be a patient hunter who is used to covering his tracks.

Yesterday he referred to himself as my “employee” and asked how long this arrangement would continue. When I protested and pointed out that he was my guest, he said, “I learned from Captain Clark that when someone pays you money, you work for him.” He is anxious to start work on the book about my travels, and I share his impatience and frustration. How can I begin, though, before I have found a suitable place to examine all my specimens in peace?

T
HIRTY-TWO

O
CTOBER 1825
P
ALACE OF
L
UDWIGSBURG

B
aptiste didn't slow until he reached the top of the rise. As he watched Paul approach, breathing heavily, he was struck by how much less fit Paul was since they had arrived in Europe almost two years before. Finally Paul joined him on the brow of the hill, a full game bag slung over his shoulder, his rifle alongside. They had been out since dawn, hunting the pheasant that were plentifully stocked in the clearings beyond the forest surrounding La Favorite. Though they had seen numerous other animals, they had taken only the birds.

Paul's breath returned to normal and he motioned to a clearing where the towers of La Favorite were visible above the trees. “Before we return, I want to share with you a little entertainment that used to amuse us cousins when we were younger,” he said. “Schlape has made the necessary arrangements.”

Paul led him to a solitary oak tree at the edge of the clearing. On it hung a clock. On a small table beside the tree sat an identical one. Baptiste recognized them as the type they called a “cuckoo clock”: a painted panel on the front covering the mechanism, two stone weights hanging below, and, above the clock face, a door from which the tiny cuckoo appeared to sound the hours. Paul stopped the pendulum of the clock hanging on the tree, moved the clock's hands to five minutes before three, then gently set the clock in motion again. He walked to the other side of the clearing.

“This is the Ludwigsburg version of that stunt your drunken rivermen in St. Louis delighted in. With the difference, of course,” he added laconically over his shoulder, “that no one risks getting killed.”

Two
voyageurs
had taken bets on whether one could shoot a glass of whiskey balanced on the head of the other at fifty paces. He and Paul had gone down to the river's edge with half the town, it seemed, to see the shot made. One of the rivermen got his hair doused in whiskey and the two of them were forty dollars richer.

The cuckoo was only one inch tall, and it would be projected out about two inches, three times in rapid succession. Baptiste figured the distance at more than seventy-five paces. He was well acquainted with Paul's extraordinary marksmanship, and he knew how perfectly crafted his rifle was, but, even so, this was a difficult shot. Baptiste stood to one side and watched as Paul raised his rifle and sighted down the barrel.

“Once to get your bearings, twice to aim, three times for the little bird,” Paul murmured as he stood poised to shoot. Ten seconds later the cuckoo sounded and the bird appeared, then again, then Paul fired. As the explosion faded in receding echoes, the clock was intact, its profile etched in the spare light of morning. They walked to it together. Paul opened the door and pulled the birdless spring outward. A few splinters lay on the ground, but otherwise nothing remained of the cuckoo. Paul said gleefully, “Now it is your turn.”

He replaced the clock with the one from the table, resetting the time as before; then they retraced their steps to the far side of the clearing. When the cuckoo sounded, Baptiste fired. The second syllable of the bird's call was cut off and the clock was blasted from the tree, landing noisily ten yards distant. Baptiste lowered the rifle and turned to Paul.

“I missed.”

“Yes, I suppose you did,” Paul said. “Anyone can hit the clock, my friend.”

But not everyone wants to,
Baptiste responded inwardly, handing Paul the rifle.

As they walked back to La Favorite, Paul talked about his plans for the coming week: a short trip to Stuttgart and a round of visits to nearby friends. “Uncle Franz will be here for a few days when I return. He'll see Wilhelm in Stuttgart, then come up here to get away from the court. Monsieur Hennesy will be traveling with him. I gather he'll be bringing his beautiful daughter. They'll continue on to Sicily and Greece when Uncle Franz returns to Paris.”

Baptiste's heart leapt at this news. Maura's last letter had come in August, when she had cautioned that travels with her father would likely interrupt their correspondence for a time. Her adventurous image had grown in his mind, and his affection was reinforced by the few letters he had received from his “cousin.” Baptiste was encouraged by her curiosity about the frontier, and he mused about showing her all the places that would surprise her. He was very much looking forward to seeing her.

He thought, too, of Theresa. He wondered what she would make of his feelings for Maura. Their physical intimacy had grown since his return to Ludwigsburg, but Theresa let him see that she had other interests. She had recently made a trip to Saint Petersburg, and while she never talked about them, Baptiste understood that Theresa had lovers elsewhere. For her, their meetings were pleasurable way stations rather than a destination, times when she and Baptiste stood apart from life's usual rhythms. So far, their arrangement had seemed to have nothing to do with Maura, but now he asked himself if that would change.

While Paul was away, Baptiste often walked around the town. He had a circuit of taverns and shops and market stalls. Though he was recognized as the duke's friend and
protégé,
he had fashioned his own identity among the townspeople, one that was distinct from Paul and the world behind the gold-tipped fence. In some ways, Baptiste was less exotic to the residents of Ludwigsburg than Paul, once they got used to seeing him regularly and came to accept his efforts at German.

On a clear and cold afternoon the day before Paul was due to return, Baptiste and Theresa met in a salon that looked out on the forest.

“The chambermaids are the least predictable,” he told Theresa. “They always twitter like birds, though, so there is plenty of time to lie low. Now that it is growing cold, the wood haulers show up, too, to feed the stoves. But they make more noise than anyone with their sacks of logs, so there is no danger. The only one who can't always be heard is old Suber.” Theresa nodded. The ancient major-domo had a kindly face for his masters, but was a tyrant when out of their sight. “He walks with the paws of a cougar and is always ready to strike. If he could move faster, he would be dangerous.” Baptiste was by now accepted as a guest of the royal household, but he remained ever watchful when he made his way at night through the servants' corridors to her rooms.

Theresa sat at a round table at the end of the room, playing solitaire, while Baptiste reclined on a
chaise longue
. She turned the cards absentmindedly, listening to what he was saying.

“You told me once, ‘Every theater has its wings,' ” Baptiste said. “There is a lot to learn from what goes on backstage. Especially,” he added, “when nobody knows you're there.”

“Ah, there are no mysteries left for you then,” Theresa said, flipping a card without looking up.

“There are a few. When you were in Russia, you missed a big court ceremony. The king, the court, and all the ambassadors came up from Stuttgart for the signing of a treaty,” Baptiste told her. “Everyone made speeches and bowed a lot, covered in medals and elaborate uniforms. It was an impressive sight, but I wondered when the terms were actually negotiated.”

“The real work goes on long beforehand,” Theresa said, “when the king's minister sits down with each ambassador and fashions an understanding between their states. They don't wear their plumage for that.”

Baptiste nodded. “Captain Clark once called a council in St. Louis for the fur-company owners, the army officers, and six tribal delegations. They were all in their fanciest costumes. One of the old Omaha chiefs said, ‘Their clothes are wearing them.' ”

Theresa considered the words for a moment. “That's very well put.” Then, in a quieter tone, she added, “It is a world I have tried to move away from.”

“Is that why you travel?”

“Yes. My mother always said that travel opens the door to chance, and I savor that. You might meet anyone, even”—she gestured toward Baptiste stretched out on the
chaise
—“a young prince from a faraway land.” He smiled, and Theresa continued. “It would be indecent to complain about a life of privilege. One needn't look far to see how miserable one's daily existence could be. But if the most that can be said is that things could be worse, there is already a surrender, a long waiting for the end that is the opposite of life, don't you think?”

The conductor in the pit raised his baton, waited for quiet to descend, and then the orchestra began a slow, sinuous melody in the strings, like a river meandering gently through the plains. The three singers onstage joined in, their harmonies intertwining and growing louder or softer as the feeling within the words seemed to demand. Theresa and Baptiste sat in one of the front boxes on the first balcony of the palace's theater. Baptiste had never heard anything so sumptuous or so pure, and he closed his eyes to enjoy the sound. Suddenly a cry came from below and all the beautiful music stopped abruptly.

“Non, non, non! C'est terrible!”
The conductor, an Italian, yelled in heavily accented French at two of the singers, and a general confusion enveloped the stage and the orchestra pit.

“It sounded good to me,” Baptiste said.

Theresa agreed. “But we do not have Signor Russo's knowledge.” Order had been restored and the ensemble prepared to begin again. “A Mozart opera performed before the king must be as near to perfection as possible.” In two weeks, Wilhelm would be bringing the court up from Stuttgart for this musical offering.