‘What a beautiful combination.’ Clara, the Englishwoman, puts long nails on the dark cloth of his arm. She is tall and thin. Her figure and her face have those fine brittle bones one associates with red setters. I have decided that she has no character. Few whores have; or rather they assume so many characters it is impossible to tell if one is real and the others false. In this they are like all mediocre actresses. A great whore, like a great stage performer, has the brains and the sense of survival always to present one face to the world when off-duty. Clara looks to me for approval. I am prepared to smile. It costs me her attention, for she immediately detaches herself from Stefanik. Her perfume seems acrid. ‘Do you know the Count?’ she asks. ‘I have not had the pleasure.’ I am dragged towards him and introduced. It appears to me that we exchange nothing but sympathetic and knowing looks, and bows. ‘You arrived recently, I gather,’ say I. ‘Yesterday, I think,’ he says. ‘Poor timing,’ say I. ‘So it would seem,’ he says.
And you will leave in your balloon?
He shakes his head. The truth is that he cannot afford to fall, as a Czech nationalist, into Austrian hands. ‘Not with those trigger-happy Bulgarians all over the place. They’ll shoot at me. There isn’t a soldier in the world who doesn’t automatically shoot at any balloon. I have stored it and shall leave it stored until this stupidity is over. It cannot be more than a week.’
‘Less,’ say I. ‘Nobody has anything to gain.’
‘Oh, let us hope so.’ It is little demure Renee. ‘My father was at Metz. He told me how wretched the citizens had become when at last the army entered the city.’
‘Count Holzhammer is not a brute,’ says Clara.
‘He is a gentleman. He and the Prince must soon come to a civilised agreement,’ says the plump banker Schummel, all insouciant confidence and avuncular good humour. ‘My dear von Bek. How is your illustrious brother?’ We chat about Wolfgang for a few minutes, about Bismarck, but already I become impatient to return to Alex and Therese. The salon contains that blend of cigar-smoke and rosewater I find delicious, a blend of characteristically masculine and feminine scents. The perfection of the candelabrum, cold fire and crystal, the depth of the Persian carpet and the elegance of the company have revived in me that euphoria I was losing. Schummel stands with his back to the rose-marble fireplace. His balding white head is reflected in the mirror, together with the large central chandelier. Renee holds her folded fan at her side and listens while he speaks about his recent visit to Algiers where he stayed at the Grand Hotel St George, Mustapha-Superieur. The manager, a Swiss named Oesch-Muller, is such a splendid, helpful fellow. Do I know him? I agree with his opinion of the manager, though I can hardly remember him. I prefer Kirsch’s Hotel, near the English Club. Renee seems very attractive tonight. She wears pale blue and gold. Her auburn hair is allowed to fall on one side in three thick ringlets to her naked shoulder. She, too, has memories of Algiers, where her mother worked as a housekeeper for a German trader. Schummel is delighted. ‘Aha, admit it! You were a white slave in a harem. But you escaped!’
‘True,’ says Renee. ‘Life in a brothel is so much more comfortable!’
‘Well, at least you have the choice of how to spend your later years,’ says Schummel. I feel almost jealous as he offers her his arm and moves away. I decide I will have a word with Frau Schmetterling and perhaps book Renee for another night. ‘And you have so many friends,’ he adds, ‘you never need get bored as you would with one master.’
I glance at myself in the mirror. I am handsome. My moustache is perfect, my figure exquisite and my evening clothes are a wonderful fit. I have deep, dark eyes and glossy hair. My bearing is elegant without being in any way arrogant. It is no surprise to me Alex should find me so attractive. I look at my mouth. The lips are red and have a kind of refined sensuality. I am a catch for any woman. Does Alex have hopes of marrying me, I wonder. I cannot think how it would be possible, at present. It would be foolish of me to consider it. She is too young. And I do not believe she really loves me. As I return to the group around Count Stefanik I have a sudden frisson of fear. I refuse to admit I love her. Yet there is already pain, even at the thought of her desertion.
The talk is still of the war and Count Stefanik grows visibly restless. I have the notion that soon his buttons will begin to pop off his waistcoat. ‘Four of the new Krupp cannon could destroy Mirenburg in a day,’ says Stefanik, almost with vindictive relish towards those who are keeping him away from his pleasures. We look about for a military man who will confirm or deny this. There are none present. Frau Schmetterling discourages even generals from Rosenstrasse. She says they spoil the atmosphere, that their talk is coarse and too much about death. But Herr Langenscheidt, the Deputy, believes he can speak for the Army. After all, his son is a captain—a loyalist, thank God—and Herr Langenscheidt supplies the livestock and provisions to the garrison. ‘Holzhammer has no German artillery,’ he says. ‘He has inferior Austrian and French guns.’