She let the letter slide from her fingers. “In the end, the only decision of the self-proclaimed ‘Herzfeld Conference’ was to have another meeting the next year.”
Again, she took several deep breaths. “I have read, myself, several of the pamphlets written by that Spartacus fellow. Even—God save my soul—a pamphlet written by Gretchen Richter. I would be lying to both of you if I did not confess that I agree with half of what they say.” A bit hastily: “If not, certainly, the other half.”
She drew out the chair from the desk and sat in it. Then, folding her hands atop the stack of letters, gave the landgrave of Hesse-Kassel and the former duke of Saxe-Weimar a level stare.
“But this much is true, O ye noblemen. With, of course, some exceptions, the aristocracy of Germany has become a plague upon the land. Parasites, nothing else. And while I do not include our own family in this—nor yours, Wilhelm, save that swine Bernhard—nor a number of others—if we insist on sticking together we will all go down together. Do not doubt it for an instant.”
The words were, on the surface, addressed to both men on the couch. But, in reality, they were aimed entirely at her husband. The mere fact that the Saxe-Weimar who had appeared that evening at the Hesse-Kassel quarters in Magdeburg did so as a commoner, no longer as a duke, made clear to everyone where Wilhelm stood in the matter. Even if, thus far in his visit, he had said very little about it directly.
Saxe-Weimar decided to rise, a bit, to Hesse-Kassel’s defense. “In fairness, Amalie, it is quite a bit more difficult a decision for your husband than it was for me.” With a rueful chuckle: “Since, for all practical purposes, my ‘duchy’ had been slid out from under me anyway.”
But Amalie was not so easily mollified. “Nonsense! No one is suggesting that the landgrave should abdicate. No such bold measure as you took is needed from him. All my husband has to do is give up this hopeless scurrying after petty noblemen most of whom aren’t fit to serve as his valet.” She paused, her eyes almost crossing. “Now that I think about it, I would not wish any of them on my husband’s valet himself. I’m rather fond of Dieter.”
Hesse-Kassel spread his hands and then slapped them on his thighs. It was a forceful gesture. . . .
Not very forcefully done. “What would you have me do, wife?” he grumbled. Casting a somewhat unfriendly glance at the man seated next to him: “Fine for Wilhelm to be so cozy with the Americans. If I did the same—”
Now, Wilhelm decided, it was time to be direct. “There is no need to be ‘cozy,’ as you put it, with the Americans. But what you must do—and no ‘cozy’ about it—is weld yourself to the emperor. Weld yourself, Landgrave! Gustavus Adolphus now faces what is probably the greatest crisis of his life. You know the man. Do you think they call him the Lion of the North—even, in Italy, the Golden King—for no reason?”
Saxe-Weimar felt too strongly about the matter to remain seated. He rose and began pacing about, using short and abrupt gestures. “He will not cave in, Landgrave. Never think it. He will do whatever he must to defeat his enemies. And if that means—as it surely will, given continued aristocratic foot-dragging—that he has no choice but to weld himself to the Americans, he will do so. Yes, he will hesitate. But not for very long. Not when he has the enemy at the gates. And then—”
Saxe-Weimar ceased his pacing, almost spinning around to face Hesse-Kassel. “Have you considered what will happen then?”
He pointed a stiff finger at the eastern wall of the salon. Somewhere beyond that wall lay the still-unfinished imperial palace where the Chamber of Princes would resume their meeting the next day. The salon wall was covered with a tapestry, to disguise the rough wall of the new and still-unfinished building which Hesse-Kassel had rented for his own quarters during his stay in Magdeburg. Crude, rough, unfinished—like everything in Magdeburg. But only a fool—or an aristocrat lost in reverie—could fail to sense the new strength coiling beneath the surface.