Karl said nothing. He was no longer certain whether the figure at Metz really had been the French delegate Louis Cifre. All this talk about the devil and his many faces seemed so fantastical to him—he believed in science. A new age was dawning, and what they talked about here sounded like old-fashioned superstition.
“Have you ever considered that all those stories might be the result of your own fears?” said Karl as he made his next move. “You’re plagued by a terrible illness and you’re looking for someone to blame. It’s understandable. And now you’ve found the devil. But what if it is nothing but a disease? There’s no evidence that Tonio is following us, and none at all that he is responsible for everything. Not one scrap!”
“He is,” grumbled Johann.
“And the proof? Where is the proof? We would do better to ask ourselves why the pope is after you. Now that is a real danger, not some random ghost story about the devil.”
Karl shook his head. He still couldn’t understand how his master, normally the most rational person in the world, could become so entangled with the occult.
“And why should Tonio be following us in the first place?” asked Karl more gently. “Let us assume for the moment that he really did send you this curse, perhaps as a kind of reminder of your pact. Then why should he be sniffing after you like a dog? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Because it is not me he is after, but her.” Johann moved his white queen forward, close to the black king. “He is after Greta. Back then in Nuremberg, Tonio said that he could also perform the ritual with her. That he would beget a child with her. A child of the devil.”
“You can’t be serious,” Karl hissed.
“He who dances with the devil must be ready for anything,” said Johann. “I’ve been watching the birds in the sky. Tonio always used to send out his birds as scouts. Two crows and an old raven. I think I saw them again. And where the birds are, Tonio is never far.” His gaze went into the distance. “Now make your next move.”
Karl moved his rook into a new position without really thinking about it. His mind was on other things now. The doctor was slipping away from him, living more and more in his own world—a circumstance that Karl found incredibly painful. Faust was moving beyond his grasp. And Karl would have so much liked to take care of him.
“I spoke to a few people earlier about the great war that took place around here a hundred years ago,” said Johann, his eyes now fixed on the chessboard. “The war is still very much in people’s minds in these parts, and especially Jeanne d’Arc. Did you know that was precisely the time when Gilles de Rais was marshal of France? He was at Joan’s side when she rode against the English—he was her champion.”
Karl looked up. “Gilles de Rais and that martyr woman knew each other?”
“Oh yes, and more. Agrippa showed me the old records. The villain was always at her side. Later, too, during the battles of Jargeau and Patay. Her loyal liege and bodyguard. There were people who claimed the two were a couple. At the very least, Gilles was devoted to her until the day she was burned at the stake in Rouen.”
“By the devil and all the saints.” Karl shook his head. “Reality is sometimes more bizarre than any ghost story. I’m only glad—”
He faltered when he noticed the doctor’s trembling. Johann’s left hand hovered about a finger’s breadth above the table, trying desperately to reach one of the chess pieces. But he couldn’t do it. His arm was completely stiff.
“Your arm is paralyzed,” called out Karl, loudly enough for some of the patrons to turn their heads.
“Damn,” uttered Johann through clenched teeth and dropped the hand back down. Beads of sweat stood on his forehead. “Yes, in God’s name, it is paralyzed. It’s been coming and going for weeks. Usually it is worse in the evenings. Greta noticed a long time ago.”
He fell silent, and Karl knew what they were both thinking. If the paralysis continued to spread, the doctor would soon be nothing but a stiff puppet.
“All the more reason to travel as fast as we can,” gasped Johann, leaning back in his chair, his face as white as chalk. “Order wine for me.”
“I don’t think you should—”
“Get me wine, I said! If I can’t play chess, at least I want to get drunk.”
Karl was about to stand up and signal to the tavern keeper when he saw a movement behind the window. It was Greta, wildly knocking on the window with an expression of horror on her face. She looked as though she’d just seen a ghost.
Two hours earlier, Greta had felt free for the first time in a long while.
After saying goodbye to Karl and her father, she had strolled through the lanes of Orléans, crossed lively little squares, and walked past the many taverns and colorfully painted half-timbered houses, the sounds of city life streaming through open windows. She drank wine, drifted with the crowd, and caught scraps of French conversations. Her father was right. News of the German emperor’s death had made it to France. The French king had cut short one of his many hunting parties for consultations at court—after all, he was a possible candidate for the German throne. Apparently Francis I had already paid an incredible sum of money in bribes to the German electors—money that France needed badly, and more than a few people grumbled about it.
Much of what was discussed at the taverns Greta couldn’t understand, and she didn’t want to eavesdrop too
