Sophie and the Sibyl by Patricia Duncker Page A

gorgeous as princesses, rubbed shoulders with the recently rich around the roulette tables, but too many of their Berlin acquaintances, there to enjoy the gambling, had already greeted him. Max decided to play safe. Forbidden to enjoy himself in the Kursaal, and disinclined to float gently in the baths, Max decided to pay for one whole night of bliss in the arms of his farmer’s daughter. She fulfilled all his expectations, and if not as weightless as the Fairy Queen Titania, nevertheless performed an exotic variety of magical tricks, some of which startled her worldly young gentleman into yelps of joy. Sated, washed, brushed and perfumed, he strolled back towards the populated promenades in the early morning, inordinately pleased with the intensity of his night’s bought pleasure. He paused to light his cigarette, not ten paces from the Israelite’s pawn shop, when a familiar young figure swung out into the street before him. Her plaits were tucked into her hat, so that her pale neck shone smooth as a statue above the embroidered collar and the bold green stripes of her walking dress. Max was so close that he saw the light gleaming through the fine blonde hairs at the nape. Her laced boots, black with white trim, hammered away over the cobbles. She kept her eyes down. She wasn’t looking for trouble. But there was no doubt about it; out of the Jew’s den flounced the Countess Sophie von Hahn.
    Max froze, his face boiling with embarrassment and shock. Her receding virginity reproached him for that one night of love, and he stood, denounced, as guilty as any young husband caught in flagrante delicto with the housemaid. What on earth was she doing in Homburg? And did she know he was already here? Max dived into the Aladdin’s cave presided over by a tiny bearded Jew. The shop was darker than he had expected; the pocket watches, bracelets, necklaces and precious stones luminous on black velvet squares beneath locked glass.
    ‘May I be of service to you, sir?’ whispered the Jew. He laid down an elegant necklace of opals and rubies surrounded by diamonds, that he had been examining through an eyeglass, which he now carefully extracted, and set down beside the languorous jewels.
    ‘The young lady who just came in – what did she want?’ Max blurted out his alarm.
    The Jew seemed to shrink a little. All transactions on his premises remained confidential. He murmured apologies. Max loomed over him. Without speaking, the pawnbroker simply lowered his eyes to the necklace and Max grasped the transaction at once. Sophie had borrowed money against the necklace, almost certainly without her father’s knowledge. But where was the Count? Would no one step forward to reprimand this wastrel daughter? What troubles had engulfed her? Blackmail and Vice hovered in the wings, awaiting their chance to drag down his adorable Sophie. Max mounted a metaphorical charger and lowered his lance at the Jew.
    ‘I understand you perfectly, sir,’ he snapped, although nothing had been explained. ‘How much?’
    ‘One thousand thaler.’ The Jew’s voice sank to a barely audible vibration. He glanced nervously into the rooms behind him, hoping for reinforcements if the gentleman before him, clearly a near relation of the lovely young lady, turned nasty. Max shivered slightly. The jewels glowed on the velvet between them. This necklace must belong to the old Countess; surely these jewels formed part of Sophie von Hahn’s dowry and inheritance. One thousand thaler barely touched their value and the Jew knew it. Redeeming the thing then and there drifted into Max’s brain, but without Wolfgang’s authorisation the project was impossible.
    Max turned on his heel, threw open the door, with not one further word to the Jew, and bounded away down the street. He flung himself into the awakening watery sunshine of the little town and pounded after the woman he intended to honour with his own hand and his brother’s money. So far as Max was