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Early that morning, late October in the year 1601 A.D., Ludwig Torrentius was getting ready to venture out into the streets. He did not relish the prospect but had no choice. His experiment demanded more rats. He stood before a looking glass, putting on a black leather mask of his own making: the upper half in his own likeness, the lower half like the snout of a wolfhound, filled with odorous herbs against the pestiferous vapors. Air holes in the snout allowed him to breathe. He donned a hooded cloak and looked at his reflection with grim satisfaction. Quite a fearful apparition. Hood, mask and long cloak all bubonic black. A bit like death itself. He left the room, down the wide, marble staircase and took a heavy walking stick from a barrel.
    "Trudy!" he bellowed in the direction of the kitchen. "I'm out. Admit nobody while I am away, except for that half-witted nephew of mine."
    Without waiting for a response he went out the door, pausing at the top of the steps to marvel at the quietness. He lived on High Street, which cut right through town from the East Gate to the Schiedam Gate in the west. Although not wide it was the main thoroughfare, always bustling with people and animals. Now there was not a soul in sight. Ludwig grinned behind his mask. Nice and peaceful, he thought. It's not all bad.
    He went down the steps and began to walk leisurely westward through the deserted street. A fine morning. Cool and bright. An unblemished sky. The sun stood right behind him and cast his shadow long and dark on the cobblestones. Almost involuntarily he veered away from houses that had a bundle of straw hammered against the door, as a warning that the disease dwelt within.
    In the morbid stillness his footsteps sounded like whip cracks. The only other noises were made by countless crows and jackdaws, clamoring somewhere in the distance behind him, no doubt still feasting on the corpses of the 28 Dunkirk pirates who had been hanged a week ago and were rotting away on the gibbets outside the East Gate.
    He passed a barrel of burning tar. The sharp odor briefly swamped the pleasant scents of the herbs in his mask.
    He came to City Hall. It stood a bit back from the street. A tall, slender building with a high double-staired porch and an elegant tower. The small square before it was used for public executions, postponed indefinitely now. A pity, Ludwig thought. Nothing like a good execution. As a medical man he took a keen interest in the way the human body reacted to blows with blunt and sharp instruments. But mostly he enjoyed to see vainglory brought down. The farce of human dignity exposed when men turned into cowering animals, shivering and yelping for mercy. Of course, there were also those who kept up the show till the very end. An inspiration to us all, he thought, grinning.
    He walked on, meeting only a few people, who all turned pale as they caught sight of him and almost scraped the opposite wall in passing.

At the corner of Old Fish Market Alley he should have turned left for the harbor district but walked straight on. As always, the first step he took out of course gave him a little thrill, partly from excitement, partly from discomfort at this excitement. It was so puerile. But he could not help himself. He had to go by way of the Big Market Square. Because that was where Mathilde lived. Ach…, Mathilde. He groaned in self-disgust. Old fool, he thought. Damnable old fool. Risk your life for a peek, would ye?
    Mathilde. Never had he seen a woman like her. Perfection pure and simple. Before her all women had been mere pawns in his life. Some were fun, others trouble. Nothing else. He had never understood why men got so excited about them. Till he saw Mathilde. And instantly he understood the maddest ravings of the wildest poets. Mathilde had been his revelation. The dream he had never dreamt of dreaming. She opened his eyes to all the things he had been missing while delving blindly for the secrets of nature. And she, of all people, had to be married to that empty-skulled nephew of his. Lambert Coppelstock. A decent enough chap, sure, but vain, materialistic, a fop and a moneymaker.
    He reached Short Church Lane and turned left into its chilling shade. As he passed the house where Erasmus had been born, he noticed that it, too, had a bundle of straw hammered to the door. He came to the Big Market Square, its cobblestones pale like skulls in the sunlight, littered with yellow lime leaves. He stopped to look at his nephew's house, on the western side. Ruddy brickwork, three stories high, crowned by a step gable. No sign of Mathilde, of course. He crossed the Square, passing the statue of Erasmus, who stood absorbed in contemplation of an open book, splattered with bird droppings. Torrentius grinned. Some poetic justice there.
    As he approached the harbor district the streets became a little livelier. Rowdy men with weather-beaten faces swaggered about. Many dressed in quaint mixtures of rags and riches. Fine velvet trimmed with gold thread and slashed to reveal gaudy linings, above filthy baggy trousers and naked calves. An East India fleet had returned recently, and the surviving sailors were on their customary spree, drinking and whoring till their sorely earned pay was squandered and they were forced to sign on for another suicidal voyage. They were too familiar with death to feel anything but contempt for yet another shape of it. Even Ludwig's mask could not impress them. They jeered him brutally. He did not mind. He had a soft spot for these brave simpletons. At any rate they were real men. He knew many by name. Like most wealthy Dutchmen he owned shares in merchant vessels and had been one of the first to move from the Baltic mother trade to the Far East trade. There lay the future. It was not very profitable yet. This last fleet had lost him a tidy sum. But he did not mind. Profit would come soon enough. For the time being it had brought him enough other boons in the shape of exotic animals and plants. He got access to journals, diaries, the men that wrote them. Sailors loved to talk, spin yarns, boast of the torments they had endured, the wonders they had seen. Ludwig loved to listen, and learn. He encouraged them to bring him specimens. Animals, plants, minerals, anything. He paid well. He intended to go there himself, as soon as some kind of civilized order had been established. He did not feel ready to be butchered by savages just yet.

He came to the Maid of Holland, a sprawling inn overlooking the New Harbor, where the small Baltic frigates were moored. He entered the low, wide taproom. Again the fragrance in his mask was overpowered, this time by a mixture of stale beer and tobacco and pungent body odors. Sleeping sailors lay slumped over tables and benches. The innkeeper was sweeping the floor, throwing up clouds of dust that shimmered in the beams of sunlight. A young boy was strewing fresh straw in his wake. The older man was startled by Ludwig's mask, but recognized him all the same.
    "Good morrow, Master Torrentius," he said. "Aren't you a trifle early for the carnival?"
    "Better early than late, Arnoud," Ludwig said and walked on to courtyard behind the inn. Deep in shade, icy cold. A patch of unpaved soil, fringed with shocks of grass, enclosed by an extension of the inn on the right, a brick wall on the left. At the far side of the yard rose a wooden barn, its upper half struck by the sun, weathered planks whitish gray in the light. The doors stood open and the hindquarters of horses were vaguely visible inside. Against the barn leaned a small shed thrown together from a bewildering variety of colorful odds and ends. Its architect had obviously had no prejudice against anything made of wood. Planks in a rainbow of colors, barrels, table tops, shutters quartered red and white, a mossgreen door, small birches, even an old tavern sign depicting a grinning boar. Ludwig always marveled at the ability of the contraption to stay erect.
    This was the home of Gysbert, the rat catcher, who was just emerging from his abode on hands and knees. Bit like a snail, Ludwig thought, almost expecting him to drag his house along on his back.
    Gysbert rose, pulling himself up along a crutch.
    He was a ragged, one-legged veteran from the Spanish wars. Dressed in a padded doublet with matching trousers, both soiled to an indefinable brown. A brightgreen hose was loosely wrapped around his only lower leg. He gave a start at first sight of Ludwig's mask, but instantly displayed a big toothless grin of recognition.
    "Ah, master Torrentius. Well met, kind sir. Come to fetch a few more furry friends, have you?"
    Ludwig nodded.

He returned home with a wooden cage containing four scurrying rats hidden under his cape, by the same route, again cursing himself for his puerile hope of seeing Mathilde. A breeze had sprung up, shaking leaves from the trees and flinging them high into the air. The day was becoming very fine. A bright blue sky. Mild sunshine. As he passed through an alley a door burst open and a man staggered out. Ludwig recoiled. A victim of the Gift. He wore a loose shirt, stained with blood like a butcher's apron. His face was sallow and haggard, cheeks sunken, eyes bloodshot, inflamed, a dark boil bulging under his left ear like a black egg. His sweat-soaked hair clung to his forehead.
    When he caught sight of Ludwig he came stumbling towards him.
    "Please good Sir ...," he stammered. "For the love of God."
    Ludwig swiftly raised his stick and prodded the man in his stomach. He doubled up and spewed out a gulp of dark, stinking blood.
    Ludwig hurried on, briefly shaken by the incident. But a few minutes later he was smiling again. Under his arm he might be holding the key to untold fortunes. These four little rodents might prove a theory he had been working on for many months now. An elixir of youth, no less. An antidote to time, the father of all plagues, most relentless killer of all. He was close, he felt it. No hard facts, alas. His rats had a rather disappointing tendency to drop dead after one sip of his potions, but he was growing more and more convinced that one these days they would live and start growing younger. And then, at last, the world would honor his name. He'd find the recognition that had eluded him so long. He clenched his teeth. Burn my paintings, indeed. They'll rue the day. Damnable rogues. He'd be a hero of the nation. Then his statue, instead of that mumbling fool's, would stand in the Big Market Square. Ludwig Torrentius, the new Savior. He paused for a moment beside the statue, eyes focused on the red-bricked house across the square. Suddenly his heart leapt. There she was! Behind the second-story window, broken by the leaded panes, indistinct but unmistakable. His Mathilde, his love. He wondered if she saw him.

She did, clasping a hand against her throat in fright. What a horrible specter, she thought. A shudder racked her body. Quickly she drew back from the window, atremble. The hooded figure seemed to have stepped right out of her latest nightmare. A frightful one, a black haze of death advancing across the market square, skeletons in hooded black capes dancing around open graves that emitted a fiery glow, she hiding in a niche that seemed to be getting shallower all the time, until she stood fully exposed in the middle of the street, petrified with fear. That was when she awoke. It had been more than an hour now, but still she felt the horror of it. Vivid as a memory rather than a dream. And now this awful person had to appear to remind her.
    She sank down in a high-backed chair at the table, waiting for her husband to join her. The table was laden with the riches of a heavy Dutch breakfast. In a shaft of sunlight stood a basket of freshly baked bread, pewter platters with meat and cheese, a wooden keg with butter, a pewter jug of beer with matching tankards, a Delft blue bowl brimming with apples and pears. Normally a sight to cheer her. But not today. Not after that dream and that specter outside. Of course it was no wonder that she had these morbid thoughts. Only last evening she had overheard the maid and cook exchange grisly tales of the havoc wrought by the disease. People collapsing in the streets. Bodies floating in the harbors. A family of ten dying wretchedly in a locked house, victims of the harsh yet inevitable ordinance that forbad inhabitants of a plague house to leave it for six weeks. She shuddered again. What if they were next? She dared not venture out any more, refused to let the servants go. Food was delivered. And even then Mathilde cringed whenever the heavy knocker was struck, sending a deep boom through the house, like some death knell. She always wanted to shout No! Don't open. Turn them away. But that was folly. They had to eat.
    Just then the bell of St. Lawrence struck, giving her a start. In the morbid silence outside it sounded ominously loud. She counted the peals. Nine. Please, she thought, not any of us, and shuddered again.
     Her scalp itched. In her distress she had not yet put on her coif and her long blonde hair hung loosely around her head. At any rate she could scratch freely. She was being sorely tried by lice lately. Time for Aaltje to get out the comb. She'd ask her a little later.
    She wished Lambert would join her. He was pottering about in the bed chamber. Just then he came out, dressed in black padded trousers that made him grotesquely big around the hips, his wide shirt hanging out over them, still open at the neck, revealing the sharp contrast between his ruddy face and the milky pallor of his chest. He held a small ruff in his hand.
    "Where's my new figure-of-eight?" he asked.
    "At the cleaner's," she said.
    "Alas," he muttered. "I have an important meeting this morning. Methinks this bauble is a bit Spartan." He held up the ruff with a look of disgust on his face.
    "Say not so, dear husband. It becomes you well enough."
    He grinned.
    "Do you think so?"
    "Faith, I do."
    He shrugged and returned to the bed chamber. Mathilde smiled. A bit of a fop, her husband. But she did not mind. She liked his meticulous care for his apparel.
    She rose from the table and went over to the window again. Looked out, through the small, leaded panes. Mercifully, the black figure had gone. The large square lay deserted. The only movement came from the fallen leaves from the lime trees, flitting about in the breeze. A bit like yellow butterflies. Straight ahead, just between the motley gables of the houses on both sides, the sun glowed faintly, like a large moon. She felt tense. The atmosphere in the room was close, stuffy. She opened the window a little. A cool breeze swept into her face, like a moist veil. She took a deep breath. A gulp of chilled wine. But tainted by a strange taste, bitter, briny. The poison! O, Jesu. In sudden fright she slammed the window shut, realizing, almost at once, the source of the smell. In front of their house, a little to the left, stood a barrel, with a long almost transparent flame lapping inside it, ghostlike. Tar, burnt all over town to dispel the malevolent vapors. She gave a small sigh of relief and reopened the window. The silence outside was almost complete. Sunday morning like. But it was a Wednesday. None of the countless noises otherwise filling this lively town on a weekday morning. No hubhub of voices, no laughter, hearty good morrows or shouts from vendors, no footsteps, no hoofbeats, no clatter of sleds drawn across the cobbles, no hammering from the shipyards only a few streets away, no dogs barking. Aye, the dogs. She felt a twinge of pity. Many had already been put down. They had to be kept indoors. Outside they were outlawed, killed on sight. Death she thought, death, death.
    The only sounds that occasionally broke the silence were made by birds. Crows, jackdaws, gulls. Their harsh and strident calls tore at the stillness. They sounded almost defiant, scornful, careless. For a moment she wished she were a bird. No fear of the plague among them. The thought chilled her. She closed the window brusquely. It was folly to breathe the outside air. She tensed. What if she had already breathed the poison? She closed her eyes, suddenly faint with fear. It was the threat, more than anything else. The stifling sense of unseen evil all around. The air itself lethal. Each breath might contain the stuff of death. A few days ago she had seen an old woman drop dead right before her eyes, in the middle of the square. As if struck by an invisible cudgel. She shook her head in a brisk, irritable motion. She had to stop these thoughts. It was all wrong, she knew. She had to try and be more like Lambert. Take things as they came. All this worrying led to nothing. Brought on bad humors.
    Lambert returned from the bed chamber. His ruff in place, a thick white ring of convoluted cambric oddly separating his head from his shoulders. He had put on his black doublet with the burgundy slashes. Smart. This heartened her. She was proud of her husband. Such a fine figure of a man. His boyishly handsome face, with the close-cropped hair, thin moustache, pointed little beard. Big, steady eyes, the high arch of his eyebrows, which always gave him a kind of wondering look, as if he were faintly amused at everything around him.
    He sat down at the table, grabbed a roll of bread, broke it in two and dipped one half into the butter.
He looked up at her.
    "What ails you, sweet my wife? You look pale."
    She went up to him, laid an arm around one shoulder, pressed her breasts against the other, kissed his forehead. His scents enveloped him. The freshness of his shaven face, the bittersweet odor of his body, the camphor of his clothes.
    "You know full well."
    He sighed.
    "I wish you did not brood so much. It is such a useless thing to do." He took her hand and pressed a gentle kiss upon it, his moustache tickling.
    She smiled weakly.
    "I know, I know," she said, returning to her own place at the table. His eyes followed her while he munched his bread.
    She dropped into her chair with a bump.
    He smiled sympathetically.
    "Be not so faint of heart, sweet wife. Have more faith. It is not for us to argue with the designs of the Almighty. Every day He showers us with blessings for which we barely thank him. Are we then to balk at one less welcome gift?"
    She lowered her eyes. Gift! she thought, scornfully. That ridiculous euphemism for the disease. The Gift of God: to perish in bloody agony. Coming, as she did, from a religiously tepid family she found it hard to understand her husband's unshakable beliefs. But she knew better than to oppose them.
    She nodded.
    "You are right, of course."
    "I know I am. I only wish I could make you share my convictions. It would make your life so much easier."
    "I do try, you know," she said, defiantly.
    "I know you do. Now try to eat something, my love."
    She did, nibbling some cheese.
    He smoothly changed the subject, spoke of his upcoming meeting. Some important shipowner was looking for a merchant to go along on his spring fleet to Danzig.
    "A fine opportunity," he said. "Not only because of the commission, but also because it would give me an excellent start as an agent there. Not to mention the fact that all the expenses of our crossing would be paid."
    "Sounds wonderful," she said, as cheerfully as she could.
    "Aye," he said, grinning. "And the best part is that uncle Torrentius has put in a good word for me. That makes the outcome almost a foregone conclusion."
    Mathilde's heart sank. Uncle Torrentius. Not him, of all people.
    Her husband froze, tankard of beer raised before his chest. His eyebrows contracted from their quizzical arch into a dark frown.
    "Mathilde?" he said, ominously.
    She gave him her most innocent look.
    "What? What?"
    "I know you love my uncle not, although I'll be damned if I know why. He has been very good to us."
    "Too good, methinks," she snapped, instantly wishing she had bit her tongue.
    Lambert slammed his tankard on the table.
    "Zounds!" he cried. "This is too much. You are really insufferable this morning. I'm away." He thrust back his chair, rose and marched out of the room.
    She was left deflated. He was right of course. She was being insufferable. She had no right to upset her husband so. But she had cause. Ample cause. Only, it was hard to impart to others, most of all to her stolid, single-hearted husband. He was too upstanding even to begin to understand the dark, twisted desires that brooded in dishonest men. And few were more dishonest than Ludwig Torrentius. A demon of a man. As infamous as he was powerful. The pitch-black sheep of the family. Admired by some, despised by others, feared by all. Nobody rightly knew what he was. Doctor of medicine or alchemist. Healer or destroyer. Saint or heretic. He had been a religious hero in Spanish times, defying the pigs, as the Spaniards were scornfully called, but became a fiend when he defied the Protestants with equal fervor once the Spaniards had been driven out. Man of arts and letters. Painter of scurrilous scenes, so wicked that they had been burned in public once, earning him 10 years' exile in England. And that man, that immoral lecher had fastened his brooding eyes upon her, Mathilde, on the day of her wedding, with such ravenous lust that she had almost swooned. She had felt his hunger, his bestial desires and his lewd urges, in a single look that felt as if sharp little teeth were nibbling at her spine. His traditional kiss of the bride had been like the suction of a leech on her lips, turning her stomach. She had blessed her fortitude for not vomiting. But his eyes had hounded her all day. Pale blue in cavernous sockets, under beetling eyebrows. Predators in the undergrowth, yawning with hunger. She felt, with unshakable certainty, that if he ever got her alone, he would ravish her like a bulldog, that it would take buckets of water to pry him loose from her. This she knew. But try and explain that to a simple, thoroughly decent man like Lambert.
    Her husband came marching back into the room. Short black cape around his shoulders, high-crowned hat on his head, putting on his black gloves. He still frowned at her, but a faint smile played around his lips.
    "If you are to become a burgomaster's wife one day, my sweet, you must learn to handle all kinds of people. Even the likes of Uncle Torrentius."
    She smiled ruefully.
    "Forgive me, Lambert. I was wrong. I shall try to be less silly about him."
    "I hope you succeed. We may be dining at his house soon."
    The prospect gave her goose-bumps, but she managed to keep a straight face.
    "I shall do you proud," she said.
    He laughed.
    "That's my lady," he said and came over to kiss her warmly on the lips. She still melted under his kisses. They were as delightful as they had ever been, sending a warm glow all through her body. A brief moment of mindless bliss. Smiling happily she led him to the door, waved till he had disappeared around the corner.

Her mood fell with the slam of the door. Weariness came over her. With leaden feet she went up the stairs again, no eyes for the beautifully carved banister that otherwise gave her so much joy. Back in the drawing room she returned to the window. The sun had become too bright to look into. She blinked at it. Have faith, she thought. She was overreacting, she knew. No doubt the situation was worrying, but not nearly enough to make her so downhearted. These weren't the dark old days when the disease was allowed to thrive unchecked. Nowadays the authorities did everything to curb its ravages. It had been in town many times before. Between the years 1593 and 1598 it had only skipped 1597. Never lasting for more than a few weeks, though. It should be over soon enough. If only she had Lambert's unshakable belief. She looked out. The square began to show some semblance of normality. A few pedestrians moving about, but all mending their steps to keep well apart. A horseman came trotting by, a soldier in shiny breastplate over a buff jerkin, a large hat with orange plume. The horse a dark gray, manes plaited, adorned with little orange ribbons. Pretty. She wondered whether horses every got the plague, instantly cursing herself for the thought.

It seemed incredible now that only three months ago she had counted herself the happiest woman in the land. Just married to an ambitious young merchant. This fine house overlooking the Big Market Square. She turned round and surveyed the room. Simple splendor. Oak wainscoting to shoulder height, white plaster above it. Heavily framed pictures on the walls. Two seascapes, a country inn. The large portraits of Lambert and herself, wedding gifts from her father-in-law. The ornamental fireplace, gray marble, a lusty fire cheerfully dancing within, and a tall mirror over it. The crystal chandelier from the inlaid ceiling. The massive sideboard, dark, glossy chestnut, with silver candlesticks, large earthenware plates. She had been so proud of this house. She only nineteen and already mistress of such wealth. And their plans to go abroad. Dantzig, no less, where Lambert was to become an agent for several large trading houses. The promise of motherhood. And now everything had been darkened by this terrible threat of imminent death. And the threat of dinner at uncle Torrentius to boot, she thought. Revolting.

When Ludwig came home several letters were waiting for him. One about his nephew. Whether such a young man was really capable enough for the Dantzig commission. It infuriated him. Had he or had he not recommended the lad? He wrote a withering reply and had Trudy take it over herself. The other letters were from traders who could not deliver their goods because they were not allowed into the town. He smiled. Nothing a little subterfuge and bribery could not solve. He set about writing his replies and was still busy doing so, when Trudy returned, in the company of a jubilant Lambert. Red-faced, all but dancing with glee he burst into Ludwig's study. Ludwig raised his hand.
    "Bear with me a moment, coz. Let me finish this sentence."
He had no sentence to finish but he wanted his nephew subdued before he spoke to him. And nothing better to subdue an overwrought youth than some time to gaze around in Ludwig's study. No mortal could fail to be impressed by it. A treasure trove of rarities. Exotic monsters, artfully preserved, stood about in terrifying postures. A huge brown bear, a big striped cat, a boar with tusks the size of Turkish scimitars. And, most terrible, a human skeleton, dressed in humanist robe and cap. Lewd paintings of his own making adorned the walls. His desk stood in the middle, cluttered with manuscripts and ponderous books. A wooden globe. Candlesticks with black candles. An inkwell in the shape of a winged devil.
    Ludwig laid down his quill and bade his nephew sit down.
    The young man looked more than subdued.
    "What brings you here, sweet coz?" Torrentius asked, in his kindest voice.
    "Gratitude, dear uncle. Pure gratitude. I have the commission!"
    "Of course you have. I'd have wrung a few necks, had it been otherwise."
Lambert smiled.
    "I am profoundly grateful, dear uncle. It means a great deal to my wife and myself."
    My wife! Ludwig all but gnashed his teeth. The lady Mathilde. Woman among women. My wife, says the scoundrel, demons and dragons! Pure blasphemy. Ludwig almost choked with choler. He clenched his jaws and brusquely turned his face away to hide his agitation.
    "This calls for a celebration," he said. "I have some devilishly fine claret knocking about somewhere."
    He beds her, he thought, this pink-faced popinjay delves into her flesh at will, whilst I am kept at bay like a rabid dog. No, no, not so for very much longer.
    He found the bottle and between them they finished it in an hour. Lambert was half delirious with excitement, waxing ever more bold in his plans for fortune in Dantzig. Ludwig humored him. When it was time for Lambert to go home, he invited him and his good wife, of course, to come dine with him the next day. The young man accepted eagerly.

When Lambert had left, Ludwig sank into a stifled rage. He wanted to howl and rampage. Break things. Crush bones. Cut flesh. Separate limbs. Drink blood. Beat his fists raw and sore on a certain gratefully smiling face. But he sat still. Nobody was to know of his passion. Least of all Trudy, his busybody housekeeper. Her throat he'd slit one of these days. And not a day too soon. Ah Caligula. Inspired madman, wishing the people of Rome to have one neck, so he could wring it. My humor precisely, he thought.
    "I shall not be denied," he muttered. "I shall not."
    He drank his wine. It simmered hotly in his stomach. Age. Damnable age. When young he could swallow gallons of the stuff and not be a whit the worse for it. Now it set fire to his insides. Time was catching up with him. He rose and went over to his looking glass. Old, old, old, he thought. His fleshy face was beginning to sag. His eyes had become hooded. He was developing jowls. A weary bloodhound. No wonder Mathilde harbored no amorous feelings for him. If only he could rub away ten years from his jaded appearance. She'd not be so wayward then. As he slouched back to his chair, his attention was drawn by little squeaks from the cage. His rats. He had forgotten about them. His elixir! He had even forgotten about that. This wench is driving me out of mind, he thought. Age? Psah. A bauble. A piffling trifle. He'd conquer it yet. He grabbed the cage and went staggering down the stairs to the cellar. His laboratory. Here stood all the paraphernalia of his trade. Innumerable pots and bottles and flasks and pouches filled with things animal, vegetable, mineral, and yes even human. Here he fought his lonely battles with nature, attacking it with fire and water, acids and salts, pounding, burning, boiling, mixing, extracting, condensing. He had built a grotesque distillery, a maze of twisted tubes and retorts, like the intestines of some gigantic glass and metal beast, in which brightly colored liquids would hiss and bubble. So far its only practical use had been the production of a particularly nasty gin, but his hopes were still high. He put the cage on the table, and took out four smaller ones from a pile in the corner. He placed each of the four rodents in a cage of its own and took out his notebook, to check the last composition of his elixir. It had been far from perfect, sending its furry consumers into violent convulsions and rapid death. With a deep sigh Ludwig began to check his last formula, but the figures wriggled before his eyes like swarms of ants. He blinked a few times. Even his eyesight was going. He looked away at a darker recess of the room and there, clear as a painting, he saw Mathilde's eyes. Big, pale bluish green, with nicks of gold. He blinked again. The eyes were gone. He flung down his quill.
    "I can wait no longer," he muttered. Even if he found this damned elixir of his, it would take months to perfect for human consumption. Mathilde might be off to Dantzig before then. No. He had to move sooner. But how? He had never courted unwilling females before. It had seemed such a waste of time with so many easy women about. He had always waited for a sign of willingness before making any advance. No chance of such a sign from Mathilde, alas. No woman had ever shown such open dislike of him as she had. Her very eyes seemed to freeze at the sight of him.
    "A bit of a drawback," he said. "There's no denying."
    On the other hand he detected a glimmer of hope in the very chill of her rejection. Was it not said by the French that those who excused themselves accused themselves? Now there was a thought worth cherishing. He smiled wryly. She would not have been the first wench to balk at her own darker desires.
    Ludwig knew his strengths. Few women were not fascinated by him. His aura of power and mystery. His good looks, for he was still very good-looking damn his age, tall and muscular, with thick black hair, fine teeth and icy blue eyes. A somber knight. He clenched his jaws. He was convinced he would be able to win her, given the opportunity. But precisely that opportunity was denied him. She made sure of that. Damn her.

Mathilde was restless all morning. She missed Lambert, always did, but especially now, with the horrible disease about. Each time the knocker fell, its sound seemed to prod her chest like a broomstick. What if Lambert had taken ill? Breathlessly she waited for cries of dismay from the hall. When they did not come, her relief, though immense, would never last for long. The silence might only be an intake of breath before the next and fatal blast.
    The hours dragged. She sat at Lambert's desk, on the first floor, overlooking the Big Market Square, window tightly shut, although the bright autumn sun was heating up the room, making her perspire in her heavy autumn dress, darkblue damask, trimmed with gold thread, rustling crisply in the silence of the room.

The square had come alive somewhat. The Dutch could not be idle for long. Halfway through the morning an intrepid tradesman had set up his stall on the square in spite of everything. And customers came, in singles, keeping well out of each other's way. But they came. Other tradesmen followed suit. And by mid afternoon, the square looked a bit like its usual self. Some shipyards had apparently also resumed work. The customary hammering rang out again in the distance, albeit weakly. Mathilde took heart. Perhaps the worst was over. But try as she would she could not really believe it. The barrels of tar still burned, although the flames were invisible in the sunlight and their wisps of smoke were ripped apart by the breeze. There still was an eeriness abroad. No dogs, no children, no laughter. Coffins very visible all day, wheeled about on carts, being made at Quentin's carpentry shop at the north side of the square, where old master Quentin himself sat in the sun, trimming planks carefully, pipe in mouth. Such a peaceful scene. Such a dire purpose.
    Mathilde tried to concentrate on her work. She was practising her handwriting and learning German in the process. She wanted to be a useful wife, help her husband in his Dantzig business ventures. He hated writing. She loved it. Fondly she recalled his pleasant surprise when she suggested she should become his writer.
    "What a wondrously fine idea. Sweet my wife, you are a rare and fragrant spice."
    She smiled at the recollection. It never ceased to amaze her that she had been so fortunate in her husband. Their marriage had been arranged, sort of. Their fathers were erstwhile owners of competing trading houses that had always made business bitter for each other. Last year Lambert's father had suggested a joint venture. Mathilde's father had been very wary. Mutual suspicion and uneasiness lingered until the two wily merchants realized they might have a powerful bond in a nubile son and daughter. Clumsy coincidences were arranged, fooling nobody, but oddly enough Lambert and Mathilde took to each other like kittens, and all had been joy thereafter. The delighted parents spared neither money nor pains to make the wedding a fairytale. They bought them this fine house. The fathers merged their businesses and became not only partners but inseparable friends, doubling their power and turning into a force to be daunted, sure to reap political rewards before long. Lambert's future - and hers - shone with all the promise of an April morning sunrise.
    And now, this unbearable now, everything was unhinged, as this mad lottery of death ran its course. Never had life seemed so brittle. Mathilde knew her emblems. She kept a small volume beside her bed. The woodcut pictures floated before her eyes. The fragile ship tossed upon the rock-fanged shore. The earthen pot bobbing in a stream struck to pieces by a brass one. A well-wrought barrel undone by the slightest crack. The setting sun. A naked skull. As she recalled the many images of doom, the sweat on her skin turned to ice. She shivered. She ached for Lambert, to see him, to know he was safe. Suddenly she could stand it no more. She jumped up. She had to see him. Had to know. She ran out of the room and down the stairs, screaming for the maid.
    "Aaltje! Aal! My cloak."
    She threw the household into a panic. The maid and cook came running out of the kitchen. Mathilde wanted to go out. Her servants would not let her. When she made a dash for the door, they held her back by force. After a brief scuffle Mathilde broke down in tears. They comforted her with soothing words and a bumper of brandy. When they promised they'd send someone to Lambert's office with a note, she calmed down. Aaltje offered to comb her hair, knowing how much she enjoyed that. Grudgingly she agreed. And it helped. Mathilde loved to have her hair combed, especially when her lice had become as numerous as they had now. It was delicious to have her itching scalp massaged by Aal's comb. The girl had a delicate touch. Just firm enough to soothe the itching and remove the little tormentors from her luxuriant locks. She sat before a mirror, Aal standing behind her. They chatted pleasantly. About the master mostly and about Aal's suitor, Simon, the blacksmith's apprentice.
    When Aal had finished and gone back downstairs Mathilde managed to retain her good humor and worked diligently on her handwriting until Lambert came home.
    He was in high spirits, embraced Mathilde tightly and called for their best bottle of wine.
    "I have the commission," he cried. "O, Mathilde. This will be the making of us. We shall be rich and powerful. You shall live like a princess."
    Mathilde smiled. She loved to see her husband so happy. Nothing made her happier herself. Tears almost came to her eyes. This is so good, she thought, so deliriously good. Please God, let it last.
    Lambert grabbed her by the hand and dragged her up the stairs, skipping two treads with every bound.
    "Dantzig here we come." he shouted.
    In the drawing room he dropped into a chair, drew Mathilde on his lap. She flung her arms around his neck, kissing his face.
    "O, I  love you so." she said.
He kissed her back. Strong, eager kisses, sweet with wine. He drew back his head a little, gazed into her eyes, face flushed with excitement.
    "O, dear my wife. It's almost too much."
    She caressed his short, velvety hair.
    "Say not so."
    Footsteps on the stairs made her stand up. She did not want Aal to see them too intimate. When the maid had gone she returned to Lambert's lap. They drank wine, kissed. Lambert told her about his day. The meeting that he had dreaded.
    "Easy as belching."
    "Fie, Lambert, what an expression."
    "Sorry, lass. It's uncle Ludwig's. I went over to him afterwards. To thank him for his intervention. Guess what he said? "I would have wrung some necks if you had not got the commission." Is that not grand of him?"
    Mathilde felt a sharp little twinge in her belly at the mention of Ludwig's name. But she managed to hide it.
    "Very grand," she said.
    "We're to dine at his house tomorrow. Celebrate our good fortune."
    Mathilde caught her breath. Dinner at uncle Ludwig's? O. no! But recalling their morning argument she kept silent and just embraced him more tightly.

A little later Trudy called up that dinner was served and they went down to eat together, happily, chatting about their future. Mathilde forgot her worries for a couple of hours. Lambert was a lively talker, with an inexhaustible supply of curiosities. Incidents in the streets, at the office, sharp business practices, news from afar, gossip, rumors, stories. Mathilde drank his words. She deeply suspected him of embellishing the truth, but that only made it better. Thus she seriously doubted that a fishwife had tried to strangle a competitor with a living eel, or that alderman Stoute had insisted on showing off his new horse although he was too drunk to stay in the saddle and fell off no less than seven times before he could be dissuaded from trying again.
    "Then he wanted to shoot the poor brute," said Lambert, chuckling. "For not showing enough respect. He staggered into the house, dragging his wife and daughter along. Fool though he may be he's stronger than an ox. You would not believe the commotion inside. Stoute cursing and throwing furniture around, the women weeping and screaming. The horse, by the way, had already gone, moved out of harm's way by neighbors. And then suddenly out rang a musket shot that sent one of the windows crashing into the street. Cheers of delight from us onlookers of course. Another shot, followed by a howl of pain. That silenced us a moment. Had the drunken sot done some terrible mischief? But no, a few moments later he came out, using his musket as a crutch, one of his feet covered in blood. The buffoon had managed to shoot himself in the foot." Lambert roared with laughter. Mathilde giggled.
    "Fie, Lambert. We should not laugh at another's misfortune. Was he badly hurt?"
    "No, more's the pity. The ball only grazed his big toe."
    "And the horse? Did he shoot it?"
    "Faith no. He dotes on the animal. Next day, uncommonly sober, he rode it up and down the town till everybody was sick of the sight of them. He vowed he'd make the brute his sole heir."
    The bell of St. Lawrence struck twelve.
    "Hark. Is that the hour? To bed, my love. I have much work on the morrow."

That night Ludwig could not, would not sleep. He had drunk himself into a pleasant state of intoxication and fantasized languidly about his beloved Mathilde. Beloved? Aye, to his cynical amazement he had to confess to more than lust for the lass, although his fantasies did give him frequent attacks of horniness. Then his old prick would stand up rigidly in his breeches, like a tense stallion straining at the bit, and he could almost feel her soft warm flesh upon his. She had such a magnificent body. He had watched it often. After he had learned that she did her own shopping in the mornings, he occasionally rented a room in a tavern overlooking the market. There he would go to drink his morning beer and gaze out till he saw her come sweeping out of doors, big, voluminous. A strong, Dutch country lass. She reminded him of a three-master before the wind, her big breasts like billowing sails. Her easy, natural gait. The slow, languid roll of her hips. High forehead, the wealth of her golden hair that no coif could hold for long, some strands always slipping out, fluttering along her broad, strong-boned face. He was besotted with her. Many a morning the sight of her put him into such a frenzy of desire that he went straight from the tavern to an inn of ill repute, to seek out some big, blonde whore and quench his ardor in a few bouts of brutal fornication.
    He snorted like a horse, gnashed his teeth and swore he would have her, no matter what. Still, this left him with the problem of her dislike of him. It demanded a solution.
    "Opportunity, opportunity, my soul for an opportunity," he said, in a sing-song voice.
    Get rid of Lambert. Ah. The thought had been slinking about at the back of his mind like a hungry predator for God only knew how long. Now it had sprung into the open. Ludwig sat up with a start. His head spun. I'm drunk, damn me. He slapped his face. A bit too hard. It stung. Get rid of Lambert. He froze. The thought had been thought. The seal was broken. No unbreaking it ever now. O God, he thought, I shall have to kill him. He tried to shrug it off. Sheer folly. Not Lambert, his nephew, of all people. Why, he liked the fool. He grew agitated, jumped up, lost his balance, feeble with drink.
"No!" he howled, stumbling about in an attempt to regain his balance. He fell against the large brown bear, which seemed to embrace him with its huge, scythe-clawed paws. Ludwig buried his face in its soft, cool pelt. "Don't let me contemplate this thing," he moaned, flinging his arms round the bear's neck as if it were an disgruntled lover. He gazed up into its pink maw, lined with the large ivory teeth. "Claw the thought from my brain. Bury your fangs in my skull." He thrust his head against the bear's maw, pressing its teeth into his skin. "Crack it like an eggshell, spill the evil yolk of my brain, and this foul thought with it." He stood motionless for a spell. His heart pounding. Wish I were sober, he thought. This is a poor play. To no avail. He stepped back.
    "I only need to get rid of him for a little while." Perhaps a commission on an East Indiaman? That would put him out of the way for years. But he would never go. Of course not. Who would, with a woman like Mathilde waiting at home? No, useless. And besides, it would still not give him, Ludwig, the opportunity he so direly needed. He looked around dopily. He was tired. His mind was slowing down. And yet. He had to find some solution. All I need is a few days alone with her. His look wandered to his collection of bottles, jars and jugs. He did have some love potions. Rarely worked, though. Never, in fact. Charm, wit and sugary words were still the best medicine for a woman's wayward heart. Alone with her. He sat up with a start. What if he got himself trapped with her in the same house? The plague ordinance! By Saint George. Eureka! His mind woke up, flew into furious action. He and she together in a plague house. The latest town ordinance forbad inhabitants from leaving such a house for six weeks. Ludwig almost bruised his face grinning. Get her in here, have someone die from the plague and hocus pocus, she is at my mercy.
    "But how to find someone obliging enough to catch the plague at the right time and place?" he thought aloud.
    Impossible. He grunted, took an angry swill from his glass. Problems, problems, problems. He brooded some more. She'll never come alone. Only with her husband. A chill crept into his heart, like a snake, slowly wrapping its icy coils around it. The terrible logic was inescapable. If Mathilde and Lambert came to his house and he was to be left alone with Mathilde, Lambert would have to be the one to catch the plague. Ludwig sat motionless, growing colder and colder. The solution was so obvious, and yet he shrank back from putting it into words, even in his mind. He shook his head. No, no, that goes too far. And again he saw her face before him, bright as a moon in the darkness. Her strong-boned face, with prominent cheekbones, broad jaws, gentle inward slant of her cheeks, the pale eyes, her delicate nose, the broad, lascivious lips, always slightly pouted, taunting to be kissed.
    He uttered a long, outdrawn sigh. Too far, far too far. And yet. He had killed before. Enemies. In battle and by stealth. His alchemy might not yet be strong enough to turn lead into gold or brew an elixir of youth, it could knead the human body like clay. With a few well-chosen drops he could make men rave and rant, jump about like mad hares, sink into black melancholy, sleep for days, or die in an endless variety of ways. Poisons had always been his strongest suit. It would be easy as puking to concoct a deadly potion that brought on symptoms like the plague. Any doctor called in would be only to eager to jump to the wrong conclusion.
    Poison Lambert. There: 't was out. Ludwig hid his face in his hands. Too far, too terribly far. But so am I. The Devil help me.
    He tried to shake the thought. No use. It was the perfect answer. The opportunity he so desperately needed. Trimmed with gold to boot, for what easier prey than a heartbroken woman? He almost gagged at himself. This was below the deepest pit in hell. Baser than base. He took another gulp of wine. His stomach was burning again. Fire and brimstone. Sulphur and pitch. He felt a paralyzing weariness come over him. Either that or suicide. He had no choice. For the first time in his life he felt a tender emotion towards a woman, and it would have to lead to unspeakable foulness. Why could she not simply have fallen in love with him? Others had. Why this madness? What perverted god had invented this idiocy of love anyway? This lopsided monster, two-faced evil, double-crossing mockery that inflamed one heart with unquenchable ardor while it coated the other with everlasting ice. Ludwig had often fantasized about being God, wondering what he would change. Now he knew. Love a boon always requited. Always. And paradise would be regained with a single stroke. Little wonder he believed in no God because any Creator would have to be too stupid to be true. Behold his latest handiwork! The Gift of God. The term was wisely coined. In this world the plague was exactly the kind of thing its Maker would bestow on his devoted followers. Ludwig snarled. Let it be then, he thought, bitterly.
    He went over to his desk, cleared half of it by roughly brushing aside a pile of papers and books, which went rustling and clattering to the floor. He took out a piece of paper, dipped a quill into his demonic inkwell and pondered on ingredients for his poisons. The first was easy as farting, some spurge nettle and snake venom dissolved in piss to cause pretty swellings. Only problem was he would have to break the victim's skin to get it to work properly, but that was of later concern. The second poison was harder, to bring forth his pseudo-plague. This meant, roughly: sweating, headache, blood vomiting, restlessness and drowsiness. Digitalis purpurea, to be sure, perhaps with a little aconitum napellus and datura stramonium thrown in. They were certain to produce a plethora of nasty symptoms, nasty enough to convince any nervous doctor. But it left him without bloody vomiting. Rather essential, he thought. No self-respecting plague victim would go without a liberal spewing of blood. But wait. Hadn't one of his sailors brought him a vicious little plant from the East only last week? He jumped up and began to rummage among his stocks. Soon he found a leather pouch filled with dry leaves. Melia azedarach, the label read. He frowned. If his memory served him well, it was supposed to produce inflammation of the mouth and indeed severe bleeding. The very thing. He had reserved it for a sanctimonious preacher, a wine-swilling lecher who had the gall to berate his hard-working parishioners for drunkenness while wetting his own throat with claret. Ludwig had planned to slip some of this melia azedarach into his chalice and watch his false rantings drown in a spluttering of blood.
    "Right!" he exclaimed. He would have to be careful with the doses, though. Not too potent. He would not want Lambert to drop dead without the symptoms developing. Better too weak than too strong. Once the good doctor had diagnosed the Gift, he could always finish Lambert off later.
    Suddenly he froze. What the deuce am I doing?! he thought. The simple mechanics of his trade had carried him away. This was no haphazard experiment. Not some let's-see-what-happens. This was murder, plain and simple. He gasped. Jesu and Mary, I am truly crazed, he thought, no woman can warrant this. He looked up into the shadows. This time her image failed to materialize.
    "Oh, what the deuce," he exclaimed and tore up the formulas. He was to bed. This madness would be forgotten in the morning. He staggered to his room and collapsed on his four-poster without removing any of his clothes. Sleep came swift and brought vivid dreams, hot & brooding, heavy with lustful hankering. Mathilde everywhere, smiling disdainfully, taunting, lifting her skirts for him, slipping away with shrieks of laughter as he reached out for her, feebly, still drunk, a terrible erection stuck between his legs like the shaft of a lance. He followed her through a crazy maze of alleys and crowded streets where everyone seemed to be stepping into his way. And finally an empty hall, high as a church, dark, with in a distant corner a big canopied bed, illuminated by some invisible source. Voices, faint yet distinct, Mathilde's, bubbling with laughter:
    "That silly old uncle Ludwig wants to play cock and hen with me."
He approached slowly, moving as if he were floating, no conscious movement of his legs. The bed was huge, several meters high, crimson curtain hanging from its canopy, gently bulging and slackening in a draft, like the sails of a ship at anchor. The light came from within. Ludwig stood perplexed. Nothing for me here, he thought. Still he moved on. His hand, strangely unfamiliar, pale and wrinkled, trembled as it reached for the drapes. He drew them aside. Mathilde lay on her back, her naked legs around the loins of a man in padded trousers. She smiled at the man, with unbearable sweetness, as her head moved with little jerks to his movements as he probed her.
    Ludwig awoke with start, gasping for breath. His nose was filled with moisture, almost choking him. He sniffed. His cheeks were wet. He had been weeping. This can't go on, he thought, and fell asleep again. Untroubled by dreams this time.

Next morning Mathilde woke up weary. She had not slept well. In the deep, brooding silence of the night she had heard the bell of St. Lawrence strike the hour at two, four and five. She had slept a little in between, but never deep, always in the shadowy regions where slumber, dream and thought blend. Few horrors this time. Only that ominous figure she had seen from the window yesterday morning. Still, she felt oppressed. Dinner at Uncle Ludwig's tonight, she thought and grimaced with distaste. Lambert was still asleep beside her, snoring softly. From the window came the rapid patter of raindrops. Somewhere in the entrails of the house the servants could already be heard at work, the clatter of metal utensils. Mathilde yawned and stretched. With a faint smile she recalled the end to last evening. Lambert had made love to her, a bit roughly, flushed with wine and triumph, but still she had enjoyed it. Amazing really, because during the first months of her marriage she had abhorred the deed, even to the point of nausea. Gradually she had come to accept it. And now it was beginning to give her pleasure. Dinner at Uncle Ludwig's tonight, she thought again and her oppression deepened. Its force amazed her. Surely a few hours in unwanted company were not so bad. But her emotions would not be ruled. The prospect filled her with dread. A suffocating sense of foreboding. As if some unspeakable evil awaited her.
    If only we did not have to go to that infernal man.
    She sighed, parted the heavy drapes, swung her legs outside the bed and stood up. Her morning toilet consisted of drawing a damp cloth between her legs and rinsing her hands. She rubbed her teeth with a small sponge, soaked red in Brazilwood.

She managed to conceal her thoughts from Lambert, not wanting to dampen his high spirits, for he was still as jubilant as he had been the day before. She saw him off without faltering once. But the moment he had gone out, she wrung her hands. Dinner at Uncle Ludwig's tonight. Why did that simple phrase have the ring of a death knell?
    Time moved strangely all day. With stops and starts. Some hours sped, others dragged on and on. She hung about the house aimlessly. It just would not stop raining. She was nervous, tense, irritable, quarreled with both Aal and Elisabeth, the cook. And all the time, this dread stayed with her, gripping her by the throat, like some unseen strangler. Things were made even worse by two bad omens. A starling accidentally entered the house and battered itself to death against a window pane. A pitcher of milk had traces of blood in it. As dusk began to fall she felt ready to do anything to get out of their appointment.

Ludwig was torn by opposing emotions. All afternoon he had sat in his study, brooding. His potions were ready. Two small vials. One blue glass, one brown earthenware. One a mild irritant, the other a deadly poison. His mind was set. The prize was too great to consider the cost. He would have Mathilde. All else was nought. And yet, he wished he could have her without harming his nephew. He liked the boy. And what was more, he knew he was liked by Lambert, perhaps more than by anyone else. He was no fool: he knew how unliked he was. Few people sought his company for its own sake. They did because they feared and needed him. He sighed.
    "Alas, poor Lambert, your very fortune dooms you." From his desk he took a small strongbox. Metal covered with Spanish leather, a padlock almost as large as the box itself. He opened it and selected one of the rings inside. A silver snake with three coils, its head raised with open maw revealing two scythelike fangs. With a penknife he scraped some dust away and pressed a tiny pin. The head tilted back to reveal a small reservoir, empty but for a few ochrous smudges. Ludwig smiled. All too well did he remember its last use. And a powerful potion it had been, mainly arsenic. Swift medicine. The old hag had gone out like a candle. He chuckled. She had deserved it. The thought killed the chuckle in his throat. No such deserts where Lambert was concerned. He recalled his nephew's flushed face. His gratitude. His childlike glee. Poor Lambert.
    "Damn it all." he muttered, gazing blindly ahead. He could still turn back. No harm done yet. But then he would be condemned to see Mathilde leave his house on his nephew's arm. Watch him take her off to his bed. No. It was insufferable. He roughly grabbed the blue vial and poured some liquid into the ring, careful not to let any touch his skin. He tipped the head back in place, secured the pin and his weapon was ready. He slipped it onto his digit. He took a chunk of bread, rolled it into a ball of dough and scraped the ring along it. A thin dread of blue poison was left behind. He grinned, without cheer, almost ruefully. It worked. He need only graze his nephew's neck and his chemistry would do the rest. How much easier it was to ruin than create.

When the dismal day began to darken even further he set about grooming himself for the evening. Had to look his best. Had to soften Mathilde's stony heart. He washed his whole body. A strange habit, picked up in the Orient, that appalled his maid, who swore it would be the death of him. But he liked it. Fresh limbs in clean garments. Never did him any harm. So why not? He brushed his hair, put on a shirt of fine white linen, black velvet breeches, white hose. His heavy, emerald green robe, with sable trimmings. Made him look noble, he thought. Regal, almost. He had some trouble with Trudy, who complained bitterly of the need to prepare a fine banquet in these times of want. Why, she had been forced to pay a king's ransom for three scrawny capons. It was a sin. Ludwig humored her. Good soul that she was, taking her role of housekeeper far beyond the bounds of duty.
    "Just do it, you silly old hag. We have something to celebrate."
    But had he? It was still not too late. He could fling his potions into the fire. Forget he had ever thought of this. He trembled. He was nervous. A new sensation. He, Ludwig Torrentius, famed for fearing neither god nor devil, nervous. His eyes chanced on the amorous paintings lining the walls of his study. Jesu! Mathilde was not to see those. Hurriedly he replaced them with more decent pictures.

The last peal of eight was still trembling in the air, when the knocker struck. There they were! Ludwig gazed once more at his face in the looking glass. Old and weary. He touched the scar on his left cheek. A small dent in the shape of a new moon, where a Spanish saber had nicked him in the Fury of Antwerp. Such glorious days. He sighed.  

 Slowly he went down the stairs. There she was, just being helped out of her hooded cape by her husband. It stung him to see what a fine couple they made. Lambert wore a big, layered ruff, a black doublet with matching trunkhose and ochrous stockings. She stood tall in a richly brockaded, brown dress with a collar of white lace erect behind her head like an outspread fan. Ludwig swallowed. She looked devastating. Her yellow hair was swept back to a jeweled band on top of her head, loosely so that it hung in heavy drapes along the sides of her face.
    His nephew caught sight of him first.
    "Uncle!" he cried joyously "Well met, dear uncle, well met."
    Ludwig bounded down the last few steps. He felt the iciness in Mathilde's glance. Like a pike leveled to keep him at bay, instantly removing the last remnant of his doubts. Just you wait, my lass. He spread his arms to embrace his nephew, deftly positioning his ringed hand near the neck. He stumbled and trod heavily on Lambert's foot, timing it perfectly with the swift clasp of the ring against his nephew's neck.
    Lambert groaned, stooping. Perfect, Ludwig thought.
    "O, dear my coz." He cried with a show of dismay, "Forgive my clumsiness."
    Lambert grimaced bravely.
    "No harm done, uncle."
    They embraced.
    "Welcome dear coz, heartily welcome."
    Ludwig turned to Mathilde. She stood aloof, a look of disdain on her face. It withered him but he gave her his warmest smile.
    "Dear Mathilde, you must be proud of that husband of yours. He has done wondrously well."
    She smiled stiffly.
    "Largely thanks to you, I understand," she said.
    He embraced her too, kissing her on the cheeks. It was like kissing marble. Humiliating.
    "Come, children, come. Let us feast."
    He led them to a sideroom, where a large oak table was laid in great splendor, lit by a chandelier overhead, bristling with candles. In the white marble fireplace a fire was burning brightly.

The meal went well. Ludwig on his best behavior. Calm, pleasant, courteous. He tried not to look at Mathilde too much, but this proved an almost impossible task. Her beauty was a lodestone. Although she looked a bit strained, pale, and with a faint suggestion of bags under her eyes, this only deepened her beauty, gave her a look of sweet melancholy. He could not help gazing at her. Her proud bearing, the swell of her breasts, straining the white linen that covered the deep decolletage of her dress. The startling turquoise of her eyes. The delicate shape of her nose. Lips a bit too big and wide but by that very imperfection all the more enticing. Her upper lip was fuller than the lower, suggesting a slight pout, inviting, begging to be kissed.

In spite of all her complaints Trudy managed to put on a splendid meal. Wine flowed freely. Lambert was in good form, full of stories, snips of news, anecdotes. When he related the incident between alderman Stoute and his horse, Ludwig went all soft. Why him, of all people? he thought, a tingling of tears behind his eyeballs. Then he looked at Mathilde. She was gazing at her husband with a gentlest of  smiles on her lips. No doting mother could look more lovingly at her only child. Ludwig cringed. What chance had he against such devotion? Her love was Lambert's. She'd never look at him like that. This he knew for certain. So what was the use? Why go through? Why not forget the whole bloody business? Feign illness, get this bewitching creature out of his sight. He himself could join the next fleet East. Disappear from her presence for ever. Why not?
    Lambert had finished his tale. Mathilde laughed quietly. She turned her eyes upon Ludwig. And then, for the briefest of moments, perhaps only because she could not change her expression quickly enough, her gaze was warm and kindly. He caught his breath. A surge of joy erupted inside him. Before the chill could return to her eyes he quickly lowered his. Oh, god, it may really be, he thought. That settled it. The time had come. He rose.
    "And now, my children. You shall taste the finest wine in Christendom. Give me your glasses."
    He went to the sideboard to open the dusty, cobwebbed bottle standing there. As he filled the glasses, he slipped the lethal poison into Lambert's. It brought strange relief. The die was cast. If there was a hell, his destination was secure. With the two Rhenish goblets in his hand, he paused one moment more to look at her. She was lavishing her full gaze on Lambert, had placed her hand on his, seemingly oblivious to her surroundings. Ludwig nodded. She’s worth eternal damnation, he thought.

To Mathilde's relief things were not half as bad as she had expected. Uncle Ludwig seemed another man. Gone were his dark, harassing looks, his raptorial sneer, his unspoken threat of rape, his sardonic remarks. He was quiet, kind and courteous. He allowed Lambert to speak instead of erupting into his usual, vicious monologues. He listened. He did not stare at her. He had even remembered her dislike of seafood, for when the men were served crab in mayonnaise she got a vegetable salad.
    Time passed smoothly and she relaxed. Her bad feelings seemed incredibly foolish now, shameful even. She began to enjoy herself. Lambert's happiness was infectious. She even found herself smiling at Uncle Ludwig. She drank a little too fast but it made her feel light and cheerful. Kind of dreamy. Warm. Safe. At home. Among kin. This was passing good, for she had hated hating Uncle Ludwig.
    The first sign of trouble eluded her completely.    
    Lambert suddenly moved back his chair.
    "Is it really so hot in here, or is it only me?" he asked, wiping his forehead that was sprinkled with beads of perspiration.
    Mathilde gazed on him smiling. Sure it was warm. She felt a faint trickle of sweat in her armpits. So what?
    She looked at Ludwig and was faintly surprised by the intense, almost hungry expression with which he stared at her husband.
    "No, forsooth," he said. "It is truly warm. But not enough to warrant your discomfort. Are you not well?"
    Lambert batted his eyelids, as if blinded by dust. He was panting. Then it struck her. It's happening, she thought. Her foreboding had been right. A chill ran down her backbone. Shakily she got to her feet.
    "Perhaps we should go home," she said.
    Lambert shook his head.
    "No," he said firmly. "I shall be all right anon."  He rubbed his cheek. He stopped. Hand in his neck. All color drained from his face. It went white as chalk, eyes bulging. He gulped, trying to speak but only managing a stammer.
    "I..I..I c-c-can feel a lump," he croaked.
    Ludwig sprang to his feet.
    "Sweet Jesu!" he exclaimed. "Say it is not so."
    Mathilde chilled, gazing at the sight of Lambert's distress in lame horror. The Gift! She felt herself slowly recoiling in her chair. Away! However much she loved her husband, the dread of this terrible affliction was greater. Suddenly, horribly, she saw his skull beneath the skin. A trick of the light, no doubt, but his eyes were gone, leaving dark cavernous sockets. She shivered, pressed her shoulders against the backrest of her chair. Away, away.
    Uncle Ludwig astonished her. Without hesitation he approached her husband.
    "Forbear," he said. "Let me see. I have some knowledge of this contagion." He placed a hand on his forehead.
    Lambert was frantic, gasping for breath, shivering violently.
    "Oh uncle, what shall I do? What shall I do? It is the gift, is it not?"
    Ludwig looked at his neck, stared into his eyes, and nodded gravely.
    "I fear it is. But I am no physician. I shall send Trudy for master Bakker anon." He walked briskly to the door and shouted for his maid, stepped out into the hall.
    Mathilde was left alone with her husband. He was shivering. He cast her a plaintive look. The candle lights in the chandelier above the table glistened in his tearlogged eyes. They were wide with fright, making his boyish face look younger than ever. A terrified child. It wrung her heart to see him so. Still, she remained motionless, petrified, her body pressed against the backrest of her chair.
    "O Mathilde..." he began, but stopped, as the expression on his face turned from fear into wonder and then into dismay.
    "Mathilde?"
    She swallowed hard, trying to smile, but her revulsion and fear were too great. His very breath was poison, she knew. Every word he spoke to her might convey death. She did not want to die. Certainly not like that. She lowered her eyes.
    "O Lambert," she whispered.
    Lambert's only answer was a wretched sob. It snapped something inside her. O, no, she thought, not like this. She wrenched her unwilling body from the chair. Lambert had buried his head in his hands. Feebly, all but collapsing, her heart pounding so hard that it was like a fist trying to beat her back, Mathilde waded towards him through her fear and placed a trembling hand on his shoulder. He looked up with bleary eyes. A delighted smile sprang to his lips.
    "O Mathilde. Bless you." He made a motion to kiss her hand but drew back violently. "Beware, sweet my wife. I am a danger to you now. Move back. Come not too close. I prithee."
    "I am your wife," she said, "Where you go, I go."
    He shook his head.
    "I certainly hope not." He gently removed her hand from his shoulder. "Keep your distance my love. Make this not worse."
    With a show of reluctance, but with great relief she drew back.
    Lambert looked at her. Tears were dripping from his eyes.
    "Let us pray, my love. The Lord has sent me his gravest test. Let us be worthy." He closed his eyes, clasped his hands before his face and began to pray fervently.
    Mathilde also folded her hands, but pray she could not. To whom, for heaven's sake. To the very god who had brought this on? It was like begging for mercy from a murderer after he had plunged a knife into your heart.
    Lambert was attacked by a fit of coughing that racked his body. Moaning in doglike agony he sat curled up in his chair. Ludwig returned and went to stand by him, hand on his shoulder. Mathilde marveled at his courage. How could he remain so calm? When the fit had passed Lambert looked years older. Smudges of blood stained his ruff. His whole face was dappled with drops of sweat.
    "I'm burning from within," he said hoarsely. "O, sweet Jesu, have mercy." With mournful eyes he gazed at Mathilde.
    "O, my love, our dreams, our dreams."
    Another fit attacked him. He began to give up more blood. It dripped through the lace of his ruff, trickled down his fine doublet where it clung in drops like berries. Mathilde felt sick. She was about to faint when Ludwig appeared beside her. On his haunches.
    "Perhaps it is better if you retire a while, my dear. Come. You must be brave. Let Trudy take you to my study. There's a goodly fire there. Pray, my child. This need not be the end. He may recover. Many do."
    His kindness mellowed her. She allowed him to help her to her feet. Trudy led her away. In the study she sank into the chair before the fire, numb, dazed, unable to think. The horror was too great. She just sat, dejectedly and stared at the flames, as they danced and leapt about in the blackened fireplace.
    She was startled from her trance by the arrival of the doctor. She jumped up when she heard him enter, instantly revived. Perhaps he would find something else. Perhaps it was a false alarum. Oh yes. She hurried back to the front room.    
    Lambert was lying in the large four-poster in the corner, propped up high in the cushions. His shirt was soaked with perspiration and smeared with blood. His bloody ruff dangled from a chair beside the bed like a skinned rabbit. Mathilde instantly looked for signs of life. His chest was moving. She heaved a sigh of relief.
    The doctor, dressed in black, with a high-crowned hat, moved gingerly towards Lambert. He took one look and stepped back quickly.
    "Faith," he said. "It's the gift. No doubt." He hurried to the table, slammed his black, leather bag on it and began to rummage nervously through its contents. "I have some new physic, only just arrived from Venice. Rather costly, though."
    "Cost means nothing," said Uncle Ludwig. "I'd give my fortune to save my nephew."
    The doctor smiled.
    "Ah, good, good. Here." He produced two small bottles, containing a pinegreen liquid. "Aqua Pesticida, recommended by the finest medics in Italy but, I blush to mention it, forty guilders each."
    Trudy gasped. Little wonder. She earned less in a year.
    "I shall have both." said Ludwig. Mathilde could have kissed him for it. She had all but swooned when the doctor gave his relentless verdict, but this potion meant hope.
    Bottles and coins exchanged hands and the doctor rushed off. At the door he paused a moment.
    "By the way, I need not remind you that nobody is to leave this house for the next six weeks."
Ludwig nodded.
    "I know, good Sir. You may rest assured. We are not such villains as to expose our fellow townsfolk to the danger we are in ourselves."
    He turned to Mathilde.
    "I must insist you leave the room, dear child. It is folly to expose yourself any longer. Please, I beseech you."   
    His earnest, worried expression touched her warmly. She looked at Lambert, so helpless,  so pale.
    "But…" she began.
    "No, my dear. For his sake, too. What if he recovers and you fall ill? Please go."
    She went.
    Back in front of the fire her weariness returned. Trudy brought her some warm wine, would not leave before she had drunk it. She tasted a hint of opium.
    "Master made it for ye, dear lady. Drink. It will ease your sleep."
    Gratefully she drank it and drowsed off.

Strangely, success brought little joy to Ludwig. It surprised him. Things could not have gone more smoothly. The doctor's hasty verdict had given him a free hand. All he need do now was give Lambert one more, slightly stronger, dose to finish him off in a matter of minutes. The perfect crime. He should have been elated. He was not. It was as if he had come to believe his role of caring relative.
    "Damn, damn, damn," he muttered, as he sat down beside his suffering nephew. The boy was delirious, muttering incoherent sentences in which only the words love and Mathilde made any sense. Ludwig sat motionless. He felt wretched. His chest tight, his stomach aflame. He drank some wine but it was like pouring acid down his throat. He was sweating too. This was not what he wanted. Only Mathilde. Only that look. Only love. Perhaps this price was too high after all.
    Lambert uttered a soft groan. Red spittle trickled from the corners of his mouth. Ludwig could not bear to see him so. He clenched his fists, snapping the stem of the glass that he still held in his right hand. The bowl fell to the floor and shattered noisily. Lambert's eyes shot open, startled.
    Ludwig smiled reassuringly and his nephew closed his eyes again.
    There might still be a way back. The potion had been relatively mild. He had made sure of that to gain time for the doctor's arrival.
    Lambert uttered another groan, rather high-pitched, like a muffled shriek. Ludwig winced. No, it was too late. There could be no way back. He rose, moving woodenly. His mind in turmoil, as if a flock of birds had gathered inside, screaming out his conflicting thoughts. He walked to the sideboard, drew the brown vial from a pouch under his robe, poured its contents into a new glass, adding a dash of wine. With the half-filled glass he returned to the bed. Lambert was shivering. Ludwig sat down beside him, placed an arm around his shoulder and pulled him up. He opened his eyes. Bloodshot, drowsy with pain. And yet he gave his uncle a faint, tortured smile.
    "Uncle…" he whispered. "Brave, good uncle. Look after her. I prithee." He coughed, spraying Ludwig's shirt with red droplets that almost made him sick.
    "Here," he heard himself say in a shaky voice. "Drink. It's a new physic. From Venice. Highly recommended by the best medics from Italy."
    Lambert craned his neck, grasping Ludwig's arm with both hands and eagerly pouting his lips. There was, in Ludwig, a brief, overpowering impulse to pull the glass back, fling it into the farthest corner of the room. And, yes, he did withdraw his arm. But Lambert's grasping hands pulled it back. His teeth struck the rim of the glass and he gulped down the contents. Ludwig sat aghast. 'T is done. The tightness in his chest became unbearable, as if he was being crushed between two millstones. Lambert sank back into his cushions, a satisfied smile on his blood-stained lips. Ludwig closed his eyes. A foretaste of hell, he thought. When he opened his eyes again, perhaps a minute later, Lambert was still. The smile lingered on his lips, but there was no sign of breathing any more. An awful silence pervaded the room. Even the fire in the hearth made no sound. The flames danced like ghosts. Ludwig swallowed.
    "O Lambert" he said softly. "Sweet undeserving Lambert." He gazed into the glass, a single tawny drop lay at the bottom of the bowl. My nephew, he thought, my blood, myself. Damn you Mathilde. Damn you.
    He had no idea how long he sat like that, head bowed, gazing down into the glass. Suddenly Trudy stood beside him pulling at his arm, like a mad witch, her long gray hair in wild strands along her face.
    "Master, please, I beseech you. Leave his side. Do not expose yourself so."
    Not understanding he looked at her. Expose himself? What was the old bag gibbering about? Then he remembered that Lambert was supposed to have the Gift. He uttered a disdainful little snort.
    "You are right. Thank you, Trudy. I shall. Come." He rose.
    "And what about his wife. Must she not be warned?"
    "Tomorrow. She needs her sleep."

Mathilde awaking slowly in a strange bed. A moment of blissful confusion. Then, like a slap of cold water, the awareness: Lambert! She uttered a faint little whimper and scrambled from the bed.
    Someone had undressed her to her shift but her other clothes were carefully draped over a high-backed chair. She grabbed her hooded cape, flung it round her shoulders and dashed from the room. She emerged on a landing, leading to a marble staircase winding down. Gathering her cape around her she ran down the steps. The black-and-white tiles in the hall were ice under her feet. She screamed.
    "Lambert!? Uncle Ludwig?"
    Stirrings behind a door. Rapid footsteps. The door was flung open and there stood Ludwig. One look at his mournful face was enough. Mathilde staggered. She felt kicked in the stomach. She turned away, her knees folding. Before she could fall, strong hands had grabbed her under her arms.
    "Trudy!" bellowed Ludwig. "Trudy, damn your bones. Come here. It's Mathilde."
    Her pain was raw. As if her insides were being torn to shreds. She gagged. Lambert dead. O, no, not that, anything but that. She wanted to speak, ask things, know. But she could not speak. Her throat felt swollen and tight. She could hardly breathe. Ludwig and Trudy led her back upstairs, to the bed. When Trudy tried to make her lie down, Mathilde roughly brushed away her arm.
    "Go away," she croaked.
    "But mistress…"
    "No Trudy," said Ludwig. "It is best we leave her. Come."
    "But…but…"
    "No."
    They left.
    Mathilde sat still. Cold. Her feet like lumps of clay at the bottom of her legs, her stomach a gaping wound. She crossed her arms before her chest and clasped her naked shoulders under the cape, began to sway slowly to and fro.
    "Dead?" she said in a hoarse whisper. "Gone?"
    She grasped her shoulders so tightly that she felt her nails break the skin.
    Gone, she thought. A sob welled inside her, racking her body. Tears rushed to her eyes. No Lambert ever again. She collapsed on her back and began to weep. Her sorrow was like a terrible sinking, ever deeper and deeper. She wept frantically, moaning, sobbing, yelping, only stopping to gasp for breath. It was as if her body was swollen with tears and lamentations and she had to spew them out or burst like a bladder. There was no end. Time passed and her sorrow would not relent. She grew tired. Her body began to ache. Finally she became too exhausted to weep any longer. But the sinking went on. Tears kept bleeding from her eyes. Every thought pushed her further down. Dead. Her loving husband. Dead. Their fond hopes. No Dantzig. No children. No future.
    At some point the door was opened and Trudy's shocked face peered in. Mathilde screamed at her to go away. The face vanished at once.
    After an hour or so she suddenly calmed down. She felt very little of anything. Just numbness that made her head a block of wood. Nothing mattered any more. She rose from the bed. As she did she noticed a small brown patch on her shift, just below her crotch. Dry blood. Her period had come. Her eyes filled up again as she fingered the hard little stain, realizing that, certain as sin, it would be there again next month. No little Lambert, ever. She flung herself back on the bed and wept some more. This time it took only a few minutes for the numbness to return. Nothing matters any more, she thought and sat up again, arms lamely in her lap. Time lost all meaning. She just sat, gazing blankly at the wall. Her head a block of wood. Thoughtless. She had no idea how long it lasted but after a while the door creaked. Slowly she turned to look. It was Trudy again, frightened, ready to bolt. Mathilde closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It seemed as if it was her first one that day. Surely that could not be. She wondered about it. Trudy opened the door a little further.
    "Madam?" she asked, in a whisper.
    Mathilde looked at her and smiled weakly.
    "Aye," she said.
    "Would you like something to eat?"
    Mathilde slowly shook her head. Never again, she thought. She'd simply starve, waste away. Join Lambert. Die. Ah, yes.
    "Perhaps you want to dress?" the old maid said, "The master has gotten some of your belongings over. The chest is just outside your door."
    Mathilde gazed at the old woman. A wispy creature. Skin and bones. Brown skirt, white apron, black bodice, white blouse, white coif tightly around her skull. Face all wrinkles. Few teeth behind broad, flaccid lips. Kindly eyes, though.
    "What?" Mathilde asked, not having listened to a word that had been said.
    "Your clothes. Master's got your father to bring them here."
    "Ah, marry, my clothes. Aye, indeed. Where is my husband? Can I see him?"
    Trudy lowered his eyes.
    "He was taken away first thing this morning. The ordinance, you know…"
    Mathilde nodded, tears dripping again.
    "I understand. And my uncle?"
    "He be in his room, madam. He thought you would want to be alone."
    Mathilde nodded. How considerate, she thought. She had been truly wrong about that man. It shamed her.
    "Indeed I do. Marry, I do. For the time being."
    "Master understands, madam. He gave me this note. Are you sure you won't be wanting something to eat."
    "Quite sure."
    "Something to drink, may be? Some spiced wine? Master's own recipe. Might do you good, madam."
    "All right. Bring me some."
    "Faith, madam. I shant be long."
    She handed Mathilde a piece of folded paper and left the room. Mathilde opened the note. It contained only a few lines.

Dear child,

Words mean little at times like these. But know that I share your sorrow. Lambert was my only nephew. I had high hopes for him and for you. It was not to be. He would want us to be strong. Please regard my house as your own. Trudy is at your command. As am I. Naturally I respect your wish to be alone in your grief, but I am always ready if you might desire the solace of my humble company. You need not worry about practical matters. I have been in contact with your father. He will take care of everything. He sends his love.

Always, your humble servant,

Ludwig Torrentius.

Mathilde sighed. All of a sudden the numbness broke. Another chill of naked awareness. Lambert dead! A throb of sorrow convulsed her body. She slumped backwards and broke into another fit of weeping. Fragments of past perceptions flitted through her mind. Sight, sound, touch, smell, taste. She sensed Lambert everywhere. And every fragment brought a new sting of pain. It was torture. From worse to worse. Madness beckoned. She grabbed a pillow, chewed it, moaning. She'd never stop weeping. This sorrow was infinite. Her body had turned into a well of tears. Nothing else. Again she lost all sense of time, wept herself sick. She retched, gave up some burning liquid that seared her throat. Eventually she lay panting, exhausted, glassy-eyed, numb again. This wound would never heal.

That day became the longest in Ludwig's life. He despised himself. He mourned his nephew as deeply as any loving uncle would, but his grief was mixed with a loathing of himself that tasted more bitter than bile. Greater yet was his hatred of Mathilde. She was the cause of all this. Her infernal beauty had driven him to this deed of madness. He should have held her face in a bowl of molten lead before stooping to this. He sat in his study, drinking without pause, scalding his insides, and enjoying it with malicious satisfaction. His suffering could not be too great. He had half a mind to confess his deed and suffer prolonged torture as his just desert.
    He dreaded the appearance of Mathilde. If, by some stroke of lunacy, she were to offer herself to him now he would spurn her, drown her in the privy. He was glad she stayed in her room. He sat in his cellar and drank himself unconscious. He passed out at one o'clock. When he awoke again, a few hours later, he instantly resumed drinking. Everlasting damnation, he thought and snarled. If only. But that, by far, was the worst part of the whole infernal business. He believed in no god. This evil had gone unnoticed. He might have squashed a louse with as little fear of retribution.
    "There's the rub," he said, and poured some more wine down his throat. Oil to feed the flames.

The next morning he awoke with his head in a plate of vomit.
    He grinned. How meet, he thought. He got up and rinsed his face, rubbed his teeth with some pumice. No wine. His stomach was still fleeced from yesterday's excess.
    "What's done is done." he muttered.
    He felt better. Much. He wondered how Mathilde was, realizing with a sudden shock of joy how very near she was, here in house. Mathilde. A few yards away. Her full, lascivious body, her pouting lips, her big, amorous eyes. A dream come true. He marveled at the way he had felt about her yesterday. Now his hatred of her seemed nothing but a fit of madness. Cowardice. She was not to blame for his murderous passion. All guilt was his. The price he had knowingly paid. He took a deep breath. It was terrible but this was indeed what he had wanted. Six weeks' time to work his will on her. Opportunity was finally his. Poor Lambert, he thought, if I could bring you back, I would not, come what may. He nodded pensively. It was terrible, but true.
    He went out of the room, called for Trudy. She came from the kitchen, all haggard and melancholy.
    "Good morrow, dear hag. How's Mathilde this morning?"
    Trudy shook her head.
    "Still poorly, master, very much so. The poor lass does nothing but weep. Her heart is as broken as ever woman's heart was."
    This stung Ludwig. Folly, of course. What kind of woman would she be if she stopped lamenting her dead husband after a single day? But still, he would have had it differently.
    "Marry, 'tis only natural, I guess. See that she wants nothing."
    "Of course master."
    He returned to his study. Now what? Nothing seemed to matter anymore, apart from Mathilde. Still, he had to keep busy. The devil only knew how long it would take her to recover. He decided to do some painting. It only made matters worse. He always ended up painting her. Large, green eyes, flecked with gold. Curving lips. He stopped.    

Days passed. Mathilde kept to her room. Ludwig had never known time to move so slowly. His had been a hectic life, always full of things to do. Now he could only wait.
    He did not know what to do with himself, often pacing his study like a newly caged animal, fretting and fuming. His annoyance blotted out the last remnants of remorse. The deed was done and there was the end of it. No point in crying over spilled blood. Life went on. If only it would. But the days went by without change. Mathilde remained out of sight. Ludwig suffered the agonies of impatience. He began to resent Mathilde's absence. Every minute she stayed away felt like an infidelity. It could not have been worse if she had been in the arms of another man. Her silence was like one long outdrawn sign of rejection. He did not understand. How could she prefer her lonely grief over his company? Lambert was but a ghost. A fading spirit. Mist. And yet she clung to him. It maddened Ludwig. So close and yet so remote. He wandered through the house, pretending to be deep in thought, but only to pass by her door. Sometimes he would stand there, breathlessly, waiting, listening, hoping for a sound. They came. Sobs, sighs, little whimpers. A sick pup. Nothing he could do but wait.

Mathilde nurtured her grief. She kept reminding herself of the happiness she had known till she broke down in tears and could abandon herself to weeping. There was some comfort there, a strange kind of relief while she wept, like emptying a swollen bladder. But as soon as she stopped, the sense of relief was gone. The dull pressure of sorrow returned. She tried to pray, earnestly, but found no comfort in that, unable to believe there was any point in addressing a god who bestowed such cruel gifts. Yet she persevered, knowing that Lambert would have wanted her to. Only for him she spent hours on her knees, uttering empty incantations.
    When not weeping or praying she sat before the window, where the view became more dismal with every passing day, as October turned into November and the trees were flayed of their leaves, stark and bare under leaden skies, and rain fell incessantly, drumming on the roof, tapping on the window panes, reminders of the heartbeat she would never hear again. For hours on end she would sit in the bay window, hardly stirring, as if the slightest move would hurt, while she gazed out at the heavy autumn skies, the apple trees shaken by the gusts of wind like worrying dogs, intent to make them drop their leaves. As the foliage thinned, the orchard offered a view of the canal that ran along its rear, with blocks of little houses on the other side. Behind them she could see bits of the city wall, like the rim of a box. Behind that, invisible from where she sat, she knew that the green fields stretched away to the horizon. Dearly she would have wandered across them. Aimlessly. For ever.
    Of human activity still little sign. Occasionally a barge would appear in the canal, drawn by a heavy chestnut horse, bound for the Pesthouse, a few doors down the street from uncle Ludwig's house. Mathilde tried to look away but never succeeded. In mute dismay she would watch a solitary figure clamber out of the barge, followed, at a safe distance, by one or two ragged men carrying bags and cases. Vagabonds or shipless sailors, willing to risk their lives for a few coins. Mathilde had never seen a lonelier sight than the single sufferers moving through the orchard, among the leaves that whirled around them in playful mockery. Each time it brought a trickle of tears from her eyes. Lambert, O Lambert, she would think.  
    Her only real diversion came from the birds. She watched them, faintly amused, deeply mystified by their seeming carelessness. The chattering magpies, so fiercely persecuted and yet so indomitable. The silent blackbirds and thrushes, the lively sparrows. The jackdaws, with their loud, twangy voices, obviously relishing the strong breezes, in which they soared, swirled and dived to no apparent purpose.
    There was also a cat. Surprisingly, because of the lethal ordinance. Big, black and ominous, tattered with age, battle-scarred, always stalking birds, always with very little success. Once she saw him pounce on a magpie, but it gave him such a vicious jab between the eyes that he shot off like a cannonball. It was the first time in days that Mathilde smiled. As she watched the magpie fly, stuttering with indignation and triumph, to the top of a tree and set about preening its ruffled feathers, she also felt the first inkling of vigor return to her body. It came almost as a disappointment. Up to that moment she had been nothing but a blob of sorrow. Liquid. A vessel of tears. Now, all of a sudden, she felt her bones, her muscles. Stiffness from lack of movement. A chill. A pang of hunger. Her young, vital body that would live if she did not kill it herself. The thought had been there. O, so often, almost longingly. Join Lambert. But only as a wish. She knew she would never have the courage to put it into practice. If she could have died by mere wishing, she would be in the same grave as Lambert. But the actual butchery of suicide was unthinkable to her. So she was condemned to live on. Without Lambert. It made her weep long and bitterly again. When she had exhausted her tears, she rose. There was no cure for it. She was condemned to life. Suddenly she wondered whether she should dine with uncle Ludwig that evening. It made her utter a wretched moan. Treason! But the thought had been thought. It marked the beginning of the end of her mourning. A crack in the bond of grief that had kept her so close to Lambert. For the first time in her life she knew what it meant to be all alone.

She was coming! Ludwig as nervous as a schoolboy. Trudy had brought the tiding, wide-eyed, in a hushed whisper of excitement.
    "Mistress Mathilde asked me to ask you if she may join you for dinner tonight."
He had almost staggered, feeling the blood drain from his face. At last! He had smiled with feigned composure.
    "But of course. She is more than welcome. It is well, do your best, Trudy."
    For once she had nothing to say about the want of provisions.

The hours crept. He gazed at his hourglass and marveled at the slowness with which the grains of sand floated down, almost one by one. She was coming. The game was finally afoot. Now it was up to him. Now came the hours of truth. Like the ordeals of old. Hah! If only he need merely plunge his naked arm into a vat of boiling oil to retrieve some bauble from the bottom. That would be passing easy. Done with a yawn. But this! To control his passion, to mask his ruthless desire, ravenous love. This love so true that it filled him with pride. He loved! At long last. After 46 misspent years, foolish diversions, wasted energy. Seldom had he felt such singularity of purpose. Seldom had he been so convinced of the rightness of his course. Lambert's murder had turned into a glorious symbol of his love. Thus far dared I go for thee, my love. Eternal damnation perhaps. And willingly, knowingly, without an inkling of regret.  

He groomed himself carefully. He pared his nails, brushed his hair, scoured his teeth with pumice, washed his face. He donned his finest apparel. A many-layered ruff.  Doublet and padded trousers of darkblue velvet,  brockaded with silver and pearls. He looked at himself in his looking glass, wincing with embarrassment at the ageing face staring back at him with a haunted, helpless look. Such youthful passion in so old a frame. He turned away quickly.

Long before the appointed time he sat at the head of the big table, glass of claret in his shaky hand. Feverish with anticipation. At times so cold that his teeth almost chattered. Then hot and perspiring. Trickles of sweat slithered down his armpits like worms. He had not felt so insecure since he went on trial for his scurrilous paintings. His glance kept sliding to the timepiece on the wall. An ancient clock that he had salvaged from a smoking monastery in Brabant, when he rode with the States cavalry. A crude open contraption, its dull metal pockmarked, the Roman numerals on the dial scarcely legible and its conical weight a mere chunk of rust at the end of a rusty chain. It made a nervous clicking sound and was laughably unreliable, falling behind more than half an hour every day. Still he liked it. He sensed a profound symbolism in this faltering human mechanism clumsily trying to measure the greatest and surest force in existence. Not that he felt any liking for it now. Its clicking annoyed him. The seeming immobility of the daggerlike hand was exasperating. Still, he had set it only two hours ago, so it could not be all that far off. He took a small sip from his wine, though he craved for more. Barrels. But he had to keep a level head. Be sober. Mathilde was coming. Mathilde! He could hardly grasp the enormity of the event. He had daydreamed about it so often. In disbelief he recalled his evil plotting. Was it only days ago? It felt as if he had scarcely done anything else for months. In a way this was true. His very first look on that wondrous face had sealed his fate. He smiled weakly. He had known all along that it would come to something like this. Glimpses of destiny. Just as he had known, during a fierce cavalry battle, that death would never come to him on the battlefield, when a bullet had struck his helmet, went spinning around its inside like a mad hornet, and fell harmless into his lap. Aye, he had known that this encounter with Mathilde would come. Hark! A sound. Somewhere in the house a door was opened. Ludwig held his breath. Was it her? It was. He recognized the creaking planks on the first floor. She's coming. Panic seized him by the throat. He wasn't ready for this. Never would be either. She was too much for him. She'd look straight through him, right into his guilt-blackened soul. She'd know what he had done. He clenched his fists, took another sip from the glass, then emptied it at a gulp. The creaking stopped. She had to be descending the marble staircase. The faint rustling of her gown. He took a very deep breath and rose, unsteadily. The clock seemed to be clicking ever faster. Outside the bell of St Lawrence began to strike the hour. The door opened.

Mathilde had hesitated before she opened the door, dreading what or rather who awaited her. Uncle Ludwig, obviously. But which one? The fiend, with groping eyes, brooding with desire, the aggressive, callous male? Or the saint, the soft-spoken and tender comforter?
    She opened the door, holding her breath, and stepped forward. Her glance swept the room. Uncle Ludwig stood at the far end, behind the dinner table. She relaxed at once. Safe, she thought. He looked exactly the way she had hoped he would, nothing like the ardent lecher. A sad old man, shoulders slumped. A look of helpless dismay on his face. A fellow sufferer. Kinsman.
    "Uncle....," she moaned, tears welling to her eyes.
    He staggered, put his hands down hard on the table top, leaning heavily.
    "O, my child," he said, with a stifled sob, hanging his head.
    Her heart opened to him. My uncle, she thought, tenderly, my grieving uncle.

Ludwig kept his head down. His sob had been genuine. Her beauty had overwhelmed him. Far beyond his imagination. It was too much. Unbearable. The exquisite pallor of her face. The faint shading under her eyes. Her lips the palest shade of pink, sullen with melancholy. The haunting look in her big, luminous eyes. The languor of her movements.

Mathilde had the plates moved. Instead of sitting at the far ends of the table, they sat at one end, facing each other, quite close. A huge candlestick with five candles bathed them in a yellow glow.
    She still felt a little nervous at first. As if she were in the company of some half-tamed predator, but gradually uncle Ludwig set her at ease. He was marvelous. He seemed to know exactly what to say. No petty consolations or meaningless platitudes. He read her heart. To her surprise he had known Lambert much better than she had ever imagined.
    "O, Mathilde, he was the son I never had. I loved that boy to distraction. And not unnaturally. Did you know that in olden days the uncle was always a boy's closest companion? There was no fonder love. A brother's son. Did he ever tell you about the time when...."
    Mathilde listened with rapture. This was the best medicine she could have wanted. Someone to share her loss. As the evening wore on, she warmed more and more to the strange man across the table. Apart from his understanding, he was charming and considerate. He had obviously gone to great lengths to have a splendid repast served. All her favorite dishes.
    "Pork and applesauce. Uncle! How did you know?"
    He smiled.
    "I sent notes around to ask. Everyone is very concerned about you, my dear. They were all only too willing to help."
    She choked with emotion. Tears trickled from her eyes.
    "O, Uncle."
    "What is it, my child?"
    "I wronged you so." she said. "I thought... I thought..."
    ".. that I was a monster." he said.
    She nodded, sobbing.
    "No wonder," he said. "I've done many a monstrous deed in my life. Gossip and calumny did the rest."
    "But I hated you."
    He shook his head.
    "No, forsooth, not me, only what you believed to be me."
    Her heart began to race. He really is a saint, she thought.
    "Come, drink, my child. Let us drown our sorrows. We must live. There's no help for it. This pain will never leave us. But it will soften with time."
    At the end of the evening she kissed his cheek on parting and fled to her room.

When Mathilde had left, Ludwig remained motionless for a long time, relishing the faint tingle on his cheek where her lips had touched it. He sat alone at the table, in a glow of happiness, completely content, reliving the hours spent in her company. What fool had said that evil did not pay?

The next day, halfway through the afternoon, Ludwig was in his study, leisurely painting a rural landscape, at peace with the world, when Mathilde suddenly came in. Her appearance, in a splendid dress of glossy blue silk, gave him a nasty shock, his sense of guilt not as dead as he had thought. But he recovered at once and slipped smoothly into his understanding role of the previous evening. He did all he could to distract her, showed her his more decent paintings, gave her a tour of his study and laboratory, careful not to mention his knowledge of poisons. At first she merely seemed to suffer it. Her face set in mourning, drawn, eyelids pink and swollen, silent witnesses to bouts of weeping and yet she was unbearably beautiful. After a while she cheered up a little, even smiling now and then, when he narrated his colorful life, stressing the more amusing events. His exploits with the States cavalry, which had been seriously marred by his first horse, Satan, which always bolted at the first sound of a cannon, so that Ludwig usually found himself miles from the battle before it even began. His trial, when he had bribed one torturer to go easy on him only to find himself in the hands of another brute. His spell at the court of the Queen of England where he had been employed as a painter but was habitually too drunk to find a brush let alone wield it. His hapless quest for the elixir of life.  
    Mathilde listened. Ludwig delighted in her company, admiring her brave effort to be pleasant in spite of her almost tangible grief.
    After dinner they sat in front of a roaring fire, reminiscing about Lambert. Ludwig reveled in his new role. Easy as breathing. All he needed to do was listen closely to Mathilde's fond recollections, make mental notes of any likes and dislikes she revealed and then embark on some wild tale embellishing that very trait. Mathilde lapped up his words like a thirsty kitten milk. How Lambert had wept over the death of his pet dog, how he had his eyes blackened over some insult to his father. How he had stolen apples, played truant from school, proved himself a wily little merchant at the age of nine.
    These were Ludwig's finest hours. Playing her like a lute. Some strange, unholy intuition inspired him. Perhaps, he thought, it was this genuine love he felt for her. He made all the right moves. It was like mastering a horse after months of dogged practice. Final submission after seemingly infinite evasions.
He smiled with her, wept with her, kept silent when she needed to talk, talked when she needed to listen. At first he had thought it was only cunning and play on his part, but as the hours sped by, he realized that even he, Ludwig Torrentius, could not be such a master of deception to feign such understanding. He really understood.
    As she was about to retire for the night she broke down and wept violently. He comforted her, held her shaking body as she wept. Within himself he found tenderness he never knew he possessed. Holding her as if she were an ornament of fragile glass. She kissed him again on parting. For the first time he kissed her back, on her cheek. A mere brush of his lips but it tasted of heaven.

The next day she appeared earlier again. Just after noon. He showed her his books, read poems to her. When he took out his lute to play for her, she confessed to some skill on the harpsichord. Overjoyed he took her to the instrument he had in the drawing room and for the rest of the afternoon they made music together, haltingly at first, but harmonizing ever better. Time winged by.
    That evening she ended up in his lap. He had just embarked on another fanciful anecdote about his nephew when she suddenly rose from her chair and sank into his arms in a burst of tears.
    He swallowed hard. She buried her wet face in his neck and wept with abandon. He held her as loosely as he could, suffering worse than Tantalus. At least that erring king had known the mercy of having the objects of his desire removed from his touch. Not so Torrentius. This was as much as mortal could endure. Mathilde in his lap. Her warm body against his. Her big breasts rubbing his chest. Her scents. The perfume in her clothes, the bittersweetness of her skin. Strands of her long, blonde hair brushing his face. Her weight. Her buttocks on his thighs. Her breath in his neck. All he had ever wanted. And yet, not his, still Lambert's because he was still her only reason for being here.

When Mathilde's fit of weeping had passed, she stayed where she was. In her uncle's lap, arms round his neck, her head on his shoulder. She marveled at it briefly. This man once so abhorred, now so precious. But she had simply followed her heart. When she felt her sadness rising like a springtide inside her, she just had to be held. She had always been an affectionate girl, loving to touch and to be touched. When younger she had often sat with her father like this. It made her feel small, safe and protected. It was wondrously soothing. Ludwig held her exactly like her father, gently caressing her back, brushing away her tears, kissing her forehead. For the first time since Lambert's death she felt good again.
    Reluctantly she rose. She smiled down at Ludwig, who stared at her with moistened eyes. She bent over and kissed him gently on the lips.
    "Good night, sweet uncle. God bless you."
    He just gazed at her, with a faint and melancholy smile.
Lost in thought she returned to her room, which was becoming more hateful to her with every return from her uncle. Her dungeon of grief. All comfort fled the moment she entered its stark and cheerless confines. She hated its solitude, where nothing could thrive but phantoms from the past to break her heart over and over again. And she was so tired of suffering.    
    She sat down on the bed, fondly recalling the pleasant hours in her uncle's company. When she came to the spell in his lap, her chest became all tight and hot. Not altogether meet for so recent a widow, she thought. But she so needed to be held. And only in Ludwig's arms did she feel true comfort. His tenderness. The warmth of his voice. His gentle, cautious hands. His efforts to make her laugh. He took away the pain. She felt completely safe in his embrace. Not once had he tried to touch her indecently. It was so good. And yet, there lay danger there. She was no fool. Uncle or no, Ludwig was still a man. And she a woman, no longer the innocent little girl that was so shocked by her husband's physical demands during the first weeks of marriage. Many a tearful afternoon had she spent with her mother, sore and bruised in body and soul, sobbing her heart out, bitterly complaining of Lambert's brutish treatment, to find only little consolation in the assurance that all men were like that. But, as time went by, she got used to it. She managed to tame her husband a little. Kind and gentle as he was he learned to use her less roughly, even to the point where she began to enjoy it.    
    She felt the blood drain from her face.
    "Jesu and Mary," she muttered. What am I thinking of?
    "Surely not…" she gasped in horror. She jumped up, shuddering as if her clothes were infested with vermin. She paced the room. No, it was unthinkable. Not that! The very last thing on earth. Lambert had only been dead for two weeks. The pain was as vivid as it had been on the first day. She still cried herself to sleep every night.
    I'd despise myself for ever.
    And yet, somewhere deep inside, there was a stubborn little voice, unrepentant, calm. He's so sweet, so kind, so gentle.
    She tore off her dress, ripping it in her anguish, and crept into bed, full of anger and loathing. But that night she did not cry herself to sleep, try as she may.

Ludwig amazed himself. All his life he had more or less accepted the damning verdict of his fellow men. He was a villain. It had also been a very convenient assumption, making life very easy. No need to worry much about his deeds. Never any need for scruples or remorse. Damned from the start he had nothing to lose. He had relished his villainous role. If damned anyway he might as well make the most of it. When he had set his sights on Mathilde he thought he was just pursuing one of his many evil designs. Little had he expected to fall victim to genuine, selfless love, but he had. Wondrous changes had come over him. For the first time in his life he had experienced shame, remorse, regret. He could not bear to see her suffer. And the thought that he had caused it, often drove him to desperation. Especially when she had left him, in the evening, a bit drunk, her hand hovering before her face, in faint, mysterious gestures. He instantly drank himself into stupefaction the moment she had gone. Unable to bear the wild desire that tormented him. He feared he might storm into her room and ravage her. He even came to believe that he would prefer to have Lambert alive again, relinquish Mathilde to him, rather than have her suffer so grievously.

As Ludwig had hoped, half expected, Mathilde emerged from her room early the next morning. She was uncommonly aloof at first, cold almost, uneasy reminder of the past. She worried him. Did she suspect something? Had he betrayed himself with some careless word? But she quickly came round. They played music, read poetry, talked (less and less about Lambert, he realized with a shock of excitement), he taught her the basics of chess. Again the hours evaporated. Mathilde blossomed like a rose. A hint of color returned to her cheeks. She even laughed aloud a few times when Ludwig related a few more antics of Satan.
    That evening he felt, for the first time, that Mathilde was coming very close to surrender. They sat before the fire. He in his big, leather chair, she in his lap, just wanting to be held and caressed. She kissed him a few times on the cheek, very close to his mouth, rousing him. His penis grew hard, to his boundless embarrassment, because he was certain she could feel it, pressing against her buttocks in his lap. But she did not let on. He even imagined, once or twice, that she increased the pressure of her body against it. He broke out in a sweat. Was the time ripe? Was she ready to be taken? He was almost certain. But, miracle of miracles, he felt unable to go through with it. He just held her, trying to get his penis to wilt, without success.
    When the bells of St. Lawrence struck twelve and she rose to leave, wilting visibly, as she had done the previous nights, he knew for certain that she was ready.
    He also rose, taking a deep breath. She hesitated at the door, her eyes languid, searching. He went over to her, took her in his arms. She flung hers round his necks. Her lips were on his before he knew what struck him. She gave him a long, hungering kiss that left him breathless. Gently he freed himself. She gazed into his eyes with ravenous lust. One of her hands moved down his hip, towards his crotch, where his erection stood waiting. He held his breath.
    Just then there was a rap on the door. The spell broke. Ludwig swore under his breath.
    "Yes!" he growled.
    The door opened. Trudy, pale as a moon, her forehead dripping with sweat.
    "Master…, forgive me, but… I… I… feel very… very strange." She tottered and had to seek support from the doorpost. Mathilde drew away from her. Ludwig went cold.

Mathilde recoiled from the sight of Trudy's distress. It had not been mentioned since Lambert's death but the threat of the disease had never been far from her mind. Now it sprang forward. She looked at Ludwig and gasped. He stood like a man stricken dumb. His eyes bulging from their sockets as they gazed at his maid. His lips moved without making a sound.
    Trudy staggered into the room and sank into a chair.
    "I fear… I fear… I've got it." she stammered and began to weep quietly.
    Ludwig moved closer to her, hesitantly, as if she were a smoldering keg of gunpowder. Mathilde could not believe her eyes. Was this her hero, who had so fearlessly tended her Lambert? He was actually trembling. At two paces he bent a little forward and gazed at Trudy.
    "Sit up, woman, damn ye. Show me your neck."    
    Sobbing wretchedly she obeyed. Ludwig shrank back.
    "My god, it really is. But how on earth……." He closed his mouth with a snap and a furtive look at Mathilde. She marveled. What was this? She did not understand. His behavior was so utterly and completely at odds with the way in which he had handled Lambert that it made her feel quite sick. Trudy retched violently, lunging forward, almost falling from the chair. Instinctively Mathilde moved forward to help her.
    "No!" cried Ludwig. "Stay away from her. For God's sake."     
    He barked at the old woman.
    "Trudy. Listen. And listen well. Leave this room at once. Go to your own quarters. Stay there. We shall provide you with everything that you need. But don't leave your room. Only God can save you now."
    Sobbing wretchedly Trudy slunk away.
    When she had left Ludwig turned to Mathilde. He tried to smile, but to her it seemed but a crooked grin. She brusquely excused herself and hurried to her room.
    Deeply perturbed she sat down on the bed. This mystery was deep. Ludwig's behavior made no sense. No sense at all. How could a hero behave so abjectly? It bordered on cowardice. She brooded about it a while but could not begin to imagine a reason. Finally she decided to speak to him. She had to know.
    She returned to the drawing room. He was still there, but fast asleep, slumped half across the table, an empty bottle within reach. She tried to wake him, but he was beyond rousing. She wandered back to her room. A terrible unease within. At the door she hesitated. She had to know. The risk was awesome but she had no choice. She went to Trudy's room, trembling with every step.
    The old woman did not hear her come in. She was on her knees, deep in prayer. Mathilde marveled at the barrenness of the room. Hardly any furniture. Just a small table and a stool, a clothes chest in one corner. A box bed recessed into a wall, the doors ajar. When Trudy noticed Mathilde she cringed.
    "O, mistress, leave, I prithee, leave. Protect yourself."
    She sat trembling. A black swelling had appeared under her chin. An acrid odor of excrement pervaded the room.
    "Please Trudy, bear with me," said Mathilde, with a faltering voice. "Can you explain why your master treats you so cowardly while he was so brave with my husband?"
    The old woman looked at her with tear-logged eyes.
    "No, kind lady. I do not understand it myself. I do not understand. So cruel. So cruel, even for him. But please leave, I beseech you."
    Mathilde left. She felt cold and bitter. Something was very wrong here. It made no sense. There had to be a reason for this complete change of bearing. She wandered through the house. Came to Ludwig's laboratory. She found some scraps of paper with her name on it. Her name, drawn in gorgeous elaborate letters. Drawings of her face. Dates long gone. There was madness here. Vials, pots. Alchemy. She wondered what would happen if she took some. She did not dare. God only knew what they were. And then, slowly, a terrible suspicion began to dawn on her.
    She returned to the old woman, who had climbed into her box bed and sat there, chattering with fever. She looked small and frail, like a soaked bird. Mathilde regretted having to bother her but she had to know.
    "Just one question, Trudy, but you must answer me truthfully."
    "By my troth, sweet lady."
    "Has your master ever poisoned anyone?"
    The spasm of shock on the old woman's face said it all.
    Mathilde closed her eyes. It was clear. He had poisoned Lambert. She had never known anything so certain. Black veils danced before her eyes. She had a violent urge to vomit, but managed to control it. She felt cold and hard, stone, ice, steel, murderous.
    "Oh you damnable wretch," she muttered.
    No sorrow. Just anger, raw, cold. Icicles, daggersharp, bristling from her heart. The old women lay gasping. Mathilde stood frozen. That demon. And she… almost. If Trudy had waited one night, one hour even, he would have had his foul way.
    And now? Kill him. That was beyond doubt. But how? There were firearms in his study. Harquebuses, muskets, pistols. But she knew not how to use them. A knife? She winced at the thought alone. In all her fury she could not imagine herself capable of slaughtering him like a pig. Yet kill him she would. She gazed at Trudy, who was panting and sweating. But of course.
    "Can I get you something, Trudy? Some wine perhaps?"
    The old woman nodded.
    Mathilde went down into the drawing room, where Ludwig was snoring. She hardly looked at him, picked up the bottle and shook it. By the slosh of liquid inside she guessed it to be half full. Good enough.
    When Mathilde returned Trudy withdrew to the farthest corner of the bed.
    "Pray, mistress, be away. Do not expose yourself."
    "There, there. Be still, sweet wench."
    Mathilde climbed into the box and put an arm round the shivering frame of the old woman. It was hot.
    "Now drink."
    Trudy did, eagerly. She tried to get Mathilde to leave but Mathilde would not be moved. Her mind was set. This was her weapon.
    After a while Trudy grew drowsy. Mathilde held her close, drank some wine herself.
    During her lucid spells Trudy gazed at her with tearful eyes.
    "But why, my lady, why so reckless?" she would croak. "Why?"
    Mathilde smiled.
    "Because I want to, dear Trudy. Because I want to." Slowly the old woman fell asleep.

When Mathilde awoke the next morning, Trudy lay cold in her arms, the faintest hint of a smile on her shriveled face. Her skin white as chalk. Gently Mathilde laid her on her back, covered her with a sheet, and rose. An incredible sense of power pervaded her. Something told her she would not die. She was beyond death. Lethal though the disease was, it did spare some victims. Three out of ten, if she remembered rightly. And she, of this was convinced, would be one of them. And if not? That would suit her just as well. The future was not something she relished just now. She returned to her own room and locked the door.

Ludwig awoke to despair. The Gift was within his walls. He shuddered. Of all cruel ironies this had to be the worst. It almost made him believe in God after all. He hardly dared breathe. The lethal vapor had to be everywhere. The old woman had been everywhere, contaminating every room with her pestilential gasps.
    "O God," he groaned, starling himself. What if he really does exist?! Sweat broke out on his brow. Eternal damnation after all. He groaned, but quickly recovered.
    "Rubbish!"
    Nervously he began to finger his neck, groped inside his breeches to feel his loins. Nothing. He calmed down a little. It need not happen. As long as they kept away from her. Ah, there was a thought. He burst from the room, up the stairs. He had to lock the old hag in. Keep her away from him and Mathilde. Perhaps it was not yet too late. Without looking inside the room he locked the door and went to Mathilde's room. He knocked. No response. He clenched his fists. What if she, too… He knocked again.
    "Yes?"
    Ah, he sighed with relief.
    "It's me, Ludwig. Are you well?"
    "As well as I might be."
    "Are you not coming out?"
    "Later."
    He breathed deeply. All might not yet be lost. She sounded normal. He took heart.

During the day she noticed the telltale signs. Gently the fever entered her body. A faint ache lodged in her head. She smiled. Ludwig, Ludwig. Your fate is sealed. She groomed herself carefully for the evening, putting on her finest dress. Fine Flemish linen, scarlet, slashed over yellow silk, low cut to reveal the bulge of her breasts, Sorrow was remote. Just anger, pure, controlled, a vial of liquid fire.
She emerged from her room feeling like a King's champion setting out for single combat.
    Ludwig proved clay in her hands, groveling to please. She led him on, sat in his lap, kissed him near the mouth, feeling his body respond. His tool poking against her legs. The revulsion she felt at his touch, his leechlike kisses, his groping fingers only strengthened her resolve, knowing how every kiss raised the likelihood of his infection.
    He was gibbering with rapture when he led her to the bed in which Lambert had died.
    "Oh Mathilde, my lovely child, this is my fondest dream come true."
    She reclined on the bed, her dress flung back, her legs apart. He stood gaping at her nakedness, clumsily unbuckling his belt.
    She smiled at him, already feeling a tenseness in her neck. Her boil was about to emerge. Just a little late, alas. As Ludwig dropped his breeches and his penis jutted out, pink, wet and swollen, like some loathsome tumor, she bit her own tongue. Hot blood flooded her mouth. When he looked up at her she allowed the liquid to escape from her lips and grinned. His ecstatic face melted like wax. The flesh dropped into sagging, wrinkled folds. His mouth fell open. She reveled at the sight. His penis wilted away into the shade of his crotch. He made a gurgling sound.
    "What is it, dear uncle?" she asked, licking her bloodstained lips as she flung down her dress to cover her lower body. He backed away, hampered by the breeches on his ankles, almost falling over.
    "Where is your valor now?" she asked, in a voice dark with contempt, "It was so prominent with my poor Lambert."
    She rose. Ludwig sank to his haunches, janked up his breeches and stumbled away, groaning.
    "Be damned, old man." she shouted. "Be damned for eternity. Hell has not enough devils to torment you."
    He was at the door, fumbling with the handle. If she had had a knife just then she would have used it. She stood panting with rage. Finally Ludwig managed to open the door, he staggered out, fell, scurried away on all fours. She laughed bitterly, moved forward, in an urge to give him a parting kick but she stopped on the threshold. With a small, contemptuous growl she slammed the door. He was not worth it.  
    She returned to the bed and sat down. A shiver rocked her. She had a fever. Her left hand moved to her neck. The boil had appeared. A hard lump. She wondered whether she would die. It did not matter. She wondered if it would ever matter again.

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