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NEW AUTHORS SHOWCASE
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17-01-09 6M p3 |
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Ellen’s Gold by Redaelli |
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PROLOGUE Erfurt Germany 1904
“Good afternoon Frau Paulsen. It is a pleasure to meet you again.” The elderly lady of the house was dressed all in black. She smiled a little at her visitor, and stood to one side to allow him to enter her large hallway. “Do come in Herr Kelber.” “What a fine house you have Frau Paulsen. Have you lived here for many years?” “Almost fifty,” she responded proudly. “I moved here when I married my late husband.” “Really, that’s a long time.” Max Kelber sounded genuinely impressed. Max was a good natured, jovial individual, who had grown fat and red faced on good food and wine and little exercise. As he spoke he mopped his brow with a handkerchief. The walk from his shop, although not all that far, had quite worn him out. A bookseller in his late fifties, he was grateful for being able to derive a living from his trade. He still enjoyed the anticipation of examining books that he had not previously seen, and had been looking forward all morning to his visit. Frau Paulsen had recently visited his shop to inform him that she had a library with a large collection of books. She told him without giving any reason that she had decided to dispose of as much of it as he might be interested in. It was a task that he was used to being asked to undertake. Whilst most of the books he examined were likely to be of no great value or interest, occasionally he could come across something quite special. Built in the Baroque style, the house was more than two centuries old. He was impressed by both its proportions and the character of its interior, but as he entered its library with its shelves of neatly stacked books, and he began to look through them, he was rather disappointed by their quality. He was standing on tip toe in order to reach a row of tall books on a shelf above him. He selected one at random, placed his fingers around its spine, and as he began to pull it out a smaller book standing next to it began to come too. For a moment it teetered on the edge of the shelf and then fell to the floor with a thud. With a little sigh of annoyance Max picked it up, noticing as he did so that it was an edition of Latin letters by a number of ancient authors, with the original text and its German translation facing each other on opposite pages. From its frontispiece it was apparent that the book had been published in Augsburg in 1784. It was so dusty that he wondered if it had gone unread and forgotten for nearly as long. What intrigued him about it though were the words written in English across the cover “two times eight,” not once but three times. It seemed very strange, and when he began to thumb through the book he also discovered the words, again in English, “10 times 10” had been written on a couple of pages. It also looked as if these pages had been glued together and then pulled apart. Further on still he discovered that two pages had been cut out of the book. Then, most surprisingly, he came across a drawing on a blank page. It was clearly a crude map of a locality, which meant nothing to him except that it included a road marked as leading to Erfurt. The book had effectively been defaced, but clearly with some deliberate purpose rather than through mindless vandalism. Suddenly, he felt something lying under a flap at the back of it. To his surprise it was a letter, or part of a letter, for there was no signature, dated 13th December 1813, and written in English. He was able to understand a little of it and particularly recognised the words ‘treasure’ and ‘gold’. His curiosity aroused he decided that he would examine both the letter and the book at his leisure and returning the former to its hiding place he added the book to the pile that he was prepared to take away with him. He then offered Frau Paulsen a price for these, that she willingly accepted, and returned to his shop. That evening he again studied the letter and with the help of an Anglo-German dictionary slowly read it through, realising as he did so that some words had been miss-spelled.
“Dear Ellen, our enemies seem to be determined on crossing the river Rhine so they have put an end to any communication with France. Poor Poniatowski drowned after Leipzig, but Florentin not heavy wounded will soon make his escape. My left arm is better a little you see how well I can write. May God save us from the typhus! Hope that you received the money I sent you by Duroc- All the other treasures we brought with us from Russia were well hidden in some carriages of my horse artillery being there no other chance of bringing them to a place of security- After the battle of Leip. I quitted the large road to Erfurt and went upwarts the river Saale reaching the town of Jena Oct 21st about midnigt. Here we come to another road to Erfurt via Weimar well known to me from 1806 the Prussian Hussards being at my heels - Now my darling listen carefully to what I have to tell you. Quitting the town of Jena on the road to Erfurt there is a right hand RIGHT HAND- before we come to the oil-mill a small ditch called the Swabish-Grabe- this ditch some hundred steeps upwards grows a deep ravine overgron with bushes and trees. There I came only accompanied by Florentin and some trusty soldiers -- the latter brought our boxes on horseback. In the ravine-nearly in the Head (End) of it -- found a fox or rabbits hole-in the middle border left hand-coming up LEFT Hand-enlarged it and put treasures into it stopping up the hole with large stones, earth, etc. The gold coins barrs of gold and silver, the juwels I found in a churchs cellar in Moskou all is enclosed in strong grapeshot boxes and so it can remain there for hundred years without becoming changed. If the gracious Lord would not bring me back to you, go to the town of Jena with Florentin buy the upper end of the Swabish Grabe you can make it out with my sketch and take it up all: you will be immense rich -- You will get 10-12 millions. God bless you dear Ellen!”
CHAPTER 1 A Soiree, Paris. August 1811
Colonel Michael Korsowski looked somewhat taller than he was, thanks to his slim figure and long legs. His clean-shaven, angular and well-proportioned face carried the marks of experience although he was not yet old, being no more than thirty-five. His hair was dark brown with only a hint of greyness, and his eyes a lighter brown and essentially good natured, for all that his trade was a martial one and he had both witnessed and perpetrated a full measure of human suffering. As was to be expected of a soldier of his rank he carried himself well, and he was impeccably dressed and distinguished in appearance, wearing a white waistcoat, sage-green breeches and stockings, a well-tied cravat, and a black coat. The evening sun was glinting through the windows as Ellen glanced around the assembled company in the elegantly furnished salon, with its white plastered walls and ceiling gilded by decorative gold leaf. She first noticed the curliness of Michael’s dark hair, and heard him laugh in a pleasant, gentle fashion that she found instantly attractive. Her eyes then made out his face. Without doubt he was a truly beautiful man. Michael was engaged in polite conversation with a man and woman whom Ellen did not know. She was also standing some distance from him, but perhaps becoming subconsciously aware that someone in the room was staring at him, he suddenly looked in her direction and caught her eye. Her first instinct was to look immediately away but his sheer attractiveness held her in thrall. Then he appeared to smile at her with his eyes, took a long sip of champagne from the glass that he held with his right hand, and resumed his conversation. She politely excused herself from the company of an elderly diplomat and looked around for a servant to replenish her glass. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed that the handsome stranger also now seemed to be alone. Again, their eyes met, in what she sensed was a bond of mutual attraction. He walked towards her, bowed, and introduced himself. “I am an aide-de-camp to Prince Poniatowski. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?” “Madame Ellen Charpentier, Monsieur. Our hostess, Madame Gavroche, is an old family friend.” “At your service, Madame.” |