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Updated: June 20, 2025
The other two ... women are barred. And look...." He slapped a wallet on the table and extracted a red card, "'member of the Communist Partei Karl Stinnes," he read. "Listen, there are 75,000 rifles in Alexander Platz, waiting for the day." "Where did you learn your English, von Stinnes?" "Oxford. Italian in Padua. French, m'sieur, in Paris. During the war." The baron laughed.
Where's von Stinnes?" "'Shh...." He smiled feebly. She was holding his hand, still weeping. A memory returned vividly. A man with blazing eyes. He had lost his temper. But there had been something more than that. Two imbeciles fighting over a thing that had died for both of them. Clowns at each other's throat. A background unfolded itself. Against it he lay watching the two men.
Yet there was something inexplicable about von Stinnes. There had been from the first. "Inexplicable because he is ... nothing," Dorn thought. "A chevalier of excitements, a Don Quixote of disillusion...." "You are thinking of me," the baron smiled over his wine-glass, "as I am thinking of you. Here's to our unimportant healths, Erik." Dorn swallowed more wine.
Ergo, you are not a scoundrel, von Stinnes." The Baron laughed. "A convenient philosophy, Erik. Well, I was in the German intelligence and worked in Paris during the second year of the war. Prepare yourself for a confession. My secrets bore me. And a little cocotte of a countess betrayed me. It is a virtue French women have.
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