Spring terraces bloomed in Strasbourg. I sipped fine scotch at Phyllis, eyeing a medieval-dressed youth peddling drawings. He approached, insisting I view his 16th-century authenticated works. Defiant, I let him sit. He spun a tale of erotic awakening.
Fresh from Nuremberg’s rigors, I sought commissions. Word came: Count Laurentzberg needed a portrait. His Andlau manor, branch of noble Andlau line, sprawled in opulent stone. Velvet tapestries draped halls. Crystal goblets brimmed with spiced Alsatian wine. I arrived, sketches in hand. The count approved my youth. I installed in a sunlit atelier, easel gleaming.
The Privilege
Supper unveiled his family: three generations of blonde sirens, dressed alike in flowing silks that hugged ripe curves. Lutgard, the matriarch, fifty-five yet lithe, skin smooth as polished ivory. Elfriede, the wife, towering perfection, golden tresses framing sharp wit. Käthe, eighteen, fresh bloom mirroring them. Their resemblances stunned—same full lips, piercing eyes. Noblesse preserved them; idleness warded age.
The Excess
Elfriede’s majesty ignited me. Her laughter cut like a blade, her stature overwhelmed. I fumbled approaches, spilling wine on her gown, tripping on hems. Desperate, I turned to Käthe. Park stroll by Andlau river: manicured lawns, fountains whispering. I confessed desire. She fled; I grabbed her sleeve. Lace tore, baring a trembling alabaster breast. I clutched her. She pushed weakly, cheeks aflame. Elfriede spied from her window.
Dinner: candlelight danced on silver. Käthe’s foot probed my leg under damask cloth—insistent, teasing. No accident. I trapped it, squeezed. Faces impassive, pulses raced. Later, Elfriede summoned me to the library. Fury masked seduction. ‘You ravished my daughter,’ she hissed. Table games exposed my complicity. ‘Ten o’clock, my chamber. Or face ruin.’ Heart pounding, I obeyed.
