Chapter 2
It is already evening on the same day that Wynand Rabie was abducted from court in Stellenbosch. The streets of Cape Town are empty and deserted. The moon is almost full and dims the few lights on the street corners.
A coach hurriedly rolls in from the direction of Stellenbosch. It slows down under the wide arch of the castle entrance. The glass of the large lamps hanging there is colored and throws a glow over the honor guard standing attentively alongside the gate. Above the rattle of the coach wheels and the clapping of the horse hooves, the coach driver can already hear the music of a dance orchestra from here.
His face is shiny with sweat because he had to hurry to get here on time. The rows of coaches already parked in the inner courtyard are, however, a telling indication that he is still late. With a sigh, he brings the vehicle to a stop at the end of a row of coaches. The footman jumps off and opens the door to let the passengers out.
A wide strip of light falls from the entrance to the dance hall over the dimly lit inner courtyard. From one coach, a view of the inside of the hall can be seen, where a few drivers and footmen have gathered to watch the spectacle. The driver who has just stopped approaches and joins the group. They are all strangers to him, but he sits down comfortably and looks confidently around him. Then he spits on the ground.
“Now I ask you,” he suddenly speaks up dissatisfied, “you drain yourself in a coach from Stellenbosch just to attend a miserable dance party? After sitting and shaking for hours in a coach until it feels like your stomach wants to turn over, and later you gracefully move around on a smooth dance floor. I do not understand the people of today.”
Several men agree with him, but an old coachman, a bearded driver, shakes his head slowly.
“We also came from Stellenbosch this afternoon, but you are too hasty with your judgment,” he says authoritatively. “It is not just the fun that brings people from far and wide here tonight.”
“But Uncle Ben,” a young man objects. “Mrs. Rossouw told Miss Willa herself that they needed a fun back-and-forth to break up the monotony of farm life. What else is it if not pleasure?”
“That is just the women’s point of view, Frans... as usual,” old Ben replies.
“Young man,” the stranger speaks up again. “I know that there is a big function here tonight. The Count de Moreaux arrived a few days ago and, as usual, the government is planning to make a big hole in the treasury to welcome him. This celebration is in his honor. But it does not say anything and I agree with this young friend, the pretentious people are just happy to have another excuse to show off and party.”
“And the Count is probably an old man who cannot even dance anymore,” says another.
“Dancing is not the most important factor at a party like this,” says a young Cape servant. “Besides, I have seen the Count de Moreaux with my own eyes.”
“Really?” a few say sceptically.
“Yes. I think he is a man under thirty and very rich.”
“And what is he looking for here?” old Ben asks.
“Surely a woman,” one jokes.
“I heard that he is interested i
