Die Majoratsherren

In a once‑splendid city stands the empty majorat house of an ancient lineage, its rooms still furnished exactly as the original foundation intended. The walls are lined with copper‑etched portraits, the cellar stores bottles of wine that have never been uncorked, and a modest flock of cats patrols the corridors, keeping the old mouse‑holes at bay. The building itself is a living museum of a world that seemed to balance elegance and duty before the upheavals of the French Revolution reduced everything to a more uniform poverty.

The current lord of the estate lives far away with his mother, leaving the house untouched while a diligent steward tends the clocks and distributes a few pennies to the local poor each Saturday. Each day a lone, red‑nosed figure—known to the aristocracy as “the Vetter” and to the townsfolk as “the Leutnant”—passes the mansion’s doorway, pausing to draw on his tobacco and to remind the city of a fading honor. His solemn stride and weathered uniform hint at a lingering connection to a proud past that still lingers in the shadows of the great hall.