DigiCat Publishing presents to you this special edition of "A servant of Satan: Romantic career of Prado the assassin" by Louis Berard. DigiCat Publishing considers every written word to be a legacy of humankind. Every DigiCat book has been carefully reproduced for republishing in a new modern format. The books are available in print, as well as ebooks. DigiCat hopes you will treat this work with the acknowledgment and passion it deserves as a classic of world literature.
Count Frederick von Waldberg, who was tried and guillotined at Paris under the name of Prado, was born at Berlin in 1849 and was named after King Frederick William IV. of Prussia, who, together with Queen Elizabeth, was present at the christening and acted as sponsor. This somewhat exceptional distinction was due to the fact that the child's father, Count Heinrich von Waldberg, was not only one of the favorite aides-de-camp generals of his majesty, but had also been a friend and companion of the monarch from his very boyhood. Although at the time the general had not yet achieved the great reputation as a statesman which he subsequently attained, yet he was already known throughout Europe as an ambassador of rare skill and diplomacy, and as one of the most influential personages of the Berlin Court. Married in 1847 to a princess of the reigning house of Kipper-Deutmolde, a woman of singular beauty, little Frederick was the first and only offspring of their union. The child was scarcely a year old when the mother died at Potsdam, after only a few days' illness, leaving the whole of her fortune in trust for the boy. The general was inconsolable, and so intense was his grief that for some days it was feared that his mind would give way. The very kindest sympathy was displayed by both the king and his consort, the latter in particular being deeply moved by the motherless condition of little Frederick. During the next three years the child spent much of his time in her majesty's private apartments, both at Berlin and Potsdam, and, herself childless, Queen Elizabeth did her utmost to act the part of a mother to the pretty curly headed boy. After four years of widowhood the general became convinced that it was not “good for man to be alone,” and cast his eyes about him in search of another wife. Greatly to the disgust of the beauties of the Prussian capital, who were only too ready to surrender their hands and their hearts to the high rank and station of Count von Waldberg, his choice fell on an Italian lady, whose sole recommendation in his eyes was, as he publicly proclaimed to his friends, that she bore certain traces of resemblance to his dead princess.
I the Supreme imagines a dialogue between the nineteenth-century Paraguayan dictator known as Dr. Francia and Policarpo Patiño, his secretary and only companion. The opening pages present a sign that they had found nailed to the wall of a cathedral, purportedly written by Dr. Francia himself and ordering the execution of all of his servants upon his death. This sign is quickly revealed to be a forgery, which takes leader and secretary into a larger discussion about the nature of truth: “In the light of what Your Eminence says, even the truth appears to be a lie.” Their conversation broadens into an epic journey of the mind, stretching across the colonial history of their nation, filled with surrealist imagery, labyrinthine turns, and footnotes supplied by a mysterious “compiler.” A towering achievement from a foundational author of modern Latin American literature, I the Supreme is a darkly comic, deeply moving meditation on power and its abuse—and on the role of language in making and unmaking whole worlds.
