The Officer's Prey tnm-1

by Armand Cabasson

  The zakuski were followed by red soup made with peppers and sour cream in the Ukrainian style. The count once more launched into the history of the Valiuski family. Unfortunately, this time he began with the battle of Tannenberg, or battle of Grunwald, which had taken place in 1410. It was after this that Ladislas II Jagiello, King of Poland and Grand Duke of Lithuania, had rewarded the Valiuski family by ennobling it and giving it a bear as its coat of arms. The bear because those ‘grizzly peasants’ had carried out a massacre and had seized an enemy standard, that of Johann von Redern, the commander of Brathian and Neumarket. The banner was white and decorated with three stag horns joined at the base. The count was sorry not to be able to show it to his guests but it was hanging in one of his country houses near Moscow.

  ‘Then we’ll be seeing it soon,’ decreed Fanselin.

  The count gave a detailed account of how the Teutonic Knights were crushed by the army of Ladislas II Jagiello. As it happened, in 1809 Napoleon had ordered the dissolution of this religious and military order and the count drew a host of other parallels between France and Poland, their common enemies and desires. His fervent wish for the restoration of Poland clouded his judgement: he sincerely believed that the futures of France and Poland were inextricably linked, a notion that history had categorically confirmed many times, in his opinion.

  While Saber was dreaming of being a Polish count, the count was imagining himself living in a Greater Poland … Margont wondered, then, what he himself aspired to. Normally his immediate, idealistic response to such questions was the liberty of nations, an end to the slaughter, a stable peace in Europe, the spread of republican ideas … But that evening he was weary. All he wanted was to have a pleasant time. Noble aspirations are considerably diminished by hunger and tiredness.

  Natalia was not listening to her father. In any case, she had heard him recount the battle of Tannenberg so often that she was beginning to wonder whether she’d actually taken part in it. Margont intrigued her. He seemed different from the men she had so far met. Her father had always given her orders. Her admirers, of whom there had been a considerable number in recent years, seemed equally authoritarian. They never bothered to listen to what she said to them and assumed she thought the same as they. And these were the best of her suitors, those who accepted the idea that women could have an opinion – although they should not express it. Things had come to a head at the beginning of the war. She had received a procession of officers in the palace: a captain from the hussars of the Guard, an elderly infantry colonel, a lieutenant from the Preobrajensky Regiment (above all, remember to congratulate him for being in the Guard, her mother had told her a hundred times), and a surprising number of aides-de-camp. In any case she thought it stupid that there should be so many of the latter. Since all the regiments hated one another and their officers sometimes went so far as refusing to speak to one another, what was the point of lining up so many messengers? In fact, she knew full well that nobles fought over the positions of aide-de-camp for the simple reason that they had less chance – relatively speaking – of being exposed to enemy fire.

  All these visitors had behaved in an extraordinarily inept manner. Most of them had promised to bring her back a French flag topped with its eagle emblem. They thought this would please her but the idea horrified her. A piece of bloodstained material together with the certainty that its bearer, like its escort, had been exterminated and that the flagpole had been removed from their dead fingers: what a delightful present! Anyway, they already had the one seized at Tannenberg, so how many more did they need? A Cossack had even promised her Napoleon’s head, probably confusing her with Salome. She was eternally grateful to her father for his pro-Polish views, without which she would have been married off to a Russian aristocrat long ago. But her relative freedom was nearing its end. Her mother had given her six months to make her choice from the list of names she had drawn up herself ‘to help her to avoid making a mistake she would regret for the rest of her life’. The war had forced a postponement of the deadline because announcing an engagement to someone who might be killed soon afterwards would have put her in a difficult position with regard to the surviving suitors.

  Oh, the war! Men waged war for a thousand different reasons but what difference did victory really make? She could find only one answer: the colour of the uniforms and the designs on the banners that would be hung up in the drawing rooms. Might Margont be different? She wanted to provoke him, to push him to the limits in order to study his reactions. Oh, she was under no illusions. He would probably maintain an indignant silence like Lieutenant Saber, or order her to be quiet, just as her father did. Or, even worse, he would behave like her suitors, greeting her comments with a kindly and unbearably patronising smile. In that case she would quickly drain her glass to prevent herself from throwing its contents in his face.

  When the servants brought in the coulibiac, salmon in pastry, with mushrooms, celery, onions and dill, she said to Margont: ‘Here’s a little more Russian culture for you to devour.’

  ‘Well, you devour our writers: Voltaire, La Fontaine …’

  So he had noticed the books? An accident, no doubt.

  ‘So you know the fables of La Fontaine, do you? They make edifying reading. “The Wolf and the Lamb” for example. “Might Is Right”.’

  ‘Dear Natalia,’ the count interjected, ‘having sung all summer, the cicada was caught unprepared when the north wind blew.’

  Which was supposed to mean: if the cicada Natalia continued to mock, eternal winter – that is, the marriage she so much feared – would come earlier than expected.

  ‘Dura lex, sed lex,’ Margont summed up.

  ‘But Natalia is always happy to please her parents, Captain,’ the countess claimed. ‘Do you not say in France “blood will out’’?’

  ‘Well, we usually say, “What a woman wants, God wants.” Mademoiselle, I quite understand that our enforced presence is annoying. However, Russian hospitality …’

  ‘What do you know about Russian hospitality?’ Natalia asked.

  ‘Well, it’s said that samovars are pot-bellied because people want to be sure there’s always enough boiling water to be able to serve tea to all the guests.’

  The young woman was surprised. So he knew that, did he? He really was not like the others. She wanted to scratch this varnish just to check.

  ‘What present would you offer your hosts by way of thanks?’

  Her mother smiled, interpreting the question as the expression of a child’s greed. In her mind there could be no other explanation.

  ‘Poland! Poland!’ whispered the count, beaming.

  Natalia stared at Margont, wondering whether he too was planning to present her with standards, guns and heaps of corpses.

  ‘The promise to give them an equally warm welcome in France. But without the caviar, I’m afraid …’

  Natalia then asked with false naïvety: ‘Would my father also have to come in uniform and accompanied by five hundred thousand soldiers?’

  ‘We’d have enough cannonballs to feed the lot of them,’ muttered Saber in his corner, without turning his head.

  The count was furious. With a discreet gesture he ordered his army of servants to enter the battlefield. The salmon coulibiac was replaced by a hare à la polonaise. Bacon, lard, fresh cream, juniper and caramel: extravagant but delicious. It was served with potatoes and red cabbage. All the guests rejoiced at the sight. Fanselin’s joy was the most intense, such was his love of discovering new flavours, in the widest possible sense of the word.

  ‘Natalia plays the harpsichord very well,’ announced the count.

  The young countess gracefully placed her napkin over her mouth so as not to be seen gritting her teeth. So they also expected to make her play after the meal, did they?

  ‘It would seem that she doesn’t play enough, since it is said that music soothes the savage breast,’ Margont joked.

  Natalia was flabbergasted. So now she was being attacked on ir
onic territory, her territory! Because if they took away her irony, how else could she express herself freely? The colour of the feathers of her nightingales and the length of her shawls?

  ‘A soldier presumes to explain to me how music soothes the savage breast,’ she retorted.

  ‘I’m a soldier only because we are living in a time of war.’

  ‘What will you do when the peace treaty has finally been signed?’ asked the countess.

  In the countess’s mind the question was a tactful way of finding out about the officer’s wealth. Admittedly, she thought him low-ranking. But he did belong to the French army, the only one in which any soldier could climb to the very top. She had learnt that Murat was the son of an innkeeper. Yes, an innkeeper! Really, that was quite ridiculous! He had begun his career as an ordinary soldier. Today, at the age of forty-five, he was a Marshal of France, Grand Admiral of France, Grand Duke of Berg and of Cleves, a prince and, to cap it all, King of Naples. The son of an innkeeper King of Naples! Oh, the French and their Revolution. No respect for the rules and for social barriers.

  Margont put down his knife and fork to reply. His dreams were even more appetising than the famous hare à la polonaise.

  ‘Well, I would like to launch a newspaper.’

  A newspaper. How terribly amusing! thought the countess. She invented on the spur of the moment a short proverb: ‘Innkeeper, King of Naples; journalist, King of the Alps.’

  ‘A journalist?’ Natalia said in surprise.

  Given the interest her daughter had shown in the captain, Countess Valiuska decided on reflection that he was not at all amusing. She was already beginning to worry that her adage might become: ‘Innkeeper, King of Naples; journalist, Count Valiuski.’ There was no question of letting that happen.

  ‘I love writing and—’

  But Margont was interrupted by Piquebois. ‘Are you seriously considering launching a newspaper? My dear old friend, it’s impossible. Censorship will close it down within weeks and the law will force you to pay the state-appointed censor out of your own pocket.’

  Margont agreed, his lips puckering up with anger. ‘Yes, you have to feed the hand that bites you.’

  ‘And he’s entitled to comment on every line, on the layout … In any case, there’s a decree prohibiting more than one newspaper per département, so your project will just join a long waiting list that the prefect will sit on every morning.’

  ‘I know all that. Before 1800 there were more than seventy newspapers in Paris. Today there are only half a dozen left. The commission for the freedom of the press is practically alone in showing real support for the freedom of the press because it considers itself incompetent to judge newspapers and never gets involved in anything. Such are republicans! Now it’s censorship that should be censored.’

  Fanselin was also interested in the subject.

  ‘The only interesting things left to read are the bulletins of the Grande Armée.’

  Piquebois looked sceptical. ‘I admit I like reading the bulletins but the truth is distorted by propaganda. There are the enemy who died on the battlefield and those who died in the pages of the bulletin and often a lot more appear in the second category.’

  ‘“The pen is mightier than the sword”,’ said Margont ironically.

  ‘It’s true that in the bulletins everything looks straightforward,’ Saber added. ‘They announce that the Austrians took a thrashing here and the Prussians there … Fine, but we aren’t told how difficult it was or what price was paid.’

  Fanselin raised his hands to concede the point. ‘I know. I know the expression “to lie like a bulletin”. But I like the bulletins of the Grande Armée because I was mentioned in them in relation to the battle of Essling. It was this bulletin that later opened the doors of the Red Lancers for me. What I also like is that you really feel something when you read them: emotion, enthusiasm and even elation! It’s quite something when the French army manages to break through the Austrian army! Never mind if they claim that twenty thousand Russians ended up at the bottom of a pond at Austerlitz when really it wasn’t even a quarter of that number.’

  ‘Which is a great shame,’ murmured the count.

  Margont, wild with joy, was pointing at Fanselin. ‘Well said. If you write, it’s to give the reader a thrill! Words combat the tedium of the daily routine.’

  ‘In that case one wonders why there are any newspapers left,’ Saber remarked.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ asked the count, whilst, to the chagrin of the French, who were expecting dessert, the servants brought in paprika poussins, three per person.

  Margont stared at the little birds placed in front of him. He hadn’t started on them yet but already felt almost sick from overeating. A captain in the French army defeated by three little birds, how sad …

  ‘Censorship means that all the newspapers say the same thing in the same way, namely that everything the State does is wonderful,’ he said. ‘It’s the daily imperial litany.’

  ‘They should all print the same headline, “Fantastic!” every day,’ Piquebois suggested.

  Natalia seemed disappointed when she said to Margont: ‘Things don’t look very promising for your plans.’

  ‘I’ve already thought about this problem. Until such time as censorship loosens its hold, I might launch a monthly periodical devoted to theatre and the arts. There would be literary criticisms, theatre reviews … and by slipping in references in these articles it might be possible to deal with politics indirectly.’

  Saber was highly amused. ‘A newspaper full of literary criticism and theatre reviews? What an idea! And why not recipes as well?’

  ‘Why not, indeed?’ retorted Margont, smiling complicitly at Natalia as she glared at a Saber still roaring with laughter.

  ‘Don’t listen to him, Quentin,’ advised Piquebois. ‘When the newspaper appears, Irénée will keep coming to ask you why there’s nothing about him on the front page.’

  ‘In any case, the mere fact of talking about a newspaper encourages debate and stimulates freedom of expression,’ Margont concluded.

  For the rest of the meal the count carried on talking, convinced that the guests were eagerly awaiting the next instalment of the history of the Valiuski family. When the dessert did arrive it was on a silver platter carried by two servants. The French looked dubiously at the golden or meringue-topped brioches and the cakes spiced with honey.

  Seeing their embarrassment, Natalia declared: ‘Don’t forget that after the meal you still have the entire Russian army to gobble up.’

  The count cast a deeply reproachful look at his wife. This, in his view, was where the education she had chosen had led her daughter. Mothers often stand quite alone in these cases. Fanselin and Margont both smiled to indicate that they were not offended.

  The meal finally ended with strongly brewed smoked tea accompanied by milk, honey and caramels. The servants poured into the cups some of the contents of the chainik, the small teapot kept on top of the samovar, before adding some hot water from the samovar itself. Natalia discreetly observed Margont’s hands, his rather slender fingers, the way he held his cup … For some unknown reason, this pleased her.

  Countess Valiuska rose just as they were taking away the samovar and said that it was time she and her daughter went to bed. Margont was sorry to see Natalia leave and surprised to see her return a moment later. Her mother was following her, like a spectre ensuring that the soul in its charge does not flee the underworld to which it must be taken, namely the boredom of the bedroom. Natalia went up to Margont and handed him a book entitled in French: Extraits de la littérature française.

  ‘This is for you, since you are so fond of words. You can return it to me when your army comes back via Smolensk.’

  A few minutes later, settled in the red drawing room, Margont was still thinking about Natalia while the count sang the praises of the vodka produced on his estate. Margont could see the gestures of the count and his friends but could not hear what the
y were saying. Without thinking, he swallowed a mouthful from the glass he had been served and the sensation of burning caused by the vodka brought him back to reality, a reality now interwoven with uninteresting snippets of conversation. The evening had been wonderful because it had been outside the war, outside time.

  CHAPTER 20

  WAKING up was particularly unpleasant. The previous evening’s reception seemed to belong to an already distant past. A servant came to wake Margont, saying that an officer, Captain Dalero, from the grenadiers of the Royal Italian Guard, was demanding to see him. Dalero was wearing a green jacket with a white leather cross-belt. He looked enormous with his huge red-plumed bearskin busby. Like Margont, he was ill-shaven and his uniform was crumpled, but it seemed to matter more to him. His swarthy face was marked by a strange semicircular scar that ran along the top of his left cheekbone. Margont wondered whether it was self-inflicted, to give a more martial appearance. Dalero immediately took Margont outside. He was walking so quickly that the three grenadiers accompanying him had difficulty keeping up. As for Lefine, he had been alerted but was still getting dressed in his bedroom.

  ‘I’ve been sent by His Highness Prince Eugène. The person you are looking for may have killed again.’

  Margont turned pale. He thought of Natalia, however absurdly, since several dozen members of his company had quarters in the château. Besides, Dalero and he were moving away from the Valiuski residence. However, two images became superimposed in his mind: Natalia lying on her bed and the tortured body of Maria. The vision of Natalia became clearer and Margont had the impression of actually being in her presence. Her body had been slashed with a knife; her hands were clutching her slit throat; her hair, clotted with blood, partially covered her face; her naked body was in an obscene posture deliberately chosen by her torturer. The more Margont tried to banish this scene from his mind, the clearer and more credible it became. An extreme tension came over him. He saw himself confronting the murderer. He leapt on him, ran him through repeatedly with his sword, stopping only to gaze at a lifeless figure at his feet. He was astonished at the violence of this image and tried to rid himself of his fear and hatred. To no avail. Captain Dalero noticed nothing. He was displaying the detachment that Margont had felt until he had opened the lid of Maria’s coffin.