The Officer's Prey tnm-1

by Armand Cabasson

  IV Corps was given the order to cross the Dnieper. Margont had to resign himself to saying his farewells to the Valiuski family while the colonel of another corps was already taking possession of the place.

  As Margont was getting into the saddle he noticed Countess Sperzof’s old servant. He was hurrying as fast as his advancing years allowed. His cheeks were puffing in and out as he struggled for breath.

  ‘Captain, sir, something’s missing …’ The servant closed his eyes as if he were going to drop down dead at the hoofs of Margont’s horse. After catching his breath he declared: ‘Captain, something’s missing. A ring. The countess had the ring yesterday evening, the count’s ring with the family emblem: the two birds.’

  ‘Someone’s stolen her signet ring, have they?’

  Margont thrust his hand deep into his pocket but the servant stopped him.

  ‘No money. If you want to thank, arrest man who did it and go back to France. All.’

  ‘I’ll find this man. The rest is outside my control.’

  The old man looked bewildered. ‘Why all that on her, oysters, tea …?’

  ‘I haven’t the slightest idea.’

  The servant left, taking his fears and his queries with him.

  Margont turned to Lefine. ‘I know why he stole the signet ring. He wanted a souvenir like when you keep the menu from a wedding to remind yourself of a very enjoyable occasion.’

  Napoleon and his entourage were weighing up the situation. There were now only one hundred and fifty thousand men left in the Grande Armée. Soldiers were shooting the looters until their arms ached from firing, but to no effect. Hunger, fatigue and despair were winning and, every day, more soldiers disappeared. The Emperor had taken advantage of the stop at Smolensk to restore some order to this chaotic army. Should they go on?

  Marshal Berthier, the Emperor’s close friend and confidant, wanted to leave it at that. They had already conquered enough land for 1812. The army should take up its winter quarters and continue the war in 1813. Others wanted to bring the campaign to an end. They could not see the point of it. It was a very diplomatic way of not saying what they really thought: that Napoleon was waging this war because he did not like sharing part of the throne of Europe with Alexander. Murat even went as far as to beg the Emperor on bended knee to give up on Moscow as the city would be their downfall. But Napoleon was not accustomed to half-victories. He wanted Moscow. He was convinced that the Russians would fight to save their old capital (this was how it was referred to now because a century ago the administration had been transferred to St Petersburg, the new capital) and that he would therefore at last have the chance to crush their army. Then the Tsar would definitely agree to negotiate, he thought. Furthermore, the Emperor feared the reaction of the countries he now ruled. How would Austria, Prussia and the German states of the Confederation of the Rhine react if he did not win a decisive victory over the Russians when he had four hundred thousand soldiers at his disposal? Silent curses were likely to degenerate into protest and then open revolt. In any case, was he not Napoleon? So Moscow it would be.

  On 23 August, IV Corps resumed its march. The palette of feelings amongst the soldiers ranged from the dull grey of gloom to the jet black of despair. There was often the scarlet of anger too. Many had thought the campaign was over and nobody wanted to resume this hellish march.

  Lefine had managed to obtain a konia, a hardy Russian breed of horse. These beasts were very small and the French who rode them became figures of fun, their huge bodies perched on what looked like ponies, their legs dangling to the ground.

  The previous day Lefine and Margont had returned to Smolensk. They had inspected the houses where their suspects had been staying on the night of the murder. The buildings were enormous and it would have been easy to slip away from them. They had decided to recruit a few more men they could rely on to back up their spies. The surveillance operation would continue even though it had been unmasked.

  The 84th had just set off when Margont gave a start. He went pale. Lefine, who was riding alongside him, stared at him in consternation. He’d already seen similar faces, those of comrades hit by bullets. Margont seemed to have taken the full force of a noiseless explosion.

  ‘Are you all right, Captain?’

  ‘I think … I think I’ve understood why the killer spread food over the body of the second victim and why he tore out the pages of a book.’

  ‘Really? So there’s an explanation for that, is there?’

  ‘It’s another of his coded plays on words. He smears mulberry jam over the face, places an atlas on the body, the remnants of a book – only the remnants because he had torn out the pages – lumps of fat, or rather grease, oysters, nuts, tea leaves. Mulberry, atlas, remnants, grease, oysters, nuts, tea: MARGONT.’

  Now it was Lefine’s turn to be hit by the silent bullet.

  ‘But … how …?’

  ‘After discovering he was being watched, he in turn must have enlisted the services of a spy. The spy must have followed one of your men. So he traced you and then me.’

  Lefine looked around him anxiously. ‘What if he chops our heads off? Who’s to say we won’t end up one morning with mulberries smeared all over our faces?’

  Margont was looking more and more composed. His coolness was a mystery to his friend. He could remain calm in a situation like this but, conversely, become panic-stricken by the inactivity that Lefine found pleasantly restful.

  ‘He must think that killing us would be a mistake. We’d be replaced by Captain Dalero and if he disappeared someone else would take over. It’s better for our suspect to know exactly who he’s dealing with. In fact, there’s even some good news.’

  The 84th was passing through a village that the Russian army had set fire to as it fell back. It had left behind about sixty wounded who could not be transported. Almost all had died and Portuguese soldiers in brown uniforms were burying them.

  Who can see any good news around here? wondered Lefine.

  ‘If our man had wanted to murder us,’ Margont went on, ‘he wouldn’t have let us know that he’d identified us.’

  The argument did not allay Lefine’s fear.

  ‘Why, then, did he warn us that he knew who we were?’

  ‘For the pleasure of showing that he’s cleverer than us and to inform us that if we get too close, he knows who to strike.’

  ‘Better and better.’

  ‘We need to be on the look-out. Perhaps we’ll be lucky enough to spot someone spying on us. We’d need only to catch the rascal and make him talk in order to trace our man. But I don’t believe that will happen. He wouldn’t take such a risk. We’re probably no longer being watched.’

  ‘Really?’ replied Lefine, who’d already spotted three suspects.

  ‘And that’s not all. If the spy employed by our man has followed you, since you regularly visit our henchmen, it’s possible that the killer has discovered that we have three other suspects and that he now knows their names. Still, at least I’m now convinced that the person we’re after also killed Élisa Lasquenet.’

  Smolensk was gradually receding into the distance, in a bluish haze that made it look unreal. The Grande Armée seemed like an immense shipwrecked vessel abandoning the island on which it had just run aground to sail off again into unknown waters.

  CHAPTER 22

  NOTHING, absolutely nothing was happening, and this nothing was making the French army desperate. The Russians continued to fall back. Whole regions were being invaded with hardly a shot fired, but all they found was ashes.

  For many, the lack of action was an ordeal because it made the agonising wait before the fighting even longer. For Margont being inactive was like being dead. Advancing in a column was killing the days; all those regiments were grinding them to dust. He salvaged a few hours by talking to various people, but the march made those without horses short of breath. He made up short stories, plays and even changes to the Constitution. But tiredness drained his mind. These po
intless, wasted days ebbed away like blood oozing from the veins of a wounded man. To combat his melancholy, he forced himself to shave every day and spent time dusting down his uniform. His theory was this: since a nice glass sometimes makes a drink taste better, why should the same not be true of uniforms and soldiers? His efforts paid off. A little. His smart appearance and the impeccable creases in his uniform – in the mornings, at the start of the day’s march – helped to contain his distress. In addition, he kept volunteering for things: patrolling to obtain provisions, sending messages … His Russian horse was sufficiently tough to withstand the extra miles and, paradoxically, the effort alleviated his own weariness and tiredness. Fortunately, the day of 2 September was so eventful that it managed to revive him just as he was teetering on the brink of depression.

  The morning had begun in the normal, tedious way. Margont was spending – or rather wasting – his time roaming around. He was bringing deserters and marauders back to the ranks, knowing full well that they would slip away again as soon as his back was turned. He also expended a great deal of energy jollying the stragglers along. He tied their knapsacks to his saddle to lighten their load, used diplomacy, threats, encouragement … But hunger and fatigue dogged the soldiers’ steps. Margont gazed at the endless succession of columns on the plain. The ranks were slack, the uniforms filthy and a great many men were missing, a great many. The horizon, consisting of interminable stretches of plains, hills and forests, seemed to lead nowhere. Margont decided to fall back in with his battalion.

  Of the many strange phenomena that occurred in armies, one of the most curious was rumour. News that was more or less true sprang up somewhere and developed like an epidemic, spreading joy, hope or fear and unfailingly nonsense. During this campaign, everything moved slowly apart from rumour. It had its own way of galloping from one mind to another, of disturbing the rearguard before, a moment later, exciting the vanguard. It was like a swarm of sparkling fireflies flitting from someone too talkative to someone else too credulous, before frightening the army corps commander himself. Today it was in one person’s head and tomorrow in the heads of the whole army; now in the Russian plains and in three weeks’ time in the Paris theatres. How did it perform its magic? No one knew. Margont lent an ear and reaped a good harvest.

  The long-awaited great battle was going to take place because the Russian generals had become so exasperated at having to fall back that they had rebelled and hanged the Tsar in their anger. There was nothing left of the Russian army. Almost all its men had been killed at Austerlitz and its survivors had been exterminated at Eylau, Friedland and Smolensk. So they were chasing a ghost. There would at last be a confrontation in less than three days. This was bound to be the case because the Russians were ruined and desperate and could no longer retreat. But that rumour had been heard every day since the crossing of the Niemen two months earlier …

  Another fashionable opinion was that Alexander was falling back so far that this campaign would end up in India. Margont smiled to himself as he imagined this bizarre scene. Would Napoleon meet the same fate as Alexander the Great, seeing his soldiers mutiny on the banks of the Ganges and refuse to continue their astonishing series of victories? Or, on the contrary, would he watch them scrambling aboard every imaginable vessel in their haste to add the other side of the river to the Empire? He would then be able to exclaim: ‘Now I am mightier than the great Alexander!’

  Apart from rumour, there were constant conversations – but only in the mornings before tiredness took its toll. The problem was that by this point every soldier had already told his neighbour his life story, including details both real and invented. A scar-faced sergeant with a drooping moustache suggested attacking the Prussian and Austrian contingents ‘just to keep our hand in’. His joke produced gales of laughter in the battalion. Margont wondered if this reaction would be enough to start a rumour and, if so, whether he should note down how these strange psychological shifts of mood came about. Saber rebuked the sergeant sharply. A few minutes later, the man could be seen running along the column, red-faced and brandishing his musket in the air, tirelessly repeating as he paused for breath: ‘Long live our friends the Prussians! Long live our friends the Austrians!’

  Lefine caught up with Margont.

  ‘So, Fernand? Anything new from your men?’

  ‘Naught but the dusty road and swaying sward.’

  ‘Very funny. And what about von Stils?’

  ‘Two of my friends are actively searching for him.’

  ‘Good. Where’s your knapsack gone?’

  Lefine displayed a pair of dice and kissed them.

  ‘Voltigeur Denuse has been carrying it for me for the last fifteen days, then it’ll be Sergeant Petit’s turn. Unless they get themselves killed, which would be the sign of a bad loser.’

  ‘You’re always playing with words, and people and the rules. One day it’ll end in disaster.’

  ‘In any case, life always ends in disaster.’

  Lefine pointed at his shoes. They were worn through. Not even a vagrant would have wanted them.

  ‘I’d be surprised if my soles lasted out until Moscow.’

  ‘As long as it’s only your shoes that get left behind on the plain.’

  ‘You really have the knack of restoring the morale of the troops, Captain. Have you stopped gathering up your stray sheep to set them back on the right path to Moscow?’

  ‘The shepherd’s tired,’ Margont sighed.

  ‘I understand. Apparently the Emperor wants to have all the marauders shot as an example, which is the same as telling one half of the army to execute the other.’

  ‘The worst thing is that it’s not even certain whether the right half would be doing the shooting.’

  A cavalryman hurtled down a hill and spurred his horse into a gallop to catch up with the column. He looked splendid in his yellow dolman and gilded helmet with a black crest and white plume.

  Saber went up to Margont. ‘Just look at him! Who does he think he is?’

  ‘What is he?’

  ‘A show-off.’

  Margont tossed his head impatiently.

  ‘He’s a trumpeter from the Württemberg Mounted Chasseurs,’ a corporal decreed.

  ‘A trumpeter!’ Saber said angrily. ‘A trumpeter without a trumpet wearing a captain’s epaulettes?’

  ‘There are a few yellow jackets among the Neapolitans,’ said Lefine, suddenly remembering.

  Saber shook his head. ‘Saxony Life Guards!’

  ‘Correct, Lieutenant!’ shouted a voice from the ranks.

  The officer was getting closer. Seeing Margont and Saber, he turned in their direction. His lofty bearing and disdainful air immediately earned him the regiment’s hostility and Saber’s hatred.

  ‘Just because he’s dressed in yellow he needn’t think he’s a ray of sunshine,’ muttered Lefine.

  The Saxon brought his horse to a halt in front of Piquebois. His cheeks and nose were red from sunburn. This colour contrasted with the limpid blue of his eyes, which resembled two small lakes in the middle of a face on fire.

  ‘Captain von Stils, from the Saxony Life Guards.’

  Piquebois introduced himself and the Saxon carried on immediately, as if he did not really care who he was dealing with as long as they knew who he was.

  ‘I’m looking for Captain Margont. He’s serving in your regiment.’

  ‘You’ve knocked on the right door, Captain. Here he comes now.’

  Margont and von Stils saluted each other. Von Stils seemed put out.

  ‘A corporal came to tell me on your behalf that Colonel Fidassio from the 3rd Italian of the Line owed you some money and has been slow to settle up.’

  Margont wanted to give Lefine a hug.

  ‘Absolutely. But whenever I try to have a talk with Colonel Fidassio, Captain Nedroni, his adjutant, stands in the way.’

  ‘His adjutant stands in the way?’ the Saxon spluttered. ‘And my letters are never answered!’

 
; ‘Since I’d heard that Colonel Fidassio was also in debt to you I thought that a joint approach might be more … profitable.’

  ‘I’m delighted to accept. If you’re available, let’s solve this problem straight away.’

  Margont agreed and made his horse do an about-turn.

  ‘The Italians are to the rear.’

  ‘Even further to the rear? For almost the last hour I’ve been going up and down your army corps in search of the Pino Division and people keep telling me to go and look further to the rear. Are these Italians of yours still in Rome?’

  Saber asked to accompany them. Margont agreed reluctantly. The plain, which stretched out as far as the eye could see, nevertheless seemed too narrow to him for two such large egos.

  The riders were advancing at walking pace. They came across some stragglers who speeded up when they knew they were being watched, sleeping infantrymen and marauders. Von Stils looked them up and down contemptuously until they bowed their heads. A soldier from the 8th Light, his chest crisscrossed with two strings of sausages, saluted the three officers.

  ‘Looters do not salute!’ thundered the Saxon.

  Margont, watching the feast move off, was practically drooling.

  ‘You speak good French,’ he declared to von Stils in an attempt to get to know him better.

  ‘It’s easy. French is a shallow and simplistic language.’

  Margont refrained from retorting that it was minds not languages that were shallow and simplistic. They continued their journey in silence. Margont gazed at the plain. This unbelievable expanse of greenery was too great not only for the eye but also for the mind itself to take in. How could any country be so vast? It had swallowed up an army consisting of four hundred thousand men like a giant might have swallowed a chickpea. Saber grabbed his gourd and took a good swig of water. Margont did likewise but the tepid water hardly slaked his thirst. He noticed that von Stils was not drinking although his lips were cracked and the heat stifling. If the Saxon thought that this made him in some way superior, he had obviously not realised that the sun would always win in the end.