Officer's Prey (The Napoleonic Murders)

by Armand Cabasson

  ‘I can get out of this business whenever I like and I won’t lose any sleep over it. It’s you I want to extricate from it before it’s too late.’

  ‘That’s a waste of time.’

  ‘What a fanatic! It’s absurd! Why should we risk our lives for a few crimes when there’s butchery right, left and centre? Find me one sensible reason to continue.’

  ‘If we don’t arrest this man, he may do it again.’

  ‘So what? One more death just means three more spadefuls of earth in a common grave. What difference will it make?’

  ‘It will make a difference to the women we save.’

  Lefine sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Yes, that does mean something.’

  Then, suddenly, he resumed his report, speaking quickly to prevent dark thoughts from interrupting the course of his life again.

  ‘Colonel Maximilien Barguelot is thirty-nine. His father died when he was a child. His mother and two sisters live in Amsterdam but he has settled in Paris and leads a life of luxury. He attended the military academy at Pont-à-Mousson, then took part in a large number of campaigns. He distinguished himself at the battle of Austerlitz where he was said to have been wounded but he never mentions this episode. He served in Prussia, Spain, Austria … He enjoys an excellent reputation among officers … who don’t serve under him. He’s not liked by his men because he openly despises them. He takes his sycophants with him everywhere and they move up a rank once they’ve flattered him sufficiently. He claims to be descended from a long line of Dutch and French military men: some are said to have liberated Copenhagen, others America. There’s no way of knowing if it’s true. He does speak Dutch. That’s been confirmed. He married a beautiful and rich heiress and owns a château near Nancy. He was promoted Officer of the Légion d’Honneur … but in December 1808. Surprising, don’t you think?’

  ‘In 1808? Two years after Jena? It took a long time to reward him.’

  Lefine was beaming. He loved work that was well done and few things gave him as much satisfaction as a well-built house or a carefully crafted piece of furniture, especially when it belonged to him.

  ‘I found a former lieutenant in the 16th Light who was with him at Jena – Lucien Fardès, who’s now a captain in the 13th Light. Would you believe it, Barguelot really was at Jena and that whole story about the capture of the Glasenapp Battery is true. But this exploit occurred without Barguelot, who’d been wounded as soon as the first shots were fired.’

  ‘Seriously wounded?’

  ‘A sprained ankle while charging. Barguelot came limping along after they’d seized the guns and were already turning them against the enemy. Barguelot kept on shouting, “Let’s avenge our men!” as if he’d almost been killed ten times over. Fardès even claims to have seen him thrust his sword into a dead body to add colour to his blade and to his version of events.’

  ‘But didn’t Fardès denounce this felony?’

  Lefine shook his head. ‘Fardès knew nothing about Barguelot’s version. Barguelot had to wait until he’d left the 16th Light before changing his story. How could he dare to lie about this matter when the reasons for awarding this decoration could be checked in official publications? No, that would have been suicidal for his career. The only explanation is that officially he really was rewarded for his “action” at Jena. He may have bribed officers to submit false reports about his heroic conduct to the Emperor.’

  Margont could scarcely contain his anger. For him, the Légion d’Honneur represented something sacred. Just as an atheist should not spit on the Bible or the Koran, you did not wear a Légion d’Honneur to which you were not entitled.

  ‘Perhaps he did deserve his distinction but not because of Jena,’ ventured Lefine.

  ‘Well, of course. He seized three Austrian guns at some fashionable gathering. What else do you know?’

  ‘He has some strange habits. He never eats in public. He takes his food where no one can see him, always in his tent, alone or in the company of Coubert, one of his servants.’

  ‘That’s odd. Have you spoken to this fellow Coubert?’

  ‘No. I was afraid he’d warn his master that he was being investigated.’

  ‘You did the right thing. Any other strange habits?’

  ‘I was told that he was a superb fencer. He often boasts about it but he’s never been seen practising. One day, during an official dinner, Marshal Davout suggested a friendly duel because he’d heard about Barguelot’s technique from a former cadet at Pont-à-Mousson. Well, Barguelot refused! At first the guests thought it was out of modesty …’

  ‘That’s absurd!’ exclaimed Margont, laughing.

  ‘But despite all the marshal’s polite requests, Barguelot refused to cross swords. The marshal was so surprised that he should decline such an honour that he didn’t even get angry. And, to cap it all, Barguelot as usual didn’t touch a thing on his plate.’

  Margont was distractedly stroking the edge of a desk.

  ‘It’s incomprehensible.’

  ‘That’s it,’ declared Lefine with a look of satisfaction. ‘What about you? What have you found out about Delarse?’

  ‘Étienne Delarse is forty-five. He comes from the Charentes nobility. His father was called Louis de Larse but he was one of the few aristocrats who sincerely believed in the Republican cause. Louis de Larse had his name changed to ‘Delarse’ and died at the battle of Fleurus – on the right side, ours, not on the side of the English and the Royalist émigrés. Colonel Étienne Delarse suffers from severe asthma, which has dominated his life. He was a sickly child and his attacks nearly resulted in his death on several occasions. They thought he was done for and would not live beyond the spring because of his allergies to pollen, rather like the last autumn leaf falling very late. His mother spared no expense in getting him the care of famous doctors. She spent entire nights listening to him fighting for breath, holding his hand, convinced that he was breathing his last.’

  Lefine, who feared disease as much as the open sea, shuddered at the description of these moments of agony.

  ‘Yes, I’ve already heard about his asthma. Soldiers he’d punished made up a little song that enjoyed a certain success. The chorus ran like this: “Delarse in winter beats the lot! Delarse in spring ain’t half so hot …”’

  ‘I learnt all this from Chief Physician Gras, who’s treating him at present,’ Margont continued.

  ‘Does he still have attacks?’

  ‘Regularly. And Gras is very worried about it. He thought I was a friend of the colonel’s and he told me what he knew in confidence so that I could back up his advice to Delarse to spare himself. But Delarse won’t hear a word of it. All you have to do is ask him to rest and he’ll get on a horse and start jumping over obstacles. To everyone’s surprise, Delarse reached adolescence and beyond. He entered a military academy and came out amongst the top few but his career has been constrained by his illness. On several occasions he has been forced to hand over to his second in command. They say that he has the talent and intelligence of a general and that all he’s short of is breath. Believe it or not, several times he had to insist on taking part in this campaign. The general staff thought that Russia would be bad for his lungs. Those on high are convinced he won’t last out the war, which is why he hasn’t been given a regiment. They preferred to place him beside General Huard but the general already has an aide-de-camp. Delarse’s exact position in the hierarchy is unclear. Let’s say he acts as a secondary aide-de-camp, even though one is enough for Huard. Delarse is disgusted because he’s convinced that if it weren’t for his asthma he’d be at least a brigadier-general and on equal terms with Huard. And the worst thing is that he’s undoubtedly right.’

  Lefine unbuttoned his gaiters and took them off, then removed his shoes and the remains of his socks. His feet were covered in blisters and sores.

  ‘At one time,’ Margont went on, ‘he even consulted clairvoyants and the like to try to convince himself that there was an afterlife.’

/>   Lefine began to laugh but Margont interrupted him.

  ‘Don’t make fun of him. Who knows what you would have done in his place? I also discovered that for three years Delarse had a mistress who was fifteen years older than he. She must have looked like his mama …’

  ‘Don’t make fun of him. Who knows what you would have done in his place? There’s just one question left.’

  ‘Exactly. Which of the four most resembles a Prince Charming?’

  ‘Not Delarse.’

  ‘Not Delarse,’ repeated Margont.

  ‘I’d put my money on Pirgnon, with his artistic and worldly tastes.’

  Margont ran his fingers through his hair. It was a habit of his when he was lost in thought. In Madrid a pretty girl had once said she found this attractive. Oh, the girls of Madrid … But it was such a woman who had pointed at Barguelot with the tip of her fan …

  ‘I would rather vote for Barguelot, with his luxurious lifestyle and gift of the gab.’

  ‘Yes, Barguelot or Pirgnon. And there’s still our Italian.’

  Margont screwed up his eyes. ‘That one really is beginning to annoy me! I simply have to find a way of meeting him at last.’

  There were still two hours left before dinner. Margont decided to try to find Colonel Pirgnon.

  The bodies had been cleared from the streets and the pools of blood were being washed away with large pails of water. The Emperor had issued orders to prevent looting, and soldiers and gendarmes were ensuring that these instructions were obeyed.

  The neighbourhood allocated to the 35th of the Line was in a pitiful state. Men were settling in beneath portions of ceiling that had not collapsed, attempting to fill in the gaps in the roofs with planks blown off by cannonballs. In some cases, those in possession of houses that were still intact were persuaded to sell their places for a fortune. Margont saw a grenadier hand over three paintings, a silk dressing gown and a sable fur hat to a voltigeur in exchange for a position near a fireplace.

  Colonel Pirgnon had ensured he was well provided for. His quarters were in a baroque-style mansion. Along the pastel-coloured façade, high windows alternated with fake white columns set into the wall. Above the door was an oval window. On the top floor other rounded windows relieved the geometrical rigour of the whole. A flight of steps led up to the front entrance. At ground level soldiers could be heard joking through the basement windows. The entrance hall was enormous. To the right a wide semi-circular staircase broke up the symmetry that had once been the golden rule for façades.

  Margont was surprised to find a queue of soldiers from various regiments waiting patiently on the steps. They were carrying a motley collection of objects: a candlestick, vases of various shapes, crockery, porcelain or ivory statuettes. Margont quickly climbed this spiral of greed. His face was expressionless. As he went past, some clasped their treasures to them for fear the captain might take possession of them. A sergeant-major was acting as the doorman. He saluted Margont and, interpreting the captain’s attitude as a sign of impatience in selling an item of great value, immediately let him in.

  Colonel Pirgnon was examining an icon being shown to him by a Westphalian infantryman. It was of the Virgin Mary holding the Christ Child in her arms. The gilded background was damaged but the two faces remained strangely intact. It was not a miracle, however.

  ‘You filthy dog! You’ve scraped away all the gilding!’ exclaimed Pirgnon, making the Westphalian step backwards. ‘You have defaced a work of art!’

  The German fled. Pirgnon showed the painting to Margont.

  ‘A painting of the “tenderness” type by the Stroganoff school! And he scraped it with a knife …’

  The colonel had tears in his eyes. He was tall and well built. His slightly curly, brown hair and his rounded face gave him a placid look. Margont saluted him.

  ‘Captain Margont, 84th Regiment, Huard Brigade, Delzons Division …’

  ‘Yes, yes, but if everyone begins like that I’ll be spending the whole week in Smolensk. What have you got to sell me?’

  Seeing Margont’s reproachful look, Pirgnon scowled.

  ‘Oh, I see. You’re judging me. May I know the reason for your visit, Captain?’

  ‘Well, Colonel, I’ve heard that you were the driving force behind the Cervantes Club in Madrid and I myself belong to a literary salon.’

  Pirgnon’s expression brightened but his pleasure was mixed with wariness. ‘Oh, really? And where is that?’

  ‘In Nîmes.’

  ‘And what did you do in your literary salon? Because there are salons and salons.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not one of those society salons where people go just to be seen. If that’s what people want they can go to Madame Cabarrus’s or Madame de Montesson’s. I’ve never been invited, but in any case an evening of deadly boredom is too high a price for me.’

  Pirgnon folded his arms. ‘How I do sympathise. And what’s the name of your salon? Who are its members? What do you do there?’

  ‘The Roast Duck Club.’

  Pirgnon seemed put out. Obviously it was far less elegant than the Cervantes Club. His large pink cheeks and huge head made him look a bit like a baby still.

  ‘I have to admit I don’t get it, Captain.’

  ‘The members argued about what to call our club. The Cicero Club, the Voltaire Club, the Molière Club … But there must be dozens of Voltaire Clubs and Rousseau Clubs in every town.’

  ‘Two Voltaire Clubs were indeed created in Madrid. They had a violent argument about who came up with it first.’

  ‘I trust they both had their comeuppance, so to speak. Well, in a word, we were wondering whether our debates were in the spirit of Rousseau; Molière had his devotees and Voltaire was beating Virgil hands down, which led the poet’s supporters to claim that once more the moderns were shafting the ancients. At this juncture I remarked that the only point we were all agreed on was the desire to sit down to a good meal together. My suggestion had in its favour the fact that even if it didn’t please many, it didn’t offend anyone. And as we had before us at the table six splendid roast ducks …’

  Pirgnon invited Margont to sit down.

  ‘For Cervantes it was easier. As the instigator of the project and the highest-ranking officer, I chose the name. As literary salons are all the rage, everyone wants their own and all too often society gatherings pompously call themselves “Madame So-and-So’s literary salon”. People read out poems stolen from those more inspired than themselves, after carefully tinkering with the lines in the naïve belief that they will not be found out. Each member is eager to laugh at the others’ offerings in the hope that they will reciprocate. So everyone leaves full of unearned praise. Some even convince themselves that they can “improve” Ducis’s rhyming couplets.’

  ‘Our salon is open to all; no account is taken of social background or income or connections, to the chagrin of the prefect who is still not a member. To join our club all you have to do is read out a text you’ve written that appeals to the members, and be capable of making appropriate comments on political, literary and philosophical topics. During our meetings we submit our writings to critical scrutiny, we discuss works we have read, we argue … A sense of humour and a love of rhetorical debate are highly appreciated. Perhaps it’s the influence of the Roman amphitheatre that we can see from the windows of our salon. Our most lethal weapon is wit and we finish off those we have wounded with the cutting edge of irony before being reconciled around the inevitable roast ducks.’

  Pirgnon grasped Margont’s hand and shook it warmly.

  ‘I admit you without further ado to membership of my next salon: the Moscow Club. I hope we will also number some Russian members. Ah! Moscow … We all dream of it, don’t we?’

  Pirgnon began to display his acquisitions. A silver samovar that he liked so much that he had taken to drinking tea for the sole pleasure of using it. An iconostasis, a wooden screen decorated with icons, used for separating the nave from the sanctuary in Orthodox ch
urches. Pirgnon explained that at the centre of the iconostasis saints were depicted interceding with Christ on behalf of the faithful.

  ‘What about you, Colonel? What do you ask of the saints?’

  Pirgnon looked at Margont in surprise. He pointed at the paintings he had bought from some Italian soldiers who had been preparing to make a fire out of them so they could cook their meat.

  ‘I was – indirectly – one of the instigators of the decree of 14 Fructidor in the year IX, by order of which the Consulate created fifteen museums. The very idea of a museum fascinates me: bringing art within everyone’s reach. Show a Leonardo da Vinci to a tramp or a road sweeper and you open windows in their minds. In antiquity the Greeks reserved seats in their amphitheatres for the poor so that they could see Sophocles being performed. I shall give some of these treasures to museums. Man is nothing, only art matters.’

  Margont remained silent, even if this statement shocked his sense of values.

  ‘But,’ added Pirgnon, ‘as I’m not a saint worthy of an icon, I shall keep the iconostasis and the samovar.’

  He strode over to an impossibly cluttered corner of the room and rummaged among a jumble of paintings and elaborately framed mirrors before straightening up triumphantly, holding a canvas in his hands.

  ‘Do you know what this is?’

  Margont had no idea. The portrait of a young woman in a pale green dress made him feel uneasy. Strands of her long, wet hair stuck to her face. Strangely, she was standing in a riverbed, indifferent to the icy water swirling around her delicate waist. Stranger still, her pallid complexion contrasted with the beauty of her features. Her skin seemed to be fashioned from the same snow that lay on the ground round about.

  ‘She looks rather poorly,’ Margont ventured.

  ‘That’s not surprising. She’s dead. She’s a rusalka. In Eastern European folklore, when a young girl commits suicide by drowning herself, she becomes a rusalka, a creature of the waters who uses her female form to seduce passers-by before drowning them. Some claim that it’s in order to devour them, others that it is simply the reflex action of her suffering soul, condemned to wander because it may not enter paradise.’