The Officer's Prey

CHAPTER 1 1

THE afternoon was drawing to a close. In order to spare Nocturne, his horse, Margont had wanted to take a short cut through the woods to rejoin his regiment. Once again he had overestimated his sense of direction and had lost his way. After cursing the Russian forests he reassured himself that even the most inept of people was bound to be able to find an army of several thousand men. The smell of soil and rotting leaves filled the air, and for company he had only the soft sound of hoofs on a carpet of fir needles and moss, and the sharp snap of branches.

After a short time Margont reached a clearing. It was quite wide, forming a triangle with sides measuring more than a hundred yards. He had emerged close to three sentries, who immediately levelled their muskets at him. Realising their mistake, the soldiers lowered their weapons before saluting him with an obvious lack of military discipline. The open space dipped in the middle and along the bottom of this hollow ran a river that in the summer drought was now no more than a stream. Five grenadiers were filling their gourds and leather water bottles. A little further upstream five chasseurs were watering their horses. One sergeant did not take kindly to drinking water flavoured with horse spittle and straightened up to hurl abuse at the chasseurs. Noticing that one of the horsemen was a lieutenant, he had to content himself with ordering his men to stop what they were doing until the ‘animals had finished splashing around’. Nocturne pulled up sharp when it caught sight of the stream and began to trot down the slope. Margont gave it a friendly pat on the neck.

‘Yes, it’s all right, we’re going to have a drink. And, luckily, it’s the 19th Chasseurs. We’re back with our corps.’

The silence was shattered by confused shouting. Margont saw one of the three sentries go charging down the slope without his weapon. A galloping horseman caught up with him and sliced his head off with a swipe of his sword. Two shots rang out. The grenadiers let go of their gourds and swiftly levelled their muskets. Margont unsheathed his sword and turned round. Fifteen or so Cossacks had sprung out of the forest. Their blue trousers, jackets and caps showed they were regular troops. They yelled as they charged, levelling their lances. The shock tactic was a total success. More shouting compounded the French soldiers’ confusion: other Cossacks had appeared to catch them in a pincer movement.

The officer leading the assault bore down on Margont. The captain attacked him without mercy, convinced he was about to die. He did not attempt to run his sword through him in case it remained stuck in his opponent’s body, but struck him a fearsome blow to the shoulder. The blade sliced right through to the bone. A young Cossack, armed with a lance, immediately set upon Margont. The lance – which in Western Europe was considered a weapon of the Middle Ages – was longer than the sabre and gave the charging horseman the advantage because it allowed him to strike first. Conversely, in hand-to-hand fighting it reduced the chances of success because it was unwieldy and took away the initiative. Margont faced him and suddenly landed on his back before he could even attempt to parry the blow. Fortunately, the point had only pierced his coat and the thin layer of flesh covering his ribs. Before he had fully recovered his wits, he instinctively rolled over to narrowly avoid being trampled by another Cossack. This one let out a ‘Huzza!’ full of burning anger, and tried to pin him to the ground. His lance grazed Margont’s arm. The Frenchman picked up his sword and rushed towards his mount to grab his horse pistols, vowing to blow the brains out of the next Cossack who tried to spear him. One of the horsemen guessed his intention and galloped towards Nocturne, yelling as he did so. Seeing how reluctant the horse was to give up on its master, he flung the lance in its direction. Nocturne fled at a gallop.

Margont faced up to the Russian who was charging towards him. This time it would be sword against sabre and, as his adversary was at least ten years younger than he, Margont could reasonably bet on his own superior technique. The Cossack followed the same reasoning and turned tail.

The Cossacks now scattered in all directions, like a flock of pigeons flying off when a child rushes into their midst. The forest soaked them up immediately, like blotting paper. Three of them were strewn across the clearing. Four infantrymen and one chasseur had also perished. In the stream a grenadier on all fours was spitting blood. The sergeant was supporting another who had the point of a lance still embedded in his thigh. The lieutenant from the chasseurs was pressing a hand to his forehead to stanch the blood that was running into his eyes.

Margont was surprised by the tactics of the Cossacks, who had no sooner come than gone. They had the advantage in numbers, the speed of their horses and their wretched lances. Why did they not continue? Why did they break off a fight that would probably have ended with the death of all the Frenchmen? It was obvious that their aim was to harry. The element of surprise had reduced their losses: if they had persisted they would have paid heavily. They preferred sudden raids to drawn-out action. Margont attempted to lift his spirits with the thought that in a Cossack raid, time was on the side of those under attack.

The lieutenant came galloping up to him. The poor fellow held his sleeve to his forehead and his face was spattered with blood, making him look like an écorché.

‘Captain, would you care to join us in pursuing these bastards?’

‘There were fifteen or so on my side. How many were there altogether?’

‘Two groups of about fifteen sons of bitches.’

‘Do you expect just the five of us to chase after them?’

‘They’ve spread out. I’m hoping to surprise a small isolated group who—’

Margont shook his head. ‘If you set off on their trail and they decide to face up to us, they will regroup immediately. If they prefer to flee, they will scatter in all directions.’

The lieutenant took his sleeve away from his wound but had to put it back again immediately.

‘With your permission, Captain, I shall leave you.’

Margont gave an impatient wave. ‘Off you go. Go and charge at them if you haven’t had your face smashed in enough.’

The chasseur went back to his men and led them off towards the woods, sabres drawn.

Margont was still cursing as he rejoined his regiment. His life might have come to an abrupt end in some godforsaken clearing in the middle of nowhere in the vast empty spaces of Russia.

Despite his fright, his mind was racing. Four suspects! Why had night fallen already? Why should he have to waste time sleeping when there was so much to be done? The 84th had set up camp on a muddy plain. Some soldiers were already asleep, wrapped in poor-quality blankets and huddled against one another out in the open. Here and there men were pitching tents or collecting deadwood to make fires for warmth and to cook up a miserably meagre broth.

Margont tied Nocturne to a stake. The animal’s ribs were sticking out from under its skin and its scrawny look was in sharp contrast to its stomach, which was bloated with gas. He stroked its neck a long while. Then he took it by the bridle and led it to a wood where he set it free. Margont wanted to give it a last chance of survival, or at least allow it to die peacefully. Nocturne gazed at him for a long time without moving before disappearing into the darkness.

By the time Margont caught up with Lefine, Saber and Piquebois, his comrades were roasting a chicken and it took all their combined authority and rank to keep the famished spectres clustering around them at bay.

‘A good catch! Who do we have to thank for this?’ Margont exclaimed gleefully.

Lefine bowed his head. Margont tore a leg off the bird.

‘Just now a soldier asked me how many days we were from Moscow. “Four? Five? More? Are you sure?” he said to me. If the infantrymen had maps there’d be three times as many deserters and you’d need to fire a shot to protect this meal. I can’t stay because I’ve still got things to do.’

He motioned to Lefine to step aside for a quiet word.

‘I’ve had a brief talk with Colonel Barguelot. I’ll tell you the whole story later. One thing struck me: this pseudonym “Acosavan” is odd. It doesn’t sound French or Italian. Why not choose a simpler or more believable name?’

‘Yes, it surprised me a bit as well. I’d hoped the murderer would have chosen a pseudonym resembling his real name, one with the same initial or a shared syllable. But this idea didn’t get me anywhere. There’s an Alméras, but he’s a brigadier-general. There’s also a Colonel Serrant, who’s in command of the 8th Light, and a Bertrand in the 106th of the Line but both of them have alibis. I really thought I’d got it with Colonel Banco! “Banco” and “Acosavan”: one syllable and four letters in common. But this fellow Banco is in command of the 2nd Italian Mounted Chasseurs and spent a good part of the night of 28 June looking after the animals in his regiment. Another of those who get on better with the horses than with their riders. I can quite understand it, though. When you’re at war you end up preferring animals to men.’

‘What name would you make up if you wanted to mislead someone? Knowing you as I do, I assume you’re well versed in such matters.’

Lefine blushed. ‘I’d keep the same initials.’

‘Why?’

Lefine pointed to the hunting knife in his belt. His initials were engraved on an impressive-looking blade. He had spent a fortune purchasing it in Spain, but the quality of the materials and the skill of the craftsmanship justified the cost. What a shame the Spanish had given up the game they traditionally hunted to go after French soldiers instead.

‘So that my belongings don’t give me away. Added to that, it’s very difficult to make up a new signature and manage to reproduce it. With the same initials that’s a good start and you just scribble something after. Not to mention that my initials are part of me and I want to keep them.’

‘What a lecture! I suppose you’ve cheated like this before.’

‘A bit. But it didn’t involve you.’

‘Don’t go on about it or I’ll lose my temper again.’

‘So I would choose “François Lechu” or “Francis Lacet”, a name that’s easy to remember – it would be idiotic to make a mistake – but not too unusual or too ordinary, like “Dupont”.’

Margont nodded. ‘We’re in agreement. But the point is that “Acosavan” meets none of these criteria.’

‘If all he wanted was a pseudonym for a couple of days, he must have said whatever came into his head without thinking any more about it. In any case, now that we are down to only four suspects it’s clear that no name bears any relation to “Acosavan”. All this is pointless. It was something to chew on when there were no other clues, but that’s no longer the case.’

‘Think about it all the same. We’ll talk about it again some time.’

‘How stubborn can you get!’

‘Good. Now I’m going to try to meet Colonel Delarse.’

As Margont was walking away, Piquebois strode after him and caught him up.

‘Is everything all right, Quentin?’

‘Of course it is. Why do you ask?’

‘It’s the expression on your face. You look excited and worried at the same time. My comrades in the hussars and I were like that just before a charge.’

‘I got lost in the woods and was attacked by some Cossacks. The devils well and truly sent me to the ground. But all’s well.’

‘If that’s all it was …’ concluded Piquebois, looking unconvinced.

In spite of its losses, the Grande Armée – which IV Corps had met up with at Glubokoe – was still very impressive. There were troops stretching as far as the eye could see. From one end of the plain to the other you could see campfires and tents. The woods overlooking the nearby hills also seemed alive with fires, and the same was true of the crests of the hills further away. This immense expanse of lights seemed to reflect a distorted image of the starry sky. Margont felt reassured. In the face of adversity, the feeling of being part of a group was a source of comfort. He gnawed at his bone, snapped it to suck out the marrow and could only bring himself to throw it away when he reached Colonel Delarse’s tent. The sentry pointed his bayonet at the intruder.

‘Halt. Who goes there?’

‘Captain Margont, 84th of the Line, 2nd Battalion. I wish to meet Colonel Delarse.’

The sentry disappeared into the tent and reappeared a moment later accompanied by Colonel Delarse himself.

‘Captain Margont. I’ve heard so much about you. Do me the honour of coming inside.’

Taken rather by surprise, Margont obeyed without a word. Tall but frail-looking, Colonel Delarse was approaching fifty. His energetic, determined movements seemed ill suited to his slight frame. His bony, emaciated face gave an unpleasant preview of what his head would look like once he had been reduced to a skeleton. Delarse looked sickly, weakened and debilitated. He inevitably made one think of his doctor and the medicines he must have been taking. One wanted to express one’s sympathy before suggesting to him that he should lie down to conserve his strength. In fact, the feeling most of all engendered was the desire to get away from him as soon as possible, because he reminded one of death, and one’s own last moments were time enough to be thinking of that. But there was a life force struggling against this generally deathly appearance. His light blue eyes stared out with interest and liveliness. Margont wondered whether such an individual was physically capable of leaping from roof to roof and killing a sentry with a single knife stab. His conclusion was no, and he held back a sudden feeling of anger. What sort of work was this? Shouldn’t this suspect have been ruled out?

Colonel Delarse sat down on a chair and invited Margont to do likewise. The tent had been carefully laid out. The bed was heaped with numerous blankets and an eiderdown. There were no fewer than three chests. A small desk, placed just next to a brazier, was barely visible beneath a pile of papers: notebooks, reports, drafts and letters. The washroom was hidden by a screen. It was decorated with a classical fresco depicting athletes whose magnificent bodies were in sad contrast to the colonel’s.

‘I have been given to understand that you are an Officer of the Légion d’Honneur. I offer you my congratulations,’ Delarse declared warmly.

Prince Eugène was right. This distinction immediately earned Margont the esteem of numerous soldiers, which opened many a door.

‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ the colonel went on. ‘I have almost twelve thousand men under my command – since I assist General Huard,’ he added somewhat reluctantly. ‘But I am anxious to get to know personally all the promising officers serving in my brigade. It’s a crime not to exploit everyone’s potential.’

These last words were uttered with an energy bordering on anger.

‘My friend Colonel Pégot says that you are tenacious and resourceful but that you think too much.’

‘Is it possible, Colonel, to think too much?’

‘Let’s say that when a superior accuses you of thinking too much it’s because he resents the fact that you think differently from him.’

‘What about you, Colonel? Do you never happen to think too much?’

‘Every day.’

Delarse took a bottle and filled two glasses.

‘I come from the Charentes. This cognac is a bit of my native land that follows me in my campaigns. I’ve got another bottle for Moscow. I’m longing to open that one.’

The colonel cupped his glass in both hands to warm the alcohol.

‘What is the reason for your visit?’

‘Typhus.’ Margont handed over Brémond’s letter.

The colonel read it carefully and responded immediately: ‘Typhus is only in an endemic state in the brigade. As soon as there is a suspected case, the soldier is isolated and put in a special field hospital. His kit and his tent – if he has one – are burnt. Those who have been sleeping alongside him are put into quarantine but are given double rations because malnutrition is a breeding ground for typhus.’

‘That seems ideal to me.’

‘To discover the exact number of people put into quarantine, you’ll need to speak to the physicians attached to each regiment. May I enquire why you have decided to concern yourself with typhus?’

‘I find inactivity a burden.’

‘Personally, I find it deadly. But before long the Russians are bound to stop falling back. They’ll fight to save Smolensk. It’ll be a slaughter. We’ll suffer too but their army will be blown to bits.’

The colonel was becoming more and more excited.

‘The Tsar will be on his knees but the Emperor will be able to spare his dignity by throwing him a few crumbs. He’ll agree not to deprive Russia of the provinces she stole from the Poles; he won’t restore Greater Poland; he will be magnanimous. In exchange, he’ll force Alexander to implement the continental system. And where will the English ships go if Europe welcomes them with round shot? Without ports you lose control of the seas and oceans, and without control of the water, an island is lost. So – at last! – the English will also sign the peace treaty, one laden with punitive clauses that will weaken them. Thus we shall be able to expand our colonies and acquire new ones, and people in India, Africa, Asia or America will henceforth say “Bonjour, monsieur” instead of “Good morning, sir”.’

The colonel raised his glass as if he were already celebrating the capture of Bombay. Margont did not like this vision of the campaign; it was too militaristic and political for his taste. There was no mention of freedom for the muzhiks, the peasant serfs; nothing about reforming Tsarist society, the dashing of the hopes of their Polish allies … Still, the two visions were not totally incompatible. He took a swig of cognac and tried to make the pleasant burning sensation last as long as possible.

‘I can see that you’re a great reader, Colonel.’

‘I’m finishing a book about Joan of Arc. What a fascinating destiny! And to think that she was even frailer than me. Colonel Pégot tells me that you also are a great reader.’

Margont pointed at one of the books lying on the desk. ‘Yes, but not The Gallic War. You read Julius Caesar whereas I read Cicero.’

‘What’s wrong with that? Isn’t a general worth as much as a philosopher?’

‘The only problem is that Caesar had Cicero executed.’

‘You have a sharp tongue, Captain. Too sharp. But that’s often the case with serving soldiers.’

The colonel took a chessboard out of one of the chests. The wooden pieces were delicately carved: infantrymen armed with halberds for the pawns; caparisoned chargers for the knights; elaborate mitres for the bishops; and crenellated towers for the castles. As for the kings and queens, they looked truly regal. Delarse was delighted to have an opponent.

How odd, thought Margont, that no sooner has he begun to respect someone, than he’s in a hurry to challenge them.

‘Let’s see if you’d make a good general. The guest has the first move.’

After a courageous last stand, the white king capitulated on an almost deserted chessboard. Margont had been unsettled by Delarse’s game plan. The colonel had played a particularly aggressive game, never hesitating to exchange pawns, knights, etc. Margont had not even had time to bring his defensive game into play.

‘If only the Russians could attack instead of running away from one chessboard to the next,’ Delarse declared pensively.

‘Please allow me a return game, Colonel. I hate losing.’

‘I do understand.’

Delarse was already enthusiastically setting up the board again. He was the type of officer who, in answer to the standard question, ‘Which regiment do you command?’ dreamt of one day being able to reply in all modesty, ‘All of them.’

The sentry came bursting in.

‘Colonel, sir, the head of bread supplies and the head of meat supplies wish to speak to you.’

The colonel stood up. ‘I’d forgotten about their visit. The return game will have to wait for another time.’

Margont saluted him and, just as he was leaving, declared: ‘I’m very sorry I was not a more worthy opponent, Colonel.’

At chess, only at chess, he added to himself.

The man was not worrying about the investigation into Maria’s murder. He felt perfectly safe, hidden among the unending column of soldiers. In any case, crimes were so seldom solved … No, what bothered him was what was happening to him. As he walked on amongst the infantrymen and the dust, one thing became obvious to him: his fascination with death was not something recent.

As a lieutenant he had often gone into hospitals to view the dying. He attempted to capture that fleeting moment between life and death, the moment when the body becomes immobilised, when breathing itself ceases. He tried to commit to memory the change of expression on those faces at that fateful instant. But even a few years before that, death and suffering had attracted him. He attended autopsies, giving as an excuse his intention to study medicine. At the time he had put it down to a morbid curiosity. He had even read up on different types of coma. He wondered if there was one deep enough to present all the outward signs of death. During the dissections he enjoyed imagining that the man whose muscles had been separated and whose gaping abdomen was being prodded by the doctor’s instrument was still alive and that, although his coma prevented him from moving, his conscious mind enabled him to have a clear idea of what was happening.

In fact his fascination with death seemed to go even further back than that. As a child he had loved graveyards. He’d spent whole days in them. He knew where each tomb was, the names and dates of the dead … He was curious to know what corpses looked like after a day, a week, two weeks … He enjoyed watching apples on which he had drawn features rot away. They were his skulls whose skin withered as the flesh became damp and soft. He watched them shrivel and gradually disintegrate.

Even as a child … he had revelled in the death throes of ducks wounded by his father when out hunting: their fruitless attempts to get off the ground and fly again; their long silky necks twisting in a dance of death; the sharp crack of their vertebrae when he broke their necks to put them out of their misery.

The fact was that he had always been attracted by death, pain and blood, and he wondered why it had taken him so long to realise this obvious fact. It was yet one more question demanding an answer. His life seemed to have become a series of riddles.