The Officer's Prey

CHAPTER 18

IV Corps had been ordered to find quarters in the suburbs of Smolensk. Now everyone was fighting for the best places. Lefine and Margont’s accommodation was beyond their expectations. Piquebois, Saber and a certain Captain Fanselin had taken over nothing less than a palace. Lefine stood awestruck in front of its yellow façade decorated with white stucco. The pediments of the windows were overladen with elegant arabesques. Broad columns with acanthus leaves framed the door, and smaller classical columns rose up from the balcony to support the overhang of the roof, which was crowned by a cupola. Despite its originality, the palace had adhered to the traditional rules of houses of the Russian nobility. The main building was linked to two wings by semicircular galleries, thus creating an elegant space at the foot of the edifice. Unfortunately, the right wing had burnt down.

Saber, overjoyed at having found accommodation worthy of him, was in full flow.

‘It’s the residence of a family of Russian aristocrats of Polish extraction, the Valiuskis. They’ve stayed on. I’ll introduce you. They love the French! The count has only one aim, for the Emperor to deprive Russia of the area from the Niemen to Smolensk and recreate Greater Poland. He even said to me: “Remember, there’ll always be enough room in Poland to bury all the Russians found there, either dead or alive.” He’s having a banquet prepared for us.’

‘A banquet?’ repeated Margont, sceptical at the prospect of such delights.

‘You should see their daughter! Such noble beauty …’

Saber could already see himself as a general, Count of Greater Poland, spending the summers in ‘his’ palace in Smolensk and wintering in Paris.

‘But it took some doing, I can tell you. The building was swarming with cuirassiers when we arrived. So I went to find their lieutenant to explain to him politely that these quarters had been allotted to the 84th Regiment and he sent me packing. Me, Lieutenant Saber!’

‘That’s unthinkable!’ Margont exclaimed, pretending to look shocked.

‘I swear to you it’s true! I returned with Piquebois, and a Red Lancer, who also wanted to settle in here. You should have seen how Piquebois sorted them out. There were ten cuirassiers in the drawing room, so Piquebois planted himself in the middle and exclaimed: “Good God! My lodging’s crawling with silver-shelled beetles!” Then he grabbed the lieutenant by the sleeve, just as if he were picking up a real beetle by the leg! He dragged him outside with such confidence that the other fellow acquiesced without complaining. It almost led to a duel when Piquebois added, “A big mouth but a small sabre.”’

‘Oh dear! I hate it when he starts acting the hussar again.’

‘A cuirassier began to protest but our Red Lancer yelled: “What the hell are you doing here in your fancy get-up? Out! Obey orders!” when he had no damned right to be there either.’

At that very moment the lancer came up to them. He bowed politely. He had a strange bearing, bow-legged as if he were permanently in the saddle, with or without a horse. Ever the cavalryman. His auburn hair hung down in small plaits and his moustache curled up at both ends.

‘Allow me to introduce myself: Captain Edgar Fanselin, 2nd Regiment of the Chevau-Légers Lancers of the Guard commanded by General Baron Édouard de Colbert-Chabanais. Ten years of loyal service and morale always excellent. Long live the Emperor!’

‘Long live the Emperor!’ exclaimed Saber and Margont a few moments later.

Fanselin was a handsome man and seemed amiable enough, but there was something intense about him. It was the look in his eye. It was impossible to define this something, or to give it a name, but its presence was undeniable.

‘To whom do I have the honour of speaking?’

‘Captain Margont, 84th …’

But Fanselin had already embraced him before immediately releasing him.

‘He has the Légion d’Honneur and the rank of Officer, what’s more. He’s a man of courage! Lieutenant Piquebois told me about you just now.’

The three men walked as far as the entrance to the palace, followed diffidently by Lefine, who didn’t know if he could accompany the officers into the central building or whether he had to make do with the left wing that the soldiers and NCOs had taken over. Margont motioned to him to join them and the sergeant’s face broke into a smile once more. Captain Fanselin explained how, as he was walking through the city, he had decided to settle himself here – and nowhere else. His tone gave the impression that it would be more difficult to dislodge him than ten cuirassiers. Saber could not take his eyes off the flamboyant uniform. The short jacket – the kurtka – was crimson and decorated with a blue breastplate. A blue stripe ran down the sides of the trousers, which were also crimson. The headgear was a chapka of red linen with a white plume.

Is a general of the Red Lancers more or less prestigious than a Polish general and count? wondered Saber.

The majestic-looking entrance hall was of white marble. Statues of muses or goddesses stood next to armchairs with embroidered upholstery. A red and gold stucco frieze, close to the ceiling, matched a colossal gilded chandelier containing fifty or so candles. Paintings depicting the inevitable classical ruins decorated the walls. Saber flung his sabre and shako on to an armchair and, pointing at a tall double door, invited his friends to follow him. He already considered himself at home. Captain Fanselin seemed to want to examine each canvas.

‘Look at the effect of calm produced by this colonnade in the middle of this park. The place doesn’t exist and yet how I would like to be there.’

‘If you like the painting so much, Captain, take it,’ said Lefine.

‘You have a sense of humour, Sergeant,’ Fanselin guffawed.

Lefine couldn’t see what a sense of humour had to do with his suggestion. Fanselin turned round and spoke to Margont enthusiastically.

‘The world is full of misery, but when I see these artistic masterpieces I say to myself that all is not yet lost. Like you, I have suffered from this gruelling march. However, I have no regrets and I shall often think of all these peasants whose world will never extend further than the patch of land they cultivate.’

In the next room they were confronted by a double flight of steps. At the sides were two doors framed by still lifes. An elderly man suddenly appeared from the right-hand door. The bald crown of his head was encircled by an abundance of grey hair. He looked like a Caesar with a garland of grey laurels. On his huge nose was a pince-nez behind which sparkled small brown eyes. He was dressed in black trousers and a pearl-grey shirt over which he wore a mauve waistcoat.

‘Count, allow me to introduce my—’

Saber broke off when he saw the joyful expression on the other man’s face. Even his wrinkles seemed to smile.

‘A Polish officer!’ he exclaimed, embracing Fanselin.

‘You are mistaken, Count. I am French. It’s my Polish-style uniform that has confused you. I am a lancer of the Guard.’

‘If you are a lancer then you are at least half Polish. The lance is our national weapon,’ replied the count.

It was obvious from the warmth of the introductions how pleased the count was to welcome the Frenchmen. The burnt-out villages seemed a distant memory. No matter how friendly Count Valiuski tried to be, he still radiated an aristocratic authority. It was evident in his discreetly refined and assured gestures, in the modulations of his voice, which was husky with age, in his confident air. Such manners had been fashioned day after day by a sophisticated education, the result of generations of careful thought. Margont felt there was something familiar about the count but he was unable to say what.

‘Please forgive me for not arranging for my major-domo to welcome you but he has left. Half of my servants fled the city when your army’s arrival was announced. The rest are in the kitchens or preparing your bedrooms. Dinner will be served at eight o’clock, if that is convenient to you.’

That was convenient to everyone. Here everything was convenient to everyone.

‘Please excuse me but I must go and settle some important matters and talk to my wife and daughter, whom you will meet this evening.’

‘Your French is remarkable,’ Saber complimented him.

‘All the French are remarkable!’ retorted the count.

He quickly walked away, exclaiming: ‘Long live a free Poland!’

A servant accompanied the Frenchmen to their bedrooms. His eyes were red from crying. He did not utter a word. Fear tightened its grip on his throat, like a foretaste of the noose. Margont thought that Russian propaganda must have spread the rumour that French officers enjoyed testing the sharpness of their sabres by decapitating prisoners and that they loved to hang the servants after breakfast, which of course consisted of a roasted new-born baby. He handed the Russian a coin, which he took, trembling and utterly confused. So he wasn’t going to be killed? He was being given a tip? Where was the trap?

Margont examined the marquetry furniture closely. The four-poster bed looked so comfortable that it might have been an evil spell. Sleeping Beauty must have lain down on a similar mattress, which would explain her story. In the tapestries, handsome gentlemen were depicted bowing to ladies, who were pretending to be flattered or whispering to one another behind their fans. The statue of a centaur decorated the mantelpiece. It symbolised Russia’s untamed spirit.

Margont stood stock-still in front of a mirror. He thought he looked thin and tired. But he had that determined expression that came with critical times, a look that was too harsh, too severe and surly. Even a slightly forced smile scarcely softened its sternness. What if this campaign stops at Smolensk? he wondered.

He went across the corridor to Lefine’s room. Through the windows he could see the soldiers from his regiment. In the area at the foot of the palace a bear keeper was making his animal perform tricks, and dozens of infantrymen had formed a circle around the spectacle. Thunderous applause greeted the bear as it got back up after a forward roll. They were as happy as sandboys.

Lying on his bed, Lefine was gazing at a painting he was holding. But what he was really examining was the gilt frame.

‘You’ll lose one stripe for each painting that goes missing,’ Margont warned.

Lefine casually put the picture down on his bedside table.

‘Not interested. I thought you were Irénée. He’s furious I’m here. When he took his shako off just now I thought he was expecting me to put it on a hat stand for him. It wouldn’t surprise me if he told me to clear off.’

‘Well, if that does happen, send him to me and we’ll soon see which of you will be the first to leave. You’ve got your palace, so now you can finish off your report.’

But Lefine remained motionless, studying the cherubs chasing one another in the clouds in the stuccoed world of the ceiling.

‘What for?’

‘What for?’

‘Why are we searching so hard for this colonel? Because he’s killed someone? So what? How many deaths have there been since the start of this campaign? Ten thousand? Twenty thousand? No, far more. And that’s nothing compared with what will happen when we encounter the whole Russian army.’

Lefine was sincere. A part of him really had been cut in two by that cannonball.

‘You’re going to tell me that the soldiers are fighting for “valid” reasons,’ he went on. ‘Their country, their ideas, glory, for social advancement … Well, that’s exactly it. It’s because of your fine ideas that you’ve been so keen on this wretched investigation from the start, but if we take on a colonel, we risk having our lives buggered up.’

‘Fernand …’

‘Buggered up! With a snap of his fingers a colonel can have us transferred to a nice little French outpost miles from anywhere in the middle of the Spanish countryside. We’ll take over from the sentries who had their throats slit by the guerrillas the preceding week, before our own corpses are replaced the week after … But a colonel doesn’t even need Spain to get rid of us. He needs only to send us both on a foraging expedition and the Cossacks will enjoy nailing our remains to the fir trees for the crows to feed on.’

‘Prince Eugène is supporting us.’

‘Politicians and princes only ever support themselves! If you were so sure of the opposite, you’d have told our dear prince that we suspected a colonel.’

Lefine was beginning to turn red as if the words he was saying were going back down his throat, blocking and obstructing his breathing.

‘If the Russians don’t get us, this investigation will! And you know that perfectly well. That’s the worst thing about it! But dear Captain Margont is on the side of justice – he can’t stand the idea of heinous crimes going unpunished. You’re the plaything of your ideals.’

‘Well, we’re all the playthings of something or someone. Better to be the plaything of my ideals than of greed.’

Margont stood still after giving this stinging reply. Being attacked for what he believed in body and soul put him on the defensive. For the moment he could handle it but if he were provoked further he might become dangerous. Lefine sensed this.

‘Nothing will make you give up this investigation except a bullet between the eyes. That’s the radical way of dealing with fanatics. Despite all those years you spent with them, those Holy Joes forgot to tell you that the good Samaritans always end up being tortured and hacked to bits by the crowds they wanted to save. And afterwards they become martyrs and people light candles to ask favours of them.’

A few moments of silence elapsed before Margont spoke.

‘I don’t think I have the right to ask you to do more than you’ve already done. You’re free to let this business drop.’

Fernand smiled a sad smile, more depressing than tears.

‘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 churches. 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.’

‘I wonder whether they co-operate with the Cossacks because one of them almost skewered me next to a river.’

Pirgnon was studying the rusalka’s expression. The seductive look she was displaying had a hint of coldness about it.

‘What realism! But let’s not be morbid. Do you enjoy classical mythology, Captain?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘The Russians do too!’ Pirgnon exclaimed, delighted that the whole world shared his passion.

In fact, Margont was not madly keen on this topic but he was glad to get away from the rusalka. The colonel stepped over rolled-up carpets, inviting Margont to follow him. He was so devoted to Greek and Roman culture that anything remotely connected with it was carefully exhibited, contrasting with the surrounding mess and waiting only to be seen by the visitors Pirgnon would bring along. It seemed highly unlikely that French museums would ever get a glimpse of these marvels …

‘Here is Minerva, my favourite goddess.’

Margont went closer to examine in detail a buxom-looking woman girded with a coat of mail. She was combing her tumbling mass of golden hair whilst watching over an array of vases and sculptures.

‘You see, Captain, Minerva is the Roman goddess of wisdom and the arts. But the Romans – unlike the Greeks, for whom she was Athena – also gave her a martial dimension. To such an extent that the Roman legions dedicated their war treasures to her. So it’s natural that I should give her pride of place in this collection, don’t you think?’

Margont agreed, not knowing what else to do. He did not know how to react to this remark. Was it humour? Or irony? A show of contempt towards him because he had been shocked by the systematic looting of Russia’s artistic heritage? Pirgnon’s personality seemed indistinct to him, elusive.

The colonel, carried away by his guided tour, was now pointing at another subject. It was a gigantic fresco occupying an entire wall. A mass of combatants were slaughtering one another at the foot of walls lined with defenders. The figures, some naked and some wearing helmets and breastplates or sheltering behind broad, decorated shields, were attacking each other with a ferocity that was convincing in its realism. The complexity of the setting was in contrast to the sobriety of the colours, which were limited to either black or ochre. Margont recognised the Trojan War. The Trojans had made a sortie to attempt to recover the body of Hector, one of their heroes, whom Achilles had just struck down.

‘The centuries pass, men remain the same,’ Margont remarked.

‘Men? You mean the gods! Well, demigods. Achilles was the son of Thetis, a sea nymph, and of an ordinary mortal, hence his extraordinary destiny.’

Of all the warriors swarming across the canvas, Pirgnon had eyes only for Achilles, his arm brandishing a forbidding-looking spear and his foot resting on the face of the dead Hector. The Trojans would not recover his mortal remains and for twelve days Achilles would drag them behind his chariot around the tomb of his friend Patroclus, himself slain in combat by Hector.

Pirgnon spoke of Hercules and his mythical labours, Ulysses and the adventures he had on his travels … His knowledge of ancient mythology seemed as inexhaustible as the horn of plenty. He was passionate about it and his enthusiasm was infectious. Antiquity made him radiant.

As time was getting on, the sergeant-major came to make sure that all was well. In fact, it was on his side that everything was going badly: on the staircase the soldiers thought that Margont was exhausting Pirgnon’s purse and there was almost a riot. So Pirgnon ordered the next salesman to be sent in and turned towards Margont.

‘Captain, I must ask you to leave me but I am counting on you for my Moscow Club.’

Margont saluted and went out. He had at last managed to meet the elusive Pirgnon but he didn’t feel any the wiser. Delarse, Barguelot and Pirgnon: he hadn’t really been able to eliminate any of the three. And he was fuming at still not having had the opportunity to talk to Fidassio. He chased away these thoughts as he wandered along the streets, feasting his eyes on Russian architecture, gilded domes and the orchards that carpeted the steep slopes surrounding the city.