The Officer's Prey

CHAPTER 19

AT precisely eight o’clock in the evening, Margont made his way to the Valiuskis’ drawing room, wearing his full-dress uniform. He cut a fine figure in his brilliant white trousers, immaculate dark blue coat, gilded buttons, epaulettes and with his self-assured air. He was disappointed to notice that exactly the same could be said of his friends. Worse than this, Fanselin’s scarlet red was particularly striking because of its unusually bright colour. A servant in fir-green livery and white silk stockings begged them to forgive the count and the two countesses, who would be arriving shortly.

The walls of the room were covered in brown wooden panelling. Lefine found this oppressive, as if he were in the cabin of a ship, so he stayed near the window and, having pulled back the heavy yellow, silver-fringed curtains, observed the comings and goings in the street. Piquebois was examining a collection of pipes closely, lost in admiration for the boundless imagination shown by their makers in varying the shapes and sizes. He wondered if it was possible to do the same with life, to make each day in some way unique. Saber, who was comfortably installed in an armchair, was running his fingers along a harpsichord, content to run up and down the scale, while Fanselin seemed fascinated by a globe, which he turned incessantly.

‘There’s so much to see in the world. Have you travelled widely?’ he asked.

‘No. There’s too much blue on the maps,’ Lefine asserted coldly, without turning his head.

‘Apparently between the United States and Canada there are lakes as big as seas. It’s hard to believe. I absolutely must go there to see them with my own eyes.’

Margont settled himself down between a large harp and a fireguard. Then he immediately got up again to make his way towards a small bookcase placed in a poorly lit corner of the room.

‘It took him less than a minute to find it,’ Saber joked.

French literature figured prominently: Voltaire, Rousseau, La Bruyère …What was more, these works were in French. Russian society was francophile, except when it came to political ideas, whether revolutionary or imperial.

The servant reappeared and made an announcement:

‘Their Excellencies Count Valiuski, Countess Valiuska and Countess Natalia Valiuska.’

The count was still wearing the same clothes. He was not the sort of man to change half a dozen times a day. His wife was wearing an elegant violet outfit. An ivory locket with an effigy of the Virgin Mary proclaimed her faith in the face of ‘republican heathens’. She looked worn and tired, but dignified – dignified above all and at all times. Her grey hair was drawn back, emphasising the severity of her features, a severity further reinforced by her stiff bearing and disdainful expression. However, age had commenced its slow and cruel work. It was like being in front of a deposed empress.

Natalia had just celebrated her twenty-fifth birthday. She had long suffered from being overshadowed by two such powerful personalities. But she had eventually progressed from the difficult position of obedient, inhibited child to that of a young woman capable of defending tenaciously that indefinable, unique quality that every individual possesses. She was wearing a white dress with a moderately low neckline that would only have shocked the most hypocritical religious bigot. Her gilded belt was tied very high, just beneath her breasts, so that her dress billowed out, disguising her waist and emphasising her height. Her delicate features were framed by her long auburn hair but this impression of fragility was now quite out of keeping with her character. Her narrow nose and thin lips set off her blue eyes, which observed the five Frenchmen with a curiosity tinged with reserve. She was magnificent.

The introductions were brief and the count was careful to make them informal. Clearly determined to ignore this, Saber bent himself double to kiss the hands of the countess and Natalia in a perfectly executed movement. They had only just sat down when the count launched into an interminable speech that was part glorification of Poland, part anti-Russian diatribe and part history of the Valiuski family, peppered unfortunately with a series of questions.

It transpired that the Valiuski family came from the Polish nobility. After suffering revolts, invasions and civil wars combined with wars of religion, Poland had been partitioned three times between Russia, Prussia and Austria, in 1772, 1793 and 1795. The last scramble for territory had resulted in Poland’s disappearance pure and simple. When the count recalled the resurrection of the Polish state by Napoleon in 1807 under the name of the ‘Grand Duchy of Warsaw’, his voice quivered with emotion. If Fanselin had been struck by the distant Americas or mysterious Africa on the globe, the count had eyes for nothing on it except Poland. Smolensk had been captured by the Russians even before the first partition but the Valiuskis had always considered themselves as Polish.

‘You do not allow lines on a map to tell you who you are and whom you should serve!’ exclaimed the count, pointing to the world spinning around beneath the lancer’s fingers.

It was just as well that there were five of them to answer his questions. Why had the Emperor not yet announced that the territories taken from the Russians had been handed back to Poland? Why had the Grand Duchy of Warsaw not been swallowed up in a larger territorial unit called Poland?

How was it possible to tell such a warm-hearted man that the Emperor had made no promises about the resurrection of Poland because he did not want to offend Austria and Prussia, his new-found allies, who could still smell the powder of the French gunfire at Austerlitz, Jena and Wagram? Besides, the Emperor wanted to negotiate with Alexander and, if his plan came to fruition, its price would be to give the area invaded back to Russia. Napoleon knew that one of the preconditions to any talks with the Tsar was to rule out categorically the restoration of a Polish state. Piquebois proved to be surprisingly diplomatic in finding the right way of putting it: the Emperor rarely set out his plans but what was certain was that he always saw through to the end whatever he had in mind. The count pretended to be taken in. But there was nothing you could teach a Valiuski about politics. He prayed every night for the situation to get worse. The more the French suffered, the more obdurate Alexander would become. Then the stakes in this war would rise spectacularly, as would the Emperor’s exasperation until he crushed the Russians and imposed an unconditional peace. This was the count’s point of view: a desire for the storm to break and for the wind to blow in the right direction, extending the Polish border far into Russia … all the way to Smolensk.

Margont noticed that the countess was proving distinctly less friendly towards them than her husband, especially in the presence of the servants, whom she addressed in Russian. He would have given a lot to understand the meaning of her words. Was she criticising the presence of the French in her house? Had she condemned their lack of piety because they had not crossed themselves in front of what Margont had later realised was an icon chest? A pro-French count and a pro-Russian countess: the Valiuski family and its property would survive the war. Did not the winners always reward those who had supported them in times of crisis? Natalia seemed to disapprove of this two-pronged approach but she remained silent. Tea was served. Seeing the simmering water come pouring out of the spout of the samovar as the chill of the evening descended was one of those small pleasures that would put anyone in a good mood.

When the count had stopped monopolising the conversation, Saber was quick to take over. He constantly sought Natalia’s attention, questioning her about her activities and marvelling out loud to himself about the things they had in common. Incredibly, he too adored music, reading and going for walks.

The countess did not like the idea of Saber wooing her daughter. He had after all only one fringed epaulette whereas his fellow officers, with the exception of Piquebois, had two. She was not absolutely sure but she thought that this single fringed epaulette indicated a lower rank – and therefore poorer prospects. She decided to engage in conversation only with officers who were ‘properly epauletted’, so in her opinion Saber and Piquebois were beyond the pale. As for the noncommissioned officer, he simply did not exist.

The count had read his wife’s thoughts. Considering Saber to be overstepping the mark, he took advantage of one of the Frenchman’s mistakes. Saber had tried to show off by talking about the battle of Wagram and was about to launch into a description of one of his rescue missions when the count exclaimed: ‘So you were at Wagram, were you? There were plenty of Poles at Wagram!’ He then rained questions on him. Saber thus became a prisoner of Wagram, releasing Natalia.

‘What do you like about Russia?’ asked the young lady without directing the question at any of the Frenchmen in particular.

Saber was furious but he could scarcely abandon the Polish Chevau-Légers as they were about to charge.

‘What I like most in Russia is Poland,’ Piquebois calmly declared.

Fanselin was more reserved. ‘So far all Russia has had to offer us is being fired on amongst the ashes, but I’m sure there are fascinating things to discover.’

‘Such as?’ asked Natalia.

‘I’ve no idea, but if they’re there, I’ll find them.’

Fanselin then began to talk in a voice that the others did not recognise, a voice simultaneously full of wonder and laden with sorrow.

‘In Sweden there are regions entirely given over to nature where there are only lakes and forests as far as the eye can see. When autumn comes the leaves display an infinite variety of shades. In Italy, ancient monuments have miraculously survived and it would come as no surprise to encounter men in togas, talking in Latin. In the south of Spain, western Christian art and the Muslim art of the Moors are fused in a harmony that is unique in the world, thus succeeding where men have failed. I lived in these three countries for several months before tiring of them. But I know that one day I will discover a landscape and a culture that will make me feel truly at home. That day I will lay down my arms and settle down. Perhaps I will at last find my paradise in Russia. Perhaps not.’

Natalia nodded distantly, meditating on these words.

‘What about you, Captain Margont?’

‘Each country has its own culture, and every culture is by definition fascinating. I have come here to encounter Russian culture and to bring to it republican ideals.’

The young woman seemed put out.

‘To encounter Russian culture? Are you not aware that the victors always destroy the culture of the vanquished? What did the conquistadors retain of the culture of the Aztecs and of the Incas? Nothing as far as I can see, apart from slaves, land and the gold obtained from melting down their jewels.’

‘Well, perhaps they missed exactly what was most precious. Like the magpies, they went straight for what glittered.’

‘So what do you know about Russian or Polish culture? You’ll tell me that the peasants dance on their haunches, kicking their legs in the air, that the priests have funny long beards, that people travel around by sleigh in the winter and that the bell towers of the churches have decidedly odd roofs … Well, if that’s what Russian culture is for you …’

‘All that is indeed part of it. But an essential element of this culture seems to me to be tenacity. During some fighting I saw a whole row of Russians fall to the ground when under fire by our company. There were only three soldiers left standing. Do you think those three surrendered? No, they fought hand to hand with determination, as if they’d been facing up to us right in the middle of their battalion, packed tight against one another. There are traces of this Russian fighting spirit to be found in you.’

The young woman blinked. She had never been spoken to like this. Her mother had noticed how troubled she looked but, having a poor command of French, she did not properly understand the reason.

Thinking that her daughter had been shocked by the virile account of some martial exploit, she was quick to declare: ‘War is a terrible thing. It’s better not to talk about it.’

Piquebois sat up in his chair. ‘How skilful you are, Countess, at summarising the situation and solving the most difficult issues.’

The countess smiled at him politely to thank him for his compliment, its biting irony completely escaping her. She announced that it was time to go for dinner and rose to her feet. Her husband took her arm. Fanselin did likewise with Natalia, his privilege as a member of the Guard.

As they made their way to the dining room, Saber whispered to Margont: ‘Trying to seduce the young countess, are we? A château and the title of count for the price of a wedding ring is a pretty good way of recovering one’s costs. It’s pathetic! Watching you boast about your military exploits like that …’

‘But my dear Irénée, it’s your own reflection you’re looking at.’

‘Pathetic!’

The immense dining room was decorated with tapestries depicting impenetrable forests or waterfalls in which water sprites were bathing. The Russians excelled in the use of coloured glass in their lighting. Thus the emerald glass in the stem of the chandelier created a play of light with the crystals, which blended well with the tones of the tapestries. The tablecloth was dark green and matched the colour of the rims of the plates and the count’s coat of arms. These arms, depicting a silver-headed bear on a fir-green background, appeared on the middle of every plate, were engraved on the crystal glasses and chased on the silver cutlery. Images detailing the construction of the château, stage by stage, were painted on to large porcelain vases, which alternated with three-legged crystal vases. Margont noticed that the bright light that evening was provided by a clever arrangement of mirrors and chandeliers, but, by extinguishing only a few candles, an intimate effect could be achieved.

The count and his wife took their seats at either end of the table. The count had placed Margont on his right and his daughter on his left. The countess had Fanselin on her right and Piquebois on her left. Saber was sitting between Fanselin and Natalia, and Lefine was opposite Saber. Margont appreciated the comfort of the chairs, which were quite unlike the Empire style, with its mixture of classical, Greco-Roman influences and military grandeur. How could the Emperor like those rigid geometrical lines and annoying edges that no plane was allowed to smooth? Still, even if that aesthetic showed scant regard for the functional, at least it did so with panache.

The count said grace and the meal began with an enormous plate of zakuski, that traditional assortment of appetisers and starters, including meat vol-au-vents, black bread canapés with multicoloured garnishes, croquettes, mother-of-pearl spoons filled with caviar …

‘I love Russian architecture,’ Saber announced to Natalia.

‘In that case, why are you shelling it?’

Saber was flabbergasted. He had not seriously imagined that anyone could resist his charm.

‘My dear Natalia,’ the count interjected in a paternalistic tone of voice, ‘you are giving an opinion on a subject that is beyond you.’

‘The Emperor’s policies are beyond us all,’ Margont remarked.

They are beyond even your Emperor, the countess thought.

Margont realised what was familiar about the count: he reminded him of Saber. It was those gestures full of ‘natural superiority’ that Saber strove awkwardly to imitate. Saber’s attitude made no sense. He had remarkable qualities as a strategist and was wasting his time learning the rules of polite society and trying to make an impression. Nature had given him a precious gift but he complained about the quality of its wrapping.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘A journalist?’ Natalia said in surprise.

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

‘I love writing and—’

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

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

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

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

Fanselin was also interested in the subject.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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