The Officer's Prey

CHAPTER 30

WHEN the Grande Armée began its retreat, the crush was indescribable. The remaining hundred thousand soldiers and those accompanying them – wives, officers’ servants, canteen-keepers and sutler women – had been joined by thousands of Muscovites of foreign extraction who feared reprisals on the part of the Russians. The streets were therefore jammed with barouches, carriages, carts, wagons, caissons, charabancs and every imaginable contraption. Several of these vehicles, weighed down with booty and passengers, had broken wheels and were blocking the way.

Napoleon still possessed a powerful army. Morale was high: they had faith in the Emperor. However, disorder was already undermining the effectiveness of the troops. In a clever manoeuvre, Kutuzov had stopped pulling back towards the east and had positioned his troops to the south of Moscow. Thus he was blocking the way to the rich provinces of the south and was threatening the French retreat towards Smolensk. While Napoleon had been reorganising his army and enjoying his conquest pending the opening of negotiations, Kutuzov had restructured his forces. He had recruited countless peasants who were convinced that the French had set fire to Moscow, were desecrating their churches (it was true that some cavalry squadrons, with a total disregard for religion, had turned churches into stables) and exterminating the people. He was also receiving a steady stream of reinforcements from all the provinces. He now had at his disposal one hundred and twenty thousand soldiers backed up by two hundred thousand militiamen.

Kutuzov, however, feared Napoleon and wanted to avoid direct confrontation. He hoped to use delaying tactics for as long as possible, allowing the winter and hunger to wreak havoc in the enemy ranks in order eventually to intercept the French army and destroy it.

As for Napoleon, he had planned to withdraw as far as Smolensk. He was intending to regroup his forces in the city and give them fresh supplies from the stocks of food he had built up there. He began by taking the Kaluga road, to the south of the road to Smolensk. Part of the Russian army, commanded by Lieutenant-General Doktorov, blocked his way. Fighting took place in Maloyaroslavets and the town was lost and retaken several times by Prince Eugène’s troops. Seventeen thousand French and Italians fought against more than fifty thousand Russians. IV Corps lost four thousand men and the Russians twice that number. But Kutuzov had had time to link up with Doktorov. Now it was the whole of the Russian army that was obstructing the road to Kaluga.

Napoleon was faced with a dilemma. Either he continued with his plan to withdraw via the road to Kaluga, to which end he would have to defeat the Russian army despite its numerical superiority. Or he took the road to Smolensk again, which was shorter but, because it had been looted on the outward journey, would offer the army only very scant resources. On the advice of almost his entire entourage, Napoleon chose the road to Smolensk. Several factors led him to prefer this option. In current conditions a battle against the Russians was particularly risky. He also believed that Kutuzov had pulled his army back a few leagues to take up a higher position than that at Maloyaroslavets. In fact, the Russian generalissimo, overcautious as ever, thinking that the French were going to take the road to Smolensk again, wanted to avoid a confrontation.

Another incident also played a part in this decision: Napoleon had almost fallen into Russian hands. While he was on reconnaissance, six hundred Cossacks had sprung out of a wood. The duty squadrons had repelled them but for a few moments the Emperor had been threatened. The enemy would certainly not have withdrawn so swiftly if they had realised that they were dealing with Napoleon himself.

No one knows what would have happened if Napoleon had tried to force his way through to take the road to Kaluga. But what is certain is that the return journey via the devastated road to Smolensk was one of the main factors in turning the retreat into a disaster.

Kutuzov’s army began a long march along the flank, keeping parallel to the French and forcing them to stick to the road to Smolensk. The Cossacks and other light cavalry troops as well as the partisans constantly harried the Grande Armée.

Margont, Lefine, Saber and Piquebois were in the process of preparing their lunchtime soup, rather a grand term for the vile liquid made from coffee and flour. They ate better in the mornings because Margont had advised Colonel Pégot to make the regiment march behind the mounted chasseurs. Thus, as soon as they got up, the soldiers of the 84th rushed to the encampment abandoned by the chasseurs and hurriedly devoured the horses that had died in the night, horses that had already been partly devoured by their riders. It was important not to wait until the carcasses froze because then it became impossible to cut them up, even with an axe.

On 27 October there had been a very heavy snowfall. This, added to the hunger and the anxious realisation that they were taking the road to Smolensk again, had begun to transform the army. The spirit of camaraderie was wearing thin. If you possessed horses or supplies of food, you had to guard them overnight to prevent them from being stolen. As for sharing, it was a concept that was rapidly disappearing. Margont was deep in thought about such matters while gazing at the snow-laden branches of the fir trees, when he heard Lefine laughing.

‘Why do you put your hood on only at night, Captain? You look such a sight! Only your eyes are visible!’

‘That’s right. Have a good laugh. In a few days’ time you won’t be able to hear the nonsense you talk because your ears will have frozen and dropped off.’

‘What? Is it going to get even colder?’

Margont was clutching his bowl of hot soup to warm his gloves.

‘This is only the start,’ he answered.

Every word he spoke produced coils of steam. He was dreaming of fig jam. As a child, he had got through whole jars of it as his mother looked on in horror, like any parent watching the excesses of its offspring. Although he gorged himself on this jam, by one of those contradictions that make human beings such strange creatures, he sobbed his heart out if anyone tried to make him eat figs in the form of fruit. By adulthood he had become more sensible: he now loved both the jam and the fruit.

‘What is there to eat this evening?’ asked Piquebois.

‘A raw egg and some sweets,’ Lefine announced.

‘Do you call that a meal?’

‘In the 8th Light they only have sweets and caviar; in the 1st Croat they have beef that they wouldn’t exchange for all the money in the world but they might exchange some for flour because, like us, they haven’t got much of it. I’d need to exchange coffee and fish with Demay’s gunners for some fodder, which I’d exchange with the 9th Chasseurs for the flour to—’

‘All right, we trust you. Organise it as best you can,’ Margont interrupted.

Morale was declining and yet the four men were among the more fortunate. Piquebois was watching over their bony, worn-out horses. He stroked them to apologise for the misfortunes they were suffering and to be forgiven for finally having taken to eating horsemeat. He swapped part of his meals for fodder and, at night, he tied the two bridles around his wrist. ‘If anyone wants to steal them, they’ll have to deal with Piquebois first!’ he’d announced. And as everyone knew that he could still wield his sabre like a true hussar … One day, one of the mounts had slipped on a patch of ice and had accidentally thrown Lefine into the snow. The sergeant had cursed loudly as he got back on his feet and the two horses had immediately sought refuge with Piquebois.

Saber was munching a snowball to quench his thirst.

‘It’s unbelievable all the same! The army’s in a bad state, I can tell you. It’s been impossible for me to get my captain’s epaulettes! I’m a captain on paper but not in uniform because of the poor organisation. What sort of impression are we going to give if, when the Russians attack, the captains look like lieutenants? This sort of laxity will be our downfall!’

‘You’re really getting up my nose!’ thundered Piquebois. ‘Go and take them from a dead body if it matters so much to you!’

‘Are you mad?’ stuttered Saber in horror.

‘Well, well,’ Margont said gleefully, ‘you tell all and sundry you’re an atheist, you make fun of me when I say a prayer, but it turns out you’re superstitious. You’ve replaced God with black cats, rabbits’ paws and tarot cards.’

Saber walked off in annoyance, trying to retain his dignity. ‘At least I went up a rank.’

‘And don’t we know it,’ retorted Piquebois.

Margont looked longingly at his bowl. Was it empty? Already?

‘Cheer up!’ he exclaimed. ‘In two weeks we’ll be in Smolensk. Talking of which, I suggest we drink a toast to the paradise awaiting us.’ Then, raising a snowball, he said: ‘To Smolensk!’

‘To Smolensk!’ Lefine and Piquebois repeated.

They toasted one another before gulping down the snow. The march resumed. What remained of the 84th, that is, fewer than eight hundred men, was making painful progress. Lefine looked up at regular intervals. A flock of black birds was following the never-ending column of the retreating army.

‘Filthy crows!’ he spat.

‘It looks as if a Napoleonic crow has formed an avian Grande Armée and ordered the birds to mimic us.’

‘I bet each of these pests has already chosen the soldier it plans to devour,’ Lefine grumbled.

Margont pointed with his finger. ‘Look, there’s yours!’

‘Don’t say that! Must never say that, Captain.’

Margont’s legs felt heavy. ‘Let’s keep quiet. We’d be better off saving our breath.’

‘Yes, and in any case the words seem to freeze in our mouths.’

The road was littered with corpses. Soldiers were dropping from exhaustion, never to get up again. Some were almost naked: they had been stripped of their possessions.

‘It’s good, though, to say something from time to time,’ Lefine added further on. ‘That way you know you’re not completely dead yet.’

‘To take your mind off things, think about what you’ll do when this war’s over.’

‘Go on to the next one, of course. There’s nothing to think about!’

Margont spotted an infantryman cutting across the fields, struggling almost knee-deep in snow and waving at him frantically. Margont went to meet him. Lefine could tell how animated the conversation was by the amount of steam coming from their mouths. Margont came back looking worried and took his friend to one side.

‘I made some calculations but I was mistaken. So I’m changing my strategy.’

‘What does all this gibberish mean?’

‘That we’re going to have a talk with Colonel Barguelot. Now.’

Margont and Lefine caught up with the 9th of the Line. This regiment now made up only a small fragment of the never-ending black column winding its way through the snow, leaving a trail of corpses in its wake. It had almost ceased to exist at the battle of Maloyaroslavets. Margont had discovered from his spy that Colonel Barguelot was still alive. He had in fact been ‘concussed by an explosion’ that had left him unconscious at the rear for the whole duration of the fighting. He had only regained consciousness when it was time to withdraw. Margont approached the colonel who, on recognising him, stared at him in disbelief.

‘How dare you come to see me? I’m going to have you shot on the spot!’

Margont handed him the letter signed by Prince Eugène himself.

‘At least you’ve stopped sending me anonymous letters. Now you bring your notes yourself,’ sneered Barguelot, snatching the missive from his hands.

He was astounded by what he read. His adjutant had unsheathed his sabre. Discreetly reading over his colonel’s shoulder, he lowered his weapon.

‘What does this mean?’ Barguelot asked in a barely audible voice.

Margont put his document away carefully. He said nothing and stared the colonel straight in the eye. Eventually he declared: ‘You are blind in one eye, are you not, Colonel?’

Barguelot opened his mouth but was unable to speak.

Margont nodded assent. ‘It’s noticeable from close up: your two irises aren’t quite the same colour.’

‘Captain, you’re mad! Your conduct is intolerable, unspeakable! It’s … insolence! Disrespect! Mutiny!’

‘Colonel, it so happens that we have both been victims of a plot. You are not the man I had arranged to meet in Moscow. You are not the man I am after.’

At the mention of the word Moscow, Barguelot reacted sharply. ‘You’re referring to your little ambush that came to an abrupt end!’

Margont indicated a copse of fir trees at the side of the road. The colonel, only too happy for a little discretion, did not need to be asked twice. His adjutant and Lefine followed the two men while the troops continued their laborious onward march.

‘I could have had you shot! Attacking a colonel!’ Barguelot said threateningly.

‘You received a letter referring to a certain “lady of Smolensk”, but I don’t think you understood the message at all.’

‘The letter was clearly not intended for me. What connection does it have with our business? And how do you know about it?’

‘And yet you went to Countess Sperzof’s Moscow residence, hence our encounter. Who gave you that address?’

‘Why, you, of course! You’re trying to make a fool of me!’

‘I swear on my honour that I am serious. I repeat my question: who gave you that address?’

Barguelot looked taken aback. He stared in disbelief while instinctively tossing his head back. Then he became defensive.

‘You’re raving, Captain. I don’t understand a word you’re saying.’

‘To begin with, you dropped hints to me, as if we understood each other perfectly, but now you are denying everything outright, as if to keep me at arm’s length from this business. I’m very surprised at your sudden turnaround. I can only conclude, Colonel, that you are afraid of something. All this suggests a case of blackmail. What did someone know about you that scared you to the point of making you go to that meeting?’

Barguelot turned his back. ‘I’m not listening to any more of this nonsense. Please excuse me but, unlike you, I have a regiment to command, Captain.’

Margont decided to pretend that he was well informed even though he was as lost as Barguelot. So he came out with a sentence that seemed to be pregnant with meaning although he was simply referring to a mystery he had been unable to solve.

‘Was it to do with the real reasons for your appointment as Officer of the Légion d’Honneur, the honour that you were awarded such a long time after Jena?’

Barguelot turned round slowly. ‘What do you want? Or rather I should say: how much do you want?’

Margont felt inwardly triumphant. He had always believed that despite the attractive and flamboyant way in which he wrapped things up, Barguelot’s lies would never on their own have managed to earn him such an honour. Barguelot must then have cheated in some other way.

‘Colonel, I wish simply to understand what happened. You seem to think that I’m the one who invited you to this rendezvous in Moscow but it’s not true. Who gave you this address? And how?’

‘A Muscovite handed a letter to one of my officers. The anonymous message was for me and was asking me to go to Countess Sperzof’s house for personal reasons. When I caught sight of you there I thought, quite logically, that you were the one who’d written it.’

‘I must see the letter.’

‘I burnt it.’

‘You certainly did not! It’s the proof that someone tried to blackmail you, and no one throws away a weapon that can be used against an enemy.’

Barguelot awkwardly unbuttoned his greatcoat and coat. His hand disappeared beneath layers of fur-lined material before reappearing with a letter.

‘I would never have believed that people as cruel as you existed,’ murmured Barguelot as he handed over the missive.

‘You are wrong about me. As for the cruelty of the man I’m after, it is well beyond anything you can imagine.’

Margont unfolded the document.

Sir,

Some Légion d’Honneur you have here. Too good for you, anyway, because it is rather excessive merely for a sprained ankle at Jena. Instead of thanking the Prussians, would it not be better to thank a certain marshal who, annoyed at having been discovered in your bed with your young and beautiful wife, offered you a few compensations in the form of promotion and a decoration?

You certainly do not wish this business to become public knowledge. Neither do I, because what benefit would it bring to me? I fix the price of my silence at six thousand francs, payable in whatever form you choose. Try a little looting. In any case, I know you are wealthy, so you must have a money-box somewhere in your baggage. I will meet you on the 23rd at three in the morning in front of Countess Sperzof’s residence. Its ruins are near the Kremlin, not far from the building in which the 2nd battalion of the 48th of the Line have their quarters.

Do not be late. It is so cold at night in Moscow …

‘This is slander!’ Colonel Barguelot added immediately.

‘Who is aware of this “slander”?’

Barguelot was motionless. He was no longer even unconsciously moving about on the spot to combat the cold.

As he remained silent, Margont continued: ‘Do you know Colonel Fidassio or Captain Nedroni?’

‘No.’

‘What about Colonel Pirgnon?’

‘Vaguely.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me. But I think you know him more than “vaguely”. On the one hand, you both serve in the same division. On the other hand, you have met each other at social gatherings in Paris. Or in Madrid. Undoubtedly in both Paris and Madrid, because neither of you would have missed a single reception for all the money in the world. Is Colonel Pirgnon aware of what this letter refers to?’

‘It’s true that Colonel Pirgnon got to hear of this vile piece of gossip because he was serving on the general staff of the marshal concerned.’

‘He was the person you were expecting to see, wasn’t he?’

Barguelot’s face was a picture of distress.

‘Yes.’

‘Colonel, you’ll never hear of me again. And this “piece of gossip” will not spread, I give you my word.’

Margont saluted and departed, leaving Colonel Barguelot completely at a loss. Lefine, puzzled by what was going on, hurried to catch up with his friend, who was trudging through the snow.

‘I’d like some explanations!’

‘I thought for a moment that Colonel Barguelot was our man. But there were two details, two grey areas, that didn’t fit. Why had Colonel Barguelot refused the honour of a friendly crossing of swords with Marshal Davout and why would he never eat or drink in public? When he invited me to that officers’ meal he didn’t touch a thing. It’s insulting when the person who’s invited you doesn’t even taste the dishes he’s offering you. What could prevent a man from eating, drinking and having a sword fight? Then I thought back to an incident that Colonel Delarse had recounted to me. It involved a game of chess between that Russian chess player I met, Lieutenant Nakalin, and Kutuzov. In the course of the game Kutuzov knocked the chessboard over. I think he did so deliberately because he was losing. But his excuse was perfectly valid: he’s blind in one eye and when you lose your sight in one eye it becomes very difficult after a time to gauge depth and distance. That’s when everything fell into place: I thought that Colonel Barguelot must also have lost an eye. He hides it from everyone – except from his servants – because he’s so concerned about his image that he can’t abide this incapacity. The very idea of showing a weakness, of not being flattered and considered perfect, is unbearable to him. It’s unthinkable for him to ask someone to cut his meat up for him during a meal, unacceptable to put out his hand towards a glass and knock it over … Besides, there was one detail that convinced me I was right. During that meal, when he wanted to propose a toast, his servant did not pass him his glass; he put it in his hand. A domestic would never behave so rudely without good reason. That’s why Colonel Barguelot refused to cross swords with Marshal Davout and why he parried so badly the attack by that Russian officer at the foot of the Great Redoubt, whereas he actually had been a good swordsman in his youth. His wound even explains his repeated “sprained ankles”.’

‘How come?’

‘Colonel Barguelot really was an officer of great courage. He proved it at the battle of Austerlitz but he never talks about this exploit, which is out of character. Do you remember the rumour you told me about concerning the wound he’s said to have received that day? Well, I’m sure it’s true. He must have lost an eye at Austerlitz. When he realised that this wound made him a partial invalid, that his image had been tarnished – because this is his strange way of seeing things – he was terrified. Colonel Barguelot is not afraid of death but of the image others have of him. It’s his wound that has made him a coward. The conclusion I was able to draw from all this was that Colonel Barguelot was not our murderer. Because how the devil could he have escaped so acrobatically across the rooftops?

‘We know that the man we’re looking for probably knows the identity of the other suspects. He himself had a note sent to Colonel Barguelot to get him to come to our rendezvous. It was an excellent idea. On the one hand Barguelot’s arrival was a diversion that almost cost me my life. On the other hand we all suspected Colonel Barguelot. When I realised my mistake, I decided to make it look as if we were still convinced of Colonel Barguelot’s guilt. I said nothing to you because the murderer needed to be convinced of this. But in secret I continued to keep our suspects under surveillance. Unfortunately, our man did not betray himself. I’d assumed that he would seek out another victim, in which case my spies had orders to intervene. Either out of suspicion, because he didn’t want to, or because the opportunity did not arise, he did not strike. The murderer was the marksman in hiding. It couldn’t have been Delarse: with his asthma he would never have dared to escape by wading through ashes. That left our Italians and Pirgnon. The murderer knew Colonel Barguelot well enough to find a way of forcing him to go to a remote district alone at three in the morning. But our Italians had never been outside Italy before. They hadn’t taken part in any campaign and were mouldering away in their provincial garrison. They therefore had very few senior officers among their acquaintances. That’s why I inclined towards Pirgnon.’

Margont waved the letter handed to him by Colonel Barguelot.

‘Barguelot has just confirmed to us that Colonel Pirgnon was aware of the contents of this note! Although Pirgnon is capable of going into raptures over a poem or a painting, he seems to have no feeling for human life. His passion for classical heroes is morbid: he probably considers himself a sort of demigod, a superior being to whom other men’s morals and laws do not apply.’

‘What are we going to do? Inform Prince Eugène?’

Margont shook his head. ‘Colonel Barguelot will never give evidence. That would mean admitting the truth of what was in that note. I think he’d be capable of blowing his brains out rather than face such dishonour. And Pirgnon is very well thought of in IV Corps. Are we really sure he’ll be put on trial for his crimes?’

‘Well … yes, surely.’

‘Not surely enough for my taste. Especially amidst such chaos, where every senior officer who’s survived is worth his weight in gold.’

Lefine blew on his gloves. ‘I think I’ve guessed what Prince Eugène would think if we broke the news to him: “My God, how much simpler it would be if the Russians would just kill Colonel Pirgnon for us.”’