Wolf Hunt

CHAPTER 9

MARGONT went to the soirée accompanied by Lefine, Jean-Quenin Brémond and Relmyer. Saber and Piquebois were already there, having been released from duty earlier.

Their nocturnal journey across Vienna was slightly surreal. The darkness accentuated the majesty of the buildings and Margont thought he could make out the ghost of the Holy Roman Empire, which had been mortally wounded at Austerlitz but had lingered on until July 1806. Napoleon had finished it off by dismembering it, thus weakening Austria and creating the Confederation of the Rhine, a constellation of German states that orbited around France. Vienna was occidental clearly, yet the Orient also manifested itself without it being clear exactly how. The Turks had long since left Vienna, but the city still bore their trace, the imprint of their extraordinary culture. The long grandiose succession of facades was interrupted at regular intervals by enormous black holes. The streets and avenues bore the scars of the almost two

thousand cannonballs and shells that had rained down on them during the night of n May. The capital had resisted as best it could with its fifteen thousand soldiers and some of its population. Napoleon was adept at showing magnanimity towards those who surrendered to him, but he was fearsome in the face of any glimpse of resistance. After the first deluge of missiles and their fiery aftermath had branded the night like red-hot iron, the Emperor had set himself to annihilate the city in thirty-six hours of widespread bombardment. Vienna had capitulated. Napoleon immediately had a proclamation read to his soldiers announcing that he was giving the ‘good inhabitants’ of Vienna his ‘special protection’. The text further stipulated that ‘wicked troublemakers’ would be subject to ‘exemplary justice’.

Vienna was a strange mixture of past and present, West and East, monuments and ruins, grandeur and war damage - a melting pot propitious for every sort of concoction.

The Mitterburgs’ house stood in a garden enclosed by an iron railing. The vast edifice, with its ochre facade, was reminiscent of a Venetian palace washed by a lagoon. Relmyer explained that the Mitterburgs had made their fortune in the coffee trade. The grandfather, now dead, was so fond of the beverage that he had made it his career. He had taken the trouble to learn Turkish so that he could negotiate his imports more easily, between the two Austro-Turkish wars. The drink became increasingly popular. Cafes sprang up across Europe and soldiers were annoyed when they were unable to get hold of it...

Lefine listened avidly. What a good strategy for getting rich! To guess today, before everyone else, what would become indispensable tomorrow. And he was indeed trying, trying to think of something ...

They entrusted their horses to the servants, who hurried from carriage to carriage to greet the guests. A stiffly formal footman invited them to follow him. His tight white stockings made his legs appear spindly and his shoes grated on the inlaid parquet. They crossed a dark corridor bathed in the echo of music, laughter and conversation, and emerged into the light, noise and life of a large gallery.

A glittering crowd filled the long, wide room. Dresses with trains mingled with the sumptuous uniforms of Napoleon’s Empire. Allegorical frescoes decorated the enormously high ceiling. The two long walls were adorned with large mirrors, amplifying the space and making the people appear more numerous. There were so many French windows in the wall overlooking the garden that the people appeared to move in a white luminous universe with gold panelling against a backdrop of green and darkness. Colossal crystal chandeliers, strewn with candles, hung low on astonishingly fine cords as if in reminder that even the largest and most brilliant worlds hung also by only a thread.

‘Here’s to coffee!’ was Lefine’s enthusiastic verdict.

To Margont, there was something strange about the dancing couples gaily bounding under a forest of raised arms, and the beautiful women installed in blue brocade armchairs decorated with gilt. Officers were everywhere: colonels, a few generals and some members of the general staff. Had Margont not seen the catastrophe of Essling, if he had just arrived in Vienna, he would have said to himself, ‘What a party! What joy! Why are people saying the situation in Austria is so worrying? They must really have exaggerated the defeat at Essling.’ Napoleon was a master of propaganda; he excelled at projecting the right image, at using the right symbols. The balls and plays that he propagated in Vienna were a demonstration to Europe that the setback at Essling was so insignificant that he was not even going to interrupt his worldly pleasures. So Prussia and England waited instead of involving themselves actively in the war, wary of an adversary who, even when hurt, continued to dance and smile. The joyous melodies of violins were as intimidating as cannon fire and bought Napoleon some time. It would not last and the Emperor knew it. Everything depended on the next battle.

Margont and Relmyer started to look for Luise while Lefine and Jean-Quenin Brémond went over to the buffet while studying the cartouches of mythogical scenes scattered over the walls.

Margont’s glance wandered over the crowds in uniform. There were geographic engineers in their blue coats and bicornes, their eyes exhausted from drawing up maps of the exact topography of the interminable semi-islands littering the Danube; aides-de-camp serving one general and criticising all the others; Bavarians in light blue coats with breastplates in their regimental colours and tall black helmets bulging skywards; cuirassiers who had left their armour behind, and looked ill at ease, like crabs without their shells; hussars as colourfully attired as their reputation warranted; Polish Light Horse in blue and scarlet, who hated the Austrians almost as much as they hated Russians and Prussians, and who delighted in tormenting the Austrian nobles by ‘accidentally’ knocking into them; the élite police force in leather breeches and blue coats with red lapels, often in conflict with the French soldiers who rebelled against their authority; colonels with shakos topped with plumes or crests; bicorned generals whose importance could be measured by the sycophantic crowd that gravitated towards them ... And finally, at the summit of the pantheon of the imperial mythology, reigned the grenadiers of the Old Guard, giants made still taller by their enormous bearskins, which their terrorised enemies could spot from afar. These praetorians, who had never lost a battle and whose appearance signalled the death sentence for all those who stood in their way, were Napoleon's most trusted élite troops, which he called on only as a last resort. All the various soldiers chatted, drank, paid court, danced ... At the back of the gallery a monumental Dresden china clock dominated the scene, impossible to ignore. Its presence seemed to murmur, 'Hurry up, time is passing and life is short,’ a message known and much repeated but none the less true. And especially true for these soldiers, who would perhaps all be dead in a month.

The Austrians were equally numerous: sympathisers of the French Empire, proponents of an Austrian revolution, or those simply wanting to mingle with important people.

Margont finally caught sight of Luise just finishing a conversation, but he was careful not to greet her or to point her out to Relmyer.

She was sublime. Her white dress with puff sleeves was elegantly pleated in the manner of a toga, and seemed to diminish her pallor. She wore long gloves to the elbow. Her dancing slippers beat time, as much to the rhythm of her impatience as to the rhythm of the waltz. Round her waist she wore a red bow, where others had chosen golden or cream belts. The scarlet attracted attention and was emphasised by the flower pinned to her bosom. White and red, the colours of Austria, with the red on her heart. Luise was declaring her patriotic convictions. She must have been annoyed to see her parents welcoming the French into their home in this way. Her hairstyle had not changed and Margont was delighted because the new fashion for the Titus cut, very short and frizzy, left him cold. He did not understand why people longed to live in the manner of eight hundred years ago. And, happily, neither was she wearing one of those ridiculous crowns of wilting flowers straight out of an embroidered fantastical picture of the Muses. Luise had not spotted them yet; she was still looking about. How delicious it was to be able to observe a woman you were attracted

to! Margont could have continued to watch her longer than was seemly. He wanted to savour the moment when she finally noticed him. He wanted to catch that instant of condensed time when the anxious quest ended and just before social niceties took over. That second of truth, when emotion and surprise make you briefly drop the mask that society obliges you to wear. Alas, Relmyer waved to Luise and when her expression changed to one of intense joy, Margont could not tell how much of that was for Relmyer and how much for him.

Margont and Relmyer skirted round the dance floor where couples, hands joined, arms raised, sketched complicated patterns in agreeable but artificial harmony. They passed in front of the orchestra, all powdered wigs, ochre livery, silk stockings and aggression muzzled by propriety; unleashed a storm of tut-tutting and fan-waving as they brushed past a group of young ladies in search of partners and reached Luise, who had walked over to meet them. She looked at Relmyer, her eyes shining with tears. Her distress, misinterpreted, earned him withering looks from scandalised ladies nearby.

‘You’ve grown.' she stammered humbly.

Relmyer was equally moved. Thousands of phrases came to mind but they did not manage to say any of them. They were unable to express their evident joy, because their reunion emphasised the loss of Franz. Their couple was an amputated trio.

Margont did not exist for Luise at that moment and it pained him. Yet again, the past displaced the present and he did not belong to their past. Colour returned to Luise’s cheeks and her voice grew firmer.

‘I have so much to reproach you for, Lukas! You’re lucky that I have forgiven you, you traitorous French hussar. You abandoned me, never wrote to me or sent me news, and you were too pigheaded, stupid and selfish even to let me know you’d returned to Vienna!’

She took his hand tenderly, to assure herself that this reunion she had so often dreamt of, although not in these circumstances, was in fact real. And also so as not to lose her brother again. Relmyer gently freed his fingers. Luise turned towards Margont. She looked radiant.

‘You’re very elegant in your enemy uniform. But I class you separately in a strange category of “enemy friends”. I am delighted to see you, even though I would have preferred you in civilian clothes.’

‘I would have preferred that too. Your colours are more reminiscent of a uniform than a ball gown.’

Relmyer turned his back on them.

'The old bat isn’t here yet,’ he murmured.

He was watching for her so avidly that he forgot about Luise and Margont. The latter hastened to take advantage of that.

‘Luise - I can call you Luise? - there’s something I’ve been dying to ask you. What did you mean exactly when you said that you had guessed that, in a way, I was an orphan?’

Luise had expected that question.

‘Tell me about yourself and I’ll answer you.’

Her tone was teasing but her expression serious. Margont entered into the spirit of the game.

‘My father died when I was small. My mother couldn’t support us any longer so sent me to live with one of my uncles. He took it into his head to make me a monk. A calamitous idea ...’

Luise tried to imagine Margont as a monk. It was a disturbing image.

‘He must have wanted to redeem his sins,’ she hazarded.

‘And I paid the price. I was shut up against my will in the Abbey of Saint-Guilhem-le-Desert, in the south-east of France. I wasn’t allowed to see my family any more, nor to leave the abbey. I thought that I would never leave the place again. I felt utterly abandoned, like an orphan. I stayed there from the age of six until I was ten.’ Margont had presented his account in an orderly fashion. His summary resembled a report. But rage and sadness boiled within him, like pus in an abscess that would neither burst nor reabsorb itself, so could never heal.

‘How did you escape? You must have driven those poor monks mad.’

‘Actually that was one of my favourite tactics. However, it was the Revolution that liberated me - by suppressing by decree all religious communities.’

Luise shook her head. ‘No, you liberated yourself. Someone can let you out of a prison, but your spirit can still remain a prisoner. I’m the same - I freed myself. It took me years and years ... One day, at Lesdorf Orphanage, they taught us about earthquakes. I was terrified for weeks; I had nightmares. I kept thinking the earth was trembling. I imagined a country where the ground shook all the time, where houses collapsed and people walked about in streets devastated by every strong trembling ... In fact it appears that these phenomena only last a few seconds. Humans can tremble for a lot longer than the earth can. Of course, my adoptive parents genuinely love me. But do you know why they chose me and not someone else? It’s because I was good - very important, that -because I was in perfect health and I was a conscientious student.

I read, wrote and sewed well and I had good manners. Sometimes when I get angry with them because we don’t agree about something, I wonder if they’ll send me back to Lesdorf for “breach of contract”. Oh, I’m talking too much! It’s your fault! And now you’re going to think I’m ungrateful. But it’s not true! I love my parents with all my heart. It’s just that I’m frightened. Frightened of losing everything a second time, of living through another earthquake.’

She tried to shake off the sadness that had come over her and added cheerfully: ‘Please excuse me. It’s the gaiety here. Sometimes excessive jollity makes me melancholy; distress, on the other hand, has a galvanising effect. I often say that I’m like an inverse mirror that transforms black into white and vice versa. Which is lucky, since the world is much more often dark than light.’

Margont was gripped by a sort of euphoria, which annoyed him since he liked to believe that the mind controlled the body. He had just understood why the young Austrian girl held such fascination for him. They had both been abandoned. They had fought their suffering and had succeeded in dominating it using sheer force of

will and their own philosophy of life. So Margont was a humanist because, in a way, he manifested towards other people the support and attention that he had found so cruelly lacking. Luise herself had constructed a nest, a cocoon, in which she lived happily with those she loved, and she had been ready to expend whatever energy was necessary in order to defend her little world, which Wilhelm and Relmyer also belonged to. And she had determinedly tried to keep them close to her. Margont and she shared the clearsightedness of those who have been hurt by life, and the pugnacity of those who refuse to succumb a second time. They had suffered the same wounds and recovered by suturing the wounds in practically the same way. From their first meeting each seemed to have divined the other’s scar, even before they had worked out what it was that attracted them to each other. Margont then realised that, contrary to what he would have expected, exposing the secret did not diminish in any way the feelings he had for Luise. Rather, the opposite was true. She seemed admirable to him, and he would have liked to forget everything else and lean towards her to kiss her. Luise blushed as if she read his thought, and she lowered her eyes. Margont in turn tried to guess what she was thinking. In vain. Relmyer spoke to them distractedly and Margont inwardly cursed him. Luise looked up at Margont again, her blue eyes sparkling.

‘You’re not as altruistic as I thought. You’re helping us for several reasons and one of those is your past. I’m happy about that for you. In life, it’s good to know how to be selfish.’

Had Lefine been there, he would have applauded. But he was systematically pillaging the buffet, swallowing quantities of canapes. Luise had arranged civilian clothes for him because his non-commissioned officer’s uniform would not have got him past the footmen. He joined people’s conversations, introducing himself as ‘an aide to Commissioner of War Papetin’. He took great care to make his lies as clumsy as possible so that soon people were asking each other about him, discreetly, behind his back. They suspected him of being one of Napoleon’s spies, the secret weapon of the Emperor, an ace up his sleeve. Perhaps he was that

genius of manipulation, that master of astounding exploits, the extraordinary Schulmeister himself! People said - was it true, false or a bit of both? - that in October 1805 he had persuaded General Mack to believe that Napoleon and his Grande Armée were withdrawing in disarray to put down a widespread rebellion in the Vendee, supported by an English landing at Boulogne. Reassured, Mack had delayed in joining the rest of the Austrian troops. When he realised his error, he had been unable to prevent his division from being surrounded. His punishment: twenty-five thousand Austrians captured in the town of Ulm. Yes, this person was almost certainly Schulmeister since he looked nothing like any of the portraits that rumour painted of the celebrated spy. It was even said that Napoleon, who had regular meetings with Schulmeister, did not recognise him when he was in disguise. The Austrian aristocrats blanched when Lefine went up to them, causing him to bite his lips in order not to laugh.

Relmyer hopped nervously from foot to foot. He hated the celebratory atmosphere. Obviously the magic of Viennese balls, which he had spoken of, failed to stir him tonight.

‘When on earth is she going to be here? The dirty scoundrel.’

He could not bear the wait. Margont realised that Relmyer was different from Luise and himself. Instead of relying on his strength of character, he fell back on his physical strength. He had trained ceaselessly, covering his body with a discreet but effective carapace of muscle and making his sabre into an extra limb. But at this moment physical strength was no help to him and impatience inflamed his anguish. He looked over at the punch the footmen in yellow livery were ladling out. After three or four glasses he would have felt so much better ... but the large crystal goblets of orange or yellow liquid were like wells in which he could not risk drowning.

‘I wonder if she’s in that other room,’ he said abruptly.

That sentence, peremptory and chilling, broke the rapport that had been established between Luise and Margont.

‘But I don’t see her,’ he added.

Luise was entangled in a web of emotions. Anger, fear, impotence,

despair, and disgust at her despair, all mixed together in a disturbing tangle. Paradoxically her face remained expressionless. ‘You’re never going to stop looking for the man, are you, Lukas?’ ‘No.’

Luise looked strained. ‘So we’ll be haunted by this affair for the rest of our lives! Suppose you never find him?’

Relmyer swung round, turning his back on them. His parting words were, ‘Why don’t you just enjoy yourselves! I’ll come and tell you when Madame Blanken is here.’

Luise went over to the buffet. She asked for some cold water, then, annoyed by the mannered slowness of the serving boy, changed her mind and left the full glass on the sparklingly white tablecloth. She glared at Margont, pretending to be offended.

‘Don’t you know that it’s not suitable for a young lady to be alone in the company of a man? If you don’t ask me to dance immediately, people will talk.’

Margont longed to accept the invitation but he was intimidated by the grace of the couples whirling about on the floor.

‘It doesn’t matter if you don’t know how to waltz,’ Luise assured him. ‘Let yourself be guided by me.’

That annoyed Margont. Ever since they had met, it had been like that.

Luise led him into the middle of the couples, to avoid being stared at. Margont rapidly felt befuddled by slight vertigo. He held Luise in his arms as everyone wheeled about them. The war was still so close. He had almost been killed at Essling and perhaps he would fall on the next battlefield. He could quite easily have only seven more days to live. He tried to forget about the investigation, the frenzy of past battles and the accumulating signs of the military cataclysm to come. The waltz with Luise represented a few stolen minutes away from the crazy chaos of the world. He accelerated the pace, staring at Luise’s cheerful face, allowing their motion to obliterate the rest of the universe. She smiled, showing glimpses of pearl-white teeth. The musicians also succumbed to the power of the music. The tempo took off, the conductor’s gestures became expansive - now he seemed to follow his baton’s lead. Then

the music stopped abruptly. The silence was like a slap. Clapping crackled throughout the gallery. There was some quick toing and froing, and changing of partners, but Margont did not let go of Luise.

‘Again!’ he exclaimed quietly.

A new waltz started up. They twirled about in a haze of colour from the outfits and light from the candles, infinitely reflected by the mirrors and the gold panelling. The charm of the moment was enhanced by Luise’s musky perfume. Margont imperceptibly tightened his grip on the young Austrian’s waist. Time and thought seemed suspended and they were oblivious to the people round them. It was as if they were united in a capsule of emotion, which rolled endlessly in the light.

The orchestra broke off. Margont was looking forward to the next dance, but alas such persistence was unacceptable and Madame Mitterburg had her eye on her daughter. She dispatched the first fellow who came to hand to dislodge Margont. The man halted in front of Luise to request her pleasure, his shoulder nudging

Margont’s, indicating he was prepared to use force to eject the over-tenacious Frenchman. He was a lank, almost skeletal Austrian, the son of a good family who were friends of the Mitter-burgs. He had served in the Viennese militia and had been careful to stay put when the French drew near to Vienna. Had he advanced, he would have been obliged to engage them in combat. Had he fallen back, he would have been obliged to join the Austrian army. So he had stayed where he was, allowing himself to be captured, whereupon Napoleon, wishing to propitiate the Viennese, had amnestied and freed all the militiamen on condition that they returned to their families.

Margont moved away.

He heard Luise say in astonishment to her new partner: ‘Dear me, the Austrian army seems to have forgotten you in their retreat! Of course, when you depart in a hurry, you only take the essentials with you.’

Margont melted into the crowd, which was conversing in several languages. He spotted Luise and then lost her again, thanks to the

movement of the dancing couples. The magic was broken, the music had become just music, and to add insult to injury the exertion had reawakened the pain in his side. That in turn brought back incoherent memories of the carnage at Essling. Instead of the harmonious melody of violins he now heard firing muskets and explosions, and instead of red dresses he saw blood.

Madame Mitterburg came to introduce herself. Her grey hair, lined face, the prominent veins in her hands and her husky voice all emphasised the great age difference between her and her daughter. Margont envied her for knowing so much about Luise.

‘Luise has told me a great deal about you,’ she stated.

Too much, in fact, she thought worriedly. She listened politely as Margont explained in German which regiment he served in.

But he hastened to assure her, ‘I’m only a soldier because we are at war. As soon as it’s all over ...’

He stumbled over the end of the sentence. What did ‘all’ signify? He no longer knew. Would the war be over one day? They had fought practically without a break since the Revolution, and even the brief periods of peace had tasted of gunpowder. It felt to him as if they had embarked on another hundred years’ war.

‘I mean, when there is finally peace, I will start a newspaper.’

The old lady listened politely, blinking from time to time. Because she said nothing it was difficult to tell what she was thinking. The word ‘newspaper’ always intoxicated Margont so he launched into a long explanation of his idea.

‘Words are an antidote to the boredom of everyday life and help change the world. Newspapers and books stimulate the mind. It doesn’t matter whether you agree with what you read or not, whether you laugh or cry, get angry or applaud. The only thing that matters is that we read something - anything at all! - that makes us react. And our reaction, our feelings, opinions and new ideas in turn make other things to discuss. They then feed the debate, they add to and propagate the range of the “chemical reaction”.’

He was talking too fast, his German was deserting him and, realising this, he hurried to draw his speech to a close, convinced that his interlocutor was no longer listening.

‘In short, I hope that my newspaper with its controversies and ideas will give the public something to read that will contribute to all the strands of thought that enliven and transform people’s lives.’

Madame Mitterburg blinked again but said nothing. There was the sort of silence that makes you rapidly run through in your head the gamut of small talk that could restart the conversation, something unremarkable. The silence stretched out. Madame Mitterburg was still looking at Margont. He wondered if she was simply trying to fathom what it was about him that so appealed to her daughter. ‘You must have a drink,’ she declared finally. ‘You’ve done so much dancing ...’

She turned towards the buffet and asked for a drink. So much dancing? That was a bit of an exaggeration - he had danced two waltzes with Luise. He began to understand how far removed Austrian high society felt itself to be from the universe he operated in. In their world everything was regulated by a multitude of rules, codes, precepts and obligations. The slightest transgression set in train a flood of reactions designed to correct the misdemeanour. Madame Mitterburg was merely keeping Margont away from her daughter with this now rather ridiculous chat.

In the meantime, an Austrian nobleman had replaced the gangly creature, and others followed afterwards. So Luise danced but she did not derive any pleasure from it. Her waltzing was now just the conscientious application of the steps she had learnt in many hours of practice.

Margont thought of Relmyer. His criticisms of the investigation into Franz’s death had ruffled society feathers. He had been told to keep quiet, but gagging him had only suppressed his words, not his feelings. This world defended its image and its privileges and considered scandal its worst enemy, the potential source of its destruction.

The waiter arrived with a crystal glass on a silver tray, and Margont had an impulse to send the whole lot flying.

Astonishingly, Madame Mitterburg seized the glass and said to him, ‘Luise has had a great deal of grief in her life. Think about

that.’

She put the glass in his hand, which she grasped tightly in both of hers. The crystal was freezing, her fingers burning.

‘If you ever make her suffer, I swear that I will pay someone to kill you like a dog.’

With that, she left, abandoning Margont to his lemon punch.

Saber, who loved to gossip, joined him. With his head held high, accentuating his proud bearing, his glittering gaze and supercilious air, he looked like a brilliant general who had had to borrow a uniform from his batman, his own having been stained in heroic battle.

‘Poor old Quentin, your beautiful Austrian has ditched you. Dance with someone else to make her jealous. It’s even more effective if you dance with her best friend. The waltz sums it up: if you want to seduce an Austrian, you have to make them turn round in circles.’

Saber’s words of wisdom ... Saber wanted Margont to introduce him to Relmyer but was too proud to ask. Margont decided to make him wait.

Jean-Quenin Brémond whirled past with a brunette in a white satin and silver lame dress. She was gazing at him adoringly. Saber was rooted to the spot.

‘Jean-Quenin’s done well! All the girls love “Herr Doktor”! I’m happy for him/

He had sai d th is last in the tone of‘I hope he drops dead!’ Even in matters of love, Saber went to war. His rivals were his enemies. He did not seduce, he executed manoeuvres. The heart of a beautiful girl was a bastion he set himself to assault, then abandon, broken under his heel. It was not the women who attracted him the most, nor the most seductive, that he paid court to, but the most unattainable. That way, he was able to boast about his ‘victories’. And he was undeniably charming; alas, his Adonis-like beauty was like a spider’s web.

‘Antoine is not very lively this evening.’

It was true; Piquebois held himself aloof, leaning against a column, daydreaming. Distractedly he followed some of the couples

with his eyes, but more because he was mesmerised by the movement than because he was interested in them.

The music stopped and Luise rushed over to Relmyer, who was becoming increasingly agitated. She dragged him off forcefully to dance a polka. Lefine, in his turn, went over to Margont, euphorically brandishing his glass.

‘Schnapps - waltz, vodka - polka, punch - mazurka!' He emptied his glass with one gulp and concluded: ‘Another pleasure snatched from the jaws of death.’

Luise smiled at Relmyer, exaggerating her joy to try to impart some to him. The polka, madly jolly, had the dancers leaping about. Officers and their beautiful partners jumped, turned and laughed. But Relmyer remained like an ice cube, detached from the warm ambience.

The polka came to an end and Relmyer immediately left the dance floor. Luise pretended to be out of breath to excuse herself from an officer of the artillery of the Imperial Horse Guard, in a dark blue pelisse edged with silver fur and dripping in gold braid. His voluminous rounded black fur bearskin transformed him into a colossus with an enormous head. He was extremely surprised as he watched the beautiful Austrian girl depart: the Imperial Guard was not in the habit of being defeated. Luise marched over to Margont.

Saber murmured hurriedly in his ear: ‘She’s coming! Talk to me, act as if you haven’t noticed her and behave as if she’s interrupting us.’

Act as if he had not noticed her? Margont had eyes for no one else. Luise spoke to him urgently.

‘I’m entrusting Lukas to you. I want you to keep an eye on him. Promise me now.’

‘In view of his duelling skill, it’s more a question of asking him to protect me.’

‘It’s already done. Now it’s your turn, promise!’

‘I promise you/

Luise held his eyes to seal the oath. Margont looked at her without letting his pleasure show. So she had made him promise to

protect Relmyer! Saber was horrified.

‘She’s giving you orders! And you’re going to obey? What will happen if women start to control everything?’

The entire world is at war, so things can’t get any worse than they already are,’ retorted Luise.

Relmyer erupted into their midst, cutting off their squabbling like a ball running into a game of skittles.

‘Madame Blanken is finally here, the alte Funzel, wicked, greedy old hag ... Let’s grab her straight away before she’s embroiled in meaningless small talk with everyone.’