Wolf Hunt

CHAPTER 15

THE Milano’s sign was an enormous copper coffee pot held by a little black boy. Margont took an instant dislike to the crowded noisy cafe and wondered how Saber could possibly spend entire days here. Lefine, who was having all the same thoughts, indicated the billiard table as a possible reason, but Margont was not totally convinced. Saber was installed in a corner of the room. As was his way, he had taken the place over. His table was buried under maps, books, gazettes, and letters. His very bearing, sitting with an air of complete confidence and concentration, gave the impression that he was at home, and that he had graciously agreed to have his office turned into a cafe. He was in discussion with two other lieutenants. None of the numerous customers who were having to stand dared to ask for one of the empty chairs, which were piled with a jumble of letters.

Margont joined them and introductions were made. One of the lieutenants, Valle, bestowed an exquisite smile on Luise, who

signalled her lack of interest by turning to order coffee and bread before ‘forgetting’ to listen to the slew of compliments that the officer was giving her. She liked to keep her distance. Saber, who was cold towards Relmyer, annoyed with him for having wounded Piquebois, brusquely made space on the empty chairs by throwing their contents onto the ground and reorganising his documents. Like Margont, Saber loved both coffee and the effect it had on him. He drank it with exaggerated, mannered gestures. A waiter brought a tray with myriad cups, an immense coffee pot, a pitcher of milk and another of cream. Vienna was a paradise for lovers of coffee. Saber turned his into honey with dollops of sugar. Luise filled Relmyer’s up with cream, not because that was the way he liked it, but to give him some nourishment. Margont liked his pure, strong and bitter. As for Lefine, he chose to ‘sweeten it’ with schnapps, having swiped a bottle off the counter. Luise only started her drink when Relmyer had already drunk two cups. Margont had to press the servant accompanying Luise to dare to accept a cup. The man was astonished to be treated as an equal, and this little incident was to sow the seeds of republican ideas in his deepest thoughts.

The very fact of being served coffee, of doctoring it according to one’s taste, was a delicious pleasure and one that was enhanced by the company of friends. It was a very agreeable moment ... Margont temporarily forgot the war. Unfortunately Saber hastened to remind him of it.

This is Europe.’

Lefine stared, realising that Saber was indicating the maps. Maps! All the general staff were looking for those. They changed hands for extraordinary prices, as though they were valuable pictures! Or gold! And there they were, right in front of his eyes!

These are the Austrians,’ announced Saber, knocking over the sugar bowl.

The Austrian troops had possession of part of the world - a little mound of sugar represented Archduke Charles’s army. Saber also placed sugar in the Tyrol, in Italy and in Poland. Then he used breadcrumbs for the French forces and their allies.

‘Now the Russians: sugar or crumbs?’ he joked.

He opted for crumbs, even though the Russians were not proving reliable allies. In 1805, they had fought with the Austrians against the French. Four years later, new political alliances had redrawn the map, but Tsar Alexander I played a double game. As for the stubborn Russian soldiers and generals, they were loath to support the French and the Polish (especially the Polish, whom they hated). So, when Archduke Ferdinand’s forty thousand troops invaded the Grand Duchy of Varsovia, a state that was allied to France and defended by only six thousand Poles, Gallitzin’s Russian army, which was supposed to help the Poles, did not exactly hasten. And as the Russian army was already very slow when it was trying to go quickly, to say that they were slow in this instance was to understate things; it would be more accurate to say they were fossilised. As a result, Napoleon ran the risk of having to deploy thousands of soldiers just to shore up the Grand Duchy of Varsovia and to protect himself to the north.

But, Saber exulted: ‘Poniatowski, the general in charge of the

Polish, had them well and truly. When he understood that he would not be able to resist the Austrians head on, he decided to bite them in the tail/

As he said this, Saber placed the Polish crumbs in Galicia, to the south of the Austrians. He placed the bread as reinforcements, because that Austrian province had previously been Polish and welcomed Poniatowski as liberator. Archduke Ferdinand’s sugar troops retired precipitately into Austria so as not to find themselves dangerously isolated. Not only did this manoeuvre not succeed in weakening Napoleon, but it was actually detrimental to the Austrians, preventing Ferdinand’s troops from joining those of Archduke Charles, which had to continue to fend off the impetuous Poles.

That Poniatowski, what a genius!’

Saber beamed. Now he was Poniatowski. He wanted to manoeuvre the Polish troops, to continue the fight. Why had they stopped when they were doing so well? Saber had taken part in numerous battles, he had found himself soaked in blood - his own and that

of his friends shattered by round shot - yet he persisted in considering war like a game of high-level chess. His dreams of grandeur were impregnated with blood. For a long time Margont had been annoyed with him, considering him to be insensitive. But today, he was less certain. Saber was protecting himself by burying his head in the sand. The day he opened his eyes, he would be overwhelmed and destroyed.

The Tyrol! Rise in rebellion, General of Tyrol!’ exclaimed Saber. Thousands of mountain folk, furious that treaties between the powers had placed them under the control of Bavaria, had taken up arms. Their leader, Andreas Hofer, an innkeeper, had had some success in leading ambushes, attacking isolated posts, storming Innsbruck and even harassing the left flank of the army in Italy under Prince Eugene, Napoleon’s stepson. In the German states Major von Schill and the Duke of Brunswick were also agitating. The Austrians prayed for a generalised uprising but they still feared Napoleon’s might too much. Saber seized his cup and noisily crushed the Tyrolean sugar.

‘Insurrection repressed.’

In Luise’s opinion Saber was undoubtedly a bloodthirsty madman. She had also heard that the Tyrolean rebellion had not yet been beaten. The ‘sugar’ had certainly been dealt a severe blow, but that blow had only succeeded in fragmenting it and its ‘grains’ continued to pose problems for the French. Saber continued his demonstration - French officers and some Austrians had joined them, forming an attentive audience, and now he was talking more to them than to his friends. Saber was admirably well informed. Normally officers of his rank only knew about the state of their own company and any other titbits they overheard over supper. But Saber was convinced that he would be promoted to marshal one day and he behaved as if he already was one. His map began to make sense to Margont.

The Austrian plan was clever. It combined great sweeping manoeuvres to attack the French and their allies everywhere, at the same time. In the north, in Poland, and in the south, in Italy, with forty thousand men under the orders of Archduke John; in the

centre with Archduke Charles and round the edges using the partisans. This strategy forced Napoleon to disperse his force and gave notice that the Austrians were determined to open the conflict out. This was not a Franco-Austrian war, but a European war, with France and its Italian and German allies on one side, and on the other Austria and all its allies: England, Prussia, certain German states ... And what about Russia? Austria wanted to spearhead a vast coalition.

However, as is often the case in situations like this, the potential allies were hesitating. England had promised to dispatch an army to Holland, but constantly delayed doing so. On the other hand, in Spain and Portugal, the Spanish resistance and Anglo-Portuguese troops continued to recruit numerous French soldiers. When Napoleon recalled his contingents stationed in Spain to strengthen his position against the Austrians, he weakened his position against the English. He counterbalanced this by winning a victory against the Spanish, but he learnt immediately afterwards that an insurrection had erupted in Austurias and he feared that the Royal

Navy was behind it. Each conflict now took on monumental proportions because everything was linked. If Austria fought Napoleon again, Prussia would join in, guerrilla warfare would ravage Spain once again, and the English would this time send an army to Holland. Russia would probably join Austria. One error, one defeat, a single false step and the Empire could collapse completely, neighbour by neighbour, country after country. Margont lived in an extraordinarily precarious world. If the Empire collapsed would the ideals of the Revolution founder with it?

Saber’s finger tapped northern Italy and moved south-east to the gigantic Austrian Empire in Hungary.

The Italian army has pushed back Archduke John’s Austrians. The Emperor is scoring points in all the secondary theatres of operations and he is calling for reinforcements to prevent Archduke Charles from joining up with his own reinforcements. The more Napoleon destabilises his adversaries, the more the rebels’ ardour will cool.’

The principal armies resembled two queens face to face in the

middle of the chessboard, both immobilised, while elsewhere the pieces were ceaselessly manoeuvring and annihilating each other. At the end of all these moves, one of the two queens would feel sufficiently protected by its pawns to take action.

‘He should be made a general!’ decreed an enthusiastic captain. ‘Well, not really ...’ murmured Saber with false modesty.

Luise came closer to the table, the prelude to a brutal storm. ‘There’s no blood in your game. I’ll add some.’

As she spoke she tipped the coffee pot over the map. The puddle of coffee spread in a lake, soaking up the crumbs of bread and dissolving the sugar. Saber was too polite to reproach her; he merely withdrew his documents precipitately. Relmyer burst out laughing like a child, which made Luise relax. Saber, furious, was preparing to leave when suddenly he froze.

‘He’s here ...’ he murmured.

His anger had evaporated. Margont wondered who could have produced such a miracle. Normally his friend would not forgive such a humiliation; he endlessly rehashed past slights that

everyone else had forgotten. Margont looked round at the customers. It couldn’t be Napoleon - the walls and ceiling would have been reverberating to the cries of‘Long live the Emperor!’ ‘Maestro Beethoven is here,’ repeated Saber.

Margont leant towards Luise. ‘Who’s Beethoven?’

She shrugged. ‘A composer. He was very successful in the past and his sonatas have earned him some followers. But he hasn’t managed to win the heart of the public and his detractors are legion. He’s no Mozart—’

Saber reacted violently. ‘It’s Mozart who’s no Beethoven and not the other way round!’

He made more sense when he was talking about the war.

‘So who is he, this Beethoven?’ Margont asked impatiently.

Luise pointed out a strange-looking man of about forty. Red hair was escaping here and there from a badly brushed grey wig. Thin and husk-like, he resembled a solitary insect forced by hunger to go out foraging. Absorbed in his thoughts, he lived entirely in another world exclusively woven from music.

‘He hasn’t had the best of luck,’ added Luise. They were on the point of showing Fidelio here, in Vienna. That was at the beginning of May. But when people learnt that your army was on the way, no one wanted to go to the opera any more. The notices are still up on the walls ... Add to that the fifty million contribution demanded by Napoleon to punish Vienna, which led to a host of exceptional taxes, and the high cost of living thanks to the presence of your soldiers who devour everything ... Beethoven can’t have an easy life, that’s for sure. In times of war, in order to survive, most musicians are forced to eat their scores.’

No one was paying any attention to this regular customer. Beethoven did not have to place an order; since he was a habitue, the waiter knew to bring him coffee and cream. Saber was visibly excited.

‘Have you never heard his Third Symphony? It’s fantastic. He dedicated it to Napoleon!’

At these words, Luise stifled a laugh but said no more. She wore the joyous impatient expression of someone who knew what little catastrophe was about to take place and was keen not to ruin it. Saber would not stop talking about the maestro’s melodies. For his part, Margont, who was incapable of reading a score, understood little of what was going on. Saber had chosen to quench his absolute thirst with the great wins and the disasters of military life, but it seemed his thirst also extended to music. Without wars, would he start to churn out musical scores? Saber grew breathless.

‘It’s the fifth time I’ve seen him. He always just slips in.’

‘Have you spoken to him?’

Saber groaned. ‘No ...’

Margont had seen his friend’s bravery at first hand on the battlefield and here was Saber speechless in front of a man he admired. ‘Herr Beethoven, I am Lieutenant Irenee Saber. Allow me to say that I find your work absolutely sublime.’

Beethoven did not react. He drank his coffee, still wrapped up in his thoughts. His face and his gestures betrayed tension. His dreams were filled with rage.

‘Herr Beethoven?’

A customer came to Saber’s aid.

‘He’s almost deaf,’ he said in hesitant French, covering his ears with his hands to make himself clear.

‘How can a musician be deaf?’

‘Why not? He could hear before/

‘Yet he’s still composing ...’

‘He hears in his head.’

The Austrian tapped his temple as he said that. He burst into the raucous laughter of a pipe-smoker.

‘No one takes him seriously,’ he added.

‘Don’t say that. He’s a genius, you ... hypocrite!’ retorted Saber vehemently.

The customer beat a retreat, glass in hand, disappearing into the crowd. Saber smiled again and leant towards Beethoven’s ear, raising his voice.

‘Herr Beethoven? I’m Lieutenant Saber. I wanted to tell you—’

The maestro swung round suddenly to face him. His face was covered in scars, the result of smallpox, and his glasses magnified his eyes.

‘Don’t talk to me! Damn you French!’

His cheeks had become purple, emphasising the whiteness of his voluminous, old-fashioned cravat.

‘What’s become of your revolution? You launch your wonderful republican ideas on the world and then you found an empire! Napoleon has betrayed us all!’

‘I want to talk to you about your music ...’

‘Let go!’

But Saber had not touched him. Beethoven hurried to the door, knocking into customers.

The owner leant over his counter to shout: ‘Herr Beethoven! You haven’t paid! It’s not free here for musicians and poets.’

‘I’ll pay for him,’ declared Saber, throwing a handful of kreutzers at the owner.

Disconcerted, he rejoined his friends. When she did not like someone, Luise could be scathing. She looked at him contemptuously.

‘If I may correct you, Beethoven did not dedicate his Third Symphony to Napoleon, but to the revolutionary, Bonaparte. At the time he used to harangue the nobles in the public gardens to tell them that all men are equal, that monarchy was a thing of the past ... As Beethoven is an extraordinarily touchy man, persuaded that all the world is out to get him, he’s always involved in confrontations. He fell dramatically from favour when your Bonaparte became Emperor. He destroyed the title page of his Third Symphony, which is now called the Heroic Symphony, and it is dedicated to one of his patrons, the Prince Lobkowitz. Oh, yes, it’s such a shame that Beethoven ruined your sugary war game.’