Текст книги "Officer's Prey"

Автор книги: Armand Cabasson

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Margont was surprised to find a queue of soldiers from various regiments waiting patiently on the steps. They were carrying a motley collection of objects: a candlestick, vases of various shapes, crockery, porcelain or ivory statuettes. Margont quickly climbed this spiral of greed. His face was expressionless. As he went past, some clasped their treasures to them for fear the captain might take possession of them. A sergeant-major was acting as the doorman. He saluted Margont and, interpreting the captain’s attitude as a sign of impatience in selling an item of great value, immediately let him in.

Colonel Pirgnon was examining an icon being shown to him by a Westphalian infantryman. It was of the Virgin Mary holding the Christ Child in her arms. The gilded background was damaged but the two faces remained strangely intact. It was not a miracle, however.

‘You filthy dog! You’ve scraped away all the gilding!’ exclaimed Pirgnon, making the Westphalian step backwards. ‘You have defaced a work of art!’

The German fled. Pirgnon showed the painting to Margont.

‘A painting of the “tenderness” type by the Stroganoff school! And he scraped it with a knife …’

The colonel had tears in his eyes. He was tall and well built. His slightly curly, brown hair and his rounded face gave him a placid look. Margont saluted him.

‘Captain Margont, 84th Regiment, Huard Brigade, Delzons Division …’

‘Yes, yes, but if everyone begins like that I’ll be spending the whole week in Smolensk. What have you got to sell me?’

Seeing Margont’s reproachful look, Pirgnon scowled.

‘Oh, I see. You’re judging me. May I know the reason for your visit, Captain?’

‘Well, Colonel, I’ve heard that you were the driving force behind the Cervantes Club in Madrid and I myself belong to a literary salon.’

Pirgnon’s expression brightened but his pleasure was mixed with wariness. ‘Oh, really? And where is that?’

‘In Nîmes.’

‘And what did you do in your literary salon? Because there are salons and salons.’

‘Oh, it’s not one of those society salons where people go just to be seen. If that’s what people want they can go to Madame Cabarrus’s or Madame de Montesson’s. I’ve never been invited, but in any case an evening of deadly boredom is too high a price for me.’

Pirgnon folded his arms. ‘How I do sympathise. And what’s the name of your salon? Who are its members? What do you do there?’

‘The Roast Duck Club.’

Pirgnon seemed put out. Obviously it was far less elegant than the Cervantes Club. His large pink cheeks and huge head made him look a bit like a baby still.

‘I have to admit I don’t get it, Captain.’

‘The members argued about what to call our club. The Cicero Club, the Voltaire Club, the Molière Club … But there must be dozens of Voltaire Clubs and Rousseau Clubs in every town.’

‘Two Voltaire Clubs were indeed created in Madrid. They had a violent argument about who came up with it first.’

‘I trust they both had their comeuppance, so to speak. Well, in a word, we were wondering whether our debates were in the spirit of Rousseau; Molière had his devotees and Voltaire was beating Virgil hands down, which led the poet’s supporters to claim that once more the moderns were shafting the ancients. At this juncture I remarked that the only point we were all agreed on was the desire to sit down to a good meal together. My suggestion had in its favour the fact that even if it didn’t please many, it didn’t offend anyone. And as we had before us at the table six splendid roast ducks …’

Pirgnon invited Margont to sit down.

‘For Cervantes it was easier. As the instigator of the project and the highest-ranking officer, I chose the name. As literary salons are all the rage, everyone wants their own and all too often society gatherings pompously call themselves “Madame So-and-So’s literary salon”. People read out poems stolen from those more inspired than themselves, after carefully tinkering with the lines in the naïve belief that they will not be found out. Each member is eager to laugh at the others’ offerings in the hope that they will reciprocate. So everyone leaves full of unearned praise. Some even convince themselves that they can “improve” Ducis’s rhyming couplets.’

‘Our salon is open to all; no account is taken of social background or income or connections, to the chagrin of the prefect who is still not a member. To join our club all you have to do is read out a text you’ve written that appeals to the members, and be capable of making appropriate comments on political, literary and philosophical topics. During our meetings we submit our writings to critical scrutiny, we discuss works we have read, we argue … A sense of humour and a love of rhetorical debate are highly appreciated. Perhaps it’s the influence of the Roman amphitheatre that we can see from the windows of our salon. Our most lethal weapon is wit and we finish off those we have wounded with the cutting edge of irony before being reconciled around the inevitable roast ducks.’

Pirgnon grasped Margont’s hand and shook it warmly.

‘I admit you without further ado to membership of my next salon: the Moscow Club. I hope we will also number some Russian members. Ah! Moscow … We all dream of it, don’t we?’

Pirgnon began to display his acquisitions. A silver samovar that he liked so much that he had taken to drinking tea for the sole pleasure of using it. An iconostasis, a wooden screen decorated with icons, used for separating the nave from the sanctuary in Orthodox churches. Pirgnon explained that at the centre of the iconostasis saints were depicted interceding with Christ on behalf of the faithful.

‘What about you, Colonel? What do you ask of the saints?’

Pirgnon looked at Margont in surprise. He pointed at the paintings he had bought from some Italian soldiers who had been preparing to make a fire out of them so they could cook their meat.

‘I was – indirectly – one of the instigators of the decree of 14 Fructidor in the year IX, by order of which the Consulate created fifteen museums. The very idea of a museum fascinates me: bringing art within everyone’s reach. Show a Leonardo da Vinci to a tramp or a road sweeper and you open windows in their minds. In antiquity the Greeks reserved seats in their amphitheatres for the poor so that they could see Sophocles being performed. I shall give some of these treasures to museums. Man is nothing, only art matters.’

Margont remained silent, even if this statement shocked his sense of values.

‘But,’ added Pirgnon, ‘as I’m not a saint worthy of an icon, I shall keep the iconostasis and the samovar.’

He strode over to an impossibly cluttered corner of the room and rummaged among a jumble of paintings and elaborately framed mirrors before straightening up triumphantly, holding a canvas in his hands.

‘Do you know what this is?’

Margont had no idea. The portrait of a young woman in a pale green dress made him feel uneasy. Strands of her long, wet hair stuck to her face. Strangely, she was standing in a riverbed, indifferent to the icy water swirling around her delicate waist. Stranger still, her pallid complexion contrasted with the beauty of her features. Her skin seemed to be fashioned from the same snow that lay on the ground round about.

‘She looks rather poorly,’ Margont ventured.

‘That’s not surprising. She’s dead. She’s a rusalka. In Eastern European folklore, when a young girl commits suicide by drowning herself, she becomes a rusalka, a creature of the waters who uses her female form to seduce passers-by before drowning them. Some claim that it’s in order to devour them, others that it is simply the reflex action of her suffering soul, condemned to wander because it may not enter paradise.’

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

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

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

‘Absolutely.’

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

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

‘Here is Minerva, my favourite goddess.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.