Текст книги "Officer's Prey"

Автор книги: Armand Cabasson

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CHAPTER 7

DURING the return journey Margont thought back over his life. He often did so at the start of a campaign. His past reminded him of a baker’s dough that had been kneaded by too many hands, each with their own idea of what shape to give the future loaf. Eventually, he had been brave enough to choose his own way, despite the opposition of those around him. Arrogance had saved him from doing what others wanted.

He was born in Nîmes in 1780 into a family of winegrowers and his father, Georges Margont, had died of a fit of apoplexy in 1786. As his mother could not provide for her son and two daughters, she decided to move to Montpellier to live with her brother, Ferdinand Lassère, a hardened and religiously inclined bachelor whose ambition was to turn the young boy into a priest or a monk. ‘What an absurd idea!’ Margont frequently exclaimed, remembering the time when he was forced to read the Bible and to pray every day.

His uncle sent him to study at the Benedictine abbey of Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert. This monastery, founded more than a thousand years earlier and situated in the gorge of the River Verdus, was a resting place on the pilgrimage route to Santiago de Compostela. Its architecture was a mixture of Romanesque and Southern French styles. Built on to the magnificent, astonishingly high nave were a cloister and a few buildings that marked the boundaries of a verdant quadrangle. For four years this place had been Margont’s whole world. He had practically never been allowed to leave it. When he had complained about the lack of freedom, the monks had tirelessly repeated to him that solitude would open up his mind to God.

At that time the community of Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert was a far cry from what it had been in centuries past. Although only six monks remained, life inside those walls still continued in the time-honoured tradition: long hours of prayer, meditation, contemplation and services. Fortunately for Margont, study also played an important part in the activities of the monastery. He was taught reading, writing, Latin, Greek, mathematics, history, geography and theology. His marks were good or outstanding except in theology, where his results were nonexistent because the simplest of questions (‘Who died for us on the Cross, Quentin?’) elicited a deliberately wrong answer (‘Joan of Arc, Brother’).

In a monastery almost everything is forbidden, particularly anything you might want to do. So Margont spent hours reading in the cloister garden. This space represented the last bastion of freedom, even if it was surrounded by monks and walls. Words gave him access to other horizons, other thoughts and other lives. No one around him seemed to understand that without books he would have ended up not a monk but insane. Nobody, that is, except Brother Medrelli, a well-respected monk who taught history and mathematics. It was he who took this rebellious pupil under his wing. He became his mentor and gave him private lessons, in addition to the already extensive regular curriculum. He hoped to see him become a cardinal. According to the monk, when this young ‘believer’ claimed he was without faith, he was being insincere. Brother Medrelli was open-minded, understanding, tolerant and warm-hearted. He provided Margont with a constant supply of books and allowed the boy to accompany him on the rare occasions when he went for a walk (even if it meant running to catch up with him at the Devil’s Bridge, as happened on one famous occasion when he attempted to escape). Margont gave him the affectionate nickname ‘my friend the citizen-monk’. Even today the two men still often wrote to each other.

In 1790 the Republic, as represented by the National Assembly, abolished all religious communities. Margont cried as he emerged from the main door of the abbey. He was free.

He returned to his uncle’s in Montpellier. Lassère still wanted to make a priest of him. Father Medrelli, knowing him better, wrote suggesting he should take up medicine. His mother, for her part, wanted him to buy back the family vineyards in order to follow in his father’s footsteps.

‘To satisfy you and to please my uncle as well, perhaps I could make communion wine,’ her son would sometimes say bitterly. It was no longer the walls of Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert that closed in around him but everyone else’s wishes.

Thankfully, at Brother Medrelli’s insistence, Margont continued to study. He still read voraciously and loved to go for long walks through the streets of Montpellier. During his adolescence he became an ardent supporter of the republican cause and decided to get involved in politics. The world was changing and he wanted a hand in making it change even more and faster. His plan met with a frosty reception as at the time a number of politicians had lost their heads in more ways than one.

In 1798 he enlisted in the army and followed Bonaparte on his Egyptian expedition. On his return he had time to indulge his love of haphazard study. But from 1805 onwards there was one war after another. He had taken part in numerous battles, including Austerlitz, Auerstädt, Eylau and Wagram, and had had the opportunity to live in Berlin, Vienna, Madrid and many other places, making up for the time wasted within the four square walls of Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert.

Since then, like many others, he had been waiting for peace. A genuine peace, not a new peace para bellum, like that of Amiens in 1802 or Tilsit in 1807, during which all the countries concerned were actually levying troops and putting the finishing touches to their future battle plans. He wanted this forthcoming peace to be based on republican and humanistic ideals and for that he was prepared to fight, for the rest of his life if necessary.

Margont met up with Lefine as arranged. The inn had a low ceiling and was poorly lit by tallow candles that emitted foul-smelling smoke. There were tables of all shapes and sizes: round tables, workbenches, chests, casks. Business was business. For the owner of the place a military invasion meant first and foremost an invasion of customers. Despite the sticks of furniture, many soldiers were forced to remain standing, drinking beer straight from jugs or gnawing on chicken bones. Margont had to push his way through to Lefine, who was sitting at a barrel, dunking pieces of bread in a bowl of lentils.

‘Let’s go outside,’ shouted Margont, struggling to make himself heard above the din.

Lefine wiped his plate clean and followed Margont, his mouth full and a satisfied look on his face. In the streets the commotion was still at its height. French soldiers were jostling one another to get into a packed tavern. Italian dragoons from the Regina Regiment were roaring with laughter at the sight of one of their number, dead drunk, trying his best to climb on to a horse. His green coat was covered with mud and he’d lost his helmet. When he finally scrambled up on to his mount he was warmly applauded. He raised his hand in triumph, slid to one side and, feeling himself gathering momentum but unable to rescue the situation, crashed to the ground again. This was greeted with even more cheering. Margont turned a blind eye towards this sort of disorderly behaviour so long as it did not degenerate into looting and fighting. Knowing that thousands of people were going to die, it was natural to want to live every minute to the full rather than obeying orders and doing nothing for hours, just waiting for the signal to be given to move on.

‘So, what have you found out?’ asked Margont.

‘Not much. The murdered sentry belonged to the 2nd Battalion of the 18th Light Infantry. There’s no way of knowing where he was buried.’

‘What do you mean, no way of knowing?’

Lefine was furious at not being congratulated for the quality of his work.

‘Have you seen the crowd milling about here, Captain? It took me more than an hour to find someone who knew him. I went to find the battalion: nobody knows where Sergeant Biandot was buried. His friends believe he was assassinated by a Russian partisan. I did the rounds of the local graveyards. No grave has been dug recently except for the Polish woman’s. I came back here and questioned the grenadiers of the Royal Guard as best I could, but they weren’t in the know.’

‘What about the footprint?’

Lefine took a wooden sole out of his pocket.

‘The cast didn’t prove anything. It belonged to an ordinary, large-sized shoe. But here’s what the cobbler I found managed to make.’

Margont examined the object. He lifted up his foot and held the sole firmly against his own. It was about an inch longer than his.

‘It’s not you,’ concluded Lefine.

‘So, to sum up, our fellow belongs to IV Army Corps – since the other corps are too far away from Tresno – he’s athletic and has experience of hand-to-hand combat. He’s an officer, between five foot six and six foot tall and we know his shoe size. He’s right-handed. Finally, he’s a “Prince Charming”. How many suspects are we left with?’

Lefine looked up. ‘Let’s say … four hundred?’

‘There’s no way of discreetly enquiring about the movements of four hundred people on the night of the murder, especially when these four hundred blend in with forty thousand others.’ Margont stared at the wooden sole. ‘This is the only clue the “Prince Charming” has left us, like a Cinderella of crime. But I doubt whether it’s enough to find him.’

The sun had almost disappeared below the horizon and shadows were spreading over the plains and forests. The areas still bathed in sunlight were shifting and shrinking inexorably. The man was gazing in fascination at the sight. Recently he had felt that his mind was affected by similar phenomena. Dark thoughts were slowly clouding his certainties and his plans for the future.

The people he had killed – whether enemies in combat or others, such as the Polish woman or the sentry who had almost trapped him – had revealed something to him. Or, rather, someone: himself.

The whole of that day he had relived the evening he had spent with Maria, tirelessly adding an excess of detail to his memory of the scene: the words they exchanged, the decoration of the room, the dancing shadows cast by the guttering flames of the candles, the joyful expression on Maria’s face as they clinked glasses. One detail in particular had amused him: each time Maria blushed, she immediately rearranged her hair with the palm of her hand. He had liked that particular gesture because he had interpreted it as fake shyness. When she had invited him into her bedroom, he was convinced that she was going to give herself to him. But all Maria wanted was to hear him declare his love for her once more. She had refused to give in to him and suddenly he had wanted to make her suffer. That had given him more pleasure than words could express.

And today, as he looked at his soldiers – ranks he was once so proud of, the tightly packed bodies whose impact was irresistible, the dense mass, dark and bristling with muskets – all he could think of was the blood running through their veins. In his imagination he had stripped them of their bones and their flesh, reducing them to nothing more than an intricate network of blood vessels branching out in all directions. As if all that mattered to him from now on was blood. Had he become a monster? The question haunted him. There must be others like him. How many of them had enlisted in this army for the sole pleasure of seeing blood flow? If he happened to meet up with one of these predators, would he recognise him? And would such a being unmask him?

He looked down at his horse pistols with their ornate butts. One pull of the trigger and his life would end here and now.

He felt like a drifting skiff. Gradually, land was coming into sight. But where exactly would he come ashore?

CHAPTER 8

LEFINE was fast asleep when suddenly he felt himself being tossed about. A light dazzled him. It was the flame from a candle. Someone was shaking him. He opened his eyes and recognised Margont’s face.

‘Wake up, Fernand. I’ve had an idea.’

Margont was speaking in a muffled voice, scarcely able to contain his impatience. Several noncommissioned officers were stretched out on the floor of the tent. A shape lying rolled up in a blanket switched from its right side to its left, grunting as it did so.

‘All right? Are you awake? Get dressed. I’ll wait for you outside.’

Lefine pulled on his trousers, gritting his teeth. Captain or not, he was going to hit this unwanted visitor with the butt of his musket and then go back to bed. Bedraggled and furious, he joined Margont. The captain was already on horseback, holding a second mount by the bridle.

‘Everyone’s asleep!’ Lefine protested in a low voice, pointing towards the field with a sweep of his arm.

The area was covered with tents and bodies resting out in the open. Margont did not even hear him. He was engrossed in his thoughts.

‘Do you remember the ink marks on the victim’s fingers? Of course you do, I told you about them.’

‘Yes, so what?’

‘A private diary! I’m sure she was keeping a private diary. Everything makes sense. She enjoyed collections of romantic poetry, she called the man she had feelings for a “Prince Charming”: just the sort of person who—’

He suddenly broke off. He had just remembered the trace of blood that had not been properly wiped off the bolt of the trunk. Perhaps Maria had mentioned the diary to her killer. Once his murderous rage had passed, he had become worried about it. His victim might have written down his name, his rank, his regiment … So he had searched the room thoroughly. There was no mark on the clothes. He must have unbolted the trunk and then, realising that he was going to leave fingermarks, had gone to wash his hands so that no one would know he was looking for something. Then he had continued his search. But if these assumptions were correct, despite his crime, the man had remained cool-headed enough to unfold and refold every item of clothing. Such self-control seemed unbelievable to Margont. Or rather, he did not want to believe it.

‘The question is: did he find this diary?’ he murmured to himself.

Lefine was combing his hair with his fingers.

‘So you want us to go and look for this notebook, do you? It’ll still be where it is now tomorrow morning,’ he grumbled.

‘Get into the saddle! Don’t call me ungrateful: I’m giving you this horse to thank you for your help. A Pole sold it to me for a fortune.’

Lefine stroked the animal’s neck and lifted one of its legs to examine its shoe.

‘Into the saddle, Fernand. Do you know the proverb “Never look a gift horse in the mouth”?’

Lefine obeyed, waiting until later to assess the value of his new acquisition.

‘If this diary did exist, you or the murderer would have found it. Why would this Polish woman have hidden it when no one came to see her?’

‘That was part of the game. If you are going to write a private diary, you don’t leave it lying around on a table; you hide it carefully. It’s obvious you don’t know much about women.’

‘The women I associate with have nothing private, neither diaries nor … well, that’s how it is.’

Margont woke the grenadiers of the Royal Guard by clapping his hands and talking fast and furiously. The Italians looked at him with a mixture of fear and anger. For them there was no doubt that this hothead who had turned up in the middle of the night was raving mad. The two Frenchmen went up to the attic room on their own. Margont started with the bed, lifting up the mattress. Lefine unsheathed his knife and ran the blade between the joins in the floorboards.

‘You never know, we may come across a hoard of gold …’ he mumbled between yawns.

After an hour they had discovered nothing.

Lefine leant against the wall. ‘You have to know how to be a good loser. Can we go back to bed now?’

‘You’ll have all the time in the world to sleep when you’re dead. I would have thought that someone with such a well-developed practical sense as you would have guessed where the best hiding-places were.’

‘No idea,’ sighed Lefine.

‘Use your imagination. Ask the advice of my uncle in Louisiana.’

‘Yes, that was a good one! You should have seen that sergeant-major scribbling away furiously. His quill was scratching the paper joyfully and the idiot, so happy to please his master, was smiling like a dog wagging its tail.’

Margont folded his arms. ‘If this were your bedroom, where would you hide your private diary, the one in which you noted down the sums received for selling the secrets I confided in you as a friend?’

‘Where no one would think of looking for them. So, outside the room.’

Margont shot out of the room. At the end of the corridor was a locked door.

‘That must be a loft used as a storeroom or larder.’

‘Too risky, the innkeeper and his employees must go there regularly,’ Lefine remarked. ‘But up there …’

Margont looked up. Enormous beams were holding up the roof.

‘She could reach up there by standing on a chair …’

Lefine went back into the bedroom to get one but Margont jumped up and grabbed a piece of timber supporting several beams, hauled himself up and sat astride it. Nothing. He dropped back down to the floor with a loud thud.

‘I was wrong.’

‘At last he admits it!’

‘Or else … I’ve had another idea. I’m leaving. Stay here and keep looking! Try to get the Italians to help you. I’ll be back in less than an hour.’

Lefine was ready to fall asleep on his feet. ‘Well, go wherever you want! And when you come back empty-handed we’ll each get a spade and go digging all around the inn just in case Maria buried it! Then we’ll dismantle Tresno, a plank at a time!’

Margont went to see Maroveski again. The innkeeper was not asleep. He was pacing around the cellar. He didn’t say a word when he saw Margont enter, escorted by three of his gaolers. He’d given up expecting anything of them. The rings around his eyes had become puffy and were darker. Margont glared at him.

‘I believe you took a document from Maria’s bedroom just after she died, a notebook or something similar.’

‘I haven’t stolen anything. I don’t even know whether Maria had—’

Margont interrupted him curtly. ‘You must have heard of this diary from one of your servant girls or from Maria herself. And you took it away because you thought you’d find a clue in it leading you to the murderer. You wanted to settle the score with him personally, didn’t you?’

‘I can’t read.’

‘Either you can read or you’ll get someone to read it to you. If you wanted to make out you were a half-wit, you should have done so from our first meeting. Now it’s too late for that. I’m going to have your cell searched from top to bottom. But I warn you that in any case you will not be released until the end of this campaign or until the culprit has been arrested. So you’re going to remain a prisoner for some time. If you hide any evidence from me, we’ll both be losers. The only winner is the murderer.’

Margont turned towards the Italians. But he said to himself that if Maroveski didn’t speak up now, they would find nothing because the diary would be only a figment of his imagination.

‘Wait,’ interrupted Maroveski in a resigned tone of voice.

He scratched at the ground in a corner of the room and unearthed something. It was a notebook with a bunch of roses painted on its cover. Margont wanted to take it but Maroveski held on to it for a moment.

‘Swear to me you will burn it when all this is over. I don’t want soldiers reading it for entertainment or for it to lie around for years with loads of other papers.’

‘I swear.’

Margont briefly flicked through the pages of delicate handwriting. He then went to look for Lefine, whom he found arguing with the grenadiers of the Royal Guard, which was predictable.

He flourished his find in front of his flabbergasted friend and exclaimed: ‘We need an interpreter, straight away!’

The two men spoke to every civilian they came across in the street. And when they did eventually find someone who knew both French and Polish, they had a devil of a job persuading him to translate their document. The old man was holding by the bridle three scrawny mules that must have been around when his grandparents were born. So they wanted him to do them a favour, did they? Very well, with pleasure. But in exchange, they had to buy his mules.

‘For that price, can they translate Polish too?’ enquired Margont.

He threatened to call in the imperial police until the Pole agreed to sell him only two of the mules but for three-quarters of the price of the three because there was, of course, a discount for buying the three, which you lost if you only took two. In the end Margont handed him a few coins and managed to convince him that if he refused he would have these wretched beasts hanged just to put an end to the discussion. Both arguments were effective, especially the first, and the three men moved away from the crowd.

‘Begin at the end.’

Gnarled fingers turned the pages over.

‘It’s a woman recounting her day.’

The Pole spoke in a quavering voice. Margont nodded several times to encourage him to speed up.

‘June 27. An incredible, wonderful thing has happened to me. I was going to the market and I still had a few things left to buy. There were a lot of soldiers in the streets. It was unpleasant to feel all those men staring at me and to hear them laughing. I didn’t understand their jokes but it was easy to guess. Almost everything I wanted to buy had been sold and what was left cost four times more than usual. A tall soldier—’

The old man broke off. ‘I don’t know the French word for this. It’s the colour of hair that’s like red.’

‘“Ginger”, yes, “ginger”. Carry on.’

‘A tall, ginger-haired soldier appeared. He’d been drinking and was talking very loudly. He grabbed my dress and said something before bursting out laughing. I think he was saying he wanted to buy it. He began to lift it up. You could see my calves. I was very frightened; I screamed. I think some soldiers were telling him to stop but they were afraid of him. I started to cry and to …

‘What do you say when you move your body about?’ asked the Pole, shaking his fists.

‘“Struggle” or “defend yourself”. Don’t stop at every word you have difficulty with: carry on reading.’

‘Then a man arrived. He said something and the soldier let me go. The one who’d attacked me was shouting but my saviour remained calm. He was tall and well dressed. The soldier wanted to punch him but my saviour hit him with his cane and the other man fell over. Then he gave me his arm to accompany me back home. He did not speak Polish but knew a little German and we were able to talk. He is called Pierre Acosavan. He’s kind, polite and told jokes that made me laugh. He also loves poetry. He seemed to like me. He told me that he had to follow the army but promised that after the campaign he would come back to Tresno to see me. I don’t know who came up with the idea first, but we’ve arranged to meet again at my place tomorrow evening. I still blush at having agreed. But there’s nowhere else to go: everywhere there are soldiers who’ve had too much to drink. I made it clear to him that it was just to talk. My God, how could I have invited a stranger back to my room? There’ll be lots of people at the inn. If he behaves badly, all I have to do is scream. But I always worry about everything and I’m sure all will be well. On the way home, something incredible happened. A trooper came trotting up. He looked all around him. Suddenly he rushed up to Monsieur Acosavan, saluted him and called him “colonel”. I couldn’t make out the rest but I’m sure I heard “colonel”. Monsieur Acosavan interrupted him, smiled, said goodbye to me, promising to come back the following day, and went off with the trooper. My saviour’s a colonel! I can hardly believe it. I hope he’ll come back tomorrow.

The Pole looked up and smiled, pleased with himself.

‘Is that all?’ Margont asked him.

‘Yes. There’s no continuation.’

Margont thanked him and left, accompanied by Lefine.

‘To the best of my knowledge there’s no Colonel Acosavan in IV Corps. It’s definitely a false name but I want you to check it out all the same.’

Lefine had turned pale.

‘We’re looking for a colonel, are we? You must tell Prince Eugène that he needs to replace you.’

Margont spun round to face his friend. ‘Certainly not. The prince would have had a captain arrested for such a crime, but a colonel …’

‘It could be a colonel without much of a reputation so he’ll go to prison. In fact, he’ll be advised to commit suicide before the trial to avoid a scandal that would damage the army. Or it could be a famous and respected colonel and … he’ll get a rap on the knuckles and be let off.’

‘I sincerely hope you’re mistaken. Perhaps someone very important may be asked to sort out the problem he presents. But I have my doubts and I don’t want to take risks. So we won’t inform the prince; we’ll just carry on.’

Lefine had by no means reached the same conclusion.

‘It’s a colonel! A colonel! Rabbits never attack bulls.’

Margont walked away without answering him.