Текст книги "Wolf Hunt"

Автор книги: Armand Cabasson

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CHAPTER 25

RELMYER hastily assembled a new detachment of hussars, but this time they skirted round the forest.

The village of Leiten was on the top of a hill and slid towards a valley carpeted with fields. Teyhern’s house was set apart, isolated by a large wood. Relmyer and his men encircled it.

The vast stone building dominated a courtyard enclosed by a wall. All the shutters were closed, giving the place the appearance of a fortress. Relmyer took hold of the axe fixed to the saddle of his mount. He was going to smash in a window near the door, but Margont advised him to choose one at the back. Relmyer obeyed and attacked the shutters with force, creating a noisy shower of splintered wood.

When he went into the house, he was struck by a sharp anguish. The gloom reminded him of the forest in which he had almost been killed. He crossed the room in a flash, bumping into armchairs, not taking the time to accustom his eyes to the darkness,

and opened one of the other windows. He could not repress a cry. In the salon thus revealed hung the portrait of the man for whom he had been searching for so long. The painting, which was small, decorated one of the walls, in the midst of some landscapes.

The picture brought back the memory of his kidnapping. He allowed himself to believe that the man was standing in front of him. An abyss opened up inside him, but Relmyer refused to look away. It was another ordeal that he inflicted on himself, yet more training to reassure himself that he was ready. He walked up to the portrait, and stared at those motionless blue eyes, holding the gaze that seemed so lifelike.

The soldiers went through the house and its surroundings from top to bottom. But they found nothing. The absence of feminine clothes indicated that Teyhern was a bachelor. He owned two rifles displayed on a rack. The rooms were tastefully furnished: pictures, French furniture, marquetry chests, Turkish carpets, porcelain or crystal vases ... Relmyer went four times to the cellar, obsessed with the idea that a young boy was dying there, in a recess that they had not noticed. He tapped the walls to see if they concealed a hiding place, looked for a trap door leading to a second cellar, opened a barrel that contained only wine ...

Then he returned to the salon, on the way moodily knocking into Pagin, who had not seen him. He let himself drop into a Louis XV armchair, just opposite the portrait, his legs stretched straight out in front of him.

‘I’m going to wait for him here,’ he announced. ‘For five more years, if necessary.’

Margont was keen to think through all the hypotheses and rank them, as an entomologist would classify insects into species and subspecies.

‘This could be the man’s house, but it might not be. If—’

Relmyer, leaning his elbows on the arms of the chair, gesticulated. ‘We’ve got his portrait and the business with the registers! A portrait is personal; you don’t go giving them to your friends!’

‘Well, quite. I’ve also verified that there’s no indication of any break-in other than ours. So the assassin did not come in here secretly and put that picture on the wall.’

Relmyer looked at him in fury. They were almost there! Why bother with all this speculation? Margont lifted the portrait and the other pictures, trying to see whether the parts of the wall underneath, protected from the light and dust, corresponded exactly to the outlines of the pictures. This examination was inconclusive and only succeeded in enraging Relmyer further. The artist had not signed the painting. It must have been done by a little-known artist who would be impossible to find.

Margont proposed something else: ‘I’m going to show this portrait to the neighbours to confirm that it really is Teyhern.’

‘No!’ said Relmyer. ‘I’m going to wait here to ambush him. If we question the neighbours, well be noticed. Someone will warn him that the French are after him and know where he lives. It’s imperative that Teyhern does not know that we have identified him.’ Lefine was of the same opinion.

He added: ‘In any case, we have already seen with Sowsky and his wife how difficult it is for us to learn anything at all from the

Austrians. The villagers will say that they don’t know Teyhern, whether it’s him or not

For the first time for five years, Relmyer felt a real sense of tranquillity take hold of him.

‘I’m in his lair! He will come back here, perhaps before the great battle, perhaps afterwards. And if he dies in combat, I will hunt out his body, even if I have to dig up a hundred thousand Austrians in public graves!’

‘Wait here?’ ventured Pagin. ‘But, Lieutenant, you can’t abandon your regiment. You’ll be accused of desertion ...’

‘Exactly. That’s why I’m going to stay on my own.’

Pagin was on the verge of tears. His role model was collapsing in front of his eyes! Relmyer was a lieutenant at twenty, and already famous thanks to his prowess with a sabre. General Lasalle, that mythical hero, had come to seek him out to cross blades with him in friendly fashion. Lasalle had applauded when Relmyer had hit him – without hurting him – for the third consecutive time. His colonel, Laborde, expected him to be promoted to the rank of captain of the élite force at the end of the campaign. And Relmyer was abandoning everything! For something that happened so long ago! Pagin could not understand it at all. He wanted to run at the portrait, to brandish it and smash it on the floor. In a sudden flash of intuition he realised that Relmyer was sitting rigidly to prevent himself from dashing at the portrait.

So he exclaimed: ‘I’ll stay with you, Lieutenant! I’ll kill him! I won’t miss, I swear it. By Christ, I’ll skewer him and disembowel his body just to be sure!’

Relmyer shook his head, imperturbable.

‘You can’t sacrifice everything!’ Margont told him, annoyed. ‘What’s more, if you’re taken, you’ll be shot. After all’s said and done, the man we’re looking for will well and truly have assassinated you, but indirectly!’

Relmyer smiled, deaf to all other logic than his own, and swiftly held out his hand.

‘Thank you, Quentin! Without you I would never have identified him. There are no words for me to express my gratitude.’

Relmyer shook his hand, pressing too hard.

‘Good luck, Lukas,’ said Margont.

‘Luck does not exist. There are only consequences.’

‘We will go back and tell Luise the situation. Would you like us to give her a message?’

‘Tell her that she is my adored sister and that I entrust her to you, should events prevent me from seeing her again one day.’

Everyone resolved to depart, abandoning Relmyer, his eyes riveted to the face of his enemy, installed like a king in his throne.

CHAPTER 26

ON 1 July, Napoleon set up his new headquarters on the Isle of Lobau, by this time generally known as Napoleon Isle. The general staff installed themselves there with great pomp. The Imperial Guard, ten thousand seven hundred strong, was set up around the Emperor’s tent. General Oudinot’s II Army Corps accompanied the Emperor. IV Corps received the order to leave Lobau to join the other corps, which were massing near the village of Ebersdorf. Only VIII Corps commanded by General Vandamme would not participate in the battle. The Emperor had decided to leave it behind in Vienna, in order to prevent any attempt at an uprising. The actions of the Austrian partisans had proved successful, mobilising at the back several thousand French and Westphalian soldiers.

Napoleon was living up to his reputation as a great tactician. He had a bridge built, named Baillot bridge, linking the Isle of Lobau with the east bank. That bridge was situated to the north of the island and was facing in the direction of the village of Essling, seeming to indicate that the French army was going to try to force a passage in the same place as a month and a half earlier. They placed cannon there to protect the bridge, and the next day, the Isle of Moulin was taken from the few Austrians who guarded it. The island was a wooded ridge near the Baillot bridge, between Lobau and the east bank. The French installed a battery on the Isle of Moulin, they built two bridges, one to link that island with Lobau and one to link it with the east bank, and then they built a redoubt to protect the head of that bridge.

The Austrians were perplexed. Was this a diversion or was the French army really going to move in the direction of Essling? Archduke Charles redeployed his soldiers. The vanguard commanded by Nordmann, and VI Corps under Klenau, positioned themselves in the north, to hold the villages of Aspern and Essling. The body of the army – made up of Bellegarde’s I Corps, Hohenzollern’s II Corps, Rosenberg’s IV Corps and the Reserve Corps under the Prince of Liechtenstein – gathered in the north-east, six miles from

Lobau. Since Archduke Charles did not know where the French were going to appear, he had arranged his army in pincer formation. If Napoleon attacked again in the north, Nordmann’s vanguard and Klenau’s VI Corps would have to contain him, backed up by Kolowrat’s III Corps, positioned a little behind. The principal force of the Austrian army in the north-east therefore manoeuvred to wedge in the right flank of the French. But if Napoleon advanced north-east, Archduke Charles would head him off, while Nordmann, Klenau and Kolowrat would come to cut off the French left flank.

In reality Napoleon was preparing to set foot on the Austrian bank by directing his army not towards the north, nor towards the north-east, but towards the east. The Austrians thought, wrongly, that an army would not be able to pass that way because it was too marshy. In addition, they thought they would have time to react should their enemy spring up unexpectedly there. Moreover, proceeding in this way, the French would be obliged to present their left flank to the Austrians before turning north to face them.

The French army spent the day of 2 July redeploying. Divisions crossed each other to reach their allotted places. The unbelievable mass of men, bathed in the noise of the clicking and heavy hammering of the tread of men and horses, was dizzying. The cuirassiers moved in serried lines, their horses practically biting the rumps of those in front. The convoys of artillery stretched out endlessly, leaving behind here and there a carriage with a broken axle. The columns streaked the meadows with black, and numerous officers orchestrated their progress, galloping in every direction. Couriers and aides-de-camp zigzagged between the regiments, continually transmitting orders: ‘Hurry up!’ ‘Make way for the Durutte Division!’ ‘Fall in behind General Pire’s cavalry!’ ‘Clear a path!’ Such was their number that, come the evening, not all the effectives had yet been able to reach their allotted position in the vast plan drawn up by the Emperor.

The soldiers tried to work out the significance of their position. They wanted to know if they would be amongst the first to mount the assault (heavy losses assured, but also better opportunities for promotion). Each time it was announced to a battalion that they would be placed at the front, some men rejoiced whilst others lamented. Each regiment was only a pawn on the chessboard, only just able to make out what was going on closest to them.

The evening brought a little cool air. The 18th of the Line was set up in a meadow. Everyone was preparing for the battle in his own way. Piquebois, his arm in a sling, devoured, all on his own, a roast chicken. Saber was seething. He had just delivered an impassioned speech to his company, evoking the glory of arms and the necessity of distinguishing oneself so as to be noticed by the Emperor. He had addressed these hundred men as though he were addressing a hundred thousand. He was practising for later on. At moments like this, he was no longer himself; ambition rendered him arrogant and inspired. He resembled a deranged gambler flinging coins on the table. He was ready, his company was ready, the army, the enemy, the world, the Emperor: they were all ready, what were they waiting for? Quick, a new map! Convinced that the war would propel him to the top of the hierarchy, he was

longing for the carnage. His mind, closed off from any idea of danger, was engaged in tactical calculations that were brilliant, certainly, but which interested only him. He marched to and fro, prisoner of the interminable wait, impatient to prove himself to everyone. But prove what? Why, everything, for goodness’ sake! Mar-gont had nicknamed him ‘Lieutenant Beethoven’. Like the composer, Saber had his symphonies playing constantly in his head and he avidly sought a stage and an audience.

As for Lefine, he was in quite another state of mind: he was fulminating.

‘When I think of all the time we took to build our cabin on the Isle of Lobau! And now they’ve thrown us out! Those overpaid pigs of the Guard are now sleeping there! It’s scandalous! Where is our June salary? The second of July is not June any more! Perhaps to the imperial accounting service, 2 July is 32 June. It’s daylight robbery! They’ll pay us after the battle, when there is no one left to receive it. That will make a nice economy, as usual! They force us to fight this war and on top of it all we have to do it on credit!’

He was talking, jabbering ... His flood of anxiety expressed itself in an interminable commentary all telling how he was the victim of the whole world.

Stretched out on the grass, Margont, having learnt to shut himself off in order to think, reflected on the investigation. He had just had an idea.

Lefine continued his peroration: ‘Do you realise that you get a salary that is almost eight times what mine is? But what would officers do without their sergeants, I ask you? Who would carry out their orders? Name me one single battle won by an army without sergeants? Hm? I’m waiting. We others, the noncommissioned officers, are the unloved of the army! Now without us, the—’

‘We have to get hold of some hunting dogs,’ Margont cut him off ‘Of course, dogs ... And fish also?’

‘We searched round about Teyhern’s house, but we could very easily not have noticed a hiding place, a subterranean shelter. Hunting dogs would be able to sniff it out! Let’s go and find

Jean-Quenin. A doctor will be useful. Then we will go and find Pa-gin so that he can escort us with some hussars.’

CHAPTER 27

MARGONT was worried about Relmyer and he gave a sigh of relief when he saw him coming out of Teyhern’s house. The young Austrian, irritated, hurried over. His drawn features gave the impression that he must have woken up several times a night, jumping at the least sound, real or imaginary.

‘What are you doing here? You have to leave at once!’

The three hounds, held on a lead by a farmer, were enough to disconcert him. Margont explained his idea.

‘If there is someone, pray heaven that we find him in time,’ Relmyer replied. ‘If there is nothing here, disappear immediately!’

The farmer let the dogs off the lead and they scattered. One ran towards the house while the others rapidly searched the area outside, their snouts to the ground, their tails wagging. Relmyer bombarded the farmer with questions. Did his animals understand what they were looking for, or were they going to pull out a hare? How long would they take to explore the area? How would they know when it was time to give up? Why was one of them barking? Could it not keep quiet?

The farmer was barely listening, merely grumbling from time to time, ‘My dogs know their business: if there is anyone here, they will unearth them.’ His age-weathered face brightened with pleasure, rejuvenating him. He was not worried about what these damned Frenchmen were up to, but he loved poaching. They were paying him and he was hunting with his hounds: that was enough for him.

Jean-Quenin Brémond did not like Relmyer. He was a part of the ever-growing category of those whose relations with the young hussar had been severed by his blade. However, he wanted to help Margont as best he could, even if his friend had not explained this affair except in the broadest outline. The medical officer therefore waited patiently, but stood at some distance from Relmyer. The scalpel never understands the sabre.

One of the animals disappeared into a mass of thickets, about sixty paces from the building. His two fellow hounds ran to join in, their paws flying over the ground. Everyone rushed over in their direction. Relmyer, ahead of everyone else, slowed down, and was overtaken. He had to be the first, but at the same time he was terrified of what they might find.

The dogs scraped the earth to uncover something. Lefine handed out spades and everyone began to dig. Relmyer leant against a tree. He was cursing himself and praying that there was no body. But after a while, the odour of putrefaction filled the air, coming from the ever-expanding hole. Margont thought he was going to vomit.

The farmer shrugged his shoulders. ‘Your game is off...' Relmyer would have liked to hit him but Margont said compassionately: ‘He doesn’t know about all this, Lukas. And if you take it out on him, his dogs will tear you to pieces.’

The farmer moved away. This affair was taking an unexpected turn and he wanted to avoid being too involved. A hussar went with him to keep an eye on him. Lefine kept turning his head, his mouth seeking less foul air and his eyes a less harrowing spectacle.

‘It’s not a hiding place, it’s a tomb.’

Relmyer did not move, shrinking inside himself.

‘Look at the size of the body!’ exclaimed Margont. ‘It’s an adult, not a young boy of fifteen Relmyer went quickly over to him.

‘Who is it then?’

Margont turned to Pagin. ‘Go and fetch the portrait.’

Lefine and the other hussars were moving off when Margont called them to order.

‘Let’s continue! We have to free the body.’

He set an example, forcing himself to ignore the sticky pestilential corpse. Lefine let his spade fall from his hands. The sight of the worms infesting that decaying carcass horrified him. Eventually Margont found himself digging on his own.

‘That’s enough,’ Jean-Quenin intervened.

‘No, I want to be sure that there is only one corpse in this grave,’ said Margont obstinately.

Relmyer went to fetch sheets from the house and helped him exhume the dead man. Margont continued to dig for a while. With each spadeful, Relmyer expected to see the face of a young boy appearing, as if the earth, dark and rich, had embalmed and conserved intact the body of another victim. Relmyer then looked around him. Was he going to have to dig for the rest of his days to find all the victims?

Margont joined Jean-Quenin. ‘What can you tell us about the corpse?’

In contrast to his companions, the medical officer showed little emotion. Death was an old acquaintance.

‘It’s an adult – I can’t be sure of his age; killed with a knife, struck several times in the abdomen and chest, violently; some of his ribs were broken by the impact of the blows.’

Jean-Quenin wrapped his hand in a sheet and took hold of one of the body’s arms, which he examined.

The victim probably knew his assassin.’

‘How can you say that?’ asked Relmyer, crossly.

‘When you’re attacked, your first instinct is to protect yourself with your arms. But here, you can see there are no injuries to the arms. This man was taken by surprise by the assault and the murderer must have been standing quite close to him to be able to stab him. You only let people you trust come close to you.'

‘When was he killed?’ asked Margont.

‘It’s hard to say. The speed of decomposition varies according to numerous factors – heat, humidity, the type of soil the body is buried in ... I would say between ten and fifteen days ago/

Relmyer made a huge effort to control himself. He had just been shaken out of a world with one simple objective – to wait for Tey-hern in his salon – into a universe of chaos where questions abounded: who was that man? Who had killed him? Why?

Margont looked at the grave.

The body was buried very deep to prevent the smell escaping and alerting us. In addition, the tomb was well hidden: we noticed nothing when we first looked here. The assassin was very determined that we should not find his victim. Conclusion: this dead

man is a major clue – may God rest his soul – and I want to know everything about him. Pagin, show the portrait to the medical officer. Jean-Quenin, can you tell us if these are the same person?’ Pagin and Relmyer looked at each other, disorientated by this question, which seemed unnecessary to them. Jean-Quenin Bre-mond set himself to answering the question without seeking to understand it. He was used to Margont’s bizarre requests.

‘No, they’re two different men.’

Relmyer looked at the body, whose features had been effaced by putrefaction.

‘What are you saying? You can’t tell anything from that face except that it’s dead! They both have approximately the same colour hair. It could be him, it could be his brother or his neighbour or half the men killed in the last two weeks.’

‘Look at his cheekbones.’

But Relmyer could not bring himself to look at the cadaver. He contented himself with listening to the medical officer’s explanations.

The victim’s cheekbones are more prominent than those of the man in the portrait. And the victim’s lower jaw is narrower and his chin protrudes.’

‘Perhaps the painting is not a good likeness—’ Relmyer interrupted himself: the painting was an excellent likeness.

Jean-Quenin Brémond went on with his commentary. ‘Although the nose is crushed, you can still see that it is larger and longer. And besides, it runs straight down from his forehead, what you call a Greek profile. The man in the picture has a hooked nose much more separated from the forehead. The position of his ears is also lower.’

Margont went over to the farmer with Pagin, who was still holding the picture.

He demanded, in German: ‘You live near here – do you know the man in this portrait?’

‘Never seen him before.’

Very reluctantly, the man followed him to the grave. As soon as he caught sight of the body, he grew agitated.

‘But you do know him! Don’t try to deny it!’ exclaimed Margont. ‘Who is he?’

‘Hermann Teyhern ...’

‘What?’ cried Relmyer.

The man was panic-stricken. He said desperately: ‘I live peacefully at home, I didn’t see anything and I don’t speak French. I’ll give you back the money you paid me to bring the dogs. I don’t understand anything about this business and I swear I will say nothing

*

Margont tried in vain to question him more closely about Teyhern, then had to agree to let him depart. The farmer did not wait to be told twice and fled with his dogs. Margont went back to Relmyer. ‘The assassin knows Teyhern well because he falsified the records for him. He realised that our quest would eventually lead us here, or at least he knew that Teyhern’s tampering had been discovered. So he had to get rid of Teyhern. But he didn’t mutilate his face: he didn’t treat him the way he normally treats his victims. He took the key to the house and he put his own portrait in the salon. Then he carefully concealed the body. We managed to find his accomplice, but our trail ends here.’

Relmyer began to rant at the corpse in German, asking it how it could have acted in that way. Pagin and another hussar stood in his path, because it really seemed as if he might fling himself on the body and beat it.