Wolf Hunt (8 page)

The whistling of a blackbird rang out, coming from yet a third direction. The French bounded into their saddles. A detonation sounded. A hussar’s horse bolted, wheeling round on itself and whinnying. Pagin made to help it, but a bullet hit his own animal in the chest. The horse collapsed, its bit striking the stony ground harshly. Lefine fired his pistol into the thicket where the shot had come from. The leaves shook, perhaps because of the breeze, or possibly because a body had fallen behind them. Other trillings resounded, longer and much louder. Lefine rode his horse over to Pagin, who hopped on behind him. New explosions crackled. They were coming from all sides, mingling with the echoes of previous reports, so that the French felt as though they were being deluged with bullets.

They’re surrounding us!’ cried Lefine, huddling down with Pagin gripping his waist.

They made for the forest, hammering their horses’ flanks with their heels, though obstacles in their way slowed them down. Margont thought he saw someone and fired his pistol into a clump of ferns to his left. In response a shot cracked to his right and buried itself in the trunk of a pine tree, spraying his cheeks with fragments of bark. Although the horses were aided by the slight slope, Margont, too impatient, tried to make his mare go faster. The frightened, maddened horse entangled its legs in dead branches and to regain balance placed its shoe on a carpet of dried needles. The shoe slipped and the beast’s head plunged downwards, almost causing Margont to lose his stirrups and tumble forwards. Three more gunshots rang out, but more for form’s sake than to kill. The French were too far away to be hit.

Relmyer saluted Lefine as he would a colonel.

‘If you hadn’t picked up their damned signals, they would have caught us hook, line and sinker; none of us would have escaped. How would you like to join the hussars?’

‘I’ve had my fill of that sort of thing today, Lieutenant.’

The horses continued down the slope at a hurried trot, constantly slowed down by the thickets and trees. Margont could make out the Austrians shouting something.

‘Are they calling for reinforcements?’

Relmyer smiled. ‘No, they’re saying: Welcome to Austria.’ 

LEFINE was furious. He was pacing back and forth under the roof of branches rigged up by Saber and Piquebois, near their tent.

‘We were almost killed by the partisans!’ It was the tenth time he had said that, as if he couldn’t get over it. This inquiry - it’s his battle, not ours!’ he exclaimed for the nth time.

Margont was leaning against a tree trunk. This was the miracle of being an officer: the Isle of Lobau was being transformed at speed into a fortification but here he was enjoying free time! Lefine, meanwhile, was covered in sweat.

‘What on earth did you want to get involved for? Is it because of that Austrian woman? That Luise Mitter-something ... Why go hankering after a beautiful girl with problems when you could easily find two without? Oh, it’s not only for her, is it? It’s those magnificent revolutionary ideas of yours again, that drive you to take crazy risks!’

He took off his shirt to change it. His right shoulder bore the scar

of a sabre blow, a souvenir of the Spanish campaign courtesy of an English light dragoon, and his stomach was scored with a gash from a bayonet attack badly parried. His collarbone had been shattered by a Prussian musket butt. The bone had knitted together strangely so that a bony ridge bulged under the skin as if trying to break free from his body. A pattern of burns carpeted his back, caused by fiery splinters from the explosion of a munitions box. The whole saga of the Empire could be read on the scarred skin of its soldiers.

'Being a Good Samaritan is not a quality, it’s a defect.’ He tugged on the new shirt so angrily he almost tore it.

Margont was cooling himself using a book as a fan. Assuredly, literature had many uses.

‘It’s not that. It’s not just that.’

‘Yes, it is, it’s always that! “We have to take the principles of the Revolution to the peoples of other countries!” “Down with monarchy, long live Liberty!” You’re always going on about it. You’re a product of the Revolution, but it’s not relevant any more. We were all so naive! Yes, I believed in it all too: liberty and equality for all, peace, progress, a constitution guaranteeing the same rights for everyone ... It’s utopia, and you’re still fighting for it! This army is full of soldiers who want to liberate the world. That suits the purposes of the Emperor who—’

Lefine stopped short mid-sentence, while Margont hastened to assure him that no one had heard. Criticising the Emperor was the quickest way of being taken for a subversive spy, a royalist, an agent of the Vendeens or a Jacobin plotter ... For the past few years freedom of expression in France had become more and more restricted.

Lefine went on more quietly: The Emperor abuses the army! Why is half our army in Spain along with the Spanish, the Portuguese and the English, all butchering each other? We only had to set foot in Spain for us to be mired there up to our necks. When will there finally be peace? When we’re all dead? And now there’s you embarking on this search! All because it arouses your pity and you still believe you have to help those around you! After four or five

more years’ war, when everyone else will have been killed or will have abandoned all hope, you will be the last republican humanist.’

Lefine spoke those last words with derision. He burst out laughing and leant one hand against a tree trunk, sneering.

The world has gone mad, but you are maddest of all!’

Margont was irritated. He was not easily offended, but even so ... In fact, yes, he was easily offended, and now he was cross.

‘I do as I please! Some people go and look after lepers or plague victims, others give all their money to the poor ... I don’t know, some people live just for themselves and others think a little about other people.’

‘You’re right, I agree. We just don’t agree about where the happy medium is. Let’s leave it to the Austrian police.’

‘I’ve thought of that. But where are they, the Austrian police?’

A fair point. They were on the other side of the Danube, with Archduke Charles. Or in the woods, keeping a lookout for any French who dared to venture there ...

‘It’s not as if the case will be solved if there’s peace,’ continued Margont heatedly. ‘You heard Relmyer as well as I did! No one cares about the lives of a few adolescent orphans! Better to botch the inquiry so as not to cause waves because some people prefer it that way. Life is so much simpler when one closes one’s eyes! And you, you ask me to do the same? Well, no, I’m not going to! Who stepped forward to help me when my family had me imprisoned against my will in the Abbey de Saint-Guilhem-le-Desert to force me to become a monk? I was six years old and I spent four years of my life there! Four years!’

Lefine was dismayed.

‘You’re comparing your story with Relmyer’s? Oh, now that’s dangerous! That’s catastrophic!’

‘Lots of people knew, but they said to themselves, “It’s nothing to do with us.” One day I appealed to the wine merchant who supplied the abbey. He told me, “I can’t help you, kid, you’re not my son.” But the problem was, my father was dead. So who was I supposed to turn to, God? Anyway, it wasn’t God who freed me, it was

the Revolution.’

Margont stopped shouting but his tone brooked no negotiation. ‘So I am going to involve myself in this matter; it will help me resolve some unfinished business, even if only indirectly. I’m convinced it will help me bury certain memories in drawers that I can finally close and forget.’

Now Margont smiled, laughed even. He felt better, having been able to formulate clearly what he felt in his deepest soul.

‘You’re not obliged to help me, Fernand. As you can see, I’m involved for very personal reasons.’ He rose and tried to straighten his uniform. ‘So, it’s not because I’m a Good Samaritan,’ he remarked. ‘Can I count on you?’

‘Of course. Because you’re my best friend. I’m not as selfish as all that ... unfortunately for me.’

Margont was openly delighted. His relationship with Lefine was complicated. Margont was too idealistic, too fond of dreaming and trying to make those dreams into reality. Lefine was the complete opposite. He was pragmatic, resourceful and his common sense rooted him firmly in the everyday. Margont needed Lefine; he helped him keep his feet on the ground. In exchange Margont provided the intoxicating excitement of his changing impulses and the grandeur of his Great Schemes. In short, together they found the balance between whimsy and reality, a balance that neither managed to achieve on his own. Several years of war had consolidated their friendship, especially since each had saved the other’s life.

‘So let’s go and find Relmyer, and get him to take us to his former orphanage,’ decreed Margont.

‘But I still say it’s dangerous to confuse this with your own personal history.’ 

PART of the army was camped on the Isle of Lobau - IV Corps and also the reserve for General Lasalle’s cavalry. As Relmyer served in the latter, he was just a short walk away from the 18th of the Line. But it was not actually possible to walk there because the artillery convoys blocked the way. Lobau and the surrounding islands bristled with cannon. There were cannon on the Isle of Massena (each of the islands was nicknamed after a hero of the Empire, or an ally), on Saint-Hilaire, on Lannes, on Alexandre ... six-pounders, twelve-pounders, even eighteen-pounders, and howitzers, not to mention the gigantic field guns seized in Vienna from the arsenals that the Austrians, in the haste of their retreat, had forgotten to sabotage. Altogether there were thirteen hundred mortar cannon acting as a deterrent to the Austrians. For them to attack would have been suicide. Napoleon was manoeuvring his resources to protect himself, but doing it in such a way that he would also succeed in foiling his enemies and regaining the initiative. For now

Archduke Charles was obliged to wait for the French to mount an assault. He was, however, ready to receive them unflinchingly; he was well dug in around Aspern and Essling.

As usual Relmyer trained hard. But unusually, there were spectators watching him from a distance. One of these was Saber. Margont went over to him.

‘What are you doing?’

In reply, Saber murmured admiringly, ‘I’m learning. So young and already so gifted ... He’s like me.’

Margont, who was accustomed to his friend’s overweening vanity, contented himself with watching Relmyer again. It was true that his attacks seemed to be devilishly precise. But were they extraordinarily so? Saber was also a very fine duellist and, until now, Margont would have assumed that he was better than Relmyer.

‘Is he more gifted than you, Irenee?’

‘He would lay me out stone dead in less than ten seconds. He’s much better than me,’ Saber conceded. ‘Only in duelling, of course.’

Margont could not get over his surprise. Saber never complimented other people (except women, whom he flattered in the hope of seducing them, assuming them to be as avid as he was for a bit of love-making). Relmyer was truly a remarkable man - he seemed to make an impression on everyone.

The young hussar lunged, beat a retreat while parrying a storm of imaginary thrusts, suddenly attacked again, feinting, dodging ... To Margont it all seemed like a Gregorian chant: very beautiful, but incomprehensible. Saber, on the other hand, had the necessary expertise to form a judgement and he was marvelling at what he saw, even going so far as to tap his thigh to prevent himself from applauding.

‘He lives only for the art of the sword,’ he said under his breath, ‘without looking to left or right.’

That was totally untrue. Most people did not see past the image Relmyer projected. It was a brilliant image, so people looked no further. His violence covered up his suffering.

‘He has natural talent and the compulsion to learn. He’s nicknamed “The Wasp” ... Bezut took him on as a pupil, but alas they fell out.’

Bezut? Probably another renowned master of military arms. Saber knew the most illustrious of them. He would have been their biographer had he not had it in mind to dedicate himself solely to his autobiography.

‘I heard that from one of his cavalry regiment,’ explained Saber. That would definitely have been Pagin. Especially as he was one of the spectators.

‘Why train so hard with a sabre when you can use a pistol?’ Margont wondered aloud.

‘When a pistol is empty, you’re done for,’ replied Saber. ‘Pistols are also unreliable, imprecise and rarely fatal. In any case, I understand that Lukas Relmyer is also an extremely good shot.’

Relmyer caught sight of Margont and, interrupting his training, saluted him with his sword. Saber stood up straighten ‘I knew he had heard of me.’

Relmyer came over to Margont, sword still in hand. Did he never lay it aside? In spite of his intensive training, he still looked energetic, not showing the slightest sign of fatigue.

‘Dear friend! Can I talk to you a moment in private?’

Saber stiffened, trying not to show his disappointment and jealousy. The other two men moved off together, leaving the admirers to rejoin their battalions.

‘Before you say anything, I must warn you, you’re in danger,’ declared Margont. ‘If it is indeed the man we’re looking for who set fire to the ruins of that farm, he is being exceptionally careful. If he knows that you went back there, he might well try to kill you. So you must always have an escort when you leave camp.’

Relmyer sheathed his sword, noisily clanging the hilt against the scabbard.

‘I am my own escort.’

‘I hope you’ll take me seriously. Can we go and visit your old orphanage now?’

‘Unfortunately I’m not welcome there. They were very angry with me for stirring up trouble before I left in 1804. It has to be said that, out of frustration, I did become aggressive. I actually struck the man in charge of the investigation. I was angry with everyone.’ His words plunged him into despair, and his hand came to rest on his sabre, his support.

‘We’re conducting an inquiry - that gives us rights,’ decreed Margont.

Relmyer’s eyelids drooped tiredly. ‘Of course, but it’s not as simple as that. Madame Blanken, narrow-minded, insensitive old witch, is still the director of Lesdorf Orphanage. As I’ve told you she has connections with the Viennese aristocracy. If you go ferreting around in her back yard, she won’t be content with whacking you with her broom. Her outcry will bring down much more serious consequences on us.’