The Officer's Prey tnm-1

by Armand Cabasson

  I look forward to an outcome favourable to us both.

  C. M.

  Margont folded the document and thrust it into his pocket. He got up, hesitated, and finally went to sit on that throne that fascinated him so much. He adopted a nonchalant pose, one leg crossed over the other and his arms spread out on the armrests. He imagined a court of generals, counts and countesses milling around to pay homage to him. There were Cossacks from the Guard and people were moving back to let them through, fearful of their unpredictability. The Red Hussars in their gold brocade uniforms were conversing with Uhlans and Imperial Horse Guards or with Mongol-featured emissaries from far-flung provinces. The most beautiful women from Moscow and St Petersburg were gliding about discreetly, hoping to attract his attention, but he had eyes only for the young Countess Valiuska.

  Margont had the impression of being invincible, triumphant even. It seemed as if his sight was sharper and his hearing more acute. But he wasn’t taken in. He knew that wine always seemed to taste better in gold goblets.

  Colonel Delarse did survive his asthma attack and the two that followed. Margont contacted everyone he needed.

  Fanselin was delighted to have been asked. ‘A secret assignment? That’s for me!’ he exclaimed before adding in the confidential tones of someone who knows how to keep a secret: ‘Is there a woman at the bottom of this?’ Dalero also accepted, only too happy to be involved in an event that might further his career because, in his opinion, the Russian campaign was over. He estimated, however, that there wouldn’t be enough of them so he brought along two of his grenadiers, Sergeants Fimiento and Andogio. They had broad, square shoulders and such enormous hands that one would have been enough to strangle someone with. Despite their immaculate uniforms and white gloves you could tell that if necessary they would be prepared to do a dirty job.

  ‘I want him alive,’ Margont ordered curtly.

  He had to look up to speak to them and, with their headgear further emphasising the difference in height, it was like a David speaking to two Goliaths. But he had addressed them in such an aggressive tone that one of these giants turned to Dalero for support.

  Dalero was gazing at his watch. With its white, gold-rimmed dial it looked very attractive in the white palm of his glove. Refinement seemed to suit Dalero.

  ‘It’s four in the afternoon. How are we going to proceed?’

  The eight men had installed themselves in the ruins of Countess Sperzof’s house.

  ‘The letters will be delivered by messengers,’ Margont explained. ‘They’re people I came across in the street. I’ve paid them in dried fish. The day after tomorrow they’ll be given more food if they’ve done their job properly.’

  ‘When is the rendezvous for?’

  ‘Tomorrow night at three in the morning. We’re going to position ourselves in our hiding-places straight away and stay there just in case our man does some reconnaissance well before the rendezvous or sends someone on his behalf.’

  Margont showed them a plan of the area. The street the house was in had been severely damaged by fire. The handsome townhouses on either side of it were now no more than blackened façades, collapsed walls and decapitated columns. A series of gardens backed on to these ruins. Countess Sperzof’s had survived. Others had been reduced to ashes. Opposite the meeting place was a street with piles of rubble and sections of wall on either side. There was also a crossroads nearby, several paces to the left. Only one block of houses had survived the flames. It was a building that had partially collapsed at its far end. A battalion of the 48th Regiment was quartered there.

  Margont drew a cross on it. ‘I’ll be here, under the porch. This is the plan: our man turns up, I try to talk to him and, if he confesses his crime, you all emerge from your hiding places and converge on him, weapons at the ready.’

  All eyes turned towards the dozen or so pistols that Margont had requisitioned. The weapons reassured them, despite their lack of precision and range, and the fact that they more often wounded than killed.

  ‘I want to do all I can to make him talk, so no untimely intervention!’ he emphasised.

  ‘Only the man we’re after can find this address. And he’ll turn up with some gold. That’s enough,’ reckoned Dalero.

  ‘We’re dealing with a colonel: in a military tribunal his word will be given three times as much weight as all of ours put together. He’ll say he just happened to be passing by, that he just had a discreet rendezvous with someone to buy something … We need irrefutable evidence, not suppositions or unlikely coincidences.’

  Saber, Fanselin and Piquebois exchanged glances that betrayed their dismay.

  ‘A colonel? We’re not going to arrest a colonel, are we?’ Saber eventually asked, convinced that he was about to clear up some misunderstanding.

  Margont explained to them that they were indeed looking for a colonel. He told them there were very good reasons for this but he was not allowed to go into them.

  ‘If some of you want to back out, I’ll understand,’ he added.

  ‘You can rely on me,’ Piquebois immediately replied.

  Fanselin nodded. Saber agreed reluctantly. He didn’t want to get the reputation of being a quitter, as there was no surer way of killing off all prospects of promotion.

  ‘Therefore we need a confession,’ Margont went on. ‘If you see me raise my arm, come to my aid. It will mean that I’m in danger or that he’s said enough to be arrested.’

  ‘And what if he doesn’t talk?’ asked Dalero.

  ‘I’ll let him go. Then we’ll discuss what to do next.’

  That last point would depend above all on Prince Eugène’s judgement.

  ‘I want you to position yourselves in a circle around me. Then, in order to meet up with me, our man will enter the circle without realising it. There’ll be no possible retreat. Piquebois will take up position in the next-door house to my right, Sergeant Fimiento in the one to my left. Lefine will hide in the garden to protect the rear. Fanselin and Saber will be in the street opposite the house. Captain Dalero and Sergeant Andogio will place themselves at the far left of our street, where it’s intersected by the crossroads. Captain Dalero will be on the same side as me and Sergeant Andogio opposite, hiding in the ruins adjacent to the building where the battalion of the 48th has its quarters.’

  ‘There are more men on the left,’ Dalero pointed out.

  ‘Correct. Because it’s easier to hide there: the buildings are in a better state. But you told me that Sergeants Fimiento and Andogio were excellent marksmen.’

  Fimiento smiled but it wasn’t clear whether it was in response to the compliment or because he was remembering a few particularly well-aimed shots.

  ‘I’ve positioned them at key points. Sergeant Fimiento can have the whole of our street in his line of sight as well as the one opposite this house. Sergeant Andogio is covering both our street and the crossroads. Any questions?’

  ‘We’re going to spend more than twenty-four hours hiding beneath the remains of walls in danger of collapsing and without making a fire – so having to freeze all night and eat cold food – is that it?’ asked Lefine.

  ‘Absolutely. Any more questions? So, let’s wish ourselves good luck.’

  CHAPTER 28

  IT had been a long wait. At last the time fixed for the rendezvous had arrived and Margont was pacing up and down at the front entrance, surveying the area, his breath turning to steam. He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his grey greatcoat. His fingers stroked the butt of his pistols. He had also brought his sword and a knife. He smiled at the thought that he hadn’t been as well armed as this when he launched into the attack on the Great Redoubt. He was trying to guess which of the four faces he would find himself up against. He was also wondering whether the man would answer his questions. And if so, whether it would just be to allay his suspicions before trying to eliminate him.

  After what seemed both a short and a particularly long period of time, he glimpsed a silhouette. His heart b
egan to race. The passer-by was alone. He was coming from the right, Piquebois and Fanselin’s side. He was walking slowly. He too was wearing a greatcoat and had his hands deep in his pockets.

  Gradually, the distance lessened. The stranger had his collar turned up and was wearing a cap, so that it was still not possible to make out his face. When he was about a hundred paces away, he stopped. He was looking at Margont. Suddenly a shot rang out. Margont was hit full in the chest and fell. The stranger did an about-turn and started to run. The shot had been fired from the corner of the crossroads, where Sergeant Andogio had taken up position. Piquebois was the first to jump out of his hiding-place.

  ‘There are two of them!’ he yelled. ‘Fanselin, come with me!’

  He set off in hot pursuit of the figure, who was by now far away from the circle that was supposed to trap him. Fanselin suddenly emerged holding a pistol and ran to join Piquebois. Dalero and Saber rushed towards the marksman whom Fimiento was already aiming at. The man was lurking in the darkness. He had thrown aside his discharged musket and was taking aim at Fimiento with Sergeant Andogio’s weapon. The sergeant was lying at his feet. Two shots rang out almost simultaneously. Fimiento’s bullet lodged in the section of wall behind which his opponent had positioned himself and Fimiento fell to the ground immediately afterwards. The marksman dropped his second musket and then it was his turn to flee. He sped across the street and into an area littered with rubble.

  When the fugitive failed to respond to his warnings, Saber opened fire with his pistol. Dalero did likewise. The two bullets were way off target. Lefine skirted the house and ran towards Margont, who was sitting up. His greatcoat had been holed near his right lung.

  ‘It’s all right. I’m not hurt, look.’

  He opened his garment. He was wearing a cuirassier’s breastplate. The piece of metal was thick enough to stop bullets and was pigeon-breasted to deflect projectiles.

  ‘I borrowed it from a friend. I’m not wounded. It was the shock that made me fall. And the fear as well. Why did no one spot the marksman?’

  ‘We were too busy watching the other one,’ Lefine replied. ‘He created an effective diversion.’

  Margont picked himself up. He looked at the hole in the material.

  ‘A hell of a shot …’

  By now Dalero and Saber had also ventured into the rubble. Behind them lights and faces were appearing at windows and a sentry had sprung out from a porch.

  ‘Who goes there?’ he yelled.

  ‘Friends! France!’ Saber answered, to avoid getting a bullet between his shoulder blades.

  There were piles of rubble that were liable to collapse underfoot, sections of wall from behind which someone could pounce on you, areas of shadow capable of hiding a marksman … Dalero and Saber, sabres in hand, were progressing speedily but cautiously. Saber noticed the man on the run disappear behind a heap of fallen masonry.

  ‘Over there!’ he exclaimed, pointing with the tip of his sword.

  He wanted to press forward but the charred floorboards gave way beneath him and he went sprawling amongst the ashes. Dalero got slightly ahead of him. When Saber caught up with him, it was only to be told that the man had disappeared.

  In the opposite direction Fanselin was still in pursuit of the other man, while Piquebois had stopped to lean against a wall. He still hadn’t fully recovered from the concussion he had suffered at the Moskva. The figure turned round, pointing a pistol. Fanselin instinctively hunched his shoulders and bent over. But the marksman did not slow down and his bullet missed the lancer by a long way. Fanselin had noticed that the fugitive was in excellent physical shape. He ran very fast and had been doing so for some time. Sensing that if it came to endurance he would be the loser, Fanselin decided to use guile instead. When the man turned into a street, he himself went into a parallel one. He lost sight of him but could still hear his footsteps. Fanselin was trying to make as little noise as possible, even if it meant slowing down. The man almost gave him the slip but Fanselin made up for lost time by taking a short cut through the rubble. The fugitive turned round several times and, with no one in sight, thought he was safe. He changed direction and disappeared down an alley. Fanselin thought he was going to lose him for good but he glimpsed him again, separated from him by a row of crumbling houses. The man had started to walk to get his breath back. He wandered through the streets for a moment, frequently looking over his shoulder. Fanselin contented himself with following him in parallel, guided only by his hearing. Reassured at last, the man eventually reached a splendid-looking palace with several windows lit, even at this late hour. The two sentries guarding the railings surrounding the garden presented arms. He did not bother to look at them and went into the drive.

  Fanselin edged closer and put his face to the icy bars. He recognised Colonel Barguelot.

  Margont was examining Sergeant Andogio’s dead body. The murderer had slit his throat. Dalero was gazing at the discarded musket.

  ‘Line infantry musket first produced in 1777 and modified in 1801. How many of these are there in the army? Two or three hundred thousand? In any case, he certainly knows how to use it.’

  Further away, infantrymen were hoisting Fimiento’s groaning body on to a cart pulled by a scrawny horse. When Fanselin eventually returned, he took Margont and Dalero to one side to tell them what he knew. Then he left them on their own. Dalero was absently toying with the tassel of his sword-knot.

  ‘Colonel Barguelot is popular with the general staff of IV Corps. He’s invited the prince to dinner several times and His Highness has always come back from those evenings in a very good mood.’

  ‘It’s certainly true that Colonel Barguelot knows how to entertain. I can still remember the delicious meal he invited me to.’

  ‘We can’t arrest him when we have no evidence. Any tribunal would dismiss the case.’

  ‘That’s my opinion too. We’ll have to continue spying on him. We know and he knows that we know. We’ll have to see how he’s going to react.’

  Dalero glanced at the area of rubble in which his chase had come to a sudden end.

  ‘If only we’d been able to lay hands on his henchman and force him to testify …’

  ‘The day we finally have evidence of Colonel Barguelot’s guilt, we’ll force him to denounce his accomplice. I’m very sorry about your sergeants. If Fimiento had been wearing a breastplate like me …’

  ‘If we’d all had breastplates, your friend the Red Lancer would never have caught up with Colonel Barguelot. So we need to wait. I hate waiting. What if we don’t find any evidence against him?’

  ‘Then we’ll have to review the situation again.’

  Dalero went to the cart in which Fimiento was lying, to try to get him more speedily transported to the nearest hospital. He grabbed the pommel of his sabre in his left hand and drew the blade about an inch out of the sheath before putting it back in. He repeated this gesture a dozen or so times without thinking.

  CHAPTER 29

  NAPOLEON had organised life in Moscow. He had been forced to authorise looting during the fire to enable his army to obtain food and clothing. Then he had strictly forbidden it. He had succeeded in restoring law and order and had set up a Russian local administration. The theatres had reopened. There were performances of The False Infidelities, The Game of Love and Chance, The Lover as Author and Servant, The Three Sultanas and The Absent-Minded Lover … There was even a ballet. People could also go to restaurants, admire the Emperor as he reviewed his troops, or watch the Guard on parade … But their hearts weren’t in it because the expected victory was lacking.

  Napoleon was waiting for negotiations to commence. He had sent Baron de Lauriston to meet Kutuzov to offer him peace. The crafty generalissimo was playing for time. He had dispatched an aide-de-camp to St Petersburg to pass on this message to the Tsar.

  But despite the loss of Moscow, Alexander did not want to give in. He kept repeating that he would fight to the bitter end, and if he lost the last of his
soldiers he would continue the struggle at the head of his ‘beloved nobility and loyal peasants’. He was careful, however, to conceal his intentions from the French. The result was that while Napoleon was waiting for the peace, the Tsar and Kutuzov were waiting for the winter.

  So, life in Moscow was tinged with anxiety for some, but enjoyable for others – those who had a blind faith in the Emperor and who had never heard about Russian winters. Colonel Pirgnon informed Margont that his plan for a Moscow Club would have to be ‘temporarily postponed’. He too was worried about the future and didn’t feel inclined to engage in witty conversation.

  Margont explored every corner of Moscow. He walked along the red ramparts and gazed in awe at the cathedrals and churches. He visited the palaces and was always welcomed warmly by those quartered there when he brandished bottles of wine or gin. He also spent hours drawing. He cursed his lack of skill, but his sketches of a façade or a view were sometimes quite competent.

  In the evenings he prepared dinner for his friends, partly because he enjoyed cooking, greedy as he was, and partly to keep busy. Lefine was involved in various shady dealings and regularly brought back new ingredients so that they could vary the way in which they cooked the inevitable salted fish.

  Once they had eaten their fill, everyone settled down in the palace’s most beautiful drawing room to engage in inexhaustible conversation over vodka, rum, coffee and tea accompanied by chocolates and caramels. Saber never tired of recounting how he had been promoted at the Great Redoubt itself. Piquebois talked of home; Margont about Russian culture; Jean-Quenin about medicine and ethics; and Lefine filled them in on the gossip: a general was having an affair with a Russian princess; some completely inebriated Bavarian gunners had attacked the Kremlin with their cannon, then been doused with water so that they would be presentable in front of the firing squad; the Emperor had ridden around in between reviewing the troops, and one night, instead of sleeping, he had drawn up a decree proposing to unite the actors of the Comédie Française into a company …