Wolf Hunt

by Isabel Reid (Translator) Armand Cabasson

  She tried to shake off the sadness that had come over her and added cheerfully: ‘Please excuse me. It’s the gaiety here. Sometimes excessive jollity makes me melancholy; distress, on the other hand, has a galvanising effect. I often say that I’m like an inverse mirror that transforms black into white and vice versa. Which is lucky, since the world is much more often dark than light.’

  Margont was gripped by a sort of euphoria, which annoyed him since he liked to believe that the mind controlled the body. He had just understood why the young Austrian girl held such fascination for him. They had both been abandoned. They had fought their suffering and had succeeded in dominating it using sheer force of

  will and their own philosophy of life. So Margont was a humanist because, in a way, he manifested towards other people the support and attention that he had found so cruelly lacking. Luise herself had constructed a nest, a cocoon, in which she lived happily with those she loved, and she had been ready to expend whatever energy was necessary in order to defend her little world, which Wilhelm and Relmyer also belonged to. And she had determinedly tried to keep them close to her. Margont and she shared the clearsightedness of those who have been hurt by life, and the pugnacity of those who refuse to succumb a second time. They had suffered the same wounds and recovered by suturing the wounds in practically the same way. From their first meeting each seemed to have divined the other’s scar, even before they had worked out what it was that attracted them to each other. Margont then realised that, contrary to what he would have expected, exposing the secret did not diminish in any way the feelings he had for Luise. Rather, the opposite was true. She seemed admirable to him, and he would have liked to forget everything else and lean towards her to kiss her. Luise blushed as if she read his thought, and she lowered her eyes. Margont in turn tried to guess what she was thinking. In vain. Relmyer spoke to them distractedly and Margont inwardly cursed him. Luise looked up at Margont again, her blue eyes sparkling.

  ‘You’re not as altruistic as I thought. You’re helping us for several reasons and one of those is your past. I’m happy about that for you. In life, it’s good to know how to be selfish.’

  Had Lefine been there, he would have applauded. But he was systematically pillaging the buffet, swallowing quantities of canapes. Luise had arranged civilian clothes for him because his non-commissioned officer’s uniform would not have got him past the footmen. He joined people’s conversations, introducing himself as ‘an aide to Commissioner of War Papetin’. He took great care to make his lies as clumsy as possible so that soon people were asking each other about him, discreetly, behind his back. They suspected him of being one of Napoleon’s spies, the secret weapon of the Emperor, an ace up his sleeve. Perhaps he was that

  genius of manipulation, that master of astounding exploits, the extraordinary Schulmeister himself! People said - was it true, false or a bit of both? - that in October 1805 he had persuaded General Mack to believe that Napoleon and his Grande Armée were withdrawing in disarray to put down a widespread rebellion in the Vendee, supported by an English landing at Boulogne. Reassured, Mack had delayed in joining the rest of the Austrian troops. When he realised his error, he had been unable to prevent his division from being surrounded. His punishment: twenty-five thousand Austrians captured in the town of Ulm. Yes, this person was almost certainly Schulmeister since he looked nothing like any of the portraits that rumour painted of the celebrated spy. It was even said that Napoleon, who had regular meetings with Schulmeister, did not recognise him when he was in disguise. The Austrian aristocrats blanched when Lefine went up to them, causing him to bite his lips in order not to laugh.

  Relmyer hopped nervously from foot to foot. He hated the celebratory atmosphere. Obviously the magic of Viennese balls, which he had spoken of, failed to stir him tonight.

  ‘When on earth is she going to be here? The dirty scoundrel.’

  He could not bear the wait. Margont realised that Relmyer was different from Luise and himself. Instead of relying on his strength of character, he fell back on his physical strength. He had trained ceaselessly, covering his body with a discreet but effective carapace of muscle and making his sabre into an extra limb. But at this moment physical strength was no help to him and impatience inflamed his anguish. He looked over at the punch the footmen in yellow livery were ladling out. After three or four glasses he would have felt so much better ... but the large crystal goblets of orange or yellow liquid were like wells in which he could not risk drowning.

  ‘I wonder if she’s in that other room,’ he said abruptly.

  That sentence, peremptory and chilling, broke the rapport that had been established between Luise and Margont.

  ‘But I don’t see her,’ he added.

  Luise was entangled in a web of emotions. Anger, fear, impotence,

  despair, and disgust at her despair, all mixed together in a disturbing tangle. Paradoxically her face remained expressionless. ‘You’re never going to stop looking for the man, are you, Lukas?’ ‘No.’

  Luise looked strained. ‘So we’ll be haunted by this affair for the rest of our lives! Suppose you never find him?’

  Relmyer swung round, turning his back on them. His parting words were, ‘Why don’t you just enjoy yourselves! I’ll come and tell you when Madame Blanken is here.’

  Luise went over to the buffet. She asked for some cold water, then, annoyed by the mannered slowness of the serving boy, changed her mind and left the full glass on the sparklingly white tablecloth. She glared at Margont, pretending to be offended.

  ‘Don’t you know that it’s not suitable for a young lady to be alone in the company of a man? If you don’t ask me to dance immediately, people will talk.’

  Margont longed to accept the invitation but he was intimidated by the grace of the couples whirling about on the floor.

  ‘It doesn’t matter if you don’t know how to waltz,’ Luise assured him. ‘Let yourself be guided by me.’

  That annoyed Margont. Ever since they had met, it had been like that.

  Luise led him into the middle of the couples, to avoid being stared at. Margont rapidly felt befuddled by slight vertigo. He held Luise in his arms as everyone wheeled about them. The war was still so close. He had almost been killed at Essling and perhaps he would fall on the next battlefield. He could quite easily have only seven more days to live. He tried to forget about the investigation, the frenzy of past battles and the accumulating signs of the military cataclysm to come. The waltz with Luise represented a few stolen minutes away from the crazy chaos of the world. He accelerated the pace, staring at Luise’s cheerful face, allowing their motion to obliterate the rest of the universe. She smiled, showing glimpses of pearl-white teeth. The musicians also succumbed to the power of the music. The tempo took off, the conductor’s gestures became expansive - now he seemed to follow his baton’s lead. Then

  the music stopped abruptly. The silence was like a slap. Clapping crackled throughout the gallery. There was some quick toing and froing, and changing of partners, but Margont did not let go of Luise.

  ‘Again!’ he exclaimed quietly.

  A new waltz started up. They twirled about in a haze of colour from the outfits and light from the candles, infinitely reflected by the mirrors and the gold panelling. The charm of the moment was enhanced by Luise’s musky perfume. Margont imperceptibly tightened his grip on the young Austrian’s waist. Time and thought seemed suspended and they were oblivious to the people round them. It was as if they were united in a capsule of emotion, which rolled endlessly in the light.

  The orchestra broke off. Margont was looking forward to the next dance, but alas such persistence was unacceptable and Madame Mitterburg had her eye on her daughter. She dispatched the first fellow who came to hand to dislodge Margont. The man halted in front of Luise to request her pleasure, his shoulder nudging

  Margont’s, indicating he was prepared to use force to eject the over-tenacious Frenchman. He was a lank, almost skeletal Austrian, the son o
f a good family who were friends of the Mitter-burgs. He had served in the Viennese militia and had been careful to stay put when the French drew near to Vienna. Had he advanced, he would have been obliged to engage them in combat. Had he fallen back, he would have been obliged to join the Austrian army. So he had stayed where he was, allowing himself to be captured, whereupon Napoleon, wishing to propitiate the Viennese, had amnestied and freed all the militiamen on condition that they returned to their families.

  Margont moved away.

  He heard Luise say in astonishment to her new partner: ‘Dear me, the Austrian army seems to have forgotten you in their retreat! Of course, when you depart in a hurry, you only take the essentials with you.’

  Margont melted into the crowd, which was conversing in several languages. He spotted Luise and then lost her again, thanks to the

  movement of the dancing couples. The magic was broken, the music had become just music, and to add insult to injury the exertion had reawakened the pain in his side. That in turn brought back incoherent memories of the carnage at Essling. Instead of the harmonious melody of violins he now heard firing muskets and explosions, and instead of red dresses he saw blood.

  Madame Mitterburg came to introduce herself. Her grey hair, lined face, the prominent veins in her hands and her husky voice all emphasised the great age difference between her and her daughter. Margont envied her for knowing so much about Luise.

  ‘Luise has told me a great deal about you,’ she stated.

  Too much, in fact, she thought worriedly. She listened politely as Margont explained in German which regiment he served in.

  But he hastened to assure her, ‘I’m only a soldier because we are at war. As soon as it’s all over ...’

  He stumbled over the end of the sentence. What did ‘all’ signify? He no longer knew. Would the war be over one day? They had fought practically without a break since the Revolution, and even the brief periods of peace had tasted of gunpowder. It felt to him as if they had embarked on another hundred years’ war.

  ‘I mean, when there is finally peace, I will start a newspaper.’

  The old lady listened politely, blinking from time to time. Because she said nothing it was difficult to tell what she was thinking. The word ‘newspaper’ always intoxicated Margont so he launched into a long explanation of his idea.

  ‘Words are an antidote to the boredom of everyday life and help change the world. Newspapers and books stimulate the mind. It doesn’t matter whether you agree with what you read or not, whether you laugh or cry, get angry or applaud. The only thing that matters is that we read something - anything at all! - that makes us react. And our reaction, our feelings, opinions and new ideas in turn make other things to discuss. They then feed the debate, they add to and propagate the range of the “chemical reaction”.’

  He was talking too fast, his German was deserting him and, realising this, he hurried to draw his speech to a close, convinced that his interlocutor was no longer listening.

  ‘In short, I hope that my newspaper with its controversies and ideas will give the public something to read that will contribute to all the strands of thought that enliven and transform people’s lives.’

  Madame Mitterburg blinked again but said nothing. There was the sort of silence that makes you rapidly run through in your head the gamut of small talk that could restart the conversation, something unremarkable. The silence stretched out. Madame Mitterburg was still looking at Margont. He wondered if she was simply trying to fathom what it was about him that so appealed to her daughter. ‘You must have a drink,’ she declared finally. ‘You’ve done so much dancing ...’

  She turned towards the buffet and asked for a drink. So much dancing? That was a bit of an exaggeration - he had danced two waltzes with Luise. He began to understand how far removed Austrian high society felt itself to be from the universe he operated in. In their world everything was regulated by a multitude of rules, codes, precepts and obligations. The slightest transgression set in train a flood of reactions designed to correct the misdemeanour. Madame Mitterburg was merely keeping Margont away from her daughter with this now rather ridiculous chat.

  In the meantime, an Austrian nobleman had replaced the gangly creature, and others followed afterwards. So Luise danced but she did not derive any pleasure from it. Her waltzing was now just the conscientious application of the steps she had learnt in many hours of practice.

  Margont thought of Relmyer. His criticisms of the investigation into Franz’s death had ruffled society feathers. He had been told to keep quiet, but gagging him had only suppressed his words, not his feelings. This world defended its image and its privileges and considered scandal its worst enemy, the potential source of its destruction.

  The waiter arrived with a crystal glass on a silver tray, and Margont had an impulse to send the whole lot flying.

  Astonishingly, Madame Mitterburg seized the glass and said to him, ‘Luise has had a great deal of grief in her life. Think about

  that.’

  She put the glass in his hand, which she grasped tightly in both of hers. The crystal was freezing, her fingers burning.

  ‘If you ever make her suffer, I swear that I will pay someone to kill you like a dog.’

  With that, she left, abandoning Margont to his lemon punch.

  Saber, who loved to gossip, joined him. With his head held high, accentuating his proud bearing, his glittering gaze and supercilious air, he looked like a brilliant general who had had to borrow a uniform from his batman, his own having been stained in heroic battle.

  ‘Poor old Quentin, your beautiful Austrian has ditched you. Dance with someone else to make her jealous. It’s even more effective if you dance with her best friend. The waltz sums it up: if you want to seduce an Austrian, you have to make them turn round in circles.’

  Saber’s words of wisdom ... Saber wanted Margont to introduce him to Relmyer but was too proud to ask. Margont decided to make him wait.

  Jean-Quenin Brémond whirled past with a brunette in a white satin and silver lame dress. She was gazing at him adoringly. Saber was rooted to the spot.

  ‘Jean-Quenin’s done well! All the girls love “Herr Doktor”! I’m happy for him/

  He had sai d th is last in the tone of‘I hope he drops dead!’ Even in matters of love, Saber went to war. His rivals were his enemies. He did not seduce, he executed manoeuvres. The heart of a beautiful girl was a bastion he set himself to assault, then abandon, broken under his heel. It was not the women who attracted him the most, nor the most seductive, that he paid court to, but the most unattainable. That way, he was able to boast about his ‘victories’. And he was undeniably charming; alas, his Adonis-like beauty was like a spider’s web.

  ‘Antoine is not very lively this evening.’

  It was true; Piquebois held himself aloof, leaning against a column, daydreaming. Distractedly he followed some of the couples

  with his eyes, but more because he was mesmerised by the movement than because he was interested in them.

  The music stopped and Luise rushed over to Relmyer, who was becoming increasingly agitated. She dragged him off forcefully to dance a polka. Lefine, in his turn, went over to Margont, euphorically brandishing his glass.

  ‘Schnapps - waltz, vodka - polka, punch - mazurka!' He emptied his glass with one gulp and concluded: ‘Another pleasure snatched from the jaws of death.’

  Luise smiled at Relmyer, exaggerating her joy to try to impart some to him. The polka, madly jolly, had the dancers leaping about. Officers and their beautiful partners jumped, turned and laughed. But Relmyer remained like an ice cube, detached from the warm ambience.

  The polka came to an end and Relmyer immediately left the dance floor. Luise pretended to be out of breath to excuse herself from an officer of the artillery of the Imperial Horse Guard, in a dark blue pelisse edged with silver fur and dripping in gold braid. His voluminous rounded black fur bearskin transformed him into a colossus with an enormous head. He was extreme
ly surprised as he watched the beautiful Austrian girl depart: the Imperial Guard was not in the habit of being defeated. Luise marched over to Margont.

  Saber murmured hurriedly in his ear: ‘She’s coming! Talk to me, act as if you haven’t noticed her and behave as if she’s interrupting us.’

  Act as if he had not noticed her? Margont had eyes for no one else. Luise spoke to him urgently.

  ‘I’m entrusting Lukas to you. I want you to keep an eye on him. Promise me now.’

  ‘In view of his duelling skill, it’s more a question of asking him to protect me.’

  ‘It’s already done. Now it’s your turn, promise!’

  ‘I promise you/

  Luise held his eyes to seal the oath. Margont looked at her without letting his pleasure show. So she had made him promise to

  protect Relmyer! Saber was horrified.

  ‘She’s giving you orders! And you’re going to obey? What will happen if women start to control everything?’

  The entire world is at war, so things can’t get any worse than they already are,’ retorted Luise.

  Relmyer erupted into their midst, cutting off their squabbling like a ball running into a game of skittles.

  ‘Madame Blanken is finally here, the alte Funzel, wicked, greedy old hag ... Let’s grab her straight away before she’s embroiled in meaningless small talk with everyone.’

  CHAPTER 10

  MADAME Blanken was nothing like the portrait that Relmyer had painted of her. He had said she was unfeeling. Yet when she saw Luise she smiled affectionately. Her smile faded, though, the moment she laid eyes on Relmyer. Luise curtsied to her. Margont imagined a line of little girls, including Luise, curtsying in unison as Madame Blanken passed down a long corridor.