The Officer's Prey

by Armand Cabasson

  Margont responded to the news with an aplomb that both pleased and amazed the prince.

  ‘Such calmness, Captain. You barely seem surprised. It couldn’t be you, by any chance, could it? That would simplify my life considerably.’

  ‘Unfortunately, I regret to say that I must disappoint Your Highness.’

  ‘What impertinence! Well, the person who recommended you did warn me of that displeasing trait of yours. I must confess that it made me hesitate before choosing you.’

  Not enough, unfortunately, thought Margont.

  ‘But I said to myself that a good many of our finest officers were the personification of impertinence. Look at Murat. He charges at the head of his squadrons and sometimes considers himself a one-man vanguard. Then there’s Ney, the great Ney. On the battlefield he’s everywhere at once, always rushing to where the action is fiercest, like a moth drawn to the light. Lasalle, too. He dubbed any hussar who hadn’t died by the age of thirty a wastrel. What’s more, he followed his own precept at Wagram, only a few years late. And don’t all these heroes, and the Empire itself, spring from the greatest and most daring example of impertinence of all: the people of France decreeing a republic? In France, insolence is not a defect, but a badge of honour! That said, it’s like alcohol: it quickly goes to your head and causes blunders, so do not overindulge.’

  The prince folded his arms and stared Margont straight in the eye.

  ‘I suppose your quip was a clever manoeuvre designed to make me choose someone else. It was crafty but it hasn’t worked. Far from discouraging me, you have confirmed me in my decision. So, as I was saying, it would appear that the murderer is one of my officers.’

  The prince gave Margont an account of the race across the rooftops and the confrontation between the sentry and the fugitive.

  ‘The sentry stood to attention? Are you sure of that?’ said Margont with a surprised look.

  Eugène stiffened and his brow furrowed. It was clear that he would dearly have liked to say the opposite of what he must.

  ‘I’m quite certain, thanks to the testimony of another sentry, who was too far away to intervene but who saw the whole scene. The soldier who was stabbed had the rank of sergeant. A sergeant would not suddenly have stood to attention in front of an immediate superior who had just jumped down from a roof, was not wearing regulation uniform and was not on duty. No, given the way he reacted and the speed with which he did so, he must undoubtedly have recognised an officer. At least a captain, or perhaps someone of even higher rank … Now then, Captain Margont, take that look off your face. Anyone would swear that you were no longer listening to me and that you were desperately searching for a way of shirking this task.’

  Margont was absent-mindedly tapping the hilt of his sword.

  ‘For it to be a captain is just about acceptable, Your Highness. But if it is someone of higher rank …’

  ‘No arrests. Whether it’s a captain or a major – I dare not imagine anyone above that – you will take no initiative. Nothing foolish or it’s the firing squad!’

  ‘I take Your Highness at his word.’

  ‘You will draw up a report for me in the greatest secrecy and I will take the necessary steps.’

  The prince breathed in slowly, which Margont took to be a ploy intended to give emphasis to what he was about to say.

  ‘Captain, have you given a moment’s thought to what would happen if the rumour spread that one of our French officers is a maniac who tortures and butchers Polish women? All the regiments would denounce their own captains, majors, colonels … Whole companies would refuse to obey the orders of the man they took to be the murderer. But, even worse, the victim was Polish and of German extraction. You can well imagine the reaction of the tens of thousands of Poles, of Germans from the Confederation of the Rhine, and of Prussians and Austrians taking part in this campaign. Already there’s little love lost between the Prussians, the Austrians and ourselves. It would not take much to inflame people’s passions. There would be disagreements, desertions … If this matter were taken up by agitators, spies and enemies of France, it could shake to the foundations the carefully constructed diplomatic edifice built up by the Emperor.’

  The prince stood up and began to walk around the two chairs.

  ‘You were at the battle of Auerstädt.’

  ‘That is correct, Your—’

  The Viceroy interrupted him abruptly with a wave of the hand. ‘Of course it is correct. I know all about you. At Jena and Auerstädt we blew these wretched Prussians and their Saxon allies to smithereens. And today they are at our side, fighting with us against the Russians!’

  The prince spread his arms in a gesture of powerlessness. ‘Ah, the miracles of diplomacy! I shall never get used to it, even though I observe its rituals. In short, a rumour such as “A French officer is murdering and mutilating Polish women” – and “officer” would soon become all officers, and the Polish woman would become in turn German for the Germans, Prussian for the Prussians, Austrian, Saxon, et cetera – is quite enough to rekindle ill feeling in the hearts of those who lost a brother, a cousin, a friend or an arm at Jena, in Italy, at Wagram …’

  The prince continued to walk around in a circle as if this circle embodied the problem he was unable to solve.

  ‘When the Emperor was told about this business, he lost his temper. He began to rant at my messenger in Corsican!’

  The Viceroy stopped dead. He was lost in thought and was staring at the elaborate arabesques on the rug.

  ‘Just think about the Russian civilian population!’ he exclaimed all of a sudden, raising his head. ‘How could we rally them to our cause, or at least prevent them from doing too much harm to our rear? “Here come the women-killers!” Pillagers! Yes, they’ll think we are pillagers. And what about the Emperor? He’ll fly into a rage again, that’s for sure. Then there are the Germans …’

  His words were becoming more and more disjointed as troubled thoughts swirled around in his head. Margont had the impression that the prince was hiding something from him. It was a vague feeling prompted by various small details: an evasive look; a hurried delivery as if Eugène wanted to convince him quickly; a puzzled expression; lips that opened as if about to say something then closed again immediately … It lasted a few moments, then the prince’s attitude became perfectly assured again.

  ‘Captain, you are going to unmask this man for me!’

  Eugène spoke these words with incisive firmness. If he had been hesitating about whether to reveal an extra piece of information, he had in the end decided to keep it to himself.

  ‘For the moment there are no such rumours. It should be added that I have taken every possible precaution. The person who discovered the body was the innkeeper with whom the victim lodged, a certain Maroveski. I had him arrested and he’s being held in an isolated farmhouse. Officially, he robbed an officer. His gaolers speak only Italian, so he can’t tell them anything. On seeing the body, this Maroveski informed a picket of soldiers on duty, who immediately alerted a captain on guard. The officer was completely out of his depth and informed my general staff. I had these witnesses interrogated by one of the captains from my Royal Guard. They told him nothing. The sentry was a long way from the murderer, it was dark and the scene lasted only a few seconds. All he noticed was that the man was between five foot six and six foot in height. A remarkably precise piece of evidence indeed!’

  That leaves a mere five hundred suspects, thought Margont.

  ‘The soldiers who kept watch at the spot until the arrival of my grenadiers, the captain on guard and this sentry were all transferred to Spain at daybreak.’

  Margont managed to restrain his anger. ‘But it’s essential for me to question these men personally, Your Highness!’

  ‘Well, you’ll just have to do without what they would have been able to tell you. I had to nip the rumour in the bud. They are on their way to Vieja Lamarsota, Vieja Lamarora. In a word, you could say they’re off to “Vieja Go-to-Hell”
!’

  ‘I regret to inform Your Highness that I decline to carry out this investigation.’

  The prince gave him a taunting look, as if daring Margont to stick to this position.

  ‘Because you think there’s still time for you to set off for Vieja Something-or-Other, do you? If you refuse to help me, it won’t be the road to Spain for you but the nearest wall!’

  The Viceroy of Italy broke off. Margont’s silence confirmed that he could continue.

  ‘When one of my aides-de-camp, General Triaire, gave the order to go to fetch you, he led the messenger to believe that he wanted to inform you personally of the death of your brother.’

  ‘I don’t have a brother.’

  ‘Well, you do now. Major Henri Margont, killed in an ambush on the road to Madrid a few days ago. That band of guerrillas led by the famous Mina again. Your brother was a close friend of General Triaire. That’s why you were sent for. You have my deepest sympathy.’

  ‘My friends know I don’t have a brother, so if they hear that—’

  ‘Do as Triaire does: make it up!’

  The prince eventually sat down. He seemed eager to see the back of this captain who was going to lighten his burden considerably.

  ‘To summarise, my grenadiers are guarding the innkeeper and that poor woman’s bedroom. The body has been buried …’

  The captain looked up to the heavens.

  ‘The body has been buried!’ the prince repeated unequivocally. ‘All that a few soldiers and the inhabitants of Tresno know is that a woman has been murdered. They do not know that an officer is the suspect and that the victim was found in a grisly state. Now you may ask any questions.’

  ‘Why not put the military police in charge of this case?’

  ‘Impossible! There would inevitably be leaks. This investigation must not be carried out by a whole host of people. I need a single sleuth answerable only to me. Leaks would produce rumour, which I fear almost as much as I do the Russians. Besides, the leaks might come to the attention of the murderer, who would then discover that we knew he was an officer. We would lose our only trump card.’

  Margont guessed a third reason. He was under Prince Eugène’s orders; there was no one else he could talk to about this business, so to antagonise the prince could cost him dearly. Conversely, an investigator from the military police would be accountable to his own superiors. By choosing Margont, the prince ensured total control of the investigation. He would have complete freedom in deciding the fate of the culprit if he were unmasked. But if he proved to be a high-ranking officer, would he be fairly tried and sentenced, or would he be discreetly transferred to ‘Vieja Go-to-Hell’?

  ‘Why choose me, Your Highness?’

  The Viceroy stood up and grabbed a document case lying on the sofa. He swiftly opened it and took out fifteen or so sheets of paper.

  ‘You have been chosen for a number of criteria. I know everything about you, Captain. Your childhood, your short and enforced career in the Church, your military record, your opinions, the books you read, the names of your friends …’

  ‘May I know how Your Highness obtained all this information? You could not have found out my life story overnight.’

  The prince had the triumphant look of someone who sees his predictions coming true, giving him the misleading but exhilarating feeling of being in total control.

  ‘A few years ago I got Triaire to draw up a secret list of individuals with various skills. My idea was to create my own network of spies. But in the end the ones the Emperor uses proved so efficient – Schulmeister is the prime example – that I abandoned my plan. However, Triaire continued to keep this register, striking out the names of those killed in combat and adding others. One day, your name cropped up.’

  ‘Is there really only one way of being struck off the list?’

  The prince ignored the question. He casually pulled the reports from his file as if pulling the petals off a daisy. The reports were in such small, compact handwriting that they looked like pages from a bible. Triaire had conducted his investigation meticulously. With every page that the prince skimmed through, Margont felt a little more exposed. At last the Viceroy looked up.

  ‘I don’t have time to go into the details of your life, even if it does seem to have been of keen interest to the good Triaire. Let’s talk about the battle of Eylau, which you took part in, or rather, the aftermath of Eylau. It was at this point that you became a little more critical of the Emperor.’

  Margont stared in disbelief. Only his best friends, Saber, Lefine and Piquebois, had such a clear idea of his opinions. Which one had given the information to Triaire’s men? Lefine, without a doubt. In any case, he had to respond.

  ‘Your Highness, I have always been faithful to the Emperor and to the ideals of the Revolution and I—’

  ‘I know. Otherwise you wouldn’t be on my list! Let’s just say that you are not one of those who think that everything – absolutely everything – that the Emperor does is faultless and admirable. And, cautious as you are, you keep your criticisms for your closest friends.’

  ‘Not close enough, it would appear.’

  ‘The only close friends who keep secrets are dead ones.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go so far as that with the one who betrayed me.’

  There was a change of attitude in the prince. His features softened. The Viceroy temporarily gave way to the man.

  ‘Why this change of heart in 1807? It was the battle of Eylau, wasn’t it? I have to admit that I myself … One may admire the tactical genius of generals, the heroism of certain soldiers and epic feats of arms, but one cannot ignore the slaughter that goes with all this. The human spirit is like blotting paper: it can absorb blood up to a point but in the end it will become saturated and overflow.’

  This was not what Margont was fighting for. But Eylau had shown him what reality could sometimes do to noble feelings and good intentions. Ten thousand dead and forty thousand wounded was not just a slaughter; it was the end of the world. As a result, the Emperor had forbidden the wearing of white uniforms. Officially, it was because they were reminders of the old regime, but also it was because they made the bloodstains too obvious.

  The prince had fallen silent. Was he back at Eylau or on the shore of another sea of blood? Maybe all this was a carefully staged attempt to make him more likeable in Margont’s eyes. It was difficult to fathom this illustrious figure: sometimes calculating and manipulative, haughty and disdainful; sometimes sympathetic and humane. Margont was unable to say which of these facets was more genuine or to tell which would win out in the end.

  ‘Eylau justifies the criticisms you occasionally make of some of the Emperor’s decisions,’ the prince concluded.

  He turned over a sheaf of pages.

  Margont got his comment in first. ‘As does Spain.’

  ‘Indeed. I know that you ventured the opinion that the occupation of Spain was a mistake.’

  The hypocrisy of politicians! thought Margont. It was no longer the prince or the general talking but the diplomat concerned for the image of the Empire. Spain was ablaze, every peasant a part-time guerrilla: tens of thousands of Frenchmen had died in ambushes; young women were taking up arms as the need arose; the inhabitants of cities under siege were hanging those of their number who wished to capitulate; even priests in their cassocks were firing from their church towers … But the official version was that the conquest of Spain had not been a mistake and, no, fanatical nationalism heightened by the mystical fervour of the Spanish was not a problem.

  ‘Well, Captain, let me tell you that I chose you for three reasons and one of them involves Spain.’

  More bad news brought by a Spanish ill wind. Would they never be rid of it, even here, at the other end of Europe?

  ‘First, according to Triaire, you are good at investigating. Secondly, you are not indispensable for the good running of your regiment. And thirdly, you are a hero of the Peninsular War, during which you were promoted to the rank o
f Officer of the Légion d’Honneur. This last point will ease your task and if, at the end of your enquiries, I decide to reveal the name of the murderer, no one will question your conclusions.’

  The prince’s naïvety was disarming. For him it was obvious that the culprit would be unmasked. How could it be otherwise, since he had given the order?

  ‘And what excuses shall I give to leave my regiment and move about as I please, Your Highness?’

  The Viceroy handed him two documents. ‘Here are two passes. The first is signed by Triaire and is more than enough to open most doors for you. If you did happen to come up against any higher authority, you would use the second one, which bears my own signature. It goes without saying that this document should be used only as a very last resort.’

  Margont glanced at the handwritten lines, their gracefully shaped, outsized capitals in no way attenuating the terseness of the instructions. Captain Margont had been entrusted with a mission of the utmost importance. He should be asked no questions about it. He was entitled to go anywhere – the word was underlined. His every request, whatever its nature, should be granted immediately. In the event of any disagreement concerning the said requests, the person should obey but would be entitled to make a complaint to the signatory of this order. Margont was dumbfounded. These two sheets of paper made him superior – in the context of this investigation – to a major-general.

  ‘Power can be intoxicating …’ the prince commented soberly. ‘But you will answer with your life for the use you make of these papers. Were I to learn that you waved them under the nose of some Russian aristocrat to requisition his stately home with a view to leading a life of luxury, or that you showed them off in an attempt to seduce some beauty by playing the dashing secret agent, then it would mean the firing squad!’