The Officer's Prey

by Armand Cabasson

  Margont emptied it, carefully examining each dress, the spring jacket and the two nightdresses. The garments, which were folded, had nothing special about them.

  He was peering at the window when a flurry of footsteps was heard on the staircase. A few moments later Sergeant Lefine stood stiffly to attention in the doorway and, with a smile on his face, bellowed: ‘At your disposal, Captain.’

  Fernand Lefine, who hailed from Arles, was such a quick-witted fellow that the parish priest had done his utmost to teach him to read and write. His parents, humble farmers, had got it into their heads that he would become a schoolmaster or a mayor. That showed how little they knew Fernand. He was the laziest, craftiest man in the entire region. Instead of using his talents wisely, he exploited illiterates, getting them to pay him to write their letters. He had an easy-going attitude to life and considered it really stupid to see things otherwise. One day a policeman had caught him stealing from a neighbour’s vegetable garden. This representative of the law, a former soldier, had warned him that he would come back for him in three days and haul him off to prison. Lefine was then given three options: he could go to prison; he could pack his bags and prepare to spend his life as a fugitive roaming the countryside; or he could join the army, in which case the police would never dream of depriving the motherland of such a stalwart defender in these troubled times. So it was that in 1801, aged only seventeen, Lefine entered the French army. There he met Margont and the two men had become inseparable. That said, friendship, like everything else on this poor earth, has its limits.

  Margont grabbed a flabbergasted Lefine by the collar and flung him to the ground.

  ‘You miserable wretch!’

  Lefine remained sitting, clutching his throat, waiting for the storm to pass.

  ‘How could you have told my life story to the agents of that cursed Triaire? For what price did you betray our friendship? A high one, I’m sure.’

  ‘Oh, that …’

  ‘So there’s something else as well, is there?’ thundered Margont.

  Lefine straightened his shako. His brown hair was always well cut and carefully combed. His self-assurance, knowledge and resourcefulness – a euphemism – made him a very popular figure in the 84th.

  ‘You notice that I confess to my crime, Captain. And a crime confessed to is half—’

  ‘That sort of stupid talk only works in the confessional.’

  Margont squatted down to force Lefine to look him straight in the eye.

  ‘Of course you confess. You’re the only possible suspect! Who knew about my criticisms of the Emperor’s policy after Eylau? Only Saber and you! And Saber has too much of a sense of honour.’

  ‘But I also have—’

  ‘Don’t use words you don’t know the meaning of.’

  Lefine stood up again, followed by Margont, whose nervous, jerky gestures were still menacing.

  ‘I was forced into it, Captain. It was last year. A sergeant-major sent for me. He told me he had orders from very high up. He wanted to know everything about you! Supposedly it was to do with promotion. He threatened me. He told me that if I didn’t obey I’d be sent to the colonies, on the other side of the world. And on top of that I’d be downgraded to—’

  Margont shook his head. ‘No, no, no. You’re as cunning as a monkey and in the fairground they don’t train monkeys by waving a stick at them, but by throwing them peanuts.’

  ‘They also paid me a bit,’ Lefine admitted.

  ‘You didn’t have to tell them all that you knew, traitor. That’ll teach me to talk too much. And save that pathetic look for the grenadiers of the Royal Guard. The Italians love commedia dell’arte. I should have you transferred to the navy.’

  Lefine went pale. The sea filled him with panic and fear, which he had always refused to explain as if he really believed in those writhing sea monsters that adorned the oceans on maps and on public fountains.

  ‘Yes, I wouldn’t put it past you,’ he muttered.

  ‘Just because you saved my life doesn’t mean that you’ve got the right to sell it. Now repeat to me exactly what you said to this sergeant-major.’

  ‘Well, more or less all I knew …’

  Margont’s anger subsided somewhat at the thought that such a reply was inevitable.

  ‘He was stupid, that sergeant-major, Captain. The more I told him, the more he paid me. So of course I told him everything.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And after I’d told him everything I knew, I went on, making things up. Well, my imagination’s boundless. Not like the sergeant-major’s purse, which ran out in the end. Two or three things I made up completely: you love horses, you dream of one day breeding your own; you’re in love with the pretty daughter of a Montpellier notary who doesn’t want you as his son-in-law until you’re a colonel; you have a distant uncle who lives in Louisiana and you’ve toyed with the idea of starting a new life in the New World.’

  Margont smiled to himself. The file put together by Triaire was so stuffed with nonsense that it should prove impossible to separate the wheat from the chaff. He felt less cheated.

  ‘One thing intrigues me, Fernand. You said so much that you must have known that one day I would find you out, but that didn’t bother you. Why not?’

  Lefine had recovered his self-assurance.

  ‘It’s true that I had underestimated your anger a bit. But above all I know how to make myself indispensable. And when someone’s indispensable, what can happen to them?’

  The answer was as impudent as it was true. It brought Margont back to his investigation. What if the murderer were an indispensable officer? He had asked himself that question dozens of times. He put his arm on Lefine’s shoulder.

  ‘Since you sold my secrets, I’m going to give you a taste of your own medicine. And more than you bargained for. Prince Eugène has put me in a particularly difficult position. Well, I’m going to tell you the whole story, and then you’ll help me with my investigation and I’ll feel less lonely in hell.’

  CHAPTER 5

  LEFINE guessed that any mention of this business would get him into terrible trouble so, having a talent for weighing up the pros and cons, and being blessed with a pragmatic disposition, his first words after Margont had explained were: ‘So what do we do now?’

  Margont selected a collection of poems and slipped it into one of his pockets.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not just helping myself to a book for some late-night reading. The man we’re looking for managed to seduce this woman in just a day. However, we know that the victim was not the sort to fall for the first man to come her way, so what could he have said to charm her so much?’

  Margont brandished a second collection, like an impassioned preacher holding up the Bible.

  ‘Look how well thumbed these pages are. She read these works over and over again. She must have thought that he matched her ideal. The description of our murderer’s personality is in here.’

  Lefine was sceptical. ‘For a respectable woman she was a bit quick to invite a stranger into her bedroom.’

  ‘That’s easy to explain. If the murderer really was an officer, he would only have had a few hours to spend in Tresno before starting out on a campaign that might last several months. Hundreds of soldiers had come here to enjoy themselves, so the only quiet place would have been her room. She was trusting; she didn’t seem to think he would take advantage of the situation.’

  ‘Or she wanted him to do so …’

  ‘That makes no difference to the argument.’

  Margont leaned out of the window. He was not afraid of heights. It looked easy to him to step over the frame and get on to the roof.

  ‘Go down and tell the grenadiers and passers-by not to panic. Tell them I’m after a deserter and, as he used to be a chimney sweep, I suspect him of having hidden away somewhere up there. Then keep an eye on me from the street.’

  ‘Do you really expect to find something worth risking your neck for?’

&nbs
p; But Margont was already resting his weight on the tiles. A few moments later he was doing a balancing act along the roof, the villagers and soldiers watching from below, half worried and half amused. Lefine did not let his friend out of his sight, even if it meant constantly bumping into onlookers.

  ‘Careful with the tile to your right. It’s come loose,’ he shouted.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You know it’s just as easy to see from down here.’

  Margont was peering at every inch of roofing, hoping to spot something the murderer might have left behind. He found nothing and every leap from one roof to the next was greeted by applause from some idiot down below. He stopped at the top of the third inn and gazed down at the street. A sea of faces was staring up at him. The people were smaller than he would have thought. He looked away, afraid that he might lose his balance. He imagined the scene. It was night-time, it had been raining, making the tiles slippery, and people were shooting at the fugitive. The man was running. Running? The mere thought of moving quickly so high above the ground made Margont tense. He deduced from this that the murderer was in excellent physical shape. He continued his progress, wondering how the man had managed to descend from his acrobatic perch. He reached the final inn. This one was separated from the next house by a gap of nine feet. Not only that, but the dwelling, made of wood, had only a ground floor and he was two storeys higher up. He thought it impossible to continue, but he wanted a second opinion.

  ‘I’m going to take a run and a jump,’ he called out to Lefine.

  The sergeant began to gesticulate frantically. ‘You’re mad, Captain! It’s suicidal! You’ll get squashed as flat as a pancake! The murd— the deserter must have got down before. We just need to ask the people living in that shack whether they heard anyone fall on to their roof that night. A racket like that would certainly have woken them.’

  Margont retraced his steps.

  An artillery corporal, disfigured by severe burns to his neck and the lower part of his face, leaned towards Lefine. ‘Ain’t he a bit soft in the head, that captain of yours?’

  ‘When he’s set on something, that’s all he thinks about and he doesn’t take account of the risks.’

  ‘Carelessness can prove very expensive,’ retorted the corporal, slowly running his forefinger along a cheek that was as crumpled as a wet sheet.

  Margont went back and stood stock-still in front of an enormous oak with some of its branches broken. There were numerous footmarks around it. A few yards away was a rough impression made by a body and in the hollow was a mixture of mud and blood. A moment later the two men were examining the scene.

  ‘This is his route: he jumps down from this roof, breaks his fall by grasping the branches that give way, lands in this puddle, walks towards the wood … But from here on it’s impossible to work anything out because of all the other footprints left by the men in pursuit, those who took the sentry’s body away, onlookers, people out walking …’

  ‘These bloody idiots have trampled over our only clue, the footprints!’

  Margont’s face suddenly lit up. ‘They haven’t destroyed everything. The puddle! Nobody would deliberately paddle in it for the pleasure of ruining their shoes.’ He stared at the pool of muddy water surrounding the trunk and the roots of the tree. ‘Go and fetch the grenadiers to bale it out, but make sure they don’t step in it!’

  Lefine, who could not stand being looked down on – unless it was to his financial or other benefit – hated the soldiers of the Italian Guard and their haughty attitude. His face broke into a sadistic smile.

  ‘As they don’t speak a word of French, with a bit of luck they may think you’re ordering them to lick it up.’

  ‘If you play that sort of game, believe me, you’ll be drinking it with them.’

  ‘I’d almost be pleased to do so.’

  ‘Find a cobbler and get him to make a sole and a cast of this footprint. And find out which regiment the sentry who was murdered belonged to. Meet me at six o’clock at the inn at the entrance to the village. We’ve moved forward,’ Margont concluded, rubbing his hands.

  ‘By one step,’ added Lefine.

  Margont questioned Maroveski’s servant girls but Maria had not confided in them about her ‘Prince Charming’. After queuing up outside an eating-house to buy a sausage and a piece of black bread that cost him a king’s ransom, he left Tresno.

  He rode through the countryside, travelling through woods of conifer trees and across plains. He passed an endless procession of carts and wagons carrying supplies, which had already fallen behind schedule even before hostilities had begun. After asking the way, he eventually reached a village with an unpronounceable name consisting of a handful of small wooden houses scattered on either side of an almost dried-up river. There was not a single Pole to be seen in the fields or orchards. Here, too, a crowd of soldiers and locals were doing deals in the streets. Margont stopped a voltigeur, one of those skilful marksmen who go ahead of the troops and delight in picking off enemy officers at long range. The man was carrying two cages so full of chickens that their heads, wings and feet were poking through the bars on all sides. The poor creatures were clucking in distress but only attracted hungry looks from the passers-by.

  ‘Do you know where Medical Officer Brémond is?’

  ‘Building that hospital, that big shack over there, Captain.’

  Margont noticed scores of soldiers busy fitting out a barn.

  ‘It’s kind of ’em to do that for us but if we shoot it out with the Russians we’ll all end up inside there and more cooped up than my chickens.’

  Margont entrusted his horse to some bare-chested soldiers who were chopping down trees, and approached the building. The ground and first floors had been covered with straw. It would serve as mattresses for the wounded and soak up the blood. Hammering and sawing of wood could be heard all around. Margont had the feeling that they were preparing the set for some horrible drama portraying the struggle between Life and Death. The performances would last for months and would play to a full house every day.

  The humanist ideas of the Revolution, plus the experience of countless battles fought by France during the Revolution and then the Empire, had led to greatly improved medical services in the army. Credit was also due to the genius of a number of men, including Larrey with his ‘flying ambulances’, well-equipped vehicles specially designed to reduce the impact of travelling over rough roads; Parmentier, whose research had shown that the right diet could prevent many illnesses; and Desgenette and Percy, who had combated infections and epidemics by improving hygiene. Lastly, surgical techniques had been developed, the better to carry out emergency operations without proper equipment in the wake of the army, if not on the battlefield itself. The quality of care had therefore improved considerably, despite administrative delays and the stupid decisions sometimes taken by the imperial government. For example, in 1810, in the belief that peace had been achieved, the authorities had laid off a considerable number of medical officers, to make savings. This mistake had not been properly rectified because scant regard was paid to the quality of the training of new medical officers. As a result, some individuals were now acting as assistant surgeons after studying medicine for only a few months. Percy nicknamed them ‘bogus surgeons’.

  Margont was fascinated by medicine. He never tired of questioning all the physicians he came across. One day Brémond had explained to him the different types of hospital needed by an army in wartime. Next to the battlefield were mobile hospitals, which often consisted of requisitioned buildings with makeshift facilities where the most seriously wounded were given emergency treatment. The less badly wounded, who could often wait for several hours without their condition deteriorating, were transported to temporary hospitals. Mobile hospitals had several ambulances, which either collected the wounded from the battlefield or took them from the mobile hospital to a temporary hospital. The temporary hospitals were situated in the second line. They were therefore beyond the reach
of cannon fire and less at risk of being encircled by the enemy in the event of a setback. Then there were the hospitals in the rear, which took in those recovering from their wounds and needing medical attention. These were usually proper hospitals situated in the nearest towns.

  Margont finally caught sight of Brémond speaking to a small gathering of assistant surgeons. The medical officer had light auburn, almost ginger, hair, and whiskers that went down to his chin. His eyebrows, which were long, delicate and well arched, gave his blue eyes an even more piercing gaze. He made a point of always being impeccably dressed and had often criticised Margont for having unpolished shoes or a badly done-up collar. In fact, the medical officer’s jacket did not fully meet the regulations but only a very observant person would have noticed that the last button in the bottom row was different from the other two. It had been in general use only from 1796 to 1798 and bore the inscription ‘Military Hospitals’ as well as a Phrygian bonnet above the word ‘Humanity’.

  Margont joined the gathering without being noticed by Brémond, who was engrossed in what he was saying.

  ‘In hospitals, remember that the wound is more important than the rank. We do not treat in descending order of rank – that philosophy does not apply here – but in descending order of the seriousness of the injury. I must now speak to you about that most difficult and painful of subjects, the art of triage. Let’s imagine that three wounded soldiers are brought in at the same time. The first has had his leg almost blown off by round shot. The second has been riddled with grapeshot and has suffered a dozen or so multiple fractures. The third has received a bullet in the thigh – the bone and the femoral artery have not been hit – and is screaming out for immediate treatment. If I operate straight away on the third patient I will save him. But by the time I’ve finished, the others will be dead. If I start by seeing to the second one he will die anyway because he is too badly wounded. By the time I’ve finished, the first one is dead and the third still waiting for help. If I begin with the first I will save him. Then I will treat the third one and save him too. Only the second one will die. The conclusion is that according to the order in which I treat my three patients, either I will save only one or I will save two. My purpose, then, is to teach you to sort the wounded, not to rush to treat the most spectacular-looking injury – the one riddled with grapeshot for whom unfortunately nothing can be done – and not to allow yourselves to be bullied by the one who is not seriously injured and who still has the strength to call you all the names under the sun. Of course, triage does not do away with the obligation to give emergency treatment to everyone. In the case I have just mentioned, while I began to operate on the first patient, you would have bandaged the wounds of the other two in order to reduce the bleeding. You would also have lessened their suffering with words of comfort – but not lies of the “we are going to save you and you’ll suffer no aftereffects” sort – painkillers, if you are lucky enough to have any left, and hefty doses of spirits because there’s nothing like it to dull the senses. Any questions before I begin my class?’