CHAPTER 7
DURING the return journey Margont thought back over his life. He often did so at the start of a campaign. His past reminded him of a baker’s dough that had been kneaded by too many hands, each with their own idea of what shape to give the future loaf. Eventually, he had been brave enough to choose his own way, despite the opposition of those around him. Arrogance had saved him from doing what others wanted.
He was born in Nimes in 1780 into a family of winegrowers and his father, Georges Margont, had died of a fit of apoplexy in 1786. As his mother could not provide for her son and two daughters, she decided to move to Montpellier to live with her brother, Ferdinand Lassere, a hardened and religiously inclined bachelor whose ambition was to turn the young boy into a priest or a monk. ‘What an absurd idea!’ Margont frequently exclaimed, remembering the time when he was forced to read the Bible and to pray every day.
His uncle sent him to study at the Benedictine abbey of Saint-Guilhem-le-Desert. This monastery, founded more than a thousand years earlier and situated in the gorge of the River Verdus, was a resting place on the pilgrimage route to Santiago de Compostela. Its architecture was a mixture of Romanesque and Southern French styles. Built on to the magnificent, astonishingly high nave were a cloister and a few buildings that marked the boundaries of a verdant quadrangle. For four years this place had been Margont’s whole world. He had practically never been allowed to leave it. When he had complained about the lack of freedom, the monks had tirelessly repeated to him that solitude would open up his mind to God.
At that time the community of Saint-Guilhem-le-Desert was a far cry from what it had been in centuries past. Although only six monks remained, life inside those walls still continued in the time-honoured tradition: long hours of prayer, meditation, contemplation and services. Fortunately for Margont, study also played an important part in the activities of the monastery. He was taught reading, writing, Latin, Greek, mathematics, history, geography and theology. His marks were good or outstanding except in theology, where his results were nonexistent because the simplest of questions (‘Who died for us on the Cross, Quentin?’) elicited a deliberately wrong answer (‘Joan of Arc, Brother’).
In a monastery almost everything is forbidden, particularly anything you might want to do. So Margont spent hours reading in the cloister garden. This space represented the last bastion of freedom, even if it was surrounded by monks and walls. Words gave him access to other horizons, other thoughts and other lives. No one around him seemed to understand that without books he would have ended up not a monk but insane. Nobody, that is, except Brother Medrelli, a well-respected monk who taught history and mathematics. It was he who took this rebellious pupil under his wing. He became his mentor and gave him private lessons, in addition to the already extensive regular curriculum. He hoped to see him become a cardinal. According to the monk, when this young ‘believer’ claimed he was without faith, he was being insincere. Brother Medrelli was open-minded, understanding, tolerant and warm-hearted. He provided Margont with a constant supply of books and allowed the boy to accompany him on the rare occasions when he went for a walk (even if it meant running to catch up with him at the Devil’s Bridge, as happened on one famous occasion when he attempted to escape). Margont gave him the affectionate nickname ‘my friend the citizen-monk’. Even today the two men still often wrote to each other.
In 1790 the Republic, as represented by the National Assembly, abolished all religious communities. Margont cried as he emerged from the main door of the abbey. He was free.
He returned to his uncle’s in Montpellier. Lassere still wanted to make a priest of him. Father Medrelli, knowing him better, wrote suggesting he should take up medicine. His mother, for her part, wanted him to buy back the family vineyards in order to follow in his father’s footsteps.
‘To satisfy you and to please my uncle as well, perhaps I could make communion wine,’ her son would sometimes say bitterly. It was no longer the walls of Saint-Guilhem-le-Desert that closed in around him but everyone else’s wishes.
Thankfully, at Brother Medrelli’s insistence, Margont continued to study. He still read voraciously and loved to go for long walks through the streets of Montpellier. During his adolescence he became an ardent supporter of the republican cause and decided to get involved in politics. The world was changing and he wanted a hand in making it change even more and faster. His plan met with a frosty reception as at the time a number of politicians had lost their heads in more ways than one.
In 1798 he enlisted in the army and followed Bonaparte on his Egyptian expedition. On his return he had time to indulge his love of haphazard study. But from 1805 onwards there was one war after another. He had taken part in numerous battles, including Austerlitz, Auerstadt, Eylau and Wagram, and had had the opportunity to live in Berlin, Vienna, Madrid and many other places, making up for the time wasted within the four square walls of Saint-Guilhem-le-Desert.
Since then, like many others, he had been waiting for peace. A genuine peace, not a new peace
Margont met up with Lefine as arranged. The inn had a low ceiling and was poorly lit by tallow candles that emitted foul-smelling smoke. There were tables of all shapes and sizes: round tables, workbenches, chests, casks. Business was business. For the owner of the place a military invasion meant first and foremost an invasion of customers. Despite the sticks of furniture, many soldiers were forced to remain standing, drinking beer straight from jugs or gnawing on chicken bones. Margont had to push his way through to Lefine, who was sitting at a barrel, dunking pieces of bread in a bowl of lentils.
‘Let’s go outside,’ shouted Margont, struggling to make himself heard above the din.
Lefine wiped his plate clean and followed Margont, his mouth full and a satisfied look on his face. In the streets the commotion was still at its height. French soldiers were jostling one another to get into a packed tavern. Italian dragoons from the Regina Regiment were roaring with laughter at the sight of one of their number, dead drunk, trying his best to climb on to a horse. His green coat was covered with mud and he’d lost his helmet. When he finally scrambled up on to his mount he was warmly applauded. He raised his hand in triumph, slid to one side and, feeling himself gathering momentum but unable to rescue the situation, crashed to the ground again. This was greeted with even more cheering. Margont turned a blind eye towards this sort of disorderly behaviour so long as it did not degenerate into looting and fighting. Knowing that thousands of people were going to die, it was natural to want to live every minute to the full rather than obeying orders and doing nothing for hours, just waiting for the signal to be given to move on.
‘So, what have you found out?’ asked Margont.
‘Not much. The murdered sentry belonged to the 2nd Battalion of the 18th Light Infantry. There’s no way of knowing where he was buried.’
‘What do you mean, no way of knowing?’
Lefine was furious at not being congratulated for the quality of his work.
‘Have you seen the crowd milling about here, Captain? It took me more than an hour to find someone who knew him. I went to find the battalion: nobody knows where Sergeant Biandot was buried. His friends believe he was assassinated by a Russian partisan. I did the rounds of the local graveyards. No grave has been dug recently except for the Polish woman’s. I came back here and questioned the grenadiers of the Royal Guard as best I could, but they weren’t in the know.’
‘What about the footprint?’
Lefine took a wooden sole out of his pocket.
‘The cast didn’t prove anything. It belonged to an ordinary, large-sized shoe. But here’s what the cobbler I found managed to make.’
Margont examined the object. He lifted up his foot and held the sole firmly against his own. It was about an inch longer than his.
‘It’s not you,’ concluded Lefine.
‘So, to sum up, our fellow belongs to IV Army Corps – since the other corps are too far away from Tresno –
