he’s athletic and has experience of hand-to-hand combat. He’s an officer, between five foot six and six foot tall and we know his shoe size. He’s right-handed. Finally, he’s a “Prince Charming”. How many suspects are we left with?’
Lefine looked up. ‘Let’s say … four hundred?’
‘There’s no way of discreetly enquiring about the movements of four hundred people on the night of the murder, especially when these four hundred blend in with forty thousand others.’ Margont stared at the wooden sole. ‘This is the only clue the “Prince Charming” has left us, like a Cinderella of crime. But I doubt whether it’s enough to find him.’
The sun had almost disappeared below the horizon and shadows were spreading over the plains and forests. The areas still bathed in sunlight were shifting and shrinking inexorably. The man was gazing in fascination at the sight. Recently he had felt that his mind was affected by similar phenomena. Dark thoughts were slowly clouding his certainties and his plans for the future.
The people he had killed – whether enemies in combat or others, such as the Polish woman or the sentry who had almost trapped him – had revealed something to him. Or, rather, someone: himself.
The whole of that day he had relived the evening he had spent with Maria, tirelessly adding an excess of detail to his memory of the scene: the words they exchanged, the decoration of the room, the dancing shadows cast by the guttering flames of the candles, the joyful expression on Maria’s face as they clinked glasses. One detail in particular had amused him: each time Maria blushed, she immediately rearranged her hair with the palm of her hand. He had liked that particular gesture because he had interpreted it as fake shyness. When she had invited him into her bedroom, he was convinced that she was going to give herself to him. But all Maria wanted was to hear him declare his love for her once more. She had refused to give in to him and suddenly he had wanted to make her suffer. That had given him more pleasure than words could express.
And today, as he looked at his soldiers – ranks he was once so proud of, the tightly packed bodies whose impact was irresistible, the dense mass, dark and bristling with muskets – all he could think of was the blood running through their veins. In his imagination he had stripped them of their bones and their flesh, reducing them to nothing more than an intricate network of blood vessels branching out in all directions. As if all that mattered to him from now on was blood. Had he become a monster? The question haunted him. There must be others like him. How many of them had enlisted in this army for the sole pleasure of seeing blood flow? If he happened to meet up with one of these predators, would he recognise him? And would such a being unmask him?
He looked down at his horse pistols with their ornate butts. One pull of the trigger and his life would end here and now.
He felt like a drifting skiff. Gradually, land was coming into sight. But where exactly would he come ashore?
CHAPTER 8
LEFINE was fast asleep when suddenly he felt himself being tossed about. A light dazzled him. It was the flame from a candle. Someone was shaking him. He opened his eyes and recognised Margont’s face.
‘Wake up, Fernand. I’ve had an idea.’
Margont was speaking in a muffled voice, scarcely able to contain his impatience. Several noncommissioned officers were stretched out on the floor of the tent. A shape lying rolled up in a blanket switched from its right side to its left, grunting as it did so.
‘All right? Are you awake? Get dressed. I’ll wait for you outside.’
Lefine pulled on his trousers, gritting his teeth. Captain or not, he was going to hit this unwanted visitor with the butt of his musket and then go back to bed. Bedraggled and furious, he joined Margont. The captain was already on horseback, holding a second mount by the bridle.
‘Everyone’s asleep!’ Lefine protested in a low voice, pointing towards the field with a sweep of his arm.
The area was covered with tents and bodies resting out in the open. Margont did not even hear him. He was engrossed in his thoughts.
‘Do you remember the ink marks on the victim’s fingers? Of course you do, I told you about them.’
‘Yes, so what?’
‘A private diary! I’m sure she was keeping a private diary. Everything makes sense. She enjoyed collections of romantic poetry, she called the man she had feelings for a “Prince Charming”: just the sort of person who —’
He suddenly broke off. He had just remembered the trace of blood that had not been properly wiped off the bolt of the trunk. Perhaps Maria had mentioned the diary to her killer. Once his murderous rage had passed, he had become worried about it. His victim might have written down his name, his rank, his regiment … So he had searched the room thoroughly. There was no mark on the clothes. He must have unbolted the trunk and then, realising that he was going to leave fingermarks, had gone to wash his hands so that no one would know he was looking for something. Then he had continued his search. But if these assumptions were correct, despite his crime, the man had remained cool-headed enough to unfold and refold every item of clothing. Such self-control seemed unbelievable to Margont. Or rather, he did not want to believe it.
‘The question is: did he find this diary?’ he murmured to himself.
Lefine was combing his hair with his fingers.
‘So you want us to go and look for this notebook, do you? It’ll still be where it is now tomorrow morning,’ he grumbled.
‘Get into the saddle! Don’t call me ungrateful: I’m giving you this horse to thank you for your help. A Pole sold it to me for a fortune.’
Lefine stroked the animal’s neck and lifted one of its legs to examine its shoe.
‘Into the saddle, Fernand. Do you know the proverb “Never look a gift horse in the mouth”?’
Lefine obeyed, waiting until later to assess the value of his new acquisition.
‘If this diary did exist, you or the murderer would have found it. Why would this Polish woman have hidden it when no one came to see her?’
‘That was part of the game. If you are going to write a private diary, you don’t leave it lying around on a table; you hide it carefully. It’s obvious you don’t know much about women.’
‘The women I associate with have nothing private, neither diaries nor … well, that’s how it is.’
Margont woke the grenadiers of the Royal Guard by clapping his hands and talking fast and furiously. The Italians looked at him with a mixture of fear and anger. For them there was no doubt that this hothead who had turned up in the middle of the night was raving mad. The two Frenchmen went up to the attic room on their own. Margont started with the bed, lifting up the mattress. Lefine unsheathed his knife and ran the blade between the joins in the floorboards.
‘You never know, we may come across a hoard of gold …’ he mumbled between yawns.
After an hour they had discovered nothing.
Lefine leant against the wall. ‘You have to know how to be a good loser. Can we go back to bed now?’
‘You’ll have all the time in the world to sleep when you’re dead. I would have thought that someone with such a well-developed practical sense as you would have guessed where the best hiding-places were.’
‘No idea,’ sighed Lefine.
‘Use your imagination. Ask the advice of my uncle in Louisiana.’
‘Yes, that was a good one! You should have seen that sergeant-major scribbling away furiously. His quill was scratching the paper joyfully and the idiot, so happy to please his master, was smiling like a dog wagging its tail.’
Margont folded his arms. ‘If this were your bedroom, where would you hide your private diary, the one in which you noted down the sums received for selling the secrets I confided in you as a friend?’
‘Where no one would think of looking for them. So, outside the room.’
