treated within the hour, specifying the exact order. The wounded were pleading with him, threatening him, insulting him, promising him a fortune … In exchange for an operation they were offering him a horse, a house, a daughter in marriage, a wife’s virtue … Who could blame them? When Bremond turned his gaze on a cart, the dying attempted to smile and joke in order to appear less as if they were dying, while the less seriously wounded pretended to be worse by swearing they had been bleeding for hours. It was unbearable, unbearable. Helpers took charge of those selected amidst insults, spitting and tears. ‘There’s room for all of you. We’ll settle you all in. It just needs time’ was their constant reply.
Margont called out to Bremond but the medical officer took a while to recognise him. In hell it always takes time to realise there can still be good news.
‘You’re not wounded, are you, Quentin?’
‘No. Have you seen Fernand? He’s disappeared.’
‘Yes, he was wounded on 17 August in the assault on Smolensk. What was he doing there, so far from IV Corps?’
‘It’s my fault. He’s been helping me with my investigation. I’ll never forgive myself, damn it!’
Bremond was exhausted. His intonation was dull and flat, out of keeping with what he was talking about.
‘It’s just cannon-shock syndrome. As of this morning he’s cured and he’s helping to settle in the wounded.’
Margont was not reassured by these words. ‘But what’s cannon-shock syndrome?’
‘When a cannonball passes very close, really very close, to a soldier, it sometimes happens that the blast of air can knock him over. It’s not serious from a physical point of view but feeling death come so close often affects the mind. Fernand could not speak a single word. Either he screamed or he remained silent. As he was covered in the blood of the person blown up by the cannonball he ended up here.’
‘Will he suffer any aftereffects?’
‘Possibly. But he’s cheerful and confident by nature, so we can hope he won’t. Otherwise, he may lose his zest for life and start going on about the misery he has witnessed, thinking himself damaged by life and the army.’
‘I’ll let you get on with your work.’
Bremond was so shattered that he had to struggle to keep his eyes open.
‘There are so many wounded that we’re short of everything. We’re using tow instead of lint, paper instead of linen. Even the medical orderlies are performing operations … and soldiers are being brought in who haven’t been wounded but are suffering from depression. They’ve lost their appetites, can’t sleep, don’t talk any more, cry all the time and have lost the will to live. Lost the will to live! And what about me? What am I supposed to do for them? I can’t operate on wounded minds, that’s for sure.’
At last Margont found Lefine. He was going to and fro among the carts but there was no sense of purpose about his movements. He waved his arms around as he spoke and then walked off in the middle of a sentence, picked up a shako and handed it to its owner, who couldn’t have cared less. When he spotted Margont he rushed over to him, as happy as could be.
‘My favourite captain! Come here. I’ve got some news for you!’
‘Are you sure you’re going to—’
‘I’ve spoken to some friends of Colonel Pirgnon and our Italian colonel. I was in the process of talking to one of them when—’ Lefine stopped suddenly. His high spirits had evaporated. ‘I hadn’t realised we were exposed … The Russian cannonballs suddenly began to rain down. He was talking to me …’
Margont put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Fernand, you should get some rest. We’ll talk about it tomorrow or another day.’
His friend was puzzled. ‘No. It’s better to be active rather than sit alone in a corner thinking. Otherwise I keep imagining myself back there, talking to that lieutenant from the cuirassiers.’
‘Come on then!’ exclaimed Margont, taking his friend away from the place that had such a bad effect on him.
‘Are we still a long way from Moscow, Captain?’
‘Just over two hundred and forty miles.’
‘Two hundred and forty? What a swine of a country! What about going back for a swim in the Gardon?’
Margont started speaking in conspiratorial tones, glancing around as he did so. ‘Talk more quietly. Some officers are having deserters shot by the dozen.’
‘If Jean-Quenin brought back a few broken skulls with their foreheads slashed by sabres and blasted by cannonballs or with all their bones broken by grapeshot, and exhibited them in the anatomy museum of the medical school in Montpellier, perhaps people would think twice before going off to tickle one another with bayonets …’
‘You must be joking. People would be only too eager to continue adding to the collection.’
Margont was looking for a way of helping his friend to get over the emotional shock that seemed to have transformed him. It was as if the blast from the cannonball had made him lapse into a second childhood. Lefine found the slightest thing amusing, almost getting himself bitten by a stray dog when he tried to stroke it, and his naive comments were in sharp contrast to the usual pragmatism of this wily old monkey.
They settled themselves down in a house fortunate enough to have escaped the fire. Its good luck had not, however, extended as far as to protect it from looting. They picked up some chairs and sat down in the middle of a chaos of clothes and broken crockery. Someone had discovered a sack of flour. A quarrel had ensued and the sack had been torn open. The flour scattered on the floor was witness to human folly. There had been a fight and there were traces of blood amidst the confused pattern of footprints. The winners had then tried to gather up this precious powder. Judging by all that remained on the floor, both parties would have been better off sharing out the contents of the sack while it was still intact.
‘In Russia traces of flour are like bloodstains: it means someone is going to die,’ Lefine declared.
‘No! We aren’t going to die of hunger any more. We’re going to find enough food supplies here,’ Margont lied. ‘On the subject of our investigation, I’ve thought hard about Elisa Lasquenet’s murder. All the same, it’s very odd, a tongue cut out and slipped into the pocket of a cloak.’
‘So?’
‘Do you remember the anagram “Acosavan”, “Casanova”? Well, the mutilation of this actress seems to be saying: “She would have done better to have held her tongue instead of provoking me by running it over her lips.”’
Margont stopped talking to allow Lefine to express an opinion but the sergeant failed to respond.
‘If I’m right, then there really is a connection between these two crimes. It’s difficult to define: it’s a sort of signature in the form of a cruel and coded play on words, which must greatly amuse the murderer. A biting and humiliating form of mockery that looks as if it’s intended to add insult to injury. I admit that this is quite a bold piece of speculation but it seems to me far more credible than the “confessions” of that poor madman. There’s also another element in common: the mixture of love and death. In both cases, what would have aroused desire in normal people provoked extreme violence in the murderer.’
Margont stretched out his legs and made himself more comfortable, trying to relax. If his hypothesis was right, his investigation was taking an even more sinister turn. On the one hand, there was the possibility of earlier crimes and on the other …
‘“Bad luck comes in threes”, as the saying goes,’ Lefine added, following the same train of thought.
‘Let’s put that to one side. What have you got to tell me?’
Lefine admired his friend’s pugnacity. However, Margont did not know his own limits or how to avoid going too far and risking his own neck.
‘I had one sighting of the indefatigable Pirgnon.’
‘So he really does exist. I’d almost begun to doubt it.’
‘He was exhausted. He was leaning so far forward that his head was resting on the neck of his horse. I was able to talk to one of his lieutenants. His overwhelming vitality has made him very popular. He gets up at the crack of dawn and is the last to go to bed. He converses with the regimental doctor, inspects the wagons, interrogates the prisoners, goes off on reconnaissance, checks the stocks of ammunition … Apparently, his theory is that, in the
