‘Fidassio has a weak spot: gambling. He bets a lot and owes money to several officers. He’s deliberately slow to settle his debts, so sometimes they diminish because the creditor dies. I’ve found out that he owed a large amount to a certain Captain von Stils – I don’t know what regiment he belongs to – and to Lieutenant Sampre, from the 108th. But in the fighting at Mohilev, Sampre was trampled by one or two Russian battalions. Eventually his body was fished out of the river, at the foot of the dyke he’d been trying to storm.’
‘Have you discovered how much Fidassio owed Sampre?’
‘Five hundred francs.’
‘Oh, as much as that! I want you to find this von Stils for me.’
Lefine went purple with anger. ‘How about finding him yourself?’
‘Colonel Pegot is infuriated by my comings and goings. He’s ordered me to limit my movements.’
‘But how am I going to find this von Stils fellow in the middle of hundreds of thousands of men?’
‘Don’t be so defeatist. The name von Stils could be Prussian, Austrian, Bavarian, Saxon or from Baden or Wurttemberg. The Austrians and Prussians are too far away, so start with the Confederation of the Rhine.’
Lefine’s face was a picture of woe. Margont pretended not to notice and explained his plan.
‘Find this von Stils and send him to me. I’m going to put it about that Sampre had asked me to recover the debt for him in the event of his being killed so that I could send the amount involved to his family. Von Stils and I will then both go and find Colonel Fidassio.’
‘Poor Fidassio. He’s going to find himself once more saddled with a debt of five hundred francs that he thought was dead and buried.’
‘What else have you discovered?’ asked Margont calmly.
Margont knew that a tensing of the muscles was the first sign of annoyance in his friend but he had rarely seen him clench his fists and hold his arms to his body so tightly. It was like a leather strap shrivelling up in the sun.
‘Captain, our corps arrived here after all the others. If we don’t look for somewhere to stay now, we’ll end up sleeping in the open.’
‘We’re investigating a murder and you’re talking to me about a comfortable lodging?’
Lefine suddenly went for him, like a cat leaping at a bird.
‘I almost got myself cut in two by a cannonball because of this investigation! Have you ever seen someone getting sliced up a yard away from you like a log being chopped?’
Lefine stopped shouting. He was surprised to find himself still standing, leaning so far forward that he was holding on to his friend’s chair with both hands.
‘Forgive me, Fernand. Come on, we’ll go and find ourselves some decent quarters for the night. And something to eat, as well.’
Lefine slowly straightened up.
‘Like a log, I tell you.’
CHAPTER 18
IV Corps had been ordered to find quarters in the suburbs of Smolensk. Now everyone was fighting for the best places. Lefine and Margont’s accommodation was beyond their expectations. Piquebois, Saber and a certain Captain Fanselin had taken over nothing less than a palace. Lefine stood awestruck in front of its yellow facade decorated with white stucco. The pediments of the windows were overladen with elegant arabesques. Broad columns with acanthus leaves framed the door, and smaller classical columns rose up from the balcony to support the overhang of the roof, which was crowned by a cupola. Despite its originality, the palace had adhered to the traditional rules of houses of the Russian nobility. The main building was linked to two wings by semicircular galleries, thus creating an elegant space at the foot of the edifice. Unfortunately, the right wing had burnt down.
Saber, overjoyed at having found accommodation worthy of him, was in full flow.
‘It’s the residence of a family of Russian aristocrats of Polish extraction, the Valiuskis. They’ve stayed on. I’ll introduce you. They love the French! The count has only one aim, for the Emperor to deprive Russia of the area from the Niemen to Smolensk and recreate Greater Poland. He even said to me: “Remember, there’ll always be enough room in Poland to bury all the Russians found there, either dead or alive.” He’s having a banquet prepared for us.’
‘A banquet?’ repeated Margont, sceptical at the prospect of such delights.
‘You should see their daughter! Such noble beauty …’
Saber could already see himself as a general, Count of Greater Poland, spending the summers in ‘his’ palace in Smolensk and wintering in Paris.
‘But it took some doing, I can tell you. The building was swarming with cuirassiers when we arrived. So I went to find their lieutenant to explain to him politely that these quarters had been allotted to the 84th Regiment and he sent me packing. Me, Lieutenant Saber!’
‘That’s unthinkable!’ Margont exclaimed, pretending to look shocked.
‘I swear to you it’s true! I returned with Piquebois, and a Red Lancer, who also wanted to settle in here. You should have seen how Piquebois sorted them out. There were ten cuirassiers in the drawing room, so Piquebois planted himself in the middle and exclaimed: “Good God! My lodging’s crawling with silver-shelled beetles!” Then he grabbed the lieutenant by the sleeve, just as if he were picking up a real beetle by the leg! He dragged him outside with such confidence that the other fellow acquiesced without complaining. It almost led to a duel when Piquebois added, “A big mouth but a small sabre.”’
‘Oh dear! I hate it when he starts acting the hussar again.’
‘A cuirassier began to protest but our Red Lancer yelled: “What the hell are you doing here in your fancy get-up? Out! Obey orders!” when he had no damned right to be there either.’
At that very moment the lancer came up to them. He bowed politely. He had a strange bearing, bow-legged as if he were permanently in the saddle, with or without a horse. Ever the cavalryman. His auburn hair hung down in small plaits and his moustache curled up at both ends.
‘Allow me to introduce myself: Captain Edgar Fanselin, 2nd Regiment of the Chevau-Legers Lancers of the Guard commanded by General Baron Edouard de Colbert-Chabanais. Ten years of loyal service and morale always excellent. Long live the Emperor!’
‘Long live the Emperor!’ exclaimed Saber and Margont a few moments later.
Fanselin was a handsome man and seemed amiable enough, but there was something intense about him. It was the look in his eye. It was impossible to define this something, or to give it a name, but its presence was undeniable.
‘To whom do I have the honour of speaking?’
‘Captain Margont, 84th …’
But Fanselin had already embraced him before immediately releasing him.
‘He has the Legion d’Honneur and the rank of Officer, what’s more. He’s a man of courage! Lieutenant Piquebois told me about you just now.’
The three men walked as far as the entrance to the palace, followed diffidently by Lefine, who didn’t know if he could accompany the officers into the central building or whether he had to make do with the left wing that the soldiers and NCOs had taken over. Margont motioned to him to join them and the sergeant’s face broke into a smile once more. Captain Fanselin explained how, as he was walking through the city, he had decided to settle himself here – and nowhere else. His tone gave the impression that it would be more difficult to dislodge him than ten cuirassiers. Saber could not take his eyes off the flamboyant uniform. The short jacket – the kurtka – was crimson and decorated with a blue breastplate. A blue stripe ran down the sides of the trousers, which were also crimson. The headgear was a chapka of red linen with a white plume.
Is a general of the Red Lancers more or less prestigious than a Polish general and count? wondered Saber.
