‘There’s so much to see in the world. Have you travelled widely?’ he asked.
‘No. There’s too much blue on the maps,’ Lefine asserted coldly, without turning his head.
‘Apparently between the United States and Canada there are lakes as big as seas. It’s hard to believe. I absolutely must go there to see them with my own eyes.’
Margont settled himself down between a large harp and a fireguard. Then he immediately got up again to make his way towards a small bookcase placed in a poorly lit corner of the room.
‘It took him less than a minute to find it,’ Saber joked.
French literature figured prominently: Voltaire, Rousseau, La Bruyere …What was more, these works were in French. Russian society was francophile, except when it came to political ideas, whether revolutionary or imperial.
The servant reappeared and made an announcement:
‘Their Excellencies Count Valiuski, Countess Valiuska and Countess Natalia Valiuska.’
The count was still wearing the same clothes. He was not the sort of man to change half a dozen times a day. His wife was wearing an elegant violet outfit. An ivory locket with an effigy of the Virgin Mary proclaimed her faith in the face of ‘republican heathens’. She looked worn and tired, but dignified – dignified above all and at all times. Her grey hair was drawn back, emphasising the severity of her features, a severity further reinforced by her stiff bearing and disdainful expression. However, age had commenced its slow and cruel work. It was like being in front of a deposed empress.
Natalia had just celebrated her twenty-fifth birthday. She had long suffered from being overshadowed by two such powerful personalities. But she had eventually progressed from the difficult position of obedient, inhibited child to that of a young woman capable of defending tenaciously that indefinable, unique quality that every individual possesses. She was wearing a white dress with a moderately low neckline that would only have shocked the most hypocritical religious bigot. Her gilded belt was tied very high, just beneath her breasts, so that her dress billowed out, disguising her waist and emphasising her height. Her delicate features were framed by her long auburn hair but this impression of fragility was now quite out of keeping with her character. Her narrow nose and thin lips set off her blue eyes, which observed the five Frenchmen with a curiosity tinged with reserve. She was magnificent.
The introductions were brief and the count was careful to make them informal. Clearly determined to ignore this, Saber bent himself double to kiss the hands of the countess and Natalia in a perfectly executed movement. They had only just sat down when the count launched into an interminable speech that was part glorification of Poland, part anti-Russian diatribe and part history of the Valiuski family, peppered unfortunately with a series of questions.
It transpired that the Valiuski family came from the Polish nobility. After suffering revolts, invasions and civil wars combined with wars of religion, Poland had been partitioned three times between Russia, Prussia and Austria, in 1772, 1793 and 1795. The last scramble for territory had resulted in Poland’s disappearance pure and simple. When the count recalled the resurrection of the Polish state by Napoleon in 1807 under the name of the ‘Grand Duchy of Warsaw’, his voice quivered with emotion. If Fanselin had been struck by the distant Americas or mysterious Africa on the globe, the count had eyes for nothing on it except Poland. Smolensk had been captured by the Russians even before the first partition but the Valiuskis had always considered themselves as Polish.
‘You do not allow lines on a map to tell you who you are and whom you should serve!’ exclaimed the count, pointing to the world spinning around beneath the lancer’s fingers.
It was just as well that there were five of them to answer his questions. Why had the Emperor not yet announced that the territories taken from the Russians had been handed back to Poland? Why had the Grand Duchy of Warsaw not been swallowed up in a larger territorial unit called Poland?
How was it possible to tell such a warm-hearted man that the Emperor had made no promises about the resurrection of Poland because he did not want to offend Austria and Prussia, his new-found allies, who could still smell the powder of the French gunfire at Austerlitz, Jena and Wagram? Besides, the Emperor wanted to negotiate with Alexander and, if his plan came to fruition, its price would be to give the area invaded back to Russia. Napoleon knew that one of the preconditions to any talks with the Tsar was to rule out categorically the restoration of a Polish state. Piquebois proved to be surprisingly diplomatic in finding the right way of putting it: the Emperor rarely set out his plans but what was certain was that he always saw through to the end whatever he had in mind. The count pretended to be taken in. But there was nothing you could teach a Valiuski about politics. He prayed every night for the situation to get worse. The more the French suffered, the more obdurate Alexander would become. Then the stakes in this war would rise spectacularly, as would the Emperor’s exasperation until he crushed the Russians and imposed an unconditional peace. This was the count’s point of view: a desire for the storm to break and for the wind to blow in the right direction, extending the Polish border far into Russia … all the way to Smolensk.
Margont noticed that the countess was proving distinctly less friendly towards them than her husband, especially in the presence of the servants, whom she addressed in Russian. He would have given a lot to understand the meaning of her words. Was she criticising the presence of the French in her house? Had she condemned their lack of piety because they had not crossed themselves in front of what Margont had later realised was an icon chest? A pro-French count and a pro-Russian countess: the Valiuski family and its property would survive the war. Did not the winners always reward those who had supported them in times of crisis? Natalia seemed to disapprove of this two-pronged approach but she remained silent. Tea was served. Seeing the simmering water come pouring out of the spout of the samovar as the chill of the evening descended was one of those small pleasures that would put anyone in a good mood.
When the count had stopped monopolising the conversation, Saber was quick to take over. He constantly sought Natalia’s attention, questioning her about her activities and marvelling out loud to himself about the things they had in common. Incredibly, he too adored music, reading and going for walks.
The countess did not like the idea of Saber wooing her daughter. He had after all only one fringed epaulette whereas his fellow officers, with the exception of Piquebois, had two. She was not absolutely sure but she thought that this single fringed epaulette indicated a lower rank – and therefore poorer prospects. She decided to engage in conversation only with officers who were ‘properly epauletted’, so in her opinion Saber and Piquebois were beyond the pale. As for the noncommissioned officer, he simply did not exist.
The count had read his wife’s thoughts. Considering Saber to be overstepping the mark, he took advantage of one of the Frenchman’s mistakes. Saber had tried to show off by talking about the battle of Wagram and was about to launch into a description of one of his rescue missions when the count exclaimed: ‘So you were at Wagram, were you? There were plenty of Poles at Wagram!’ He then rained questions on him. Saber thus became a prisoner of Wagram, releasing Natalia.
‘What do you like about Russia?’ asked the young lady without directing the question at any of the Frenchmen in particular.
Saber was furious but he could scarcely abandon the Polish Chevau-Legers as they were about to charge.
‘What I like most in Russia is Poland,’ Piquebois calmly declared.
Fanselin was more reserved. ‘So far all Russia has had to offer us is being fired on amongst the ashes, but I’m sure there are fascinating things to discover.’
‘Such as?’ asked Natalia.
‘I’ve no idea, but if they’re there, I’ll find them.’
Fanselin then began to talk in a voice that the others did not recognise, a voice simultaneously full of wonder and laden with sorrow.
‘In Sweden there are regions entirely given over to nature where there are only lakes and forests as far as the eye can see. When autumn comes the leaves display an infinite variety of shades. In Italy, ancient monuments have miraculously survived and it would come as no surprise to encounter men in togas, talking in Latin. In the south of Spain, western Christian art and the Muslim art of the Moors are fused in a harmony that is unique in the world, thus succeeding where men have failed. I lived in these three countries for several months before tiring of them. But I know that one day I will discover a landscape and a culture that will make me feel truly at home. That day I will lay down my arms and settle down. Perhaps I will at last find my paradise in Russia. Perhaps not.’
Natalia nodded distantly, meditating on these words.
‘What about you, Captain Margont?’
