had the one seized at Tannenberg, so how many more did they need? A Cossack had even promised her Napoleon’s head, probably confusing her with Salome. She was eternally grateful to her father for his pro-Polish views, without which she would have been married off to a Russian aristocrat long ago. But her relative freedom was nearing its end. Her mother had given her six months to make her choice from the list of names she had drawn up herself ‘to help her to avoid making a mistake she would regret for the rest of her life’. The war had forced a postponement of the deadline because announcing an engagement to someone who might be killed soon afterwards would have put her in a difficult position with regard to the surviving suitors.
Oh, the war! Men waged war for a thousand different reasons but what difference did victory really make? She could find only one answer: the colour of the uniforms and the designs on the banners that would be hung up in the drawing rooms. Might Margont be different? She wanted to provoke him, to push him to the limits in order to study his reactions. Oh, she was under no illusions. He would probably maintain an indignant silence like Lieutenant Saber, or order her to be quiet, just as her father did. Or, even worse, he would behave like her suitors, greeting her comments with a kindly and unbearably patronising smile. In that case she would quickly drain her glass to prevent herself from throwing its contents in his face.
When the servants brought in the coulibiac, salmon in pastry, with mushrooms, celery, onions and dill, she said to Margont: ‘Here’s a little more Russian culture for you to devour.’
‘Well, you devour our writers: Voltaire, La Fontaine …’
So he had noticed the books? An accident, no doubt.
‘So you know the fables of La Fontaine, do you? They make edifying reading. “The Wolf and the Lamb” for example. “Might Is Right”.’
‘Dear Natalia,’ the count interjected, ‘having sung all summer, the cicada was caught unprepared when the north wind blew.’
Which was supposed to mean: if the cicada Natalia continued to mock, eternal winter – that is, the marriage she so much feared – would come earlier than expected.
‘
‘But Natalia is always happy to please her parents, Captain,’ the countess claimed. ‘Do you not say in France “blood will out’’?’
‘Well, we usually say, “What a woman wants, God wants.” Mademoiselle, I quite understand that our enforced presence is annoying. However, Russian hospitality …’
‘What do you know about Russian hospitality?’ Natalia asked.
‘Well, it’s said that samovars are pot-bellied because people want to be sure there’s always enough boiling water to be able to serve tea to all the guests.’
The young woman was surprised. So he knew that, did he? He really was not like the others. She wanted to scratch this varnish just to check.
‘What present would you offer your hosts by way of thanks?’
Her mother smiled, interpreting the question as the expression of a child’s greed. In her mind there could be no other explanation.
‘Poland! Poland!’ whispered the count, beaming.
Natalia stared at Margont, wondering whether he too was planning to present her with standards, guns and heaps of corpses.
‘The promise to give them an equally warm welcome in France. But without the caviar, I’m afraid …’
Natalia then asked with false naivety: ‘Would my father also have to come in uniform and accompanied by five hundred thousand soldiers?’
‘We’d have enough cannonballs to feed the lot of them,’ muttered Saber in his corner, without turning his head.
The count was furious. With a discreet gesture he ordered his army of servants to enter the battlefield. The salmon coulibiac was replaced by a hare
‘Natalia plays the harpsichord very well,’ announced the count.
The young countess gracefully placed her napkin over her mouth so as not to be seen gritting her teeth. So they also expected to make her play after the meal, did they?
‘It would seem that she doesn’t play enough, since it is said that music soothes the savage breast,’ Margont joked.
Natalia was flabbergasted. So now she was being attacked on ironic territory, her territory! Because if they took away her irony, how else could she express herself freely? The colour of the feathers of her nightingales and the length of her shawls?
‘A soldier presumes to explain to me how music soothes the savage breast,’ she retorted.
‘I’m a soldier only because we are living in a time of war.’
‘What will you do when the peace treaty has finally been signed?’ asked the countess.
In the countess’s mind the question was a tactful way of finding out about the officer’s wealth. Admittedly, she thought him low-ranking. But he did belong to the French army, the only one in which any soldier could climb to the very top. She had learnt that Murat was the son of an innkeeper. Yes, an innkeeper! Really, that was quite ridiculous! He had begun his career as an ordinary soldier. Today, at the age of forty-five, he was a Marshal of France, Grand Admiral of France, Grand Duke of Berg and of Cleves, a prince and, to cap it all, King of Naples. The son of an innkeeper King of Naples! Oh, the French and their Revolution. No respect for the rules and for social barriers.
Margont put down his knife and fork to reply. His dreams were even more appetising than the famous hare a
‘Well, I would like to launch a newspaper.’
A newspaper. How terribly amusing! thought the countess. She invented on the spur of the moment a short proverb: ‘Innkeeper, King of Naples; journalist, King of the Alps.’
‘A journalist?’ Natalia said in surprise.
Given the interest her daughter had shown in the captain, Countess Valiuska decided on reflection that he was not at all amusing. She was already beginning to worry that her adage might become: ‘Innkeeper, King of Naples; journalist, Count Valiuski.’ There was no question of letting that happen.
‘I love writing and—’
But Margont was interrupted by Piquebois. ‘Are you seriously considering launching a newspaper? My dear old friend, it’s impossible. Censorship will close it down within weeks and the law will force you to pay the state- appointed censor out of your own pocket.’
Margont agreed, his lips puckering up with anger. ‘Yes, you have to feed the hand that bites you.’
‘And he’s entitled to comment on every line, on the layout … In any case, there’s a decree prohibiting more than one newspaper per departement, so your project will just join a long waiting list that the prefect will sit on every morning.’
‘I know all that. Before 1800 there were more than seventy newspapers in Paris. Today there are only half a dozen left. The commission for the freedom of the press is practically alone in showing real support for the freedom of the press because it considers itself incompetent to judge newspapers and never gets involved in anything. Such are republicans! Now it’s censorship that should be censored.’
Fanselin was also interested in the subject.
‘The only interesting things left to read are the bulletins of the Grande Armee.’
Piquebois looked sceptical. ‘I admit I like reading the bulletins but the truth is distorted by propaganda. There are the enemy who died on the battlefield and those who died in the pages of the bulletin and often a lot more appear in the second category.’
‘“The pen is mightier than the sword”,’ said Margont ironically.
‘It’s true that in the bulletins everything looks straightforward,’ Saber added. ‘They announce that the Austrians took a thrashing here and the Prussians there … Fine, but we aren’t told how difficult it was or what price was paid.’
Fanselin raised his hands to concede the point. ‘I know. I know the expression “to lie like a bulletin”. But I
