eventually tire of doing so. However, despite his resolutions, he was not sure he would be able to restrain himself for such a long time.
IV Corps was given the order to cross the Dnieper. Margont had to resign himself to saying his farewells to the Valiuski family while the colonel of another corps was already taking possession of the place.
As Margont was getting into the saddle he noticed Countess Sperzof’s old servant. He was hurrying as fast as his advancing years allowed. His cheeks were puffing in and out as he struggled for breath.
‘Captain, sir, something’s missing …’ The servant closed his eyes as if he were going to drop down dead at the hoofs of Margont’s horse. After catching his breath he declared: ‘Captain, something’s missing. A ring. The countess had the ring yesterday evening, the count’s ring with the family emblem: the two birds.’
‘Someone’s stolen her signet ring, have they?’
Margont thrust his hand deep into his pocket but the servant stopped him.
‘No money. If you want to thank, arrest man who did it and go back to France. All.’
‘I’ll find this man. The rest is outside my control.’
The old man looked bewildered. ‘Why all that on her, oysters, tea …?’
‘I haven’t the slightest idea.’
The servant left, taking his fears and his queries with him.
Margont turned to Lefine. ‘I know why he stole the signet ring. He wanted a souvenir like when you keep the menu from a wedding to remind yourself of a very enjoyable occasion.’
Napoleon and his entourage were weighing up the situation. There were now only one hundred and fifty thousand men left in the Grande Armee. Soldiers were shooting the looters until their arms ached from firing, but to no effect. Hunger, fatigue and despair were winning and, every day, more soldiers disappeared. The Emperor had taken advantage of the stop at Smolensk to restore some order to this chaotic army. Should they go on?
Marshal Berthier, the Emperor’s close friend and confidant, wanted to leave it at that. They had already conquered enough land for 1812. The army should take up its winter quarters and continue the war in 1813. Others wanted to bring the campaign to an end. They could not see the point of it. It was a very diplomatic way of not saying what they really thought: that Napoleon was waging this war because he did not like sharing part of the throne of Europe with Alexander. Murat even went as far as to beg the Emperor on bended knee to give up on Moscow as the city would be their downfall. But Napoleon was not accustomed to half-victories. He wanted Moscow. He was convinced that the Russians would fight to save their old capital (this was how it was referred to now because a century ago the administration had been transferred to St Petersburg, the new capital) and that he would therefore at last have the chance to crush their army. Then the Tsar would definitely agree to negotiate, he thought. Furthermore, the Emperor feared the reaction of the countries he now ruled. How would Austria, Prussia and the German states of the Confederation of the Rhine react if he did not win a decisive victory over the Russians when he had four hundred thousand soldiers at his disposal? Silent curses were likely to degenerate into protest and then open revolt. In any case, was he not Napoleon? So Moscow it would be.
On 23 August, IV Corps resumed its march. The palette of feelings amongst the soldiers ranged from the dull grey of gloom to the jet black of despair. There was often the scarlet of anger too. Many had thought the campaign was over and nobody wanted to resume this hellish march.
Lefine had managed to obtain a konia, a hardy Russian breed of horse. These beasts were very small and the French who rode them became figures of fun, their huge bodies perched on what looked like ponies, their legs dangling to the ground.
The previous day Lefine and Margont had returned to Smolensk. They had inspected the houses where their suspects had been staying on the night of the murder. The buildings were enormous and it would have been easy to slip away from them. They had decided to recruit a few more men they could rely on to back up their spies. The surveillance operation would continue even though it had been unmasked.
The 84th had just set off when Margont gave a start. He went pale. Lefine, who was riding alongside him, stared at him in consternation. He’d already seen similar faces, those of comrades hit by bullets. Margont seemed to have taken the full force of a noiseless explosion.
‘Are you all right, Captain?’
‘I think … I think I’ve understood why the killer spread food over the body of the second victim and why he tore out the pages of a book.’
‘Really? So there’s an explanation for that, is there?’
‘It’s another of his coded plays on words. He smears mulberry jam over the face, places an atlas on the body, the remnants of a book – only the remnants because he had torn out the pages – lumps of fat, or rather grease, oysters, nuts, tea leaves. Mulberry, atlas, remnants, grease, oysters, nuts, tea: MARGONT.’
Now it was Lefine’s turn to be hit by the silent bullet.
‘But … how …?’
‘After discovering he was being watched, he in turn must have enlisted the services of a spy. The spy must have followed one of your men. So he traced you and then me.’
Lefine looked around him anxiously. ‘What if he chops our heads off? Who’s to say we won’t end up one morning with mulberries smeared all over our faces?’
Margont was looking more and more composed. His coolness was a mystery to his friend. He could remain calm in a situation like this but, conversely, become panic-stricken by the inactivity that Lefine found pleasantly restful.
‘He must think that killing us would be a mistake. We’d be replaced by Captain Dalero and if he disappeared someone else would take over. It’s better for our suspect to know exactly who he’s dealing with. In fact, there’s even some good news.’
The 84th was passing through a village that the Russian army had set fire to as it fell back. It had left behind about sixty wounded who could not be transported. Almost all had died and Portuguese soldiers in brown uniforms were burying them.
Who can see any good news around here? wondered Lefine.
‘If our man had wanted to murder us,’ Margont went on, ‘he wouldn’t have let us know that he’d identified us.’
The argument did not allay Lefine’s fear.
‘Why, then, did he warn us that he knew who we were?’
‘For the pleasure of showing that he’s cleverer than us and to inform us that if we get too close, he knows who to strike.’
‘Better and better.’
‘We need to be on the look-out. Perhaps we’ll be lucky enough to spot someone spying on us. We’d need only to catch the rascal and make him talk in order to trace our man. But I don’t believe that will happen. He wouldn’t take such a risk. We’re probably no longer being watched.’
‘Really?’ replied Lefine, who’d already spotted three suspects.
‘And that’s not all. If the spy employed by our man has followed you, since you regularly visit our henchmen, it’s possible that the killer has discovered that we have three other suspects and that he now knows their names. Still, at least I’m now convinced that the person we’re after also killed Elisa Lasquenet.’
Smolensk was gradually receding into the distance, in a bluish haze that made it look unreal. The Grande Armee seemed like an immense shipwrecked vessel abandoning the island on which it had just run aground to sail off again into unknown waters.
CHAPTER 22
NOTHING, absolutely nothing was happening, and this nothing was making the French army desperate. The
