much to you!’
‘Are you mad?’ stuttered Saber in horror.
‘Well, well,’ Margont said gleefully, ‘you tell all and sundry you’re an atheist, you make fun of me when I say a prayer, but it turns out you’re superstitious. You’ve replaced God with black cats, rabbits’ paws and tarot cards.’
Saber walked off in annoyance, trying to retain his dignity. ‘At least I went up a rank.’
‘And don’t we know it,’ retorted Piquebois.
Margont looked longingly at his bowl. Was it empty? Already?
‘Cheer up!’ he exclaimed. ‘In two weeks we’ll be in Smolensk. Talking of which, I suggest we drink a toast to the paradise awaiting us.’ Then, raising a snowball, he said: ‘To Smolensk!’
‘To Smolensk!’ Lefine and Piquebois repeated.
They toasted one another before gulping down the snow. The march resumed. What remained of the 84th, that is, fewer than eight hundred men, was making painful progress. Lefine looked up at regular intervals. A flock of black birds was following the never-ending column of the retreating army.
‘Filthy crows!’ he spat.
‘It looks as if a Napoleonic crow has formed an avian Grande Armee and ordered the birds to mimic us.’
‘I bet each of these pests has already chosen the soldier it plans to devour,’ Lefine grumbled.
Margont pointed with his finger. ‘Look, there’s yours!’
‘Don’t say that! Must never say that, Captain.’
Margont’s legs felt heavy. ‘Let’s keep quiet. We’d be better off saving our breath.’
‘Yes, and in any case the words seem to freeze in our mouths.’
The road was littered with corpses. Soldiers were dropping from exhaustion, never to get up again. Some were almost naked: they had been stripped of their possessions.
‘It’s good, though, to say something from time to time,’ Lefine added further on. ‘That way you know you’re not completely dead yet.’
‘To take your mind off things, think about what you’ll do when this war’s over.’
‘Go on to the next one, of course. There’s nothing to think about!’
Margont spotted an infantryman cutting across the fields, struggling almost knee-deep in snow and waving at him frantically. Margont went to meet him. Lefine could tell how animated the conversation was by the amount of steam coming from their mouths. Margont came back looking worried and took his friend to one side.
‘I made some calculations but I was mistaken. So I’m changing my strategy.’
‘What does all this gibberish mean?’
‘That we’re going to have a talk with Colonel Barguelot. Now.’
Margont and Lefine caught up with the 9th of the Line. This regiment now made up only a small fragment of the never-ending black column winding its way through the snow, leaving a trail of corpses in its wake. It had almost ceased to exist at the battle of Maloyaroslavets. Margont had discovered from his spy that Colonel Barguelot was still alive. He had in fact been ‘concussed by an explosion’ that had left him unconscious at the rear for the whole duration of the fighting. He had only regained consciousness when it was time to withdraw. Margont approached the colonel who, on recognising him, stared at him in disbelief.
‘How dare you come to see me? I’m going to have you shot on the spot!’
Margont handed him the letter signed by Prince Eugene himself.
‘At least you’ve stopped sending me anonymous letters. Now you bring your notes yourself,’ sneered Barguelot, snatching the missive from his hands.
He was astounded by what he read. His adjutant had unsheathed his sabre. Discreetly reading over his colonel’s shoulder, he lowered his weapon.
‘What does this mean?’ Barguelot asked in a barely audible voice.
Margont put his document away carefully. He said nothing and stared the colonel straight in the eye. Eventually he declared: ‘You are blind in one eye, are you not, Colonel?’
Barguelot opened his mouth but was unable to speak.
Margont nodded assent. ‘It’s noticeable from close up: your two irises aren’t quite the same colour.’
‘Captain, you’re mad! Your conduct is intolerable, unspeakable! It’s … insolence! Disrespect! Mutiny!’
‘Colonel, it so happens that we have both been victims of a plot. You are not the man I had arranged to meet in Moscow. You are not the man I am after.’
At the mention of the word Moscow, Barguelot reacted sharply. ‘You’re referring to your little ambush that came to an abrupt end!’
Margont indicated a copse of fir trees at the side of the road. The colonel, only too happy for a little discretion, did not need to be asked twice. His adjutant and Lefine followed the two men while the troops continued their laborious onward march.
‘I could have had you shot! Attacking a colonel!’ Barguelot said threateningly.
‘You received a letter referring to a certain “lady of Smolensk”, but I don’t think you understood the message at all.’
‘The letter was clearly not intended for me. What connection does it have with our business? And how do you know about it?’
‘And yet you went to Countess Sperzof’s Moscow residence, hence our encounter. Who gave you that address?’
‘Why, you, of course! You’re trying to make a fool of me!’
‘I swear on my honour that I am serious. I repeat my question: who gave you that address?’
Barguelot looked taken aback. He stared in disbelief while instinctively tossing his head back. Then he became defensive.
‘You’re raving, Captain. I don’t understand a word you’re saying.’
‘To begin with, you dropped hints to me, as if we understood each other perfectly, but now you are denying everything outright, as if to keep me at arm’s length from this business. I’m very surprised at your sudden turnaround. I can only conclude, Colonel, that you are afraid of something. All this suggests a case of blackmail. What did someone know about you that scared you to the point of making you go to that meeting?’
Barguelot turned his back. ‘I’m not listening to any more of this nonsense. Please excuse me but, unlike you, I have a regiment to command, Captain.’
Margont decided to pretend that he was well informed even though he was as lost as Barguelot. So he came out with a sentence that seemed to be pregnant with meaning although he was simply referring to a mystery he had been unable to solve.
‘Was it to do with the real reasons for your appointment as Officer of the Legion d’Honneur, the honour that you were awarded such a long time after Jena?’
Barguelot turned round slowly. ‘What do you want? Or rather I should say: how much do you want?’
Margont felt inwardly triumphant. He had always believed that despite the attractive and flamboyant way in which he wrapped things up, Barguelot’s lies would never on their own have managed to earn him such an honour. Barguelot must then have cheated in some other way.
‘Colonel, I wish simply to understand what happened. You seem to think that I’m the one who invited you to this rendezvous in Moscow but it’s not true. Who gave you this address? And how?’
‘A Muscovite handed a letter to one of my officers. The anonymous message was for me and was asking me to go to Countess Sperzof’s house for personal reasons. When I caught sight of you there I thought, quite logically, that you were the one who’d written it.’
‘I must see the letter.’
‘I burnt it.’
‘You certainly did not! It’s the proof that someone tried to blackmail you, and no one throws away a weapon that can be used against an enemy.’
Barguelot awkwardly unbuttoned his greatcoat and coat. His hand disappeared beneath layers of fur-lined material before reappearing with a letter.
‘I would never have believed that people as cruel as you existed,’ murmured Barguelot as he handed over
