Margont went to Tresno.
The village was completely unaware of the drama that had taken place. The villagers seemed obsessed with the presence of the French army and excitement was at fever pitch. A regiment was marching down the main street in orderly fashion, the soldiers trudging in step through mud that had been tramped a thousand times over. Fascinated children were crowding around, watching them, shouting: ‘Drummers! Drummers!’ and imitating an interminable drum roll with their fists. The colonel smiled and, waving his sabre imperiously like Jupiter brandishing his thunderbolt, pointed to the drummers, who immediately began to play. The children shouted joyfully and their faces lit up as if they were witnessing the most amazing of spectacles.
At the windows of the wooden houses, onlookers were jostling for position with such determination that it looked as if they might bring all the houses tumbling down. Polish women – equally concerned, whether they were wearing patched and faded clothes, or elegant dresses and spring bonnets – were calling out to the soldiers in halting French: ‘Tell Corporal Djaczek, from the 3rd Polish Regiment, that Natasha sends him kisses.’ ‘Tell Private Blachas, from the 12th Polish Artillery, that all his family send their love and are thinking of him.’ ‘Do you know whether Ivan Naskelitch, from the 14th Polish Chasseurs, is all right?’
Everywhere soldiers were buying things, to the delight of the villagers, who all seemed to have turned into pedlars. There was a delicious aroma of sausages, which made empty stomachs rumble; elsewhere were warm clothes, knitted jackets, fur-lined – if threadbare – cloaks and fur hats. Infantrymen, collapsing under the weight of parcels, were skewering loaves of bread on their bayonets. Sergeants in charge of keeping order were checking passes and other papers. Four times out of five they frowned and began to shout, but they invariably received the same reply: ‘I lost me way, Sergeant. D’you know where my regiment is?’
The only stone buildings were the inns and the church. Because Tresno was located along a busy highway, there were many places to stay and Maroveski’s was the biggest. The window on the top floor was still open. Margont prayed that the scene of the crime had not been ransacked by those who had taken the body away. As he went inside the establishment, the wind shook the wrought-iron carafe-shaped sign hanging above the entrance, making its metal fastenings creak.
Five grenadiers were seated around a table, playing cards. Their captain, astride a chair, was watching his men as he stuffed his pipe. As soon as he saw the Frenchman, he got up and approached him. There was a brief shuffling of chairs and then all the grenadiers lined up and stood to attention. The Italian officer saluted stiffly. He was puzzled by Margont’s two epaulettes, indicating his junior rank. Since they, the prestigious grenadiers of the Italian Royal Guard, were being forced to wait for someone, that someone had to be an important person. But Margont did not look like someone important. The Italian checked his safe-conduct, then asked a question in Italian. Margont did not understand much of it. Did they want permission to leave the scene after his investigation? He settled on this explanation, reckoning that, like Guard soldiers everywhere, they were spoiling for a fight.
‘You are to remain here until further notice,’ he stated slowly, pointing his finger at the Italians before indicating the ground.
His gesture was greeted by looks of disappointment. No more glorious military campaigns. Their only battles would be at cards.
‘And no one is to go upstairs,’ he added at the foot of the staircase, waving his hands about to halt an imaginary crowd of onlookers.
He climbed a few stairs and turned round to say with barely disguised anger in his voice: ‘And I would be pleased if someone would fetch Sergeant Lefine, from the 84th.’
‘Sergeant Lefine, here,’ repeated one of the grenadiers, to make sure he had understood properly.
The hotel had been emptied of its occupants and the silence pervading the whole building was in sharp contrast to the hubbub in the streets. The door to the victim’s bedroom was wide open. A latch on the inside had given way when the innkeeper forced the door with his shoulder. Although small, the accommodation had been carefully thought out. The steeply sloping roof made it possible to stand up straight only in the left-hand part of the room. On the right-hand side it was only possible to sit or to lie down, so that was where the bed had been set up. Alongside it, a trunk served as a bedside table. A small bookcase, an unexpected item, was tucked away in a corner. So Maria had had the advantage of being taught to read by her parents. The pages of the few books on the shelves were well thumbed. Judging by the pink or pastel-coloured covers and the engravings depicting couples walking together, they were probably romantic works, novels and collections of poetry. On a table stood a candlestick, two glasses and a pitcher of wine. A jug, a tub of water and some provisions – pots of jam, vegetables and a string of garlic – were crammed on to some shelves.
The rumpled sheets were soaked with blood. Dark red spots on the floor made it possible to discern two sets of footprints. One led from the bed to the door and was probably the result of the victim’s body being moved by the grenadiers. The other went from the bed to the tub. The water inside it was red, as was the water in the jug. So it was impossible to decide whether the murderer had got rid of the bloodstains after his crime or whether the soldiers who had helped to lift the body up had simply washed their hands there. And now these precious witnesses were on their way to Spain.
‘How can an investigation be carried out in such circumstances?’ Margont asked himself angrily.
He spent an hour inspecting the bedroom but discovered nothing except a trace of blood on the bolt of the trunk. It was scarcely visible because it had been wiped. That seemed strange. The chest was spattered with blood as it had been next to the bed. Why then had this trace been wiped away? Was it something unconnected with the murder, the result of the victim having injured herself? Or had the murderer still been covered in blood when he opened the trunk, despite having had a quick wash?
Margont emptied it, carefully examining each dress, the spring jacket and the two nightdresses. The garments, which were folded, had nothing special about them.
He was peering at the window when a flurry of footsteps was heard on the staircase. A few moments later Sergeant Lefine stood stiffly to attention in the doorway and, with a smile on his face, bellowed: ‘At your disposal, Captain.’
Fernand Lefine, who hailed from Arles, was such a quick-witted fellow that the parish priest had done his utmost to teach him to read and write. His parents, humble farmers, had got it into their heads that he would become a schoolmaster or a mayor. That showed how little they knew Fernand. He was the laziest, craftiest man in the entire region. Instead of using his talents wisely, he exploited illiterates, getting them to pay him to write their letters. He had an easy-going attitude to life and considered it really stupid to see things otherwise. One day a policeman had caught him stealing from a neighbour’s vegetable garden. This representative of the law, a former soldier, had warned him that he would come back for him in three days and haul him off to prison. Lefine was then given three options: he could go to prison; he could pack his bags and prepare to spend his life as a fugitive roaming the countryside; or he could join the army, in which case the police would never dream of depriving the motherland of such a stalwart defender in these troubled times. So it was that in 1801, aged only seventeen, Lefine entered the French army. There he met Margont and the two men had become inseparable. That said, friendship, like everything else on this poor earth, has its limits.
Margont grabbed a flabbergasted Lefine by the collar and flung him to the ground.
‘You miserable wretch!’
Lefine remained sitting, clutching his throat, waiting for the storm to pass.
‘How could you have told my life story to the agents of that cursed Triaire? For what price did you betray our friendship? A high one, I’m sure.’
‘Oh, that …’
‘So there’s something else as well, is there?’ thundered Margont.
Lefine straightened his shako. His brown hair was always well cut and carefully combed. His self-assurance, knowledge and resourcefulness – a euphemism – made him a very popular figure in the 84th.
‘You notice that I confess to my crime, Captain. And a crime confessed to is half—’
‘That sort of stupid talk only works in the confessional.’
Margont squatted down to force Lefine to look him straight in the eye.
‘Of course you confess. You’re the only possible suspect! Who knew about my criticisms of the Emperor’s policy after Eylau? Only Saber and you! And Saber has too much of a sense of honour.’
‘But I also have—’
‘Don’t use words you don’t know the meaning of.’
Lefine stood up again, followed by Margont, whose nervous, jerky gestures were still menacing.
