Despite his fright, his mind was racing. Four suspects! Why had night fallen already? Why should he have to waste time sleeping when there was so much to be done? The 84th had set up camp on a muddy plain. Some soldiers were already asleep, wrapped in poor-quality blankets and huddled against one another out in the open. Here and there men were pitching tents or collecting deadwood to make fires for warmth and to cook up a miserably meagre broth.
Margont tied Nocturne to a stake. The animal’s ribs were sticking out from under its skin and its scrawny look was in sharp contrast to its stomach, which was bloated with gas. He stroked its neck a long while. Then he took it by the bridle and led it to a wood where he set it free. Margont wanted to give it a last chance of survival, or at least allow it to die peacefully. Nocturne gazed at him for a long time without moving before disappearing into the darkness.
By the time Margont caught up with Lefine, Saber and Piquebois, his comrades were roasting a chicken and it took all their combined authority and rank to keep the famished spectres clustering around them at bay.
‘A good catch! Who do we have to thank for this?’ Margont exclaimed gleefully.
Lefine bowed his head. Margont tore a leg off the bird.
‘Just now a soldier asked me how many days we were from Moscow. “Four? Five? More? Are you sure?” he said to me. If the infantrymen had maps there’d be three times as many deserters and you’d need to fire a shot to protect this meal. I can’t stay because I’ve still got things to do.’
He motioned to Lefine to step aside for a quiet word.
‘I’ve had a brief talk with Colonel Barguelot. I’ll tell you the whole story later. One thing struck me: this pseudonym “Acosavan” is odd. It doesn’t sound French or Italian. Why not choose a simpler or more believable name?’
‘Yes, it surprised me a bit as well. I’d hoped the murderer would have chosen a pseudonym resembling his real name, one with the same initial or a shared syllable. But this idea didn’t get me anywhere. There’s an Alméras, but he’s a brigadier-general. There’s also a Colonel Serrant, who’s in command of the 8th Light, and a Bertrand in the 106th of the Line but both of them have alibis. I really thought I’d got it with Colonel Banco! “Banco” and “Acosavan”: one syllable and four letters in common. But this fellow Banco is in command of the 2nd Italian Mounted Chasseurs and spent a good part of the night of 28 June looking after the animals in his regiment. Another of those who get on better with the horses than with their riders. I can quite understand it, though. When you’re at war you end up preferring animals to men.’
‘What name would you make up if you wanted to mislead someone? Knowing you as I do, I assume you’re well versed in such matters.’
Lefine blushed. ‘I’d keep the same initials.’
‘Why?’
Lefine pointed to the hunting knife in his belt. His initials were engraved on an impressive-looking blade. He had spent a fortune purchasing it in Spain, but the quality of the materials and the skill of the craftsmanship justified the cost. What a shame the Spanish had given up the game they traditionally hunted to go after French soldiers instead.
‘So that my belongings don’t give me away. Added to that, it’s very difficult to make up a new signature and manage to reproduce it. With the same initials that’s a good start and you just scribble something after. Not to mention that my initials are part of me and I want to keep them.’
‘What a lecture! I suppose you’ve cheated like this before.’
‘A bit. But it didn’t involve you.’
‘Don’t go on about it or I’ll lose my temper again.’
‘So I would choose “François Lechu” or “Francis Lacet”, a name that’s easy to remember – it would be idiotic to make a mistake – but not too unusual or too ordinary, like “Dupont”.’
Margont nodded. ‘We’re in agreement. But the point is that “Acosavan” meets none of these criteria.’
‘If all he wanted was a pseudonym for a couple of days, he must have said whatever came into his head without thinking any more about it. In any case, now that we are down to only four suspects it’s clear that no name bears any relation to “Acosavan”. All this is pointless. It was something to chew on when there were no other clues, but that’s no longer the case.’
‘Think about it all the same. We’ll talk about it again some time.’
‘How stubborn can you get!’
‘Good. Now I’m going to try to meet Colonel Delarse.’
As Margont was walking away, Piquebois strode after him and caught him up.
‘Is everything all right, Quentin?’
‘Of course it is. Why do you ask?’
‘It’s the expression on your face. You look excited and worried at the same time. My comrades in the hussars and I were like that just before a charge.’
‘I got lost in the woods and was attacked by some Cossacks. The devils well and truly sent me to the ground. But all’s well.’
‘If that’s all it was …’ concluded Piquebois, looking unconvinced.
In spite of its losses, the Grande Armée – which IV Corps had met up with at Glubokoe – was still very impressive. There were troops stretching as far as the eye could see. From one end of the plain to the other you could see campfires and tents. The woods overlooking the nearby hills also seemed alive with fires, and the same was true of the crests of the hills further away. This immense expanse of lights seemed to reflect a distorted image of the starry sky. Margont felt reassured. In the face of adversity, the feeling of being part of a group was a source of comfort. He gnawed at his bone, snapped it to suck out the marrow and could only bring himself to throw it away when he reached Colonel Delarse’s tent. The sentry pointed his bayonet at the intruder.
‘Halt. Who goes there?’
‘Captain Margont, 84th of the Line, 2nd Battalion. I wish to meet Colonel Delarse.’
The sentry disappeared into the tent and reappeared a moment later accompanied by Colonel Delarse himself.
‘Captain Margont. I’ve heard so much about you. Do me the honour of coming inside.’
Taken rather by surprise, Margont obeyed without a word. Tall but frail-looking, Colonel Delarse was approaching fifty. His energetic, determined movements seemed ill suited to his slight frame. His bony, emaciated face gave an unpleasant preview of what his head would look like once he had been reduced to a skeleton. Delarse looked sickly, weakened and debilitated. He inevitably made one think of his doctor and the medicines he must have been taking. One wanted to express one’s sympathy before suggesting to him that he should lie down to conserve his strength. In fact, the feeling most of all engendered was the desire to get away from him as soon as possible, because he reminded one of death, and one’s own last moments were time enough to be thinking of that. But there was a life force struggling against this generally deathly appearance. His light blue eyes stared out with interest and liveliness. Margont wondered whether such an individual was physically capable of leaping from roof to roof and killing a sentry with a single knife stab. His conclusion was no, and he held back a sudden feeling of anger. What sort of work was this? Shouldn’t this suspect have been ruled out?
Colonel Delarse sat down on a chair and invited Margont to do likewise. The tent had been carefully laid out. The bed was heaped with numerous blankets and an eiderdown. There were no fewer than three chests. A small desk, placed just next to a brazier, was barely visible beneath a pile of papers: notebooks, reports, drafts and letters. The washroom was hidden by a screen. It was decorated with a classical fresco depicting athletes whose magnificent bodies were in sad contrast to the colonel’s.
‘I have been given to understand that you are an Officer of the Légion d’Honneur. I offer you my congratulations,’ Delarse declared warmly.