Margont started speaking in conspiratorial tones, glancing around as he did so. ‘Talk more quietly. Some officers are having deserters shot by the dozen.’
‘If Jean-Quenin brought back a few broken skulls with their foreheads slashed by sabres and blasted by cannonballs or with all their bones broken by grapeshot, and exhibited them in the anatomy museum of the medical school in Montpellier, perhaps people would think twice before going off to tickle one another with bayonets …’
‘You must be joking. People would be only too eager to continue adding to the collection.’
Margont was looking for a way of helping his friend to get over the emotional shock that seemed to have transformed him. It was as if the blast from the cannonball had made him lapse into a second childhood. Lefine found the slightest thing amusing, almost getting himself bitten by a stray dog when he tried to stroke it, and his naïve comments were in sharp contrast to the usual pragmatism of this wily old monkey.
They settled themselves down in a house fortunate enough to have escaped the fire. Its good luck had not, however, extended as far as to protect it from looting. They picked up some chairs and sat down in the middle of a chaos of clothes and broken crockery. Someone had discovered a sack of flour. A quarrel had ensued and the sack had been torn open. The flour scattered on the floor was witness to human folly. There had been a fight and there were traces of blood amidst the confused pattern of footprints. The winners had then tried to gather up this precious powder. Judging by all that remained on the floor, both parties would have been better off sharing out the contents of the sack while it was still intact.
‘In Russia traces of flour are like bloodstains: it means someone is going to die,’ Lefine declared.
‘No! We aren’t going to die of hunger any more. We’re going to find enough food supplies here,’ Margont lied. ‘On the subject of our investigation, I’ve thought hard about Élisa Lasquenet’s murder. All the same, it’s very odd, a tongue cut out and slipped into the pocket of a cloak.’
‘So?’
‘Do you remember the anagram “Acosavan”, “Casanova”? Well, the mutilation of this actress seems to be saying: “She would have done better to have held her tongue instead of provoking me by running it over her lips.”’
Margont stopped talking to allow Lefine to express an opinion but the sergeant failed to respond.
‘If I’m right, then there really is a connection between these two crimes. It’s difficult to define: it’s a sort of signature in the form of a cruel and coded play on words, which must greatly amuse the murderer. A biting and humiliating form of mockery that looks as if it’s intended to add insult to injury. I admit that this is quite a bold piece of speculation but it seems to me far more credible than the “confessions” of that poor madman. There’s also another element in common: the mixture of love and death. In both cases, what would have aroused desire in normal people provoked extreme violence in the murderer.’
Margont stretched out his legs and made himself more comfortable, trying to relax. If his hypothesis was right, his investigation was taking an even more sinister turn. On the one hand, there was the possibility of earlier crimes and on the other …
‘“Bad luck comes in threes”, as the saying goes,’ Lefine added, following the same train of thought.
‘Let’s put that to one side. What have you got to tell me?’
Lefine admired his friend’s pugnacity. However, Margont did not know his own limits or how to avoid going too far and risking his own neck.
‘I had one sighting of the indefatigable Pirgnon.’
‘So he really does exist. I’d almost begun to doubt it.’
‘He was exhausted. He was leaning so far forward that his head was resting on the neck of his horse. I was able to talk to one of his lieutenants. His overwhelming vitality has made him very popular. He gets up at the crack of dawn and is the last to go to bed. He converses with the regimental doctor, inspects the wagons, interrogates the prisoners, goes off on reconnaissance, checks the stocks of ammunition … Apparently, his theory is that, in the face of such a shambles, one must react decisively. He frequently reviews his troops with the result that the 35th are a very handsome sight with their shining muskets and their trousers and gaiters as white as the Alps. Robert Pirgnon is forty-one and comes from a bourgeois Lyons family. He attended a military academy and came out placed near the bottom of the ranking. He was in the Prussian campaign and then served for a long period in Spain. It seems that he made a lot of money there by looting the palaces of captured Spanish generals …’
Lefine’s eyes lit up, as if reflecting heaps of imaginary gold. Margont was pleased to see his friend’s normal look return.
‘Well, you see, if you’d been less lazy and if you’d worked hard at school you might have got into a military academy and would be a captain or a major by now and I’m sure you’d have helped yourself to booty like he did over there.’
‘Ah!’ sighed Lefine ruefully.
He consoled himself with the thought that it was never too late to do the right thing.
‘He was living it up in Madrid …’
‘A seducer, was he, our Prince Charming?’
‘Not quite. He didn’t chase after the local beauties. He was more interested in high society, doing the rounds of dinners and balls, military parades and bowing and scraping at court.’
Margont had difficulty disguising his disappointment.
‘For example, they say that one day Pirgnon invited the King, Joseph Bonaparte, to dinner. There were about thirty guests, including some bigwigs from the general staff. Pirgnon served a wonderful wine, a first-rate burgundy from before the Revolution! He uncorked it himself and served the King. Joseph emptied his glass and was fulsome with praise. Pirgnon served him again. Joseph again emptied his glass. Pirgnon was about to pour him a third but he refused because he had already had a few aperitifs and, as you know …’
‘Yes, the Spanish think he’s an alcoholic and nickname him “Pepe Botella”, “Joe the Bottle”. He must have wanted to avoid feeding the rumour. So then what?’
‘Then Pirgnon grabbed the neck of the bottle and tipped it upside down over a vase, declaring: “The King has finished drinking.” Everyone looked shocked while the roses soaked up the wine. Apparently the King found it very amusing. I would have had him shot.’
‘How can people waste their time at such social gatherings?’
‘It’s even worse than you think. Captain Suenteria, from the Joseph Napoleon Regiment, told me that one day Marshal Marmont decided to give a grand reception while he was passing through Madrid. Marshal Soult, who had quarrelled with Marmont and was also in the capital at that time, immediately arranged a ball on the same evening. All the cream of Madrid society was invited to both places so was forced to choose its camp. When evening came, Pirgnon went to Marmont’s, saluted the marshal, helped himself to a glass of punch, danced three waltzes, disappeared, reappeared at the other end of town, saluted Marshal Soult, drank a glass of port, joked with Soult’s general staff, left again, turned up once more at Marmont’s for a toast before downing champagne at Soult’s … and so on, for the whole night. Neither marshal suspected a thing and subsequently they never failed to invite the colonel on a regular basis.’
‘It’s absurd! I can’t understand the logic of it.’
‘But you’re going to like this Pirgnon, Captain. He has a passion for art and literature. He transformed his residence in Madrid into a veritable museum and loved showing people around. He also set up a literary salon, the Cervantes Club.’
‘Excellent! That’s how I’m going to meet him! I’m going to talk to him about literary salons! What more do you know about this?’