‘In 1808? Two years after Jena? It took a long time to reward him.’
Lefine was beaming. He loved work that was well done and few things gave him as much satisfaction as a well-built house or a carefully crafted piece of furniture, especially when it belonged to him.
‘I found a former lieutenant in the 16th Light who was with him at Jena – Lucien Fardès, who’s now a captain in the 13th Light. Would you believe it, Barguelot really was at Jena and that whole story about the capture of the Glasenapp Battery is true. But this exploit occurred without Barguelot, who’d been wounded as soon as the first shots were fired.’
‘Seriously wounded?’
‘A sprained ankle while charging. Barguelot came limping along after they’d seized the guns and were already turning them against the enemy. Barguelot kept on shouting, “Let’s avenge our men!” as if he’d almost been killed ten times over. Fardès even claims to have seen him thrust his sword into a dead body to add colour to his blade and to his version of events.’
‘But didn’t Fardès denounce this felony?’
Lefine shook his head. ‘Fardès knew nothing about Barguelot’s version. Barguelot had to wait until he’d left the 16th Light before changing his story. How could he dare to lie about this matter when the reasons for awarding this decoration could be checked in official publications? No, that would have been suicidal for his career. The only explanation is that officially he really was rewarded for his “action” at Jena. He may have bribed officers to submit false reports about his heroic conduct to the Emperor.’
Margont could scarcely contain his anger. For him, the Légion d’Honneur represented something sacred. Just as an atheist should not spit on the Bible or the Koran, you did not wear a Légion d’Honneur to which you were not entitled.
‘Perhaps he did deserve his distinction but not because of Jena,’ ventured Lefine.
‘Well, of course. He seized three Austrian guns at some fashionable gathering. What else do you know?’
‘He has some strange habits. He never eats in public. He takes his food where no one can see him, always in his tent, alone or in the company of Coubert, one of his servants.’
‘That’s odd. Have you spoken to this fellow Coubert?’
‘No. I was afraid he’d warn his master that he was being investigated.’
‘You did the right thing. Any other strange habits?’
‘I was told that he was a superb fencer. He often boasts about it but he’s never been seen practising. One day, during an official dinner, Marshal Davout suggested a friendly duel because he’d heard about Barguelot’s technique from a former cadet at Pont-à-Mousson. Well, Barguelot refused! At first the guests thought it was out of modesty …’
‘That’s absurd!’ exclaimed Margont, laughing.
‘But despite all the marshal’s polite requests, Barguelot refused to cross swords. The marshal was so surprised that he should decline such an honour that he didn’t even get angry. And, to cap it all, Barguelot as usual didn’t touch a thing on his plate.’
Margont was distractedly stroking the edge of a desk.
‘It’s incomprehensible.’
‘That’s it,’ declared Lefine with a look of satisfaction. ‘What about you? What have you found out about Delarse?’
‘Étienne Delarse is forty-five. He comes from the Charentes nobility. His father was called Louis de Larse but he was one of the few aristocrats who sincerely believed in the Republican cause. Louis de Larse had his name changed to ‘Delarse’ and died at the battle of Fleurus – on the right side, ours, not on the side of the English and the Royalist émigrés. Colonel Étienne Delarse suffers from severe asthma, which has dominated his life. He was a sickly child and his attacks nearly resulted in his death on several occasions. They thought he was done for and would not live beyond the spring because of his allergies to pollen, rather like the last autumn leaf falling very late. His mother spared no expense in getting him the care of famous doctors. She spent entire nights listening to him fighting for breath, holding his hand, convinced that he was breathing his last.’
Lefine, who feared disease as much as the open sea, shuddered at the description of these moments of agony.
‘Yes, I’ve already heard about his asthma. Soldiers he’d punished made up a little song that enjoyed a certain success. The chorus ran like this: “Delarse in winter beats the lot! Delarse in spring ain’t half so hot …”’
‘I learnt all this from Chief Physician Gras, who’s treating him at present,’ Margont continued.
‘Does he still have attacks?’
‘Regularly. And Gras is very worried about it. He thought I was a friend of the colonel’s and he told me what he knew in confidence so that I could back up his advice to Delarse to spare himself. But Delarse won’t hear a word of it. All you have to do is ask him to rest and he’ll get on a horse and start jumping over obstacles. To everyone’s surprise, Delarse reached adolescence and beyond. He entered a military academy and came out amongst the top few but his career has been constrained by his illness. On several occasions he has been forced to hand over to his second in command. They say that he has the talent and intelligence of a general and that all he’s short of is breath. Believe it or not, several times he had to insist on taking part in this campaign. The general staff thought that Russia would be bad for his lungs. Those on high are convinced he won’t last out the war, which is why he hasn’t been given a regiment. They preferred to place him beside General Huard but the general already has an aide-de-camp. Delarse’s exact position in the hierarchy is unclear. Let’s say he acts as a secondary aide-de-camp, even though one is enough for Huard. Delarse is disgusted because he’s convinced that if it weren’t for his asthma he’d be at least a brigadier-general and on equal terms with Huard. And the worst thing is that he’s undoubtedly right.’
Lefine unbuttoned his gaiters and took them off, then removed his shoes and the remains of his socks. His feet were covered in blisters and sores.
‘At one time,’ Margont went on, ‘he even consulted clairvoyants and the like to try to convince himself that there was an afterlife.’
Lefine began to laugh but Margont interrupted him.
‘Don’t make fun of him. Who knows what you would have done in his place? I also discovered that for three years Delarse had a mistress who was fifteen years older than he. She must have looked like his mama …’
‘Don’t make fun of him. Who knows what you would have done in his place? There’s just one question left.’
‘Exactly. Which of the four most resembles a Prince Charming?’
‘Not Delarse.’
‘Not Delarse,’ repeated Margont.
‘I’d put my money on Pirgnon, with his artistic and worldly tastes.’
Margont ran his fingers through his hair. It was a habit of his when he was lost in thought. In Madrid a pretty girl had once said she found this attractive. Oh, the girls of Madrid … But it was such a woman who had pointed at Barguelot with the tip of her fan …
‘I would rather vote for Barguelot, with his luxurious lifestyle and gift of the gab.’
‘Yes, Barguelot or Pirgnon. And there’s still our Italian.’
Margont screwed up his eyes. ‘That one really is beginning to annoy me! I simply have to find a way of meeting him at last.’
There were still two hours left before dinner. Margont decided to try to find Colonel Pirgnon.
The bodies had been cleared from the streets and the pools of blood were being washed away with large pails of water. The Emperor had issued orders to prevent looting, and soldiers and gendarmes were ensuring that these instructions were obeyed.