The neighbourhood allocated to the 35th of the Line was in a pitiful state. Men were settling in beneath portions of ceiling that had not collapsed, attempting to fill in the gaps in the roofs with planks blown off by cannonballs. In some cases, those in possession of houses that were still intact were persuaded to sell their places for a fortune. Margont saw a grenadier hand over three paintings, a silk dressing gown and a sable fur hat to a voltigeur in exchange for a position near a fireplace.
Colonel Pirgnon had ensured he was well provided for. His quarters were in a baroque-style mansion. Along the pastel-coloured façade, high windows alternated with fake white columns set into the wall. Above the door was an oval window. On the top floor other rounded windows relieved the geometrical rigour of the whole. A flight of steps led up to the front entrance. At ground level soldiers could be heard joking through the basement windows. The entrance hall was enormous. To the right a wide semi-circular staircase broke up the symmetry that had once been the golden rule for façades.
Margont was surprised to find a queue of soldiers from various regiments waiting patiently on the steps. They were carrying a motley collection of objects: a candlestick, vases of various shapes, crockery, porcelain or ivory statuettes. Margont quickly climbed this spiral of greed. His face was expressionless. As he went past, some clasped their treasures to them for fear the captain might take possession of them. A sergeant-major was acting as the doorman. He saluted Margont and, interpreting the captain’s attitude as a sign of impatience in selling an item of great value, immediately let him in.
Colonel Pirgnon was examining an icon being shown to him by a Westphalian infantryman. It was of the Virgin Mary holding the Christ Child in her arms. The gilded background was damaged but the two faces remained strangely intact. It was not a miracle, however.
‘You filthy dog! You’ve scraped away all the gilding!’ exclaimed Pirgnon, making the Westphalian step backwards. ‘You have defaced a work of art!’
The German fled. Pirgnon showed the painting to Margont.
‘A painting of the “tenderness” type by the Stroganoff school! And he scraped it with a knife …’
The colonel had tears in his eyes. He was tall and well built. His slightly curly, brown hair and his rounded face gave him a placid look. Margont saluted him.
‘Captain Margont, 84th Regiment, Huard Brigade, Delzons Division …’
‘Yes, yes, but if everyone begins like that I’ll be spending the whole week in Smolensk. What have you got to sell me?’
Seeing Margont’s reproachful look, Pirgnon scowled.
‘Oh, I see. You’re judging me. May I know the reason for your visit, Captain?’
‘Well, Colonel, I’ve heard that you were the driving force behind the Cervantes Club in Madrid and I myself belong to a literary salon.’
Pirgnon’s expression brightened but his pleasure was mixed with wariness. ‘Oh, really? And where is that?’
‘In Nîmes.’
‘And what did you do in your literary salon? Because there are salons and salons.’
‘Oh, it’s not one of those society salons where people go just to be seen. If that’s what people want they can go to Madame Cabarrus’s or Madame de Montesson’s. I’ve never been invited, but in any case an evening of deadly boredom is too high a price for me.’
Pirgnon folded his arms. ‘How I do sympathise. And what’s the name of your salon? Who are its members? What do you do there?’
‘The Roast Duck Club.’
Pirgnon seemed put out. Obviously it was far less elegant than the Cervantes Club. His large pink cheeks and huge head made him look a bit like a baby still.
‘I have to admit I don’t get it, Captain.’
‘The members argued about what to call our club. The Cicero Club, the Voltaire Club, the Molière Club … But there must be dozens of Voltaire Clubs and Rousseau Clubs in every town.’
‘Two Voltaire Clubs were indeed created in Madrid. They had a violent argument about who came up with it first.’
‘I trust they both had their comeuppance, so to speak. Well, in a word, we were wondering whether our debates were in the spirit of Rousseau; Molière had his devotees and Voltaire was beating Virgil hands down, which led the poet’s supporters to claim that once more the moderns were shafting the ancients. At this juncture I remarked that the only point we were all agreed on was the desire to sit down to a good meal together. My suggestion had in its favour the fact that even if it didn’t please many, it didn’t offend anyone. And as we had before us at the table six splendid roast ducks …’
Pirgnon invited Margont to sit down.
‘For Cervantes it was easier. As the instigator of the project and the highest-ranking officer, I chose the name. As literary salons are all the rage, everyone wants their own and all too often society gatherings pompously call themselves “Madame So-and-So’s literary salon”. People read out poems stolen from those more inspired than themselves, after carefully tinkering with the lines in the naïve belief that they will not be found out. Each member is eager to laugh at the others’ offerings in the hope that they will reciprocate. So everyone leaves full of unearned praise. Some even convince themselves that they can “improve” Ducis’s rhyming couplets.’
‘Our salon is open to all; no account is taken of social background or income or connections, to the chagrin of the prefect who is still not a member. To join our club all you have to do is read out a text you’ve written that appeals to the members, and be capable of making appropriate comments on political, literary and philosophical topics. During our meetings we submit our writings to critical scrutiny, we discuss works we have read, we argue … A sense of humour and a love of rhetorical debate are highly appreciated. Perhaps it’s the influence of the Roman amphitheatre that we can see from the windows of our salon. Our most lethal weapon is wit and we finish off those we have wounded with the cutting edge of irony before being reconciled around the inevitable roast ducks.’
Pirgnon grasped Margont’s hand and shook it warmly.
‘I admit you without further ado to membership of my next salon: the Moscow Club. I hope we will also number some Russian members. Ah! Moscow … We all dream of it, don’t we?’
Pirgnon began to display his acquisitions. A silver samovar that he liked so much that he had taken to drinking tea for the sole pleasure of using it. An iconostasis, a wooden screen decorated with icons, used for separating the nave from the sanctuary in Orthodox churches. Pirgnon explained that at the centre of the iconostasis saints were depicted interceding with Christ on behalf of the faithful.
‘What about you, Colonel? What do you ask of the saints?’
Pirgnon looked at Margont in surprise. He pointed at the paintings he had bought from some Italian soldiers who had been preparing to make a fire out of them so they could cook their meat.
‘I was – indirectly – one of the instigators of the decree of 14 Fructidor in the year IX, by order of which the Consulate created fifteen museums. The very idea of a museum fascinates me: bringing art within everyone’s reach. Show a Leonardo da Vinci to a tramp or a road sweeper and you open windows in their minds. In antiquity the Greeks reserved seats in their amphitheatres for the poor so that they could see Sophocles being performed. I shall give some of these treasures to museums. Man is nothing, only art matters.’
Margont remained silent, even if this statement shocked his sense of values.
‘But,’ added Pirgnon, ‘as I’m not a saint worthy of an icon, I shall keep the iconostasis and the samovar.’
He strode over to an impossibly cluttered corner of the room and rummaged among a jumble of paintings and elaborately framed mirrors before straightening up triumphantly, holding a canvas in his hands.