Margont agreed, his lips puckering up with anger. ‘Yes, you have to feed the hand that bites you.’
‘And he’s entitled to comment on every line, on the layout … In any case, there’s a decree prohibiting more than one newspaper per département, so your project will just join a long waiting list that the prefect will sit on every morning.’
‘I know all that. Before 1800 there were more than seventy newspapers in Paris. Today there are only half a dozen left. The commission for the freedom of the press is practically alone in showing real support for the freedom of the press because it considers itself incompetent to judge newspapers and never gets involved in anything. Such are republicans! Now it’s censorship that should be censored.’
Fanselin was also interested in the subject.
‘The only interesting things left to read are the bulletins of the Grande Armée.’
Piquebois looked sceptical. ‘I admit I like reading the bulletins but the truth is distorted by propaganda. There are the enemy who died on the battlefield and those who died in the pages of the bulletin and often a lot more appear in the second category.’
‘“The pen is mightier than the sword”,’ said Margont ironically.
‘It’s true that in the bulletins everything looks straightforward,’ Saber added. ‘They announce that the Austrians took a thrashing here and the Prussians there … Fine, but we aren’t told how difficult it was or what price was paid.’
Fanselin raised his hands to concede the point. ‘I know. I know the expression “to lie like a bulletin”. But I like the bulletins of the Grande Armée because I was mentioned in them in relation to the battle of Essling. It was this bulletin that later opened the doors of the Red Lancers for me. What I also like is that you really feel something when you read them: emotion, enthusiasm and even elation! It’s quite something when the French army manages to break through the Austrian army! Never mind if they claim that twenty thousand Russians ended up at the bottom of a pond at Austerlitz when really it wasn’t even a quarter of that number.’
‘Which is a great shame,’ murmured the count.
Margont, wild with joy, was pointing at Fanselin. ‘Well said. If you write, it’s to give the reader a thrill! Words combat the tedium of the daily routine.’
‘In that case one wonders why there are any newspapers left,’ Saber remarked.
‘Why do you say that?’ asked the count, whilst, to the chagrin of the French, who were expecting dessert, the servants brought in paprika poussins, three per person.
Margont stared at the little birds placed in front of him. He hadn’t started on them yet but already felt almost sick from overeating. A captain in the French army defeated by three little birds, how sad …
‘Censorship means that all the newspapers say the same thing in the same way, namely that everything the State does is wonderful,’ he said. ‘It’s the daily imperial litany.’
‘They should all print the same headline, “Fantastic!” every day,’ Piquebois suggested.
Natalia seemed disappointed when she said to Margont: ‘Things don’t look very promising for your plans.’
‘I’ve already thought about this problem. Until such time as censorship loosens its hold, I might launch a monthly periodical devoted to theatre and the arts. There would be literary criticisms, theatre reviews … and by slipping in references in these articles it might be possible to deal with politics indirectly.’
Saber was highly amused. ‘A newspaper full of literary criticism and theatre reviews? What an idea! And why not recipes as well?’
‘Why not, indeed?’ retorted Margont, smiling complicitly at Natalia as she glared at a Saber still roaring with laughter.
‘Don’t listen to him, Quentin,’ advised Piquebois. ‘When the newspaper appears, Irénée will keep coming to ask you why there’s nothing about him on the front page.’
‘In any case, the mere fact of talking about a newspaper encourages debate and stimulates freedom of expression,’ Margont concluded.
For the rest of the meal the count carried on talking, convinced that the guests were eagerly awaiting the next instalment of the history of the Valiuski family. When the dessert did arrive it was on a silver platter carried by two servants. The French looked dubiously at the golden or meringue-topped brioches and the cakes spiced with honey.
Seeing their embarrassment, Natalia declared: ‘Don’t forget that after the meal you still have the entire Russian army to gobble up.’
The count cast a deeply reproachful look at his wife. This, in his view, was where the education she had chosen had led her daughter. Mothers often stand quite alone in these cases. Fanselin and Margont both smiled to indicate that they were not offended.
The meal finally ended with strongly brewed smoked tea accompanied by milk, honey and caramels. The servants poured into the cups some of the contents of the chainik, the small teapot kept on top of the samovar, before adding some hot water from the samovar itself. Natalia discreetly observed Margont’s hands, his rather slender fingers, the way he held his cup … For some unknown reason, this pleased her.
Countess Valiuska rose just as they were taking away the samovar and said that it was time she and her daughter went to bed. Margont was sorry to see Natalia leave and surprised to see her return a moment later. Her mother was following her, like a spectre ensuring that the soul in its charge does not flee the underworld to which it must be taken, namely the boredom of the bedroom. Natalia went up to Margont and handed him a book entitled in French: Extraits de la littérature française.
‘This is for you, since you are so fond of words. You can return it to me when your army comes back via Smolensk.’
A few minutes later, settled in the red drawing room, Margont was still thinking about Natalia while the count sang the praises of the vodka produced on his estate. Margont could see the gestures of the count and his friends but could not hear what they were saying. Without thinking, he swallowed a mouthful from the glass he had been served and the sensation of burning caused by the vodka brought him back to reality, a reality now interwoven with uninteresting snippets of conversation. The evening had been wonderful because it had been outside the war, outside time.
CHAPTER 20
WAKING up was particularly unpleasant. The previous evening’s reception seemed to belong to an already distant past. A servant came to wake Margont, saying that an officer, Captain Dalero, from the grenadiers of the Royal Italian Guard, was demanding to see him. Dalero was wearing a green jacket with a white leather cross-belt. He looked enormous with his huge red-plumed bearskin busby. Like Margont, he was ill-shaven and his uniform was crumpled, but it seemed to matter more to him. His swarthy face was marked by a strange semicircular scar that ran along the top of his left cheekbone. Margont wondered whether it was self-inflicted, to give a more martial appearance. Dalero immediately took Margont outside. He was walking so quickly that the three grenadiers accompanying him had difficulty keeping up. As for Lefine, he had been alerted but was still getting dressed in his bedroom.
‘I’ve been sent by His Highness Prince Eugène. The person you are looking for may have killed again.’
Margont turned pale. He thought of Natalia, however absurdly, since several dozen members of his company had quarters in the château. Besides, Dalero and he were moving away from the Valiuski residence. However, two images became superimposed in his mind: Natalia lying on her bed and the tortured body of Maria. The vision of Natalia became clearer and Margont had the impression of actually being in her presence. Her body had been slashed with a knife; her hands were clutching her slit throat; her hair, clotted with blood, partially covered her face; her naked body was in an obscene posture deliberately chosen by her torturer. The more Margont tried to banish this scene from his mind, the clearer and more credible it became. An extreme tension came over him. He saw himself confronting the murderer. He leapt on him, ran him through repeatedly with his sword, stopping only to gaze at a lifeless figure at his feet. He was astonished at the violence of this image and tried to rid himself of his fear and hatred. To no avail. Captain Dalero noticed nothing. He was displaying the detachment that Margont had felt until he had opened the lid of Maria’s coffin.