This was not what Margont was fighting for. But Eylau had shown him what reality could sometimes do to noble feelings and good intentions. Ten thousand dead and forty thousand wounded was not just a slaughter; it was the end of the world. As a result, the Emperor had forbidden the wearing of white uniforms. Officially, it was because they were reminders of the old regime, but also it was because they made the bloodstains too obvious.
The prince had fallen silent. Was he back at Eylau or on the shore of another sea of blood? Maybe all this was a carefully staged attempt to make him more likeable in Margont’s eyes. It was difficult to fathom this illustrious figure: sometimes calculating and manipulative, haughty and disdainful; sometimes sympathetic and humane. Margont was unable to say which of these facets was more genuine or to tell which would win out in the end.
‘Eylau justifies the criticisms you occasionally make of some of the Emperor’s decisions,’ the prince concluded.
He turned over a sheaf of pages.
Margont got his comment in first. ‘As does Spain.’
‘Indeed. I know that you ventured the opinion that the occupation of Spain was a mistake.’
The hypocrisy of politicians! thought Margont. It was no longer the prince or the general talking but the diplomat concerned for the image of the Empire. Spain was ablaze, every peasant a part-time guerrilla: tens of thousands of Frenchmen had died in ambushes; young women were taking up arms as the need arose; the inhabitants of cities under siege were hanging those of their number who wished to capitulate; even priests in their cassocks were firing from their church towers … But the official version was that the conquest of Spain had not been a mistake and, no, fanatical nationalism heightened by the mystical fervour of the Spanish was not a problem.
‘Well, Captain, let me tell you that I chose you for three reasons and one of them involves Spain.’
More bad news brought by a Spanish ill wind. Would they never be rid of it, even here, at the other end of Europe?
‘First, according to Triaire, you are good at investigating. Secondly, you are not indispensable for the good running of your regiment. And thirdly, you are a hero of the Peninsular War, during which you were promoted to the rank of Officer of the Légion d’Honneur. This last point will ease your task and if, at the end of your enquiries, I decide to reveal the name of the murderer, no one will question your conclusions.’
The prince’s naïvety was disarming. For him it was obvious that the culprit would be unmasked. How could it be otherwise, since he had given the order?
‘And what excuses shall I give to leave my regiment and move about as I please, Your Highness?’
The Viceroy handed him two documents. ‘Here are two passes. The first is signed by Triaire and is more than enough to open most doors for you. If you did happen to come up against any higher authority, you would use the second one, which bears my own signature. It goes without saying that this document should be used only as a very last resort.’
Margont glanced at the handwritten lines, their gracefully shaped, outsized capitals in no way attenuating the terseness of the instructions. Captain Margont had been entrusted with a mission of the utmost importance. He should be asked no questions about it. He was entitled to go anywhere – the word was underlined. His every request, whatever its nature, should be granted immediately. In the event of any disagreement concerning the said requests, the person should obey but would be entitled to make a complaint to the signatory of this order. Margont was dumbfounded. These two sheets of paper made him superior – in the context of this investigation – to a major-general.
‘Power can be intoxicating …’ the prince commented soberly. ‘But you will answer with your life for the use you make of these papers. Were I to learn that you waved them under the nose of some Russian aristocrat to requisition his stately home with a view to leading a life of luxury, or that you showed them off in an attempt to seduce some beauty by playing the dashing secret agent, then it would mean the firing squad!’
‘What am I going to tell my colonel? And anyone I have to show these orders to? Because I’m still bound to be asked questions.’
‘Do as Triaire does. Make something up! I think I’ve told you everything. Any questions? Yes, you’re bound to have some. Well, keep them to yourself. I’m handing responsibility for this problem over to you. You will give me regular progress reports on your investigation. And, above all, be discreet! You may leave.’
Margont was still gazing at the passes. ‘They’re fakes, aren’t they?’
The prince was stung to the quick. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Secrecy is so dear to your heart that I take it these documents are fakes. If my investigation implicates someone powerful, and if the affair becomes common knowledge, then you will be able to disavow me. I will be called a spy or a crank, and people will claim that I wrote the safe-conducts myself.’
Prince Eugène was caught off guard. ‘Well, you … They are a good enough likeness to serve their purpose. In any case, you now have a further reason to act with the utmost discretion. Did I not tell you that you may leave?’
Margont stood up, saluted and went towards the exit. The half-light inside the tent was oppressing him; he wanted to see daylight again, the morning light that drives away the fears of the night.
But the prince called out to him: ‘Captain! The messenger I sent to inform the Emperor put forward the names of five investigators to His Majesty. You are the one the Emperor chose. He affords you his full confidence and is convinced that you will prove worthy of this honour.’
CHAPTER 3
MARGONT wanted first of all to question the innkeeper before he too was sent off to Vieja Go-to-Hell, a village that was certainly filling up quickly these days. The gaolers had been informed of the visit and took Margont to see the prisoner, though not before carefully divesting him of his weapons.
‘Poor man.’ These were the two words that immediately came to mind on looking at Maroveski. His whole world had collapsed. He was over forty. His ginger hair was tangled and his bulging stomach and flabby cheeks contrasted sharply with his deep-set, dark-ringed eyes. Glazed with tears, they seemed to look without seeing, and it took him a few seconds to realise that someone had entered his cell.
‘Captain, I’ve done nothing wrong!’ he exclaimed, sobbing.
‘I know,’ said Margont. ‘How do you come to speak French?’
‘I took part in the Polish campaign. God bless the French for having freed us. I was a canteen-keeper. I followed your troops and sold them good bread and vodka. Mulled wine too, and well-cooked bacon.’
‘I’ll see that you get all that here.’
‘And eggs as well?’
‘Until your stomach’s full to bursting! Listen to me carefully: nobody will harm you. You’re going to stay here …’
Maroveski let out a cry that would have melted the hardest of hearts.
‘You’re not a prisoner,’ Margont added. ‘Not exactly … but you knew the murdered woman. I’m in charge of the investigation and when the culprit has been arrested you can go free, provided that you never breathe a word about this business.’
‘I swear it! I swear it by the Holy Virgin! Get me out of here, Captain! I won’t say a thing!’
‘You’re staying here for the time being!’
Even though he had no choice, Margont disliked being so hard. The grenadiers of the Royal Guard were holding their prisoner in the cellar of a commandeered farm. The place was cold and the stone walls and vaults were oozing damp. Daylight entered only through a basement window blocked by a grenadier’s boots. There was nothing to do here except engrave your sufferings on the walls. Margont found the place oppressive. It reminded him of his childhood years spent in a monastic celclass="underline" the sound of the bolt locking the door, the fading footsteps of the key-holder, the silence, the deadly boredom, the despair. If Margont had been locked away here he would have attempted every means of escape. Every single one.