A few days earlier he had visited a field hospital. Oh, the wounded! He had looked at them writhing like the worms he used to cut in two as a child. The funniest thing was that people had thought it was compassion. Compassion! Seeing these anguished faces smile at him as if he were a saint had doubled his pleasure.
The following day, as he was exploring the area, he had noticed that a man he had seen the previous day near one of the wounded was riding some way off from his escort. He had assumed he was a marauder, except that he saw him later and then understood. He suspected that someone was investigating the murder of the Polish woman but he had been amazed to realise how far the investigations had progressed without unmasking him. It must be because of Maria’s private journal. What an absurd idea to write everything down in a notebook perfumed with dried rose petals! Maria had told him about it as you tell someone a secret as a mark of confidence. She had immediately added with a sway of the hips that she would never let anyone read it, not even him. As if he could be interested in such childish activities! It was only afterwards, just after killing her, that he had remembered that lieutenant who had come galloping up to them from nowhere and saluted him saying: ‘Colonel, an urgent message for you!’ The bloody fool! He had given clear instructions about who was replacing him that day! He had not told anyone where he was going so this lieutenant must have scoured the countryside to find him. The fathead! He must have seen that his colonel was in civilian dress and in the company of a lady. The lieutenant had paid heavily for his blunder. At Ostrovno he had sent him time and again to the front line carrying missives of little importance. In the end the young officer had been cut to pieces by grapeshot. And the message he was carrying said basically: ‘Beware of the enemy artillery.’
If he had not been overwhelmed by fury as he was stabbing Maria, he would have remembered to force her to tell him where she had hidden her notebook before finishing her off! His emotions and desires sometimes impinged dangerously on his reason.
The result was that now he was being spied on. So he had decided not to kill again until the end of the campaign. Then he would be transferred somewhere and there … In Smolensk, he had not been able to stop himself from striking again, but it was imperative from now on that he should lie low. Those spying on him would eventually tire of doing so. However, despite his resolutions, he was not sure he would be able to restrain himself for such a long time.
IV Corps was given the order to cross the Dnieper. Margont had to resign himself to saying his farewells to the Valiuski family while the colonel of another corps was already taking possession of the place.
As Margont was getting into the saddle he noticed Countess Sperzof’s old servant. He was hurrying as fast as his advancing years allowed. His cheeks were puffing in and out as he struggled for breath.
‘Captain, sir, something’s missing …’ The servant closed his eyes as if he were going to drop down dead at the hoofs of Margont’s horse. After catching his breath he declared: ‘Captain, something’s missing. A ring. The countess had the ring yesterday evening, the count’s ring with the family emblem: the two birds.’
‘Someone’s stolen her signet ring, have they?’
Margont thrust his hand deep into his pocket but the servant stopped him.
‘No money. If you want to thank, arrest man who did it and go back to France. All.’
‘I’ll find this man. The rest is outside my control.’
The old man looked bewildered. ‘Why all that on her, oysters, tea …?’
‘I haven’t the slightest idea.’
The servant left, taking his fears and his queries with him.
Margont turned to Lefine. ‘I know why he stole the signet ring. He wanted a souvenir like when you keep the menu from a wedding to remind yourself of a very enjoyable occasion.’
Napoleon and his entourage were weighing up the situation. There were now only one hundred and fifty thousand men left in the Grande Armée. Soldiers were shooting the looters until their arms ached from firing, but to no effect. Hunger, fatigue and despair were winning and, every day, more soldiers disappeared. The Emperor had taken advantage of the stop at Smolensk to restore some order to this chaotic army. Should they go on?
Marshal Berthier, the Emperor’s close friend and confidant, wanted to leave it at that. They had already conquered enough land for 1812. The army should take up its winter quarters and continue the war in 1813. Others wanted to bring the campaign to an end. They could not see the point of it. It was a very diplomatic way of not saying what they really thought: that Napoleon was waging this war because he did not like sharing part of the throne of Europe with Alexander. Murat even went as far as to beg the Emperor on bended knee to give up on Moscow as the city would be their downfall. But Napoleon was not accustomed to half-victories. He wanted Moscow. He was convinced that the Russians would fight to save their old capital (this was how it was referred to now because a century ago the administration had been transferred to St Petersburg, the new capital) and that he would therefore at last have the chance to crush their army. Then the Tsar would definitely agree to negotiate, he thought. Furthermore, the Emperor feared the reaction of the countries he now ruled. How would Austria, Prussia and the German states of the Confederation of the Rhine react if he did not win a decisive victory over the Russians when he had four hundred thousand soldiers at his disposal? Silent curses were likely to degenerate into protest and then open revolt. In any case, was he not Napoleon? So Moscow it would be.
On 23 August, IV Corps resumed its march. The palette of feelings amongst the soldiers ranged from the dull grey of gloom to the jet black of despair. There was often the scarlet of anger too. Many had thought the campaign was over and nobody wanted to resume this hellish march.
Lefine had managed to obtain a konia, a hardy Russian breed of horse. These beasts were very small and the French who rode them became figures of fun, their huge bodies perched on what looked like ponies, their legs dangling to the ground.
The previous day Lefine and Margont had returned to Smolensk. They had inspected the houses where their suspects had been staying on the night of the murder. The buildings were enormous and it would have been easy to slip away from them. They had decided to recruit a few more men they could rely on to back up their spies. The surveillance operation would continue even though it had been unmasked.
The 84th had just set off when Margont gave a start. He went pale. Lefine, who was riding alongside him, stared at him in consternation. He’d already seen similar faces, those of comrades hit by bullets. Margont seemed to have taken the full force of a noiseless explosion.
‘Are you all right, Captain?’
‘I think … I think I’ve understood why the killer spread food over the body of the second victim and why he tore out the pages of a book.’
‘Really? So there’s an explanation for that, is there?’
‘It’s another of his coded plays on words. He smears mulberry jam over the face, places an atlas on the body, the remnants of a book – only the remnants because he had torn out the pages – lumps of fat, or rather grease, oysters, nuts, tea leaves. Mulberry, atlas, remnants, grease, oysters, nuts, tea: MARGONT.’