Wolf Hunt (23 page)

Then he returned to the salon, on the way moodily knocking into Pagin, who had not seen him. He let himself drop into a Louis XV armchair, just opposite the portrait, his legs stretched straight out in front of him.

‘I’m going to wait for him here,’ he announced. ‘For five more years, if necessary.’

Margont was keen to think through all the hypotheses and rank them, as an entomologist would classify insects into species and subspecies.

‘This could be the man’s house, but it might not be. If—’

Relmyer, leaning his elbows on the arms of the chair, gesticulated. ‘We’ve got his portrait and the business with the registers! A portrait is personal; you don’t go giving them to your friends!’

‘Well, quite. I’ve also verified that there’s no indication of any break-in other than ours. So the assassin did not come in here secretly and put that picture on the wall.’

Relmyer looked at him in fury. They were almost there! Why bother with all this speculation? Margont lifted the portrait and the other pictures, trying to see whether the parts of the wall underneath, protected from the light and dust, corresponded exactly to the outlines of the pictures. This examination was inconclusive and only succeeded in enraging Relmyer further. The artist had not signed the painting. It must have been done by a little-known artist who would be impossible to find.

Margont proposed something else: ‘I’m going to show this portrait to the neighbours to confirm that it really is Teyhern.’

‘No!’ said Relmyer. ‘I’m going to wait here to ambush him. If we question the neighbours, well be noticed. Someone will warn him that the French are after him and know where he lives. It’s imperative that Teyhern does not know that we have identified him.’ Lefine was of the same opinion.

He added: ‘In any case, we have already seen with Sowsky and his wife how difficult it is for us to learn anything at all from the

Austrians. The villagers will say that they don’t know Teyhern, whether it’s him or not

For the first time for five years, Relmyer felt a real sense of tranquillity take hold of him.

‘I’m in his lair! He will come back here, perhaps before the great battle, perhaps afterwards. And if he dies in combat, I will hunt out his body, even if I have to dig up a hundred thousand Austrians in public graves!’

‘Wait here?’ ventured Pagin. ‘But, Lieutenant, you can’t abandon your regiment. You’ll be accused of desertion ...’

‘Exactly. That’s why I’m going to stay on my own.’

Pagin was on the verge of tears. His role model was collapsing in front of his eyes! Relmyer was a lieutenant at twenty, and already famous thanks to his prowess with a sabre. General Lasalle, that mythical hero, had come to seek him out to cross blades with him in friendly fashion. Lasalle had applauded when Relmyer had hit him - without hurting him - for the third consecutive time. His colonel, Laborde, expected him to be promoted to the rank of captain of the élite force at the end of the campaign. And Relmyer was abandoning everything! For something that happened so long ago! Pagin could not understand it at all. He wanted to run at the portrait, to brandish it and smash it on the floor. In a sudden flash of intuition he realised that Relmyer was sitting rigidly to prevent himself from dashing at the portrait.

So he exclaimed: ‘I’ll stay with you, Lieutenant! I’ll kill him! I won’t miss, I swear it. By Christ, I’ll skewer him and disembowel his body just to be sure!’

Relmyer shook his head, imperturbable.

‘You can’t sacrifice everything!’ Margont told him, annoyed. ‘What’s more, if you’re taken, you’ll be shot. After all’s said and done, the man we’re looking for will well and truly have assassinated you, but indirectly!’

Relmyer smiled, deaf to all other logic than his own, and swiftly held out his hand.

‘Thank you, Quentin! Without you I would never have identified him. There are no words for me to express my gratitude.’

Relmyer shook his hand, pressing too hard.

‘Good luck, Lukas,’ said Margont.

‘Luck does not exist. There are only consequences.’

‘We will go back and tell Luise the situation. Would you like us to give her a message?’

‘Tell her that she is my adored sister and that I entrust her to you, should events prevent me from seeing her again one day.’

Everyone resolved to depart, abandoning Relmyer, his eyes riveted to the face of his enemy, installed like a king in his throne. 

ON 1 July, Napoleon set up his new headquarters on the Isle of Lobau, by this time generally known as Napoleon Isle. The general staff installed themselves there with great pomp. The Imperial Guard, ten thousand seven hundred strong, was set up around the Emperor’s tent. General Oudinot’s II Army Corps accompanied the Emperor. IV Corps received the order to leave Lobau to join the other corps, which were massing near the village of Ebersdorf. Only VIII Corps commanded by General Vandamme would not participate in the battle. The Emperor had decided to leave it behind in Vienna, in order to prevent any attempt at an uprising. The actions of the Austrian partisans had proved successful, mobilising at the back several thousand French and Westphalian soldiers.

Napoleon was living up to his reputation as a great tactician. He had a bridge built, named Baillot bridge, linking the Isle of Lobau with the east bank. That bridge was situated to the north of the island and was facing in the direction of the village of Essling, seeming to indicate that the French army was going to try to force a passage in the same place as a month and a half earlier. They placed cannon there to protect the bridge, and the next day, the Isle of Moulin was taken from the few Austrians who guarded it. The island was a wooded ridge near the Baillot bridge, between Lobau and the east bank. The French installed a battery on the Isle of Moulin, they built two bridges, one to link that island with Lobau and one to link it with the east bank, and then they built a redoubt to protect the head of that bridge.

The Austrians were perplexed. Was this a diversion or was the French army really going to move in the direction of Essling? Archduke Charles redeployed his soldiers. The vanguard commanded by Nordmann, and VI Corps under Klenau, positioned themselves in the north, to hold the villages of Aspern and Essling. The body of the army - made up of Bellegarde’s I Corps, Hohenzollern’s II Corps, Rosenberg’s IV Corps and the Reserve Corps under the Prince of Liechtenstein — gathered in the north-east, six miles from

Lobau. Since Archduke Charles did not know where the French were going to appear, he had arranged his army in pincer formation. If Napoleon attacked again in the north, Nordmann’s vanguard and Klenau’s VI Corps would have to contain him, backed up by Kolowrat’s III Corps, positioned a little behind. The principal force of the Austrian army in the north-east therefore manoeuvred to wedge in the right flank of the French. But if Napoleon advanced north-east, Archduke Charles would head him off, while Nordmann, Klenau and Kolowrat would come to cut off the French left flank.

In reality Napoleon was preparing to set foot on the Austrian bank by directing his army not towards the north, nor towards the north-east, but towards the east. The Austrians thought, wrongly, that an army would not be able to pass that way because it was too marshy. In addition, they thought they would have time to react should their enemy spring up unexpectedly there. Moreover, proceeding in this way, the French would be obliged to present their left flank to the Austrians before turning north to face them.

The French army spent the day of 2 July redeploying. Divisions crossed each other to reach their allotted places. The unbelievable mass of men, bathed in the noise of the clicking and heavy hammering of the tread of men and horses, was dizzying. The cuirassiers moved in serried lines, their horses practically biting the rumps of those in front. The convoys of artillery stretched out endlessly, leaving behind here and there a carriage with a broken axle. The columns streaked the meadows with black, and numerous officers orchestrated their progress, galloping in every direction. Couriers and aides-de-camp zigzagged between the regiments, continually transmitting orders: ‘Hurry up!’ ‘Make way for the Durutte Division!’ ‘Fall in behind General Pire’s cavalry!’ ‘Clear a path!’ Such was their number that, come the evening, not all the effectives had yet been able to reach their allotted position in the vast plan drawn up by the Emperor.

The soldiers tried to work out the significance of their position. They wanted to know if they would be amongst the first to mount the assault (heavy losses assured, but also better opportunities for promotion). Each time it was announced to a battalion that they would be placed at the front, some men rejoiced whilst others lamented. Each regiment was only a pawn on the chessboard, only just able to make out what was going on closest to them.

The evening brought a little cool air. The 18th of the Line was set up in a meadow. Everyone was preparing for the battle in his own way. Piquebois, his arm in a sling, devoured, all on his own, a roast chicken. Saber was seething. He had just delivered an impassioned speech to his company, evoking the glory of arms and the necessity of distinguishing oneself so as to be noticed by the Emperor. He had addressed these hundred men as though he were addressing a hundred thousand. He was practising for later on. At moments like this, he was no longer himself; ambition rendered him arrogant and inspired. He resembled a deranged gambler flinging coins on the table. He was ready, his company was ready, the army, the enemy, the world, the Emperor: they were all ready, what were they waiting for? Quick, a new map! Convinced that the war would propel him to the top of the hierarchy, he was

longing for the carnage. His mind, closed off from any idea of danger, was engaged in tactical calculations that were brilliant, certainly, but which interested only him. He marched to and fro, prisoner of the interminable wait, impatient to prove himself to everyone. But prove what? Why, everything, for goodness’ sake! Mar-gont had nicknamed him ‘Lieutenant Beethoven’. Like the composer, Saber had his symphonies playing constantly in his head and he avidly sought a stage and an audience.

As for Lefine, he was in quite another state of mind: he was fulminating.

‘When I think of all the time we took to build our cabin on the Isle of Lobau! And now they’ve thrown us out! Those overpaid pigs of the Guard are now sleeping there! It’s scandalous! Where is our June salary? The second of July is not June any more! Perhaps to the imperial accounting service, 2 July is 32 June. It’s daylight robbery! They’ll pay us after the battle, when there is no one left to receive it. That will make a nice economy, as usual! They force us to fight this war and on top of it all we have to do it on credit!’

He was talking, jabbering ... His flood of anxiety expressed itself in an interminable commentary all telling how he was the victim of the whole world.

Stretched out on the grass, Margont, having learnt to shut himself off in order to think, reflected on the investigation. He had just had an idea.

Lefine continued his peroration: ‘Do you realise that you get a salary that is almost eight times what mine is? But what would officers do without their sergeants, I ask you? Who would carry out their orders? Name me one single battle won by an army without sergeants? Hm? I’m waiting. We others, the noncommissioned officers, are the unloved of the army! Now without us, the—’

‘We have to get hold of some hunting dogs,’ Margont cut him off ‘Of course, dogs ... And fish also?’

‘We searched round about Teyhern’s house, but we could very easily not have noticed a hiding place, a subterranean shelter. Hunting dogs would be able to sniff it out! Let’s go and find

Jean-Quenin. A doctor will be useful. Then we will go and find Pa-gin so that he can escort us with some hussars.’ 

MARGONT was worried about Relmyer and he gave a sigh of relief when he saw him coming out of Teyhern’s house. The young Austrian, irritated, hurried over. His drawn features gave the impression that he must have woken up several times a night, jumping at the least sound, real or imaginary.

‘What are you doing here? You have to leave at once!’

The three hounds, held on a lead by a farmer, were enough to disconcert him. Margont explained his idea.

‘If there is someone, pray heaven that we find him in time,’ Relmyer replied. ‘If there is nothing here, disappear immediately!’

The farmer let the dogs off the lead and they scattered. One ran towards the house while the others rapidly searched the area outside, their snouts to the ground, their tails wagging. Relmyer bombarded the farmer with questions. Did his animals understand what they were looking for, or were they going to pull out a hare? How long would they take to explore the area? How would they know when it was time to give up? Why was one of them barking? Could it not keep quiet?

The farmer was barely listening, merely grumbling from time to time, ‘My dogs know their business: if there is anyone here, they will unearth them.’ His age-weathered face brightened with pleasure, rejuvenating him. He was not worried about what these damned Frenchmen were up to, but he loved poaching. They were paying him and he was hunting with his hounds: that was enough for him.

Jean-Quenin Brémond did not like Relmyer. He was a part of the ever-growing category of those whose relations with the young hussar had been severed by his blade. However, he wanted to help Margont as best he could, even if his friend had not explained this affair except in the broadest outline. The medical officer therefore waited patiently, but stood at some distance from Relmyer. The scalpel never understands the sabre.

One of the animals disappeared into a mass of thickets, about sixty paces from the building. His two fellow hounds ran to join in, their paws flying over the ground. Everyone rushed over in their direction. Relmyer, ahead of everyone else, slowed down, and was overtaken. He had to be the first, but at the same time he was terrified of what they might find.

The dogs scraped the earth to uncover something. Lefine handed out spades and everyone began to dig. Relmyer leant against a tree. He was cursing himself and praying that there was no body. But after a while, the odour of putrefaction filled the air, coming from the ever-expanding hole. Margont thought he was going to vomit.