Armand Cabasson - Wolf Hunt

more years’ war, when everyone else will have been killed or will have abandoned all hope, you will be the last republican humanist.’

Lefine spoke those last words with derision. He burst out laughing and leant one hand against a tree trunk, sneering.

The world has gone mad, but you are maddest of all!’

Margont was irritated. He was not easily offended, but even so ... In fact, yes, he was easily offended, and now he was cross.

‘I do as I please! Some people go and look after lepers or plague victims, others give all their money to the poor ... I don’t know, some people live just for themselves and others think a little about other people.’

‘You’re right, I agree. We just don’t agree about where the happy medium is. Let’s leave it to the Austrian police.’

‘I’ve thought of that. But where are they, the Austrian police?’

A fair point. They were on the other side of the Danube, with Archduke Charles. Or in the woods, keeping a lookout for any French who dared to venture there ...

‘It’s not as if the case will be solved if there’s peace,’ continued Margont heatedly. ‘You heard Relmyer as well as I did! No one cares about the lives of a few adolescent orphans! Better to botch the inquiry so as not to cause waves because some people prefer it that way. Life is so much simpler when one closes one’s eyes! And you, you ask me to do the same? Well, no, I’m not going to! Who stepped forward to help me when my family had me imprisoned against my will in the Abbey de Saint-Guilhem-le-Desert to force me to become a monk? I was six years old and I spent four years of my life there! Four years!’

Lefine was dismayed.

‘You’re comparing your story with Relmyer’s? Oh, now that’s dangerous! That’s catastrophic!’

‘Lots of people knew, but they said to themselves, “It’s nothing to do with us.” One day I appealed to the wine merchant who supplied the abbey. He told me, “I can’t help you, kid, you’re not my son.” But the problem was, my father was dead. So who was I supposed to turn to, God? Anyway, it wasn’t God who freed me, it was

the Revolution.’

Margont stopped shouting but his tone brooked no negotiation. ‘So I am going to involve myself in this matter; it will help me resolve some unfinished business, even if only indirectly. I’m convinced it will help me bury certain memories in drawers that I can finally close and forget.’

Now Margont smiled, laughed even. He felt better, having been able to formulate clearly what he felt in his deepest soul.

‘You’re not obliged to help me, Fernand. As you can see, I’m involved for very personal reasons.’ He rose and tried to straighten his uniform. ‘So, it’s not because I’m a Good Samaritan,’ he remarked. ‘Can I count on you?’

‘Of course. Because you’re my best friend. I’m not as selfish as all that ... unfortunately for me.’

Margont was openly delighted. His relationship with Lefine was complicated. Margont was too idealistic, too fond of dreaming and trying to make those dreams into reality. Lefine was the complete opposite. He was pragmatic, resourceful and his common sense rooted him firmly in the everyday. Margont needed Lefine; he helped him keep his feet on the ground. In exchange Margont provided the intoxicating excitement of his changing impulses and the grandeur of his Great Schemes. In short, together they found the balance between whimsy and reality, a balance that neither managed to achieve on his own. Several years of war had consolidated their friendship, especially since each had saved the other’s life.

‘So let’s go and find Relmyer, and get him to take us to his former orphanage,’ decreed Margont.

‘But I still say it’s dangerous to confuse this with your own personal history.’

CHAPTER 8

PART of the army was camped on the Isle of Lobau - IV Corps and also the reserve for General Lasalle’s cavalry. As Relmyer served in the latter, he was just a short walk away from the 18th of the Line. But it was not actually possible to walk there because the artillery convoys blocked the way. Lobau and the surrounding islands bristled with cannon. There were cannon on the Isle of Massena (each of the islands was nicknamed after a hero of the Empire, or an ally), on Saint-Hilaire, on Lannes, on Alexandre ... six-pounders, twelve-pounders, even eighteen-pounders, and howitzers, not to mention the gigantic field guns seized in Vienna from the arsenals that the Austrians, in the haste of their retreat, had forgotten to sabotage. Altogether there were thirteen hundred mortar cannon acting as a deterrent to the Austrians. For them to attack would have been suicide. Napoleon was manoeuvring his resources to protect himself, but doing it in such a way that he would also succeed in foiling his enemies and regaining the initiative. For now

Archduke Charles was obliged to wait for the French to mount an assault. He was, however, ready to receive them unflinchingly; he was well dug in around Aspern and Essling.

As usual Relmyer trained hard. But unusually, there were spectators watching him from a distance. One of these was Saber. Margont went over to him.

‘What are you doing?’

In reply, Saber murmured admiringly, ‘I’m learning. So young and already so gifted ... He’s like me.’

Margont, who was accustomed to his friend’s overweening vanity, contented himself with watching Relmyer again. It was true that his attacks seemed to be devilishly precise. But were they extraordinarily so? Saber was also a very fine duellist and, until now, Margont would have assumed that he was better than Relmyer.

‘Is he more gifted than you, Irenee?’

‘He would lay me out stone dead in less than ten seconds. He’s much better than me,’ Saber conceded. ‘Only in duelling, of course.’

Margont could not get over his surprise. Saber never complimented other people (except women, whom he flattered in the hope of seducing them, assuming them to be as avid as he was for a bit of love-making). Relmyer was truly a remarkable man - he seemed to make an impression on everyone.

The young hussar lunged, beat a retreat while parrying a storm of imaginary thrusts, suddenly attacked again, feinting, dodging ... To Margont it all seemed like a Gregorian chant: very beautiful, but incomprehensible. Saber, on the other hand, had the necessary expertise to form a judgement and he was marvelling at what he saw, even going so far as to tap his thigh to prevent himself from applauding.

‘He lives only for the art of the sword,’ he said under his breath, ‘without looking to left or right.’

That was totally untrue. Most people did not see past the image Relmyer projected. It was a brilliant image, so people looked no further. His violence covered up his suffering.

‘He has natural talent and the compulsion to learn. He’s nicknamed “The Wasp” ... Bezut took him on as a pupil, but alas they fell out.’

Bezut? Probably another renowned master of military arms. Saber knew the most illustrious of them. He would have been their biographer had he not had it in mind to dedicate himself solely to his autobiography.

‘I heard that from one of his cavalry regiment,’ explained Saber. That would definitely have been Pagin. Especially as he was one of the spectators.

‘Why train so hard with a sabre when you can use a pistol?’ Margont wondered aloud.

‘When a pistol is empty, you’re done for,’ replied Saber. ‘Pistols are also unreliable, imprecise and rarely fatal. In any case, I understand that Lukas Relmyer is also an extremely good shot.’

Relmyer caught sight of Margont and, interrupting his training, saluted him with his sword. Saber stood up straighten ‘I knew he had heard of me.’