Armand Cabasson - Wolf Hunt

Lefine listened avidly. What a good strategy for getting rich! To guess today, before everyone else, what would become indispensable tomorrow. And he was indeed trying, trying to think of something ...

They entrusted their horses to the servants, who hurried from carriage to carriage to greet the guests. A stiffly formal footman invited them to follow him. His tight white stockings made his legs appear spindly and his shoes grated on the inlaid parquet. They crossed a dark corridor bathed in the echo of music, laughter and conversation, and emerged into the light, noise and life of a large gallery.

A glittering crowd filled the long, wide room. Dresses with trains mingled with the sumptuous uniforms of Napoleon’s Empire. Allegorical frescoes decorated the enormously high ceiling. The two long walls were adorned with large mirrors, amplifying the space and making the people appear more numerous. There were so many French windows in the wall overlooking the garden that the people appeared to move in a white luminous universe with gold panelling against a backdrop of green and darkness. Colossal crystal chandeliers, strewn with candles, hung low on astonishingly fine cords as if in reminder that even the largest and most brilliant worlds hung also by only a thread.

‘Here’s to coffee!’ was Lefine’s enthusiastic verdict.

To Margont, there was something strange about the dancing couples gaily bounding under a forest of raised arms, and the beautiful women installed in blue brocade armchairs decorated with gilt. Officers were everywhere: colonels, a few generals and some members of the general staff. Had Margont not seen the catastrophe of Essling, if he had just arrived in Vienna, he would have said to himself, ‘What a party! What joy! Why are people saying the situation in Austria is so worrying? They must really have exaggerated the defeat at Essling.’ Napoleon was a master of propaganda; he excelled at projecting the right image, at using the right symbols. The balls and plays that he propagated in Vienna were a demonstration to Europe that the setback at Essling was so insignificant that he was not even going to interrupt his worldly pleasures. So Prussia and England waited instead of involving themselves actively in the war, wary of an adversary who, even when hurt, continued to dance and smile. The joyous melodies of violins were as intimidating as cannon fire and bought Napoleon some time. It would not last and the Emperor knew it. Everything depended on the next battle.

Margont and Relmyer started to look for Luise while Lefine and Jean-Quenin Brémond went over to the buffet while studying the cartouches of mythogical scenes scattered over the walls.

Margont’s glance wandered over the crowds in uniform. There were geographic engineers in their blue coats and bicornes, their eyes exhausted from drawing up maps of the exact topography of the interminable semi-islands littering the Danube; aides-de-camp serving one general and criticising all the others; Bavarians in light blue coats with breastplates in their regimental colours and tall black helmets bulging skywards; cuirassiers who had left their armour behind, and looked ill at ease, like crabs without their shells; hussars as colourfully attired as their reputation warranted; Polish Light Horse in blue and scarlet, who hated the Austrians almost as much as they hated Russians and Prussians, and who delighted in tormenting the Austrian nobles by ‘accidentally’ knocking into them; the élite police force in leather breeches and blue coats with red lapels, often in conflict with the French soldiers who rebelled against their authority; colonels with shakos topped with plumes or crests; bicorned generals whose importance could be measured by the sycophantic crowd that gravitated towards them ... And finally, at the summit of the pantheon of the imperial mythology, reigned the grenadiers of the Old Guard, giants made still taller by their enormous bearskins, which their terrorised enemies could spot from afar. These praetorians, who had never lost a battle and whose appearance signalled the death sentence for all those who stood in their way, were Napoleon's most trusted élite troops, which he called on only as a last resort. All the various soldiers chatted, drank, paid court, danced ... At the back of the gallery a monumental Dresden china clock dominated the scene, impossible to ignore. Its presence seemed to murmur, 'Hurry up, time is passing and life is short,’ a message known and much repeated but none the less true. And especially true for these soldiers, who would perhaps all be dead in a month.

The Austrians were equally numerous: sympathisers of the French Empire, proponents of an Austrian revolution, or those simply wanting to mingle with important people.

Margont finally caught sight of Luise just finishing a conversation, but he was careful not to greet her or to point her out to Relmyer.

She was sublime. Her white dress with puff sleeves was elegantly pleated in the manner of a toga, and seemed to diminish her pallor. She wore long gloves to the elbow. Her dancing slippers beat time, as much to the rhythm of her impatience as to the rhythm of the waltz. Round her waist she wore a red bow, where others had chosen golden or cream belts. The scarlet attracted attention and was emphasised by the flower pinned to her bosom. White and red, the colours of Austria, with the red on her heart. Luise was declaring her patriotic convictions. She must have been annoyed to see her parents welcoming the French into their home in this way. Her hairstyle had not changed and Margont was delighted because the new fashion for the Titus cut, very short and frizzy, left him cold. He did not understand why people longed to live in the manner of eight hundred years ago. And, happily, neither was she wearing one of those ridiculous crowns of wilting flowers straight out of an embroidered fantastical picture of the Muses. Luise had not spotted them yet; she was still looking about. How delicious it was to be able to observe a woman you were attracted

to! Margont could have continued to watch her longer than was seemly. He wanted to savour the moment when she finally noticed him. He wanted to catch that instant of condensed time when the anxious quest ended and just before social niceties took over. That second of truth, when emotion and surprise make you briefly drop the mask that society obliges you to wear. Alas, Relmyer waved to Luise and when her expression changed to one of intense joy, Margont could not tell how much of that was for Relmyer and how much for him.

Margont and Relmyer skirted round the dance floor where couples, hands joined, arms raised, sketched complicated patterns in agreeable but artificial harmony. They passed in front of the orchestra, all powdered wigs, ochre livery, silk stockings and aggression muzzled by propriety; unleashed a storm of tut-tutting and fan-waving as they brushed past a group of young ladies in search of partners and reached Luise, who had walked over to meet them. She looked at Relmyer, her eyes shining with tears. Her distress, misinterpreted, earned him withering looks from scandalised ladies nearby.

‘You’ve grown.' she stammered humbly.

Relmyer was equally moved. Thousands of phrases came to mind but they did not manage to say any of them. They were unable to express their evident joy, because their reunion emphasised the loss of Franz. Their couple was an amputated trio.

Margont did not exist for Luise at that moment and it pained him. Yet again, the past displaced the present and he did not belong to their past. Colour returned to Luise’s cheeks and her voice grew firmer.

‘I have so much to reproach you for, Lukas! You’re lucky that I have forgiven you, you traitorous French hussar. You abandoned me, never wrote to me or sent me news, and you were too pigheaded, stupid and selfish even to let me know you’d returned to Vienna!’