Armand Cabasson - Wolf Hunt

‘I wonder if she’s in that other room,’ he said abruptly.

That sentence, peremptory and chilling, broke the rapport that had been established between Luise and Margont.

‘But I don’t see her,’ he added.

Luise was entangled in a web of emotions. Anger, fear, impotence,

despair, and disgust at her despair, all mixed together in a disturbing tangle. Paradoxically her face remained expressionless. ‘You’re never going to stop looking for the man, are you, Lukas?’ ‘No.’

Luise looked strained. ‘So we’ll be haunted by this affair for the rest of our lives! Suppose you never find him?’

Relmyer swung round, turning his back on them. His parting words were, ‘Why don’t you just enjoy yourselves! I’ll come and tell you when Madame Blanken is here.’

Luise went over to the buffet. She asked for some cold water, then, annoyed by the mannered slowness of the serving boy, changed her mind and left the full glass on the sparklingly white tablecloth. She glared at Margont, pretending to be offended.

‘Don’t you know that it’s not suitable for a young lady to be alone in the company of a man? If you don’t ask me to dance immediately, people will talk.’

Margont longed to accept the invitation but he was intimidated by the grace of the couples whirling about on the floor.

‘It doesn’t matter if you don’t know how to waltz,’ Luise assured him. ‘Let yourself be guided by me.’

That annoyed Margont. Ever since they had met, it had been like that.

Luise led him into the middle of the couples, to avoid being stared at. Margont rapidly felt befuddled by slight vertigo. He held Luise in his arms as everyone wheeled about them. The war was still so close. He had almost been killed at Essling and perhaps he would fall on the next battlefield. He could quite easily have only seven more days to live. He tried to forget about the investigation, the frenzy of past battles and the accumulating signs of the military cataclysm to come. The waltz with Luise represented a few stolen minutes away from the crazy chaos of the world. He accelerated the pace, staring at Luise’s cheerful face, allowing their motion to obliterate the rest of the universe. She smiled, showing glimpses of pearl-white teeth. The musicians also succumbed to the power of the music. The tempo took off, the conductor’s gestures became expansive - now he seemed to follow his baton’s lead. Then

the music stopped abruptly. The silence was like a slap. Clapping crackled throughout the gallery. There was some quick toing and froing, and changing of partners, but Margont did not let go of Luise.

‘Again!’ he exclaimed quietly.

A new waltz started up. They twirled about in a haze of colour from the outfits and light from the candles, infinitely reflected by the mirrors and the gold panelling. The charm of the moment was enhanced by Luise’s musky perfume. Margont imperceptibly tightened his grip on the young Austrian’s waist. Time and thought seemed suspended and they were oblivious to the people round them. It was as if they were united in a capsule of emotion, which rolled endlessly in the light.

The orchestra broke off. Margont was looking forward to the next dance, but alas such persistence was unacceptable and Madame Mitterburg had her eye on her daughter. She dispatched the first fellow who came to hand to dislodge Margont. The man halted in front of Luise to request her pleasure, his shoulder nudging

Margont’s, indicating he was prepared to use force to eject the over-tenacious Frenchman. He was a lank, almost skeletal Austrian, the son of a good family who were friends of the Mitter-burgs. He had served in the Viennese militia and had been careful to stay put when the French drew near to Vienna. Had he advanced, he would have been obliged to engage them in combat. Had he fallen back, he would have been obliged to join the Austrian army. So he had stayed where he was, allowing himself to be captured, whereupon Napoleon, wishing to propitiate the Viennese, had amnestied and freed all the militiamen on condition that they returned to their families.

Margont moved away.

He heard Luise say in astonishment to her new partner: ‘Dear me, the Austrian army seems to have forgotten you in their retreat! Of course, when you depart in a hurry, you only take the essentials with you.’

Margont melted into the crowd, which was conversing in several languages. He spotted Luise and then lost her again, thanks to the

movement of the dancing couples. The magic was broken, the music had become just music, and to add insult to injury the exertion had reawakened the pain in his side. That in turn brought back incoherent memories of the carnage at Essling. Instead of the harmonious melody of violins he now heard firing muskets and explosions, and instead of red dresses he saw blood.

Madame Mitterburg came to introduce herself. Her grey hair, lined face, the prominent veins in her hands and her husky voice all emphasised the great age difference between her and her daughter. Margont envied her for knowing so much about Luise.

‘Luise has told me a great deal about you,’ she stated.

Too much, in fact, she thought worriedly. She listened politely as Margont explained in German which regiment he served in.

But he hastened to assure her, ‘I’m only a soldier because we are at war. As soon as it’s all over ...’

He stumbled over the end of the sentence. What did ‘all’ signify? He no longer knew. Would the war be over one day? They had fought practically without a break since the Revolution, and even the brief periods of peace had tasted of gunpowder. It felt to him as if they had embarked on another hundred years’ war.

‘I mean, when there is finally peace, I will start a newspaper.’

The old lady listened politely, blinking from time to time. Because she said nothing it was difficult to tell what she was thinking. The word ‘newspaper’ always intoxicated Margont so he launched into a long explanation of his idea.

‘Words are an antidote to the boredom of everyday life and help change the world. Newspapers and books stimulate the mind. It doesn’t matter whether you agree with what you read or not, whether you laugh or cry, get angry or applaud. The only thing that matters is that we read something - anything at all! - that makes us react. And our reaction, our feelings, opinions and new ideas in turn make other things to discuss. They then feed the debate, they add to and propagate the range of the “chemical reaction”.’

He was talking too fast, his German was deserting him and, realising this, he hurried to draw his speech to a close, convinced that his interlocutor was no longer listening.

‘In short, I hope that my newspaper with its controversies and ideas will give the public something to read that will contribute to all the strands of thought that enliven and transform people’s lives.’

Madame Mitterburg blinked again but said nothing. There was the sort of silence that makes you rapidly run through in your head the gamut of small talk that could restart the conversation, something unremarkable. The silence stretched out. Madame Mitterburg was still looking at Margont. He wondered if she was simply trying to fathom what it was about him that so appealed to her daughter. ‘You must have a drink,’ she declared finally. ‘You’ve done so much dancing ...’

She turned towards the buffet and asked for a drink. So much dancing? That was a bit of an exaggeration - he had danced two waltzes with Luise. He began to understand how far removed Austrian high society felt itself to be from the universe he operated in. In their world everything was regulated by a multitude of rules, codes, precepts and obligations. The slightest transgression set in train a flood of reactions designed to correct the misdemeanour. Madame Mitterburg was merely keeping Margont away from her daughter with this now rather ridiculous chat.