Armand Cabasson - Wolf Hunt

‘Of course, he’s going to kill again!’ cried Relmyer.

Heads turned in their direction. The conductor of the orchestra glanced over at them and some musicians played wrong notes. He turned back and conducted more enthusiastically. The music grew noticeably louder. Relmyer went to stand in the middle of the dance floor, knocking into couples and being buffeted by them.

‘It’s no use playing fortissimo, they’re all deaf!’ he yelled at the top of his voice.

The orchestra ploughed on, but the dancers fled. Furious officers marched towards Relmyer, stunned guests looked at him in horror.

‘Lukas Relmyer, the killjoy, wishes you an excellent evening!’ he bellowed. ‘Go on, dance, dance! One day you’ll be forced to open your eyes and your ears!’

He strode over to a French window, flung it open and went out. He needed air. Margont followed. The couples reformed and took up their waltz again. The stone had sunk to the bottom of the pond and its ripples had already subsided.

Relmyer walked quickly, teeth clenched, his breathing ragged. Margont was hard on his heels.

‘I understand why you’re so angry, but the priority is to find the man and arrest him. Then you can go and settle your accounts with—’

‘I can’t stand their silence any more! It’s ringing in my ears, it’s deafening, it’s killing me!’

Then something altogether amazing happened. Piquebois was leaning against a neighbouring building, looking up at the stars. When he heard Margont’s voice he turned his head. Relmyer had

never been introduced to Piquebois, yet the moment he saw Piquebois, he froze.

‘Lieutenant Piquebois?’ he asked.

‘At your service, Lieutenant Relmyer, otherwise known as “The Wasp”,’ replied Piquebois, joyfully.

Piquebois’s eyes were alight with excitement and a fanatical smile spread over his face. The two men had barely met, but already they had generated a spark of madness that engulfed them both.

‘How about a friendly duel?’ proposed Piquebois to Relmyer, who was already unsheathing his sabre, as if words were superfluous because their thoughts were in such perfect harmony.

Margont stiffened, pointing a threatening finger at the two officers. ‘I order you not to! Lukas, put your sword away!’

Relmyer took off his pelisse. ‘There’s nobody but Margont here, so we only have one second.’

Piquebois threw his coat on the ground. ‘Let’s not waste time finding another one. Since Quentin is a friend of both of us, we can count him twice.’

Margont stepped between them, which could have been dangerous, had one of them taken exception to it.

‘Lieutenant Piquebois, you will sheath your sabre immediately or I will have you arrested on the spot.’ Already Margont was raising his arm to attract the attention of a sentry, who was paying more attention to mentally undressing the beautiful Austrian girls than to his watch. Piquebois was windmilling his arms to loosen up his wrists.

Throwing us in prison will change nothing,’ insisted Relmyer. ‘We’ll just persuade our gaolers to find us arms and then we’ll entertain them with the spectacle.’

It was absurd, but true. Margont tried everything in his power to reason with them but the two lieutenants were no longer listening. ‘In the 8th Hussars, everyone’s always saying how unbeatable you are,’ said Relmyer enviously.

Piquebois was exultant. ‘They’re exaggerating. And I’ve heard that you yourself are without peer. We absolutely have to fight.’

As they talked, they were sizing each other up, flexing their

muscles and moving slowly and fluidly over to a lamp just behind the garden gate. They were engaged in a ritual of seduction and death, a dance that led gracefully to the tomb.

‘Whoever touches, wins?’ suggested Piquebois.

‘Nothing better! Since it’s purely intellectual, we should stop at first blood. In any case I don’t want to slay you. The friends of my friends are my friends ...’

‘Of course you’re not going to kill me, because once I’m finished with you, you’ll need a stretcher.’

The sentry came to attention in front of Margont.

‘Go and fetch a doctor. Ask for Medical Officer Brémond.’

‘Ready?’ demanded Piquebois.

‘Always!’

Piquebois attacked with a sweeping stroke to his opponent’s left side. The circular movement of one of his lunges could shatter an opponent’s head like an eggshell. Relmyer dodged. Piquebois launched spiritedly into his favourite repertoire: attacks with arms not extended, beats, false attacks, feints, attempts to disarm, compound attacks, ripostes, parries, feint parries, aggressive sequences, unexpected retreats and many other moves as well, all punctuated by constant changes of rhythm. This staggering multiplicity of moves made him unreadable. Fighting Piquebois you never knew which foot you should be on. You were swamped by the calculated cacophony before submitting to the final blow, which was always completely baffling. His attacks were precise and difficult to parry, which is why Relmyer concentrated harder and harder on dodging nimbly or deflecting Piquebois’s blade. Piquebois displayed a force that no one would ever have imagined from looking at him. When his sabre clashed noisily against Relmyer’s, sparks flew and the Austrian grimaced in pain. The hussars were moving all the time to avoid being struck.

They both rapidly adjusted their techniques. Piquebois attacked less violently because Relmyer was not overwhelmed by his force, and instead became more precise. Relmyer stopped trying to tire Piquebois out, now that he had the measure of the Frenchman’s endurance. The latter fought like a demon without either getting

out of breath or tiring. Piquebois beat Relmyer back towards the corner between the concierge’s lodge and the gate in the wall. With less room, Relmyer could not dodge as well. He tried to land a blow with the point of his sabre on Piquebois’s face. He was aiming at the chin, but his offensive meant he had to reveal himself, and Piquebois parried and lunged in order to launch an immediate attack in the direction of Relmyer’s flank. Relmyer, who had made his move to encourage this reaction from Piquebois, deflected his opponent’s blade, whose trajectory he had anticipated, and his blade - just the point - went into his opponent’s left shoulder. Piquebois blinked. A dark stain spread across his shirt. He looked at the wound with the same astonishment as if he were seeing a field of blue grass beneath a green sky. He collapsed and found himself sitting down with his legs apart and his sabre still in his hand.

Jean-Quenin Brémond hurried to his aid. The music from the ball in the background grew louder as the guests opened the windows to see what was happening. Piquebois ignored the medical officer.

‘You’re mad, Relmyer ... Launching a false attack to make your opponent react is one thing. But launching a real attack for the same reason, knowing your opponent is of a very high standard ...

I almost killed you ...’

Relmyer agreed. He was breathing quickly. He knew that he had diced with death.

‘If I had feinted, you wouldn’t have been taken in. I took a risk, yes. But it’s you who’s on the ground.’

Margont was choking with rage.

‘Great, Antoine, bravo! Happy now?’

‘Yes,’ murmured Piquebois.

And the worst of it was, he really was happy.

CHAPTER 11

THE next day Margont and Lefine crossed the Graben, the avenue adored by the Viennese built on the filled-in trenches of medieval fortifications. Their eyes were red from lack of sleep, or perhaps they were splashed with Piquebois’s blood. They stopped at the foot of the Pestsäule, the plague column, where they were to meet Relmyer.