Armand Cabasson - Wolf Hunt

At the moment that’s all we have. I can only see one way of going about this. We’ll have to go to the War Ministry and see if we can

find, despite everything, a register or document that might help us/

Lefine’s eyes widened. He could imagine mounds of files, reports, letters ... With the endless procession of wars, army numbers were growing all the time because of mass conscription and the integration of foreign contingents. Now France, Austria or Russia could easily boast hundreds of thousands of soldiers and militiamen. Bureaucracy had ballooned alongside this vertiginous growth in numbers. The bureaucrats maintained complete control and their innumerable verifications translated into millions of pieces of paper. The effectives had to be counted and recounted to establish how many active soldiers each battalion had, how many deserters there had been and what their names were, to check that each combatant did actually exist and that there were no ‘phantom soldiers’ whose pay could be appropriated by profiteers, to make sure the logistics (pay, provisions, uniforms, weapons and munitions, and billets) were correct ... This last had to be especially closely monitored because there were so many crooked suppliers and corrupt officials swarming over everything.

Relmyer was annoyed at his companions’ lack of enthusiasm.

‘No one is forcing you! But we know how slow-moving and nitpicking bureaucracy is. What’s more, the Austrian Empire is enormous: it includes Hungary, Bohemia, Moravia, Galicia, Slovenia, Croatia, Slavonia, Transylvania ... Perhaps in the middle of all these papers there will be a copy of a report or the translation of a letter that has escaped the notice of the people charged with taking away or destroying all confidential documents. Don’t forget the Austrian army did not reckon on being driven back by Napoleon. Vienna was evacuated in chaos and when everything is done in haste, people make mistakes.’

Margont looked sceptical. ‘Well, such things do undoubtedly exist ... But it would take months—’

‘Well, I’ll spend months,’ persisted Relmyer. ‘If necessary I’ll find translators for Hungarian, Croatian, Czech, Slovenian, Polish, Romanian and the dozens of other languages and dialects spoken in this monstrous empire.’

Margont responded soberly to calm Relmyer down. The French have already searched the registers. Don’t you think the Emperor has had the Austrian archives examined? Last night I asked one of my acquaintances—'

‘One of my acquaintances!’ corrected Lefine.

‘Indeed, Fernand, and I thank you once again, even if I did have to pay you both. According to this aide-de-camp to the general staff, no interesting documents relating to the Austrian army were found. So I propose another way of going about things, and if it fails, then, all right, we’ll go and drown ourselves in the Viennese archives.’

‘Another way of going about things?’ repeated Relmyer, emphasising ‘other’. He stood stock-still in the middle of the Stephansplatz. The Stephansdom, St Stephen’s Cathedral, was endowed with a single spire because the silver and the energy needed for a second one had been used to shore up the fortifications before the first Turkish siege in 1529. Behind Relmyer this gothic steeple rose up, its disturbing patchwork of stone seeming to be the incarnation of the questions and worries of the young hussar. ‘Let’s speak to one of the people who fill in the records,’ explained Margont. ‘Indirectly, of course. We’re going to have to convince someone sympathetic to the Austrian cause still living in Vienna to ask the partisans about it. Some partisans regularly cross the front line and could try to find the information we need. After all, we don’t care about the actual registers, what we’re interested in is the list of people who write them up. Now these bureaucrats must have followed the Austrian army in order to avoid being arrested and interrogated on the subject of enemy effectives. If these people understand why we are looking for this information, perhaps they will give it to us.’

Relmyer thought about this new approach, weighing up the pros and cons.

‘It will take a long time, several days probably, but not as long as my approach, I concede. Unfortunately, it won’t work. We would have to find an Austrian sympathiser, persuade him of our sincerity, hope that he accepts and that he has enough credibility to

be able to convince the combatants he has to ask. We’ll never find such a man.’

Margont smiled.

‘And what about Luise?’

CHAPTER 12

AT first Relmyer had rejected Margont’s suggestion in order to protect Luise, but then he decided to trust the Frenchman’s instinct.

Margont and Lefine waited in the Mitterburgs’ sitting room while Relmyer talked to Luise. A servant in bluish-black livery surveyed them suspiciously, which annoyed Lefine, who sank down on a sofa, crossed his legs and began to hum, ‘Oh, it'll be all right, be all right, be all right. Hang the aristocrats from on high! Oh, it'll be all right, be all right, be all right. The aristocrats, we'll hang 'em all.' The servant responded with an Austrian goose step. This archetypal scene made Margont despair. It summed up the paradox of the Empire. The French, hundreds of thousands of them, were starting wars to take the principles of the Revolution to the peoples of Europe, but instead of fanning the waves of republicanism, all it did was incite nationalism in its most aggressive manifestation. It had started with Prussia, then Spain, now the Tyrol and

Austria ... Where was it going wrong? Whose fault was it? How could it be put right before the Empire was crushed by a generalised European uprising against it?

Lefine noticed that the more at ease he appeared, the more irritated the servant became. He threw his head back and sighed nonchalantly.

‘Why didn’t Relmyer think of asking Luise?’

‘I think he wanted to keep her as far away as possible from the investigation.’

‘Possibly, but she’s well and truly involved in it. Relmyer succeeded in dragging us into his struggle. Now, Luise is joining in as

well. He’s leading us one after the other to the edge of the abyss >

Margont felt oppressed by the room although there was nothing exceptional about it, quite the opposite. A portrait of Mozart, comfortable armchairs with restrained floral embroidery, vases, a fireplace whose mantelpiece was covered with knick-knacks: statuettes, lacquer boxes, fans ... Everything was in the classical style, even the antique paintings and the piano with a score open on it - The Magic Flute, naturally. The only original note was sounded by the collection of seven lead or tin soldiers displayed on a small round table. Two knights sculpted in exquisite detail dated from the eighteenth century. Their lead was worth its weight in gold. What was original was that all the figurines were representations from the Middle Ages. One of them was attacking with a lance, the other with a sword while sheltering behind a shield, a third brandished a mace ... A handful of soldiers were launched into who knows what crusade. Margont realised that what irritated him about the room was its sterile conformism. Paintings of scenes from antiquity are in vogue? Quick! Over the sofa hang one depicting two columns and another of a temple at Delphi. Suddenly it is discovered that Mozart is a genius - what’s more, an Austrian genius! True, he’s dead and buried in a pauper’s grave with three shovelfuls of quicklime, but let’s not go on about the errors of the past. Instead, let’s get hold of a copy of his portrait. That was all right. People led their lives in their own way, and so what if they

decided to let others dictate their tastes? No, what bothered Mar-gont was that it was this same attitude that encouraged the halfsilence that cloaked Franz’s death. The obsession to conform contributed to the rule of silence. Because if people submitted even in their own homes, it was unlikely that they would dare speak out and take a stand in public. Suddenly all these commonplace, predictable objects in the home of these well-off people appeared stifling and a little sinister.