‘The question is: did he find this diary?’ he murmured to himself.

Lefine was combing his hair with his fingers.

‘So you want us to go and look for this notebook, do you? It’ll still be where it is now tomorrow morning,’ he grumbled.

‘Get into the saddle! Don’t call me ungrateful: I’m giving you this horse to thank you for your help. A Pole sold it to me for a fortune.’

Lefine stroked the animal’s neck and lifted one of its legs to examine its shoe.

‘Into the saddle, Fernand. Do you know the proverb “Never look a gift horse in the mouth”?’

Lefine obeyed, waiting until later to assess the value of his new acquisition.

‘If this diary did exist, you or the murderer would have found it. Why would this Polish woman have hidden it when no one came to see her?’

‘That was part of the game. If you are going to write a private diary, you don’t leave it lying around on a table; you hide it carefully. It’s obvious you don’t know much about women.’

‘The women I associate with have nothing private, neither diaries nor … well, that’s how it is.’

Margont woke the grenadiers of the Royal Guard by clapping his hands and talking fast and furiously. The Italians looked at him with a mixture of fear and anger. For them there was no doubt that this hothead who had turned up in the middle of the night was raving mad. The two Frenchmen went up to the attic room on their own. Margont started with the bed, lifting up the mattress. Lefine unsheathed his knife and ran the blade between the joins in the floorboards.

‘You never know, we may come across a hoard of gold …’ he mumbled between yawns.

After an hour they had discovered nothing.

Lefine leant against the wall. ‘You have to know how to be a good loser. Can we go back to bed now?’

‘You’ll have all the time in the world to sleep when you’re dead. I would have thought that someone with such a well-developed practical sense as you would have guessed where the best hiding-places were.’

‘No idea,’ sighed Lefine.

‘Use your imagination. Ask the advice of my uncle in Louisiana.’

‘Yes, that was a good one! You should have seen that sergeant-major scribbling away furiously. His quill was scratching the paper joyfully and the idiot, so happy to please his master, was smiling like a dog wagging its tail.’

Margont folded his arms. ‘If this were your bedroom, where would you hide your private diary, the one in which you noted down the sums received for selling the secrets I confided in you as a friend?’

‘Where no one would think of looking for them. So, outside the room.’

Margont shot out of the room. At the end of the corridor was a locked door.

‘That must be a loft used as a storeroom or larder.’

‘Too risky, the innkeeper and his employees must go there regularly,’ Lefine remarked. ‘But up there …’

Margont looked up. Enormous beams were holding up the roof.

‘She could reach up there by standing on a chair …’

Lefine went back into the bedroom to get one but Margont jumped up and grabbed a piece of timber supporting several beams, hauled himself up and sat astride it. Nothing. He dropped back down to the floor with a loud thud.

‘I was wrong.’

‘At last he admits it!’

‘Or else … I’ve had another idea. I’m leaving. Stay here and keep looking! Try to get the Italians to help you. I’ll be back in less than an hour.’

Lefine was ready to fall asleep on his feet. ‘Well, go wherever you want! And when you come back empty-handed we’ll each get a spade and go digging all around the inn just in case Maria buried it! Then we’ll dismantle Tresno, a plank at a time!’

Margont went to see Maroveski again. The innkeeper was not asleep. He was pacing around the cellar. He didn’t say a word when he saw Margont enter, escorted by three of his gaolers. He’d given up expecting anything of them. The rings around his eyes had become puffy and were darker. Margont glared at him.

‘I believe you took a document from Maria’s bedroom just after she died, a notebook or something similar.’

‘I haven’t stolen anything. I don’t even know whether Maria had—’

Margont interrupted him curtly. ‘You must have heard of this diary from one of your servant girls or from Maria herself. And you took it away because you thought you’d find a clue in it leading you to the murderer. You wanted to settle the score with him personally, didn’t you?’

‘I can’t read.’

‘Either you can read or you’ll get someone to read it to you. If you wanted to make out you were a half-wit, you should have done so from our first meeting. Now it’s too late for that. I’m going to have your cell searched from top to bottom. But I warn you that in any case you will not be released until the end of this campaign or until the culprit has been arrested. So you’re going to remain a prisoner for some time. If you hide any evidence from me, we’ll both be losers. The only winner is the murderer.’

Margont turned towards the Italians. But he said to himself that if Maroveski didn’t speak up now, they would find nothing because the diary would be only a figment of his imagination.

‘Wait,’ interrupted Maroveski in a resigned tone of voice.

He scratched at the ground in a corner of the room and unearthed something. It was a notebook with a bunch of roses painted on its cover. Margont wanted to take it but Maroveski held on to it for a moment.

‘Swear to me you will burn it when all this is over. I don’t want soldiers reading it for entertainment or for it to lie around for years with loads of other papers.’

‘I swear.’

Margont briefly flicked through the pages of delicate handwriting. He then went to look for Lefine, whom he found arguing with the grenadiers of the Royal Guard, which was predictable.

He flourished his find in front of his flabbergasted friend and exclaimed: ‘We need an interpreter, straight away!’

The two men spoke to every civilian they came across in the street. And when they did eventually find someone who knew both French and Polish, they had a devil of a job persuading him to translate their document. The old man was holding by the bridle three scrawny mules that must have been around when his grandparents were born. So they wanted him to do them a favour, did they? Very well, with pleasure. But in exchange, they had to buy his mules.

‘For that price, can they translate Polish too?’ enquired Margont.

He threatened to call in the imperial police until the Pole agreed to sell him only two of the mules but for three-quarters of the price of the three because there was, of course, a discount for buying the three, which you lost if you only took two. In the end Margont handed him a few coins and managed to convince him that if he refused he would have these wretched beasts hanged just to put an end to the discussion. Both arguments were effective, especially the first, and the three men moved away from the crowd.

‘Begin at the end.’

Gnarled fingers turned the pages over.

‘It’s a woman recounting her day.’

The Pole spoke in a quavering voice. Margont nodded several times to encourage him to speed up.

‘June 27. An incredible, wonderful thing has happened to me. I was going to the market and I still had a few things left to buy. There were a lot of soldiers in the streets. It was unpleasant to feel all those men staring at me and to hear them laughing. I didn’t understand their jokes but it was easy to guess. Almost everything I wanted to buy had been sold and what was left cost four times more than usual. A tall soldier—’

The old man broke off. ‘I don’t know the French word for this. It’s the colour of hair that’s like red.’

‘“Ginger”, yes, “ginger”. Carry on.’

‘A tall, ginger-haired soldier appeared. He’d been drinking and was talking very loudly. He grabbed my dress and said something before bursting out laughing. I think he was saying he wanted to buy it. He began to lift it up. You could see my calves. I was very frightened; I screamed. I think some soldiers were telling him to stop but they were afraid of him. I started to cry and to …