‘Why?’

Lefine pointed to the hunting knife in his belt. His initials were engraved on an impressive-looking blade. He had spent a fortune purchasing it in Spain, but the quality of the materials and the skill of the craftsmanship justified the cost. What a shame the Spanish had given up the game they traditionally hunted to go after French soldiers instead.

‘So that my belongings don’t give me away. Added to that, it’s very difficult to make up a new signature and manage to reproduce it. With the same initials that’s a good start and you just scribble something after. Not to mention that my initials are part of me and I want to keep them.’

‘What a lecture! I suppose you’ve cheated like this before.’

‘A bit. But it didn’t involve you.’

‘Don’t go on about it or I’ll lose my temper again.’

‘So I would choose “François Lechu” or “Francis Lacet”, a name that’s easy to remember – it would be idiotic to make a mistake – but not too unusual or too ordinary, like “Dupont”.’

Margont nodded. ‘We’re in agreement. But the point is that “Acosavan” meets none of these criteria.’

‘If all he wanted was a pseudonym for a couple of days, he must have said whatever came into his head without thinking any more about it. In any case, now that we are down to only four suspects it’s clear that no name bears any relation to “Acosavan”. All this is pointless. It was something to chew on when there were no other clues, but that’s no longer the case.’

‘Think about it all the same. We’ll talk about it again some time.’

‘How stubborn can you get!’

‘Good. Now I’m going to try to meet Colonel Delarse.’

As Margont was walking away, Piquebois strode after him and caught him up.

‘Is everything all right, Quentin?’

‘Of course it is. Why do you ask?’

‘It’s the expression on your face. You look excited and worried at the same time. My comrades in the hussars and I were like that just before a charge.’

‘I got lost in the woods and was attacked by some Cossacks. The devils well and truly sent me to the ground. But all’s well.’

‘If that’s all it was …’ concluded Piquebois, looking unconvinced.

In spite of its losses, the Grande Armée – which IV Corps had met up with at Glubokoe – was still very impressive. There were troops stretching as far as the eye could see. From one end of the plain to the other you could see campfires and tents. The woods overlooking the nearby hills also seemed alive with fires, and the same was true of the crests of the hills further away. This immense expanse of lights seemed to reflect a distorted image of the starry sky. Margont felt reassured. In the face of adversity, the feeling of being part of a group was a source of comfort. He gnawed at his bone, snapped it to suck out the marrow and could only bring himself to throw it away when he reached Colonel Delarse’s tent. The sentry pointed his bayonet at the intruder.

‘Halt. Who goes there?’

‘Captain Margont, 84th of the Line, 2nd Battalion. I wish to meet Colonel Delarse.’

The sentry disappeared into the tent and reappeared a moment later accompanied by Colonel Delarse himself.

‘Captain Margont. I’ve heard so much about you. Do me the honour of coming inside.’

Taken rather by surprise, Margont obeyed without a word. Tall but frail-looking, Colonel Delarse was approaching fifty. His energetic, determined movements seemed ill suited to his slight frame. His bony, emaciated face gave an unpleasant preview of what his head would look like once he had been reduced to a skeleton. Delarse looked sickly, weakened and debilitated. He inevitably made one think of his doctor and the medicines he must have been taking. One wanted to express one’s sympathy before suggesting to him that he should lie down to conserve his strength. In fact, the feeling most of all engendered was the desire to get away from him as soon as possible, because he reminded one of death, and one’s own last moments were time enough to be thinking of that. But there was a life force struggling against this generally deathly appearance. His light blue eyes stared out with interest and liveliness. Margont wondered whether such an individual was physically capable of leaping from roof to roof and killing a sentry with a single knife stab. His conclusion was no, and he held back a sudden feeling of anger. What sort of work was this? Shouldn’t this suspect have been ruled out?

Colonel Delarse sat down on a chair and invited Margont to do likewise. The tent had been carefully laid out. The bed was heaped with numerous blankets and an eiderdown. There were no fewer than three chests. A small desk, placed just next to a brazier, was barely visible beneath a pile of papers: notebooks, reports, drafts and letters. The washroom was hidden by a screen. It was decorated with a classical fresco depicting athletes whose magnificent bodies were in sad contrast to the colonel’s.

‘I have been given to understand that you are an Officer of the Légion d’Honneur. I offer you my congratulations,’ Delarse declared warmly.

Prince Eugène was right. This distinction immediately earned Margont the esteem of numerous soldiers, which opened many a door.

‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ the colonel went on. ‘I have almost twelve thousand men under my command – since I assist General Huard,’ he added somewhat reluctantly. ‘But I am anxious to get to know personally all the promising officers serving in my brigade. It’s a crime not to exploit everyone’s potential.’

These last words were uttered with an energy bordering on anger.

‘My friend Colonel Pégot says that you are tenacious and resourceful but that you think too much.’

‘Is it possible, Colonel, to think too much?’

‘Let’s say that when a superior accuses you of thinking too much it’s because he resents the fact that you think differently from him.’

‘What about you, Colonel? Do you never happen to think too much?’

‘Every day.’

Delarse took a bottle and filled two glasses.

‘I come from the Charentes. This cognac is a bit of my native land that follows me in my campaigns. I’ve got another bottle for Moscow. I’m longing to open that one.’

The colonel cupped his glass in both hands to warm the alcohol.

‘What is the reason for your visit?’

‘Typhus.’ Margont handed over Brémond’s letter.

The colonel read it carefully and responded immediately: ‘Typhus is only in an endemic state in the brigade. As soon as there is a suspected case, the soldier is isolated and put in a special field hospital. His kit and his tent – if he has one – are burnt. Those who have been sleeping alongside him are put into quarantine but are given double rations because malnutrition is a breeding ground for typhus.’

‘That seems ideal to me.’

‘To discover the exact number of people put into quarantine, you’ll need to speak to the physicians attached to each regiment. May I enquire why you have decided to concern yourself with typhus?’

‘I find inactivity a burden.’

‘Personally, I find it deadly. But before long the Russians are bound to stop falling back. They’ll fight to save Smolensk. It’ll be a slaughter. We’ll suffer too but their army will be blown to bits.’

The colonel was becoming more and more excited.

‘The Tsar will be on his knees but the Emperor will be able to spare his dignity by throwing him a few crumbs. He’ll agree not to deprive Russia of the provinces she stole from the Poles; he won’t restore Greater Poland; he will be magnanimous. In exchange, he’ll force Alexander to implement the continental system. And where will the English ships go if Europe welcomes them with round shot? Without ports you lose control of the seas and oceans, and without control of the water, an island is lost. So – at last! – the English will also sign the peace treaty, one laden with punitive clauses that will weaken them. Thus we shall be able to expand our colonies and acquire new ones, and people in India, Africa, Asia or America will henceforth say “Bonjour, monsieur” instead of “Good morning, sir”.’