‘I’ve been sent by His Highness Prince Eugène. The person you are looking for may have killed again.’

Margont turned pale. He thought of Natalia, however absurdly, since several dozen members of his company had quarters in the château. Besides, Dalero and he were moving away from the Valiuski residence. However, two images became superimposed in his mind: Natalia lying on her bed and the tortured body of Maria. The vision of Natalia became clearer and Margont had the impression of actually being in her presence. Her body had been slashed with a knife; her hands were clutching her slit throat; her hair, clotted with blood, partially covered her face; her naked body was in an obscene posture deliberately chosen by her torturer. The more Margont tried to banish this scene from his mind, the clearer and more credible it became. An extreme tension came over him. He saw himself confronting the murderer. He leapt on him, ran him through repeatedly with his sword, stopping only to gaze at a lifeless figure at his feet. He was astonished at the violence of this image and tried to rid himself of his fear and hatred. To no avail. Captain Dalero noticed nothing. He was displaying the detachment that Margont had felt until he had opened the lid of Maria’s coffin.

‘The prince is furious with you!’ Dalero announced. ‘Why do you give him so little news? Why hasn’t the murderer been identified yet?’

Margont spread his arms. ‘When, of course, it’s so simple …’

‘We can speak freely: my men understand only Italian and the prince has put me fully in the picture. What new information have you got?’

‘Nothing,’ Margont lied. ‘We have thirty or so suspects but some are high-ranking. There are even some colonels on the list!’

‘Colonels …’ Dalero repeated as if he needed to hear himself say it for it to sink in.

The streets were practically deserted. They came across only a few stray inhabitants or drunken soldiers staggering about.

‘Discreet as always!’ exclaimed Dalero. ‘That’s the only aspect of your investigation the prince is satisfied with. I’ve had the servants of the house questioned: the victim was … what’s that delightful way you have of putting it in France? Oh, yes, a “man-eater”.’

‘No, not a man-eater!’ Margont cut in.

Dalero raised his eyebrows. ‘And why not a man-chaser?’

‘I won’t answer that. Since my discretion is the only thing that’s valued I might as well keep it.’

‘Very well. So be it. The woman was called Ludmila Sperzof. She had married Count Sperzof, a captain in the hussars who was killed during the war against the Turks. The servants of the house were very fond of the captain and hated their mistress: they spoke their minds about her. She was always having affairs with other men, even with hussars serving under him. I was told all sorts of stories: that she had a relationship with so-and-so, that all Smolensk knew, that she didn’t even mark the anniversary of her husband’s death, that sometimes she had two hussars in bed with her at the same time …’

‘Are you sure it wasn’t one of the servants who killed her?’

‘You’re going up in my estimation. I don’t think so. I’ll get to the crime soon but allow me to finish the account of the Sperzof couple. An elderly retainer, a former hussar who served under the captain, gave me to understand that the count, in despair at his wife’s behaviour, blew his brains out. His hussars covered up the deed and the following day they charged with his body, leaving it behind on the battlefield before going back to collect it with full military honours.’

‘So officially it’s the Turks who get the blame and not the sultana … What sort of men did she choose as her lovers?’

‘I didn’t go into that amount of detail but her maidservants were vying with one another to give me the sauciest snippets. The countess was particularly fond of military men, especially those with a violent streak. Incidentally, one night one of them tried to rape a chambermaid.’

Margont was at a loss. ‘Are you sure of the truth of what you were told? Perhaps one of the servants had a grudge against the countess and slandered her.’

Dalero shook his head vigorously. ‘I questioned eight servants and they all said the same thing. The countess often entertained officers and plied them with drink. Sometimes she didn’t even bother to go as far as the bedroom and the meal turned into an orgy. The countess also involved a pretty maidservant with morals as loose as hers and threw her out of the house when she became pregnant.’

‘But surely not all her lovers were military thugs, were they?’

‘Yes, they were. People who behaved normally didn’t interest her. Some tried their luck – because the countess was beautiful and wealthy – but to no avail. Only brutes. The lover she kept the longest, that’s to say three months, was a lieutenant in the dragoons called Garufski. One day he thrashed a manservant because his bathwater had gone cold. On another occasion he hit a female servant and broke two of her teeth.’

Dalero was gripping the pommel of his sabre with his white glove. He was smiling. He looked frightening.

‘I’d like to get my hands on this Garufski.’

Margont scratched the palm of his hand by stroking his day’s growth of beard.

‘Let’s get back to the murderer we’re hunting for. It’s certainly not the same man who killed our Polish woman and this countess.’

‘Well, I’m convinced of the opposite. The victim was riddled with stab wounds. I was told that the Polish woman had received the same treatment. In my opinion, such cruelty is the trademark of the person we’re after. But you’ll see that for yourself.’

The group arrived in front of a large residence whose pastel-coloured façade was black with soot. A grenadier from the Royal Guard who was guarding the entrance stood stiffly to attention. Only Dalero and Margont went inside the house.

‘How did she meet her murderer?’

‘At nightfall, she went out “hunting for a lover” – that was how the servants put it. To avoid being attacked by someone not of her choosing she was escorted by Yvan, a giant muzhik.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me this earlier? I absolutely must meet him.’

‘There he is.’

Dalero pointed to a tiny room beneath the stairs. Cubbyhole would have been a better description. A man with an unkempt beard was lying on a straw mattress that took up all the space. He was so tall that his legs hung over his pallet. His cream tunic was bloodstained. He was dead.

‘Yvan was utterly devoted to the countess. He acted as her bodyguard, preventing his mistress from being harassed by men she had thrown out of her bed, and as her “emergency lover” at “slack times”. He lived below the stairs so that he would be woken by anyone going up or down.’

Margont entered the boxroom. He examined the cloak lying on the floor and found a pistol and a hunting knife in one of the pockets. Dalero gazed at the body in disgust. He regarded it in the same way as he would some hideous beast killed in a hunt.

‘So the countess went out last night with Yvan. She must have roamed around before meeting a man who suited her. All three came back here. The servant who saw them return said it was about one o’clock in the morning. The “lucky man” wished to remain anonymous because he was wearing a cloak with a hood that he kept on, even as he went up the stairs.’

‘So he already knew he was going to kill her.’

‘The servant didn’t see the man’s face. All he can say is that he was rather tall.’

‘What about his boots, his hands, his outfit? Did he notice nothing?’

‘No. The countess was talking and laughing. He was not speaking. When the countess went upstairs with someone, no servant was allowed to follow. Yvan would be sleeping in his cubbyhole and woe betide anyone who woke him!’

‘Poor fellow. He was jealous.’