He was astounded by what he read. His adjutant had unsheathed his sabre. Discreetly reading over his colonel’s shoulder, he lowered his weapon.

‘What does this mean?’ Barguelot asked in a barely audible voice.

Margont put his document away carefully. He said nothing and stared the colonel straight in the eye. Eventually he declared: ‘You are blind in one eye, are you not, Colonel?’

Barguelot opened his mouth but was unable to speak.

Margont nodded assent. ‘It’s noticeable from close up: your two irises aren’t quite the same colour.’

‘Captain, you’re mad! Your conduct is intolerable, unspeakable! It’s … insolence! Disrespect! Mutiny!’

‘Colonel, it so happens that we have both been victims of a plot. You are not the man I had arranged to meet in Moscow. You are not the man I am after.’

At the mention of the word Moscow, Barguelot reacted sharply. ‘You’re referring to your little ambush that came to an abrupt end!’

Margont indicated a copse of fir trees at the side of the road. The colonel, only too happy for a little discretion, did not need to be asked twice. His adjutant and Lefine followed the two men while the troops continued their laborious onward march.

‘I could have had you shot! Attacking a colonel!’ Barguelot said threateningly.

‘You received a letter referring to a certain “lady of Smolensk”, but I don’t think you understood the message at all.’

‘The letter was clearly not intended for me. What connection does it have with our business? And how do you know about it?’

‘And yet you went to Countess Sperzof’s Moscow residence, hence our encounter. Who gave you that address?’

‘Why, you, of course! You’re trying to make a fool of me!’

‘I swear on my honour that I am serious. I repeat my question: who gave you that address?’

Barguelot looked taken aback. He stared in disbelief while instinctively tossing his head back. Then he became defensive.

‘You’re raving, Captain. I don’t understand a word you’re saying.’

‘To begin with, you dropped hints to me, as if we understood each other perfectly, but now you are denying everything outright, as if to keep me at arm’s length from this business. I’m very surprised at your sudden turnaround. I can only conclude, Colonel, that you are afraid of something. All this suggests a case of blackmail. What did someone know about you that scared you to the point of making you go to that meeting?’

Barguelot turned his back. ‘I’m not listening to any more of this nonsense. Please excuse me but, unlike you, I have a regiment to command, Captain.’

Margont decided to pretend that he was well informed even though he was as lost as Barguelot. So he came out with a sentence that seemed to be pregnant with meaning although he was simply referring to a mystery he had been unable to solve.

‘Was it to do with the real reasons for your appointment as Officer of the Légion d’Honneur, the honour that you were awarded such a long time after Jena?’

Barguelot turned round slowly. ‘What do you want? Or rather I should say: how much do you want?’

Margont felt inwardly triumphant. He had always believed that despite the attractive and flamboyant way in which he wrapped things up, Barguelot’s lies would never on their own have managed to earn him such an honour. Barguelot must then have cheated in some other way.

‘Colonel, I wish simply to understand what happened. You seem to think that I’m the one who invited you to this rendezvous in Moscow but it’s not true. Who gave you this address? And how?’

‘A Muscovite handed a letter to one of my officers. The anonymous message was for me and was asking me to go to Countess Sperzof’s house for personal reasons. When I caught sight of you there I thought, quite logically, that you were the one who’d written it.’

‘I must see the letter.’

‘I burnt it.’

‘You certainly did not! It’s the proof that someone tried to blackmail you, and no one throws away a weapon that can be used against an enemy.’

Barguelot awkwardly unbuttoned his greatcoat and coat. His hand disappeared beneath layers of fur-lined material before reappearing with a letter.

‘I would never have believed that people as cruel as you existed,’ murmured Barguelot as he handed over the missive.

‘You are wrong about me. As for the cruelty of the man I’m after, it is well beyond anything you can imagine.’

Margont unfolded the document.

Sir,

Some Légion d’Honneur you have here. Too good for you, anyway, because it is rather excessive merely for a sprained ankle at Jena. Instead of thanking the Prussians, would it not be better to thank a certain marshal who, annoyed at having been discovered in your bed with your young and beautiful wife, offered you a few compensations in the form of promotion and a decoration?

You certainly do not wish this business to become public knowledge. Neither do I, because what benefit would it bring to me? I fix the price of my silence at six thousand francs, payable in whatever form you choose. Try a little looting. In any case, I know you are wealthy, so you must have a money-box somewhere in your baggage. I will meet you on the 23rd at three in the morning in front of Countess Sperzof’s residence. Its ruins are near the Kremlin, not far from the building in which the 2nd battalion of the 48th of the Line have their quarters.

Do not be late. It is so cold at night in Moscow …

‘This is slander!’ Colonel Barguelot added immediately.

‘Who is aware of this “slander”?’

Barguelot was motionless. He was no longer even unconsciously moving about on the spot to combat the cold.

As he remained silent, Margont continued: ‘Do you know Colonel Fidassio or Captain Nedroni?’

‘No.’

‘What about Colonel Pirgnon?’

‘Vaguely.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me. But I think you know him more than “vaguely”. On the one hand, you both serve in the same division. On the other hand, you have met each other at social gatherings in Paris. Or in Madrid. Undoubtedly in both Paris and Madrid, because neither of you would have missed a single reception for all the money in the world. Is Colonel Pirgnon aware of what this letter refers to?’

‘It’s true that Colonel Pirgnon got to hear of this vile piece of gossip because he was serving on the general staff of the marshal concerned.’

‘He was the person you were expecting to see, wasn’t he?’

Barguelot’s face was a picture of distress.

‘Yes.’

‘Colonel, you’ll never hear of me again. And this “piece of gossip” will not spread, I give you my word.’

Margont saluted and departed, leaving Colonel Barguelot completely at a loss. Lefine, puzzled by what was going on, hurried to catch up with his friend, who was trudging through the snow.

‘I’d like some explanations!’

‘I thought for a moment that Colonel Barguelot was our man. But there were two details, two grey areas, that didn’t fit. Why had Colonel Barguelot refused the honour of a friendly crossing of swords with Marshal Davout and why would he never eat or drink in public? When he invited me to that officers’ meal he didn’t touch a thing. It’s insulting when the person who’s invited you doesn’t even taste the dishes he’s offering you. What could prevent a man from eating, drinking and having a sword fight? Then I thought back to an incident that Colonel Delarse had recounted to me. It involved a game of chess between that Russian chess player I met, Lieutenant Nakalin, and Kutuzov. In the course of the game Kutuzov knocked the chessboard over. I think he did so deliberately because he was losing. But his excuse was perfectly valid: he’s blind in one eye and when you lose your sight in one eye it becomes very difficult after a time to gauge depth and distance. That’s when everything fell into place: I thought that Colonel Barguelot must also have lost an eye. He hides it from everyone – except from his servants – because he’s so concerned about his image that he can’t abide this incapacity. The very idea of showing a weakness, of not being flattered and considered perfect, is unbearable to him. It’s unthinkable for him to ask someone to cut his meat up for him during a meal, unacceptable to put out his hand towards a glass and knock it over … Besides, there was one detail that convinced me I was right. During that meal, when he wanted to propose a toast, his servant did not pass him his glass; he put it in his hand. A domestic would never behave so rudely without good reason. That’s why Colonel Barguelot refused to cross swords with Marshal Davout and why he parried so badly the attack by that Russian officer at the foot of the Great Redoubt, whereas he actually had been a good swordsman in his youth. His wound even explains his repeated “sprained ankles”.’