the Revolution.’

Margont stopped shouting but his tone brooked no negotiation. ‘So I am going to involve myself in this matter; it will help me resolve some unfinished business, even if only indirectly. I’m convinced it will help me bury certain memories in drawers that I can finally close and forget.’

Now Margont smiled, laughed even. He felt better, having been able to formulate clearly what he felt in his deepest soul.

‘You’re not obliged to help me, Fernand. As you can see, I’m involved for very personal reasons.’ He rose and tried to straighten his uniform. ‘So, it’s not because I’m a Good Samaritan,’ he remarked. ‘Can I count on you?’

‘Of course. Because you’re my best friend. I’m not as selfish as all that ... unfortunately for me.’

Margont was openly delighted. His relationship with Lefine was complicated. Margont was too idealistic, too fond of dreaming and trying to make those dreams into reality. Lefine was the complete opposite. He was pragmatic, resourceful and his common sense rooted him firmly in the everyday. Margont needed Lefine; he helped him keep his feet on the ground. In exchange Margont provided the intoxicating excitement of his changing impulses and the grandeur of his Great Schemes. In short, together they found the balance between whimsy and reality, a balance that neither managed to achieve on his own. Several years of war had consolidated their friendship, especially since each had saved the other’s life.

‘So let’s go and find Relmyer, and get him to take us to his former orphanage,’ decreed Margont.

‘But I still say it’s dangerous to confuse this with your own personal history.’

CHAPTER 8

PART of the army was camped on the Isle of Lobau - IV Corps and also the reserve for General Lasalle’s cavalry. As Relmyer served in the latter, he was just a short walk away from the 18th of the Line. But it was not actually possible to walk there because the artillery convoys blocked the way. Lobau and the surrounding islands bristled with cannon. There were cannon on the Isle of Massena (each of the islands was nicknamed after a hero of the Empire, or an ally), on Saint-Hilaire, on Lannes, on Alexandre ... six-pounders, twelve-pounders, even eighteen-pounders, and howitzers, not to mention the gigantic field guns seized in Vienna from the arsenals that the Austrians, in the haste of their retreat, had forgotten to sabotage. Altogether there were thirteen hundred mortar cannon acting as a deterrent to the Austrians. For them to attack would have been suicide. Napoleon was manoeuvring his resources to protect himself, but doing it in such a way that he would also succeed in foiling his enemies and regaining the initiative. For now

Archduke Charles was obliged to wait for the French to mount an assault. He was, however, ready to receive them unflinchingly; he was well dug in around Aspern and Essling.

As usual Relmyer trained hard. But unusually, there were spectators watching him from a distance. One of these was Saber. Margont went over to him.

‘What are you doing?’

In reply, Saber murmured admiringly, ‘I’m learning. So young and already so gifted ... He’s like me.’

Margont, who was accustomed to his friend’s overweening vanity, contented himself with watching Relmyer again. It was true that his attacks seemed to be devilishly precise. But were they extraordinarily so? Saber was also a very fine duellist and, until now, Margont would have assumed that he was better than Relmyer.

‘Is he more gifted than you, Irenee?’

‘He would lay me out stone dead in less than ten seconds. He’s much better than me,’ Saber conceded. ‘Only in duelling, of course.’

Margont could not get over his surprise. Saber never complimented other people (except women, whom he flattered in the hope of seducing them, assuming them to be as avid as he was for a bit of love-making). Relmyer was truly a remarkable man - he seemed to make an impression on everyone.

The young hussar lunged, beat a retreat while parrying a storm of imaginary thrusts, suddenly attacked again, feinting, dodging ... To Margont it all seemed like a Gregorian chant: very beautiful, but incomprehensible. Saber, on the other hand, had the necessary expertise to form a judgement and he was marvelling at what he saw, even going so far as to tap his thigh to prevent himself from applauding.

‘He lives only for the art of the sword,’ he said under his breath, ‘without looking to left or right.’

That was totally untrue. Most people did not see past the image Relmyer projected. It was a brilliant image, so people looked no further. His violence covered up his suffering.

‘He has natural talent and the compulsion to learn. He’s nicknamed “The Wasp” ... Bezut took him on as a pupil, but alas they fell out.’

Bezut? Probably another renowned master of military arms. Saber knew the most illustrious of them. He would have been their biographer had he not had it in mind to dedicate himself solely to his autobiography.

‘I heard that from one of his cavalry regiment,’ explained Saber. That would definitely have been Pagin. Especially as he was one of the spectators.

‘Why train so hard with a sabre when you can use a pistol?’ Margont wondered aloud.

‘When a pistol is empty, you’re done for,’ replied Saber. ‘Pistols are also unreliable, imprecise and rarely fatal. In any case, I understand that Lukas Relmyer is also an extremely good shot.’

Relmyer caught sight of Margont and, interrupting his training, saluted him with his sword. Saber stood up straighten ‘I knew he had heard of me.’

Relmyer came over to Margont, sword still in hand. Did he never lay it aside? In spite of his intensive training, he still looked energetic, not showing the slightest sign of fatigue.

‘Dear friend! Can I talk to you a moment in private?’

Saber stiffened, trying not to show his disappointment and jealousy. The other two men moved off together, leaving the admirers to rejoin their battalions.

‘Before you say anything, I must warn you, you’re in danger,’ declared Margont. ‘If it is indeed the man we’re looking for who set fire to the ruins of that farm, he is being exceptionally careful. If he knows that you went back there, he might well try to kill you. So you must always have an escort when you leave camp.’

Relmyer sheathed his sword, noisily clanging the hilt against the scabbard.

‘I am my own escort.’

‘I hope you’ll take me seriously. Can we go and visit your old orphanage now?’

‘Unfortunately I’m not welcome there. They were very angry with me for stirring up trouble before I left in 1804. It has to be said that, out of frustration, I did become aggressive. I actually struck the man in charge of the investigation. I was angry with everyone.’ His words plunged him into despair, and his hand came to rest on his sabre, his support.

‘We’re conducting an inquiry - that gives us rights,’ decreed Margont.

Relmyer’s eyelids drooped tiredly. ‘Of course, but it’s not as simple as that. Madame Blanken, narrow-minded, insensitive old witch, is still the director of Lesdorf Orphanage. As I’ve told you she has connections with the Viennese aristocracy. If you go ferreting around in her back yard, she won’t be content with whacking you with her broom. Her outcry will bring down much more serious consequences on us.’

Relmyer went on in a tone that anger rendered as cutting as sword strokes, ‘The Emperor wants Vienna to continue undisturbed, so anyone who causes trouble is heavily punished. If a dozen countesses and wives of Austrian nobility complain about us, accusing us of sowing panic in an orphanage, we’ll be summarily arrested. Believe me, La Blanken has a long arm and an effective fist.’

Margont backed down. Better to take time to inform yourself about a potential enemy before confronting them.