Wolf Hunt. Armand Cabasson
and Margont decided to go back and see Luise Mitterburg. Bergen would then try to borrow a wagon in the village of Ebersdorf to transport Wilhelm’s body back.
On the way, Margont asked: ‘You mentioned murder earlier when you announced the boy was dead. What makes you think it was a crime?’
‘It’s an old story, which concerns only the Austrians. But I don’t think Wilhelm was killed and disfigured by one of your patrols.’
Bergen appeared ill at ease, defensive. The question had upset him so much that he completely changed the subject. ‘Relmyer’s back! Mademoiselle Mitterburg is going to be so happy!’ he exclaimed.
Margont experienced this sentence like a blow to the stomach. ‘Are they … engaged?’
‘No, Captain. He’s her adoptive brother, as it were.’
Bergen told Luise Mitterburg what had happened. She was overcome by emotion at the news that Relmyer had returned. She questioned Bergen relentlessly. Where was Lukas? How long had he been in Austria? Why had he not come to see her? How dare he serve in the French army? Why the devil had he chosen to join the bellicose, brave but wild hussars? And there were further interrogations that Margont could not even understand because the young woman was talking so fast. Finally she turned to him.
‘I don’t know how to thank you. Or rather I do. Here, take my address. I live with my adoptive family.’
Margont took the paper she held out to him and looked at the awkward handwriting. She had written the lines in pencil, leaning on the palm of her hand.
‘You will always be welcome,’ she added. ‘I have another favour to ask you. I know, it’s becoming a habit. I’m always being told off for it. I think it’s to do with having been abandoned. I have the feeling of having suffered an irreparable injustice and sometimes have a tendency to think that all the world owes me something, that people must help me, me more than anyone else, because I’ve suffered more than normal. Out of compassion. If you were queuing for food you would give up your place to the invalid behind you, wouldn’t you? But in any case, as you have no doubt foreseen, I would like you to go and find Lukas Relmyer for me. It seems he is serving in the 8th Hussars. I want you to tell him that I absolutely must see him. In exchange, I swear to you I will similarly devote myself to helping you if you ask me a favour in return. What’s more, I will ensure that you are invited to parties … Viennese balls are a unique pleasure! You’re here now anyway, and it will be better than killing each other. That’s not what I meant … The war, of course, that’s another thing altogether …’
Finally she interrupted her long discourse. She had spoken without interruption, so keen to stifle Margont’s reservations with a torrent of arguments, that she had lost the thread of what she was saying and tripped herself up.
‘I accept, Mademoiselle. I will go and find Relmyer, as soon as the fighting stops.’
Luise Mitterburg thanked him profusely.
Margont hurried to cross the large bridge before it collapsed again. Was he in love with the Austrian girl, he asked himself. He could not tell. He did not believe in love at first sight; it was too inexplicable, too sudden. Certainly, she had some sort of hold over him. He felt there was a reason for it, but he could not express it clearly. He told himself that once he had succeeded in discovering the secret, the charm would dissipate and he would be free from her influence.
Margont slept for several hours, weakened by loss of blood. The wounded were perishing en masse, for lack of care. Others were still arriving and were laid down between the corpses and the dying. What few surgeons there were continually amputated limbs, which were piled into wagons and transported far from sight.
Towards two o’clock, the air was rent by the deafening roar of artillery fire. The soldiers sat up, if they had the strength, narrowing their eyes in the direction of the fighting, trying to guess the cause of the racket. They learned that the Austrians had placed in battery, in the front line of their centre, two hundred cannon – two hundred! – and were firing relentlessly on the troops of General Oudinot, who had barely eighty. Shortly afterwards, the little bridge was repaired once more, but no reinforcements could get through because of the stream of injured and panicked deserters fleeing onto the Isle of Lobau. By the time some order had been restored, the bridge had collapsed again.
Finally, a little after three o’clock, Archduke Charles, short of ammunition and worried about Austrian losses, gave up crushing the French, who were resisting with an energy born of despair. His adversaries were beaten even if they were not annihilated, and he judged the result satisfactory and put a stop to the attacks. Napoleon therefore immediately ordered that the east bank should be abandoned and his troops fell back onto Lobau and to the west bank. Each army had lost twenty thousand men, killed, wounded or taken prisoner. Napoleon had been vigorously driven back and so had just suffered his first personal military reverse. Intoxicated by the spectacular success of the preceding weeks that had seen the retreat of the enemy army and the fall of Vienna, he had underestimated the fighting spirit of the Austrians. Wanting to act quickly, he had pressed forward too precipitately. The floating missiles had been the unexpected element that had shattered the impetuous advance of the French. Napoleon and his empire had almost been overthrown by some tree trunks, flaming barges and windmills. But the setback was only partial. With only twenty-five thousand combatants on the first day of battle and fifty-five thousand the next, the Emperor had miraculously succeeded in resisting a hundred thousand of the enemy, narrowly escaping total disaster. From then on Napoleon had only one idea in mind – to erase his defeat by pulverising the Austrians.
As soon as the news of the French retreat was known, Vienna rang with the peal of bells, sounding strange after the thunder of cannon fire, now finally silenced. Although the capital was still occupied by the French, it manifested its joy.
A grenadier lying near Margont declared: ‘Obviously the bells are tolling for us!’
MARGONT still felt tired in spite of a good night’s sleep. His wound had stayed clean and the pain had lessened, becoming less bitingly acute and more of an itch. Jean-Quenin Brémond had prescribed rest, but of course, Margont had been up at dawn because he already had a thousand projects for the day.
The French army, massed on the Isle of Lobau, was licking its wounds. Margont rejoined his regiment and was happy to find that Lefine, Saber and Piquebois had escaped unharmed from the dreadful butchery to be known from now on as ‘the Battle of Essling’ or ‘the Battle of Aspern’. He immediately began the search for the 8th Hussars, accompanied by Lefine.
‘I don’t understand what this is all about!’ grumbled Lefine, his arms crossed like an obstinate child.
Fernand Lefine, although only twenty-five years old, was as devious as a bagful of monkeys. He was furious that Margont had interrupted him right in the middle of his horse-trading. He was illegally selling horses confiscated from Austrian dragoon prisoners to French troopers. The buyers paid a derisory price so they got a good deal, but it was less good for the seller because of all the intermediaries and accomplices taking cuts; but from little acorns great trees grow. Lefine was also cross that Margont had appropriated one of his beasts. If honest men started robbing the thieves, what would become of the world?
‘I’ve already told you,’ replied Margont.
In fact, Margont had not wanted to admit how attached he had become to the Austrian girl, whom he barely knew. So he had lied about his motivations, pretending that he had offered his help in order to gain access to her glamorous Viennese circle.
‘The war is going to start again, Fernand,’ he went on. ‘Archduke Charles would have had to attack Lobau immediately after his partial success at Essling in order to defeat Napoleon. With our Emperor, if you don’t crush him completely, and his entire army along with him, he will rise up again to annihilate you. In matters of war Napoleon does not accept happy mediums. But before the next confrontation, there will