Wolf Hunt (3 page)

He had been a revolutionary from the outset and did not approve of the transition from republic to empire, even though the Empire did respect several of the fundamental principles of the Revolution. So from time to time the medical officer referred to Napoleon as ‘the citizen emperor’ because he considered that all citizens were perfectly equal. To him, being emperor was a job like any other, and more important than ‘emperor’ was the word ‘citizen’. Nothing annoyed him as much as people who used the term in an ironic or pejorative fashion, to insult their servants. He came across people like that more and more often, republicans who were not prepared to make any concessions. If he had been a colonel, a ‘citizen colonel’, Napoleon would probably have entrusted him with the garrison of a town. A far-off town and a small garrison. But as he was a doctor, he could at least speak freely about bandages and amputated limbs.

Margont had a more complex point of view. Aged nine in 1789, he had become immediately impassioned by the revolution, understanding only a minuscule part of what was happening, and imagining the rest. Twenty years later, like Jean-Quenin, he was a humanist and a republican but his opinion of Napoleon was slightly different. Monarchies and empires, Austrian, Prussian or English ... they had all brought war to the French Republic, and its product, the French Empire. Mostly because this empire did not believe in aristocracy by right of blood, and accorded everyone the same rights. The proponents of each of these models, monarchy

and republic, wanted to eradicate the other model in order to mould the world in their own image. Now France found itself truly isolated in this struggle. The only other republic lay all the way across the Atlantic, in the United States of America. Who should one support? There were really only two possibilities. Either Napoleon, the military genius who, although he had transformed the Republic into a ‘republican-inspired empire’, defended some of the core principles of the Revolution with his thundering victories. Or one could support a government - but made up of whom? - that would not be able to stay in power when faced with enemy armies, at which point a French king would rise again, extracted from some unknown dusty prison cell. A king that the European monarchies would hasten to install on a throne in Paris before arguing about who should control the strings of this puppet monarch. Margont therefore served the Emperor because there was no choice. To him, ideas were more powerful than men. Whether people marched crying ‘Long live the Republic!’ as he had done, or ‘Long live the Emperor!’ did not matter; they all carried with them the ideals of the Revolution: liberty, equality, respect for everyone ... And these notions infected those they were fighting. If republican ideals did not triumph immediately, they would win out in the end. The question was what would happen until then. For war followed war without respite, year upon year... ‘Since your wound is superficial, you can make yourself useful,’ said Brémond. ‘I think there’s someone you should meet.’

The medical officer pointed, but all Margont could see were the wounded and suffering.

‘She’s Austrian but she speaks good French.’

Margont spotted her. She was wearing an ivory-coloured dress with bloodstains at the foot, like a deathly hem.

Many women chose to follow the army although it was forbidden if they were not actually employed by it. Canteen workers and supervisors, laundresses, young bourgeois girls dreaming of adventure, society women, Austrian women who fell in love for the duration of a campaign, prostitutes: these distressing times rendered them all equal, all in the same boat. The sentries tried to

prevent them from reaching Lobau, but in the general confusion several had, in spite of everything, managed to get there. These women searched for their husbands or lovers amongst the sufferers, praying all the while that they were not there, offering water and trying to get information ... Stationing themselves on the south side of the island, where the prisoners and wounded were sent, they were far enough from the fighting not to be exposed to any danger. The front line was in fact four miles to the north-east and could not be seen because of the woods covering the island and the banks of the Danube. It was possible to tell where it was only because of the thunderous noise, and the plumes of smoke that filled the sky.

‘She’s looking for a missing boy,’ explained Brémond. ‘In all this chaos everyone laughs at her questions. If an officer were to accompany her, some of the soldiers might be a little more courteous, and her search would be much more effective.’

‘I’ll go and help her.’

Margont stood up, grimacing: an invisible beast was devouring his side. But helping out whenever possible came naturally to these two men. The reality of war had failed to poison their humanist spirit. They did not view the woman as an enemy. Their adversaries were the kings, and those who supported them. As fervent republicans, they wished to liberate the Austrian people from the monarch’s stronghold.

‘But be careful!’ added Jean-Quenin Brémond. ‘Don’t start leaping about, forgetting about your injury.’

Margont nodded meekly.

‘Yes, yes, I know. Good doctors see bad patients everywhere!’

As he approached the young woman, Margont scrutinised her without her noticing. She was undeniably charming. Her brown hair emphasised her pale complexion, and her face, with its narrow nose, fine eyebrows and delicate features, attracted many glances. But as well as her enchanting appearance, she also gave a disconcerting impression, perhaps false, of both strength and fragility. This paradox, infuriating, like a jumble of knots impossible to unravel, made a profound impression on Margont. He

asked himself if he was the only one who felt it. She was going up to Austrians as well as French, shuddering at the horror of their injuries, asking them something, but they all, invariably, shook their heads. She stopped for a while, undecided, in front of a soldier of the Landwehr, the Austrian military service, whose head was no more than a bundle of bandages, his grey uniform an amalgam of shredded linen. As he appeared to be deaf to her questions - or perhaps he was dead - she had to make do with examining his hands and then she moved away. She repeated the same sentences, sometimes in German, sometimes in lightly accented French.

'I'm looking for a young Austrian, Wilhelm Gurtz. He’s sixteen years old, blond and quite well built. He may have signed up for the Austrian army, so he might be here somewhere.’

She spoke with composure despite the sight of all the martyred bodies and the weight of the looks she was receiving. Margont was struck by a feeling of consternation tinged with jealousy. He had been injured, but no woman had seen fit to seek him out. The

Austrian girl disappeared into a wood where there were more injured men than trees. A cuirassier motioned her over. His mouth was bleeding, coating his red moustache with scarlet foam.

‘He’s lucky to have such a concerned sister!’

The Austrian girl shook her head. ‘I’m only a friend. He has no family, he’s an orphan.’

‘I’m an orphan too!’ cried a 
voltigeur
 with bandaged hands. ‘But I don't have a friend looking for me!’

Margont appeared at that moment. He bowed courteously. ‘Mademoiselle, allow me to introduce myself — Captain Margont, of the 18th Infantry Regiment of the Line. Perhaps you would accept my assistance in your search?’

The young woman suppressed a smile — how chivalrous. She gazed at him briefly, trying to decide whether she could trust him. ‘That’s very kind. My name’s Luise Mitterburg. Do you know where there are other prisoners or wounded?’

Everywhere, Margont almost replied.

‘Let’s follow the river,’ he said.

The abandoned 
voltigeur
 watched them moving away. He felt he had paid his dues - he was too often sent to the front line for his liking - was he not due something in return?

‘Beautiful girls for the officers, wenches for the soldiers and misfortune for the 
voltigeurs
,’ he concluded.

There were two people accompanying Luise: a scowling old woman dressed in black and an aged servant. Luise oscillated between discouragement and determination.

‘I spent part of my childhood in an orphanage,’ she explained spontaneously. ‘I’m very attached to it, even though I had the good fortune to be adopted. One of the orphans, Wilhelm Gurtz, an adolescent, disappeared three days ago. We’re looking everywhere for him. Perhaps he took it into his head to join one of the regiments as a volunteer. We absolutely must find him.’

Her voice faltered on the last sentence. But her eyes remained dry. Margont asked, ‘What does he look like, your—’

‘Quite plump, with chubby cheeks - he eats out of loneliness and despair. Straw-blond hair, thickset, bandy-legged, and he walks

slowly. He has very blue eyes, and he seems young for his age. A regiment probably wouldn’t take him ... oh, what am I saying, of course they would! Regiments accept everyone. Soon battalions will be made up of children and old people.’

It was already a bit like that, in fact. As for a lower age limit, there were child-soldiers as young as ten, platoon members as young as fourteen, and combatants as young as sixteen.

‘So what do you suggest, Captain?’

‘The prisoners are gathered—’

‘I’ve already been there.’

Margont found her habit of interrupting him irritating but rather seductive.

‘Why do you keep looking in that direction?’ she asked, indicating Aspern.

Although the ruins of the village were hidden by the woods surrounding it, fat columns of smoke, either white or black, signalled its presence. The Austrian woman was obviously observant.

‘I was there yesterday,’ replied Margont. ‘That’s where I was

injured. My friends are probably still there. As everything has been destroyed, I’m wondering what is still burning.’

‘Even when war has ravaged everything, it must still burn the cinders.’

Luise leant against a tree. Her face was filmed with perspiration. The heat was crushing, and the sight of the wounded made the atmosphere even more suffocating. ‘I’ll never find him. The war has plunged the world into chaos - who will care about an orphan?’

‘Me,’ retorted Margont.

She laughed, perhaps mockingly - he could not tell.

‘Why?’

Margont hesitated, then said more than he would have liked. ‘Because at a certain stage of my childhood, I also found myself more or less an orphan.’

Either he had said too much or too little. Luise, however, unnerved him by replying: That doesn’t surprise me. I had guessed as much.’

She paled and, forgetting about Margont, went over to a greying man who was wandering amongst the injured, trying to avoid looking at them. With his eyes reddened by crying and his black clothes, he looked like a crow of ill omen. When he saw her, he shook his head sadly. ‘He’s dead,’ he announced in German. ‘It’s not the war, he was murdered.’

‘That’s what we were afraid of, isn’t it?’ she answered with surprising calm.

‘Some French soldiers are guarding his remains. They asked me a great many questions and they don’t want to let us have the body. They think he was a spy or a partisan. And even worse, they’re exhibiting his body near Ebersdorf.’

Their military failure is making them aggressive and stupid. They—’

She stopped, realising that Margont might understand German. A good thought, but a little late ... She turned towards him and, tilting her head slightly to one side, said courteously in French: ‘I’ve just been told that Wilhelm has been found. Near here. Alas, he ...’

She found it hard to continue.

Margont spared her the necessity. ‘I speak your language.’

Far from being embarrassed by that announcement, Luise went on: ‘It’s a very great sadness for us not to be able to bury the boy in consecrated ground. I know that I’m taking advantage, but perhaps, since you’re an officer, you would be able to help us sort out the misunderstanding by explaining things to the high command of your army. We only want to learn what happened and to offer him a decent burial. Please ...’

She was trying to coax him by acting the weak young girl at a loss. But Margont felt certain that she was neither weak nor at a loss and he told himself to refuse, then gave in without knowing why. I'll do whatever I can.’

Thank you, thank you so much,’ she hastened to accept his offer. Margont rejoined Jean-Quenin Brémond, cursing himself. The woman had manipulated him! And what on earth would he say to ‘the high command’? Yes, she had definitely taken advantage of him, but what was worse was that he had capitulated to her in full knowledge of what she was doing. Besides, the word ‘murder’ had been used. That was serious, and unforeseen.

He asked Brémond to write him a safe-conduct, so that he would not be taken for a deserter. A bullet had nearly punctured his stomach - no need to risk dozens of others, delivered by the firing squad.

‘I won’t be long,’ he explained. ‘I don’t think I’m in a condition to fight, but I can move about...’

Jean-Quenin Brémond agreed. 'Stop feeling guilty: you’re in no state to rejoin your company. In any case, the bridge linking us to the Austrian side has been destroyed again. And when it’s repaired our field marshals will prefer to use it to let through the regiments who haven’t fought yet, rather than a raggle-taggle band of cripples who don’t even know where their battalions are.’

Jean-Quenin hated all the administrative formalities that the army was so fond of. He took malicious pleasure in rendering them ridiculous by conforming to them to the letter. He therefore

scribbled an illegible note charging Margont with searching the surrounding area in order to find requisitions for the Army Medical Service: linen to make into lint, food, spirits ...

‘Don’t think that just because your injury is mild, you can do whatever you like,’ he added.

Seeing that Margont was no longer listening to him, he tapped his friend’s wound. Margont paled in a convincing demonstration of Brémond’s point.

‘So, don’t over-exert yourself. I’ll lend you one of my horses; you will tire yourself less.’