Margont finally caught sight of Brémond speaking to a small gathering of assistant surgeons. The medical officer had light auburn, almost ginger, hair, and whiskers that went down to his chin. His eyebrows, which were long, delicate and well arched, gave his blue eyes an even more piercing gaze. He made a point of always being impeccably dressed and had often criticised Margont for having unpolished shoes or a badly done-up collar. In fact, the medical officer’s jacket did not fully meet the regulations but only a very observant person would have noticed that the last button in the bottom row was different from the other two. It had been in general use only from 1796 to 1798 and bore the inscription ‘Military Hospitals’ as well as a Phrygian bonnet above the word ‘Humanity’.

Margont joined the gathering without being noticed by Brémond, who was engrossed in what he was saying.

‘In hospitals, remember that the wound is more important than the rank. We do not treat in descending order of rank – that philosophy does not apply here – but in descending order of the seriousness of the injury. I must now speak to you about that most difficult and painful of subjects, the art of triage. Let’s imagine that three wounded soldiers are brought in at the same time. The first has had his leg almost blown off by round shot. The second has been riddled with grapeshot and has suffered a dozen or so multiple fractures. The third has received a bullet in the thigh – the bone and the femoral artery have not been hit – and is screaming out for immediate treatment. If I operate straight away on the third patient I will save him. But by the time I’ve finished, the others will be dead. If I start by seeing to the second one he will die anyway because he is too badly wounded. By the time I’ve finished, the first one is dead and the third still waiting for help. If I begin with the first I will save him. Then I will treat the third one and save him too. Only the second one will die. The conclusion is that according to the order in which I treat my three patients, either I will save only one or I will save two. My purpose, then, is to teach you to sort the wounded, not to rush to treat the most spectacular-looking injury – the one riddled with grapeshot for whom unfortunately nothing can be done – and not to allow yourselves to be bullied by the one who is not seriously injured and who still has the strength to call you all the names under the sun. Of course, triage does not do away with the obligation to give emergency treatment to everyone. In the case I have just mentioned, while I began to operate on the first patient, you would have bandaged the wounds of the other two in order to reduce the bleeding. You would also have lessened their suffering with words of comfort – but not lies of the “we are going to save you and you’ll suffer no aftereffects” sort – painkillers, if you are lucky enough to have any left, and hefty doses of spirits because there’s nothing like it to dull the senses. Any questions before I begin my class?’

A hesitant voice was heard. ‘Sir, may we go and eat first?’

‘What nonsense is this? It’s not eleven o’clock yet …’ said Brémond in surprise.

But his watch showed him it was already past two o’clock. With a startled look he put it to his ear before disdainfully letting it fall back into his pocket.

‘Well, it’s pointless me wasting my breath if all you’re listening to is the rumbling of your stomachs.’

The gathering broke up, to reveal a smiling Margont.

‘Quentin!’ exclaimed Brémond, putting his hands on his shoulders.

The two men had known each other since childhood and had frequently had occasion to see each other on the battlefield.

‘What regiment are you serving in?’

‘The 84th, with Lefine, Saber and Piquebois.’

‘So you’re in good company. I bet you’re bored and are dreaming of a tutorial on how to fit out a hospital.’

‘You’ve lost your bet, I’m afraid, Jean-Quenin. I’ve a big favour to ask you.’

‘Granted. I’m listening.’

‘I’m investigating a murder but it must be hushed up at all costs. I would like you to examine the victim.’

CHAPTER 6

AN hour later, after arriving back in Tresno, Margont was in a requisitioned house, shouting at a lethargic captain.

‘With your grindingly slow bureaucracy I’ll have to wait ten months for the authorisation to dig up the body. I might as well just pick up a handful of dust!’

‘I’m very sorry. I don’t have the slightest idea of how to process such a request. So I’ll need to inform my superiors. Because as you will understand—’

‘That’s precisely it. I do not understand, Captain Ladoyère.’

‘If the correct procedure is not followed, I’ll be the one who gets the blame.’

‘But I have an order from—’

‘General Triaire, yes, I know,’ mumbled the captain, looking puzzled and reading the document once more.

‘So I command you to authorise me to dig up this body.’

‘But is General Triaire entitled to have the body of a civilian dug up? Because I, you understand, am the person responsible for law and order in Tresno. It’s my job to sort out deserters and troublemakers.’

Margont couldn’t bear to look any longer at the ugly face with its flabby jowls reminiscent of a dozy bulldog. Brémond, for his part, seemed engrossed in gazing out of the window at the Polish countryside.

‘Stick to the point!’ exclaimed Margont.

The captain spread his arms in a gesture of helplessness. ‘I’ve told you already. I’m responsible for law and order in Tresno. Digging up the body of a local inhabitant could arouse the hostility of the population, leading to unrest, rioting and the use of military force.’

‘So what do you suggest?’

‘I suggest going through the official channels. Your request will be passed on today to the appropriate person, that is to say the person above me who …’

‘… will pass it on to someone else and so on and so forth. I’m going to hold you to account to General Triaire.’

‘Oh, I’m not the one to be held to account. It will be the person above me because I will have submitted your request to him.’ The officer was pleased to have resolved this problem and concluded: ‘So we shall both have the satisfaction of having followed the proper procedure.’

Brémond turned round and, with his hands behind his back, declared quite out of the blue: ‘Very well, gentlemen, we understand your position. You have your procedures and we have ours. Captain Ladoyère, I am having you and your men put into quarantine immediately.’

Ladoyère’s jowls drooped a little more. At the same time the lieutenant, who was his right-hand man, and the two other soldiers present in the room turned as pale as sheets.

‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

‘It is possible that this woman was suffering from typhus.’

Typhus! Fourteen thousand deaths in 1796 in the hospitals of Nice alone. And even more during the military campaigns, but that was a taboo subject. Ladoyère remained petrified.

‘As I am unable to examine her to prove or to disprove this diagnosis,’ Brémond continued, ‘I have no choice other than to assume the worst and to impose the strictest possible measures. I shall therefore have you all placed in a hospital reserved for people suspected of being infected.’

Ladoyère fidgeted on his chair. ‘But if this woman had not contracted typhus, I’m at risk of infection from being in your hospital when I have no reason to be there.’

Margont nodded. ‘That is correct. But we shall both have the satisfaction of having followed the proper procedure.’

Ladoyère’s face dropped as if he was already contemplating the inevitability of death.

‘Surely she didn’t have typhus … it’s just not possible.’

But Brémond had adopted his absent-minded look again. To the captain’s dismay, he moved calmly towards the door. Ladoyère got up and walked around his desk, ready to run after the doctor if necessary.