Margont met up with Lefine as arranged. The inn had a low ceiling and was poorly lit by tallow candles that emitted foul-smelling smoke. There were tables of all shapes and sizes: round tables, workbenches, chests, casks. Business was business. For the owner of the place a military invasion meant first and foremost an invasion of customers. Despite the sticks of furniture, many soldiers were forced to remain standing, drinking beer straight from jugs or gnawing on chicken bones. Margont had to push his way through to Lefine, who was sitting at a barrel, dunking pieces of bread in a bowl of lentils.

‘Let’s go outside,’ shouted Margont, struggling to make himself heard above the din.

Lefine wiped his plate clean and followed Margont, his mouth full and a satisfied look on his face. In the streets the commotion was still at its height. French soldiers were jostling one another to get into a packed tavern. Italian dragoons from the Regina Regiment were roaring with laughter at the sight of one of their number, dead drunk, trying his best to climb on to a horse. His green coat was covered with mud and he’d lost his helmet. When he finally scrambled up on to his mount he was warmly applauded. He raised his hand in triumph, slid to one side and, feeling himself gathering momentum but unable to rescue the situation, crashed to the ground again. This was greeted with even more cheering. Margont turned a blind eye towards this sort of disorderly behaviour so long as it did not degenerate into looting and fighting. Knowing that thousands of people were going to die, it was natural to want to live every minute to the full rather than obeying orders and doing nothing for hours, just waiting for the signal to be given to move on.

‘So, what have you found out?’ asked Margont.

‘Not much. The murdered sentry belonged to the 2nd Battalion of the 18th Light Infantry. There’s no way of knowing where he was buried.’

‘What do you mean, no way of knowing?’

Lefine was furious at not being congratulated for the quality of his work.

‘Have you seen the crowd milling about here, Captain? It took me more than an hour to find someone who knew him. I went to find the battalion: nobody knows where Sergeant Biandot was buried. His friends believe he was assassinated by a Russian partisan. I did the rounds of the local graveyards. No grave has been dug recently except for the Polish woman’s. I came back here and questioned the grenadiers of the Royal Guard as best I could, but they weren’t in the know.’

‘What about the footprint?’

Lefine took a wooden sole out of his pocket.

‘The cast didn’t prove anything. It belonged to an ordinary, large-sized shoe. But here’s what the cobbler I found managed to make.’

Margont examined the object. He lifted up his foot and held the sole firmly against his own. It was about an inch longer than his.

‘It’s not you,’ concluded Lefine.

‘So, to sum up, our fellow belongs to IV Army Corps – since the other corps are too far away from Tresno – he’s athletic and has experience of hand-to-hand combat. He’s an officer, between five foot six and six foot tall and we know his shoe size. He’s right-handed. Finally, he’s a “Prince Charming”. How many suspects are we left with?’

Lefine looked up. ‘Let’s say … four hundred?’

‘There’s no way of discreetly enquiring about the movements of four hundred people on the night of the murder, especially when these four hundred blend in with forty thousand others.’ Margont stared at the wooden sole. ‘This is the only clue the “Prince Charming” has left us, like a Cinderella of crime. But I doubt whether it’s enough to find him.’

The sun had almost disappeared below the horizon and shadows were spreading over the plains and forests. The areas still bathed in sunlight were shifting and shrinking inexorably. The man was gazing in fascination at the sight. Recently he had felt that his mind was affected by similar phenomena. Dark thoughts were slowly clouding his certainties and his plans for the future.

The people he had killed – whether enemies in combat or others, such as the Polish woman or the sentry who had almost trapped him – had revealed something to him. Or, rather, someone: himself.

The whole of that day he had relived the evening he had spent with Maria, tirelessly adding an excess of detail to his memory of the scene: the words they exchanged, the decoration of the room, the dancing shadows cast by the guttering flames of the candles, the joyful expression on Maria’s face as they clinked glasses. One detail in particular had amused him: each time Maria blushed, she immediately rearranged her hair with the palm of her hand. He had liked that particular gesture because he had interpreted it as fake shyness. When she had invited him into her bedroom, he was convinced that she was going to give herself to him. But all Maria wanted was to hear him declare his love for her once more. She had refused to give in to him and suddenly he had wanted to make her suffer. That had given him more pleasure than words could express.

And today, as he looked at his soldiers – ranks he was once so proud of, the tightly packed bodies whose impact was irresistible, the dense mass, dark and bristling with muskets – all he could think of was the blood running through their veins. In his imagination he had stripped them of their bones and their flesh, reducing them to nothing more than an intricate network of blood vessels branching out in all directions. As if all that mattered to him from now on was blood. Had he become a monster? The question haunted him. There must be others like him. How many of them had enlisted in this army for the sole pleasure of seeing blood flow? If he happened to meet up with one of these predators, would he recognise him? And would such a being unmask him?

He looked down at his horse pistols with their ornate butts. One pull of the trigger and his life would end here and now.

He felt like a drifting skiff. Gradually, land was coming into sight. But where exactly would he come ashore?

CHAPTER 8

LEFINE was fast asleep when suddenly he felt himself being tossed about. A light dazzled him. It was the flame from a candle. Someone was shaking him. He opened his eyes and recognised Margont’s face.

‘Wake up, Fernand. I’ve had an idea.’

Margont was speaking in a muffled voice, scarcely able to contain his impatience. Several noncommissioned officers were stretched out on the floor of the tent. A shape lying rolled up in a blanket switched from its right side to its left, grunting as it did so.

‘All right? Are you awake? Get dressed. I’ll wait for you outside.’

Lefine pulled on his trousers, gritting his teeth. Captain or not, he was going to hit this unwanted visitor with the butt of his musket and then go back to bed. Bedraggled and furious, he joined Margont. The captain was already on horseback, holding a second mount by the bridle.

‘Everyone’s asleep!’ Lefine protested in a low voice, pointing towards the field with a sweep of his arm.

The area was covered with tents and bodies resting out in the open. Margont did not even hear him. He was engrossed in his thoughts.

‘Do you remember the ink marks on the victim’s fingers? Of course you do, I told you about them.’

‘Yes, so what?’

‘A private diary! I’m sure she was keeping a private diary. Everything makes sense. She enjoyed collections of romantic poetry, she called the man she had feelings for a “Prince Charming”: just the sort of person who—’

He suddenly broke off. He had just remembered the trace of blood that had not been properly wiped off the bolt of the trunk. Perhaps Maria had mentioned the diary to her killer. Once his murderous rage had passed, he had become worried about it. His victim might have written down his name, his rank, his regiment … So he had searched the room thoroughly. There was no mark on the clothes. He must have unbolted the trunk and then, realising that he was going to leave fingermarks, had gone to wash his hands so that no one would know he was looking for something. Then he had continued his search. But if these assumptions were correct, despite his crime, the man had remained cool-headed enough to unfold and refold every item of clothing. Such self-control seemed unbelievable to Margont. Or rather, he did not want to believe it.