found themselves united here but for very differing reasons. None of them belonged to the same world.

‘Is it much further, Lieutenant?’ asked Lefine.

Relmyer asked the guide in German. The guide’s back sagged as if the officer’s questions were blows.

‘No, a little more than two leagues, Monsieur,’ he replied fearfully. Margont spoke quietly. ‘Is it really impossible to avoid those duels?’

‘Clearly I won’t be able to escape them. As soon as we’ve finished questioning this Grich, I will have to fight them.’

‘What?’

Relmyer spread his hands slightly. ‘They will never leave me alone unless I agree to fight them. We will fight at Mazenau, which will suit everyone. We won’t lose any time and they will get what they want in a quiet spot. On the Isle of Lobau, we risk being disturbed by a superior officer opposed to duels, or by the imperial police with their excessive zeal. I remember the promise I made you but this is not a situation of my making.’

In spite of the shade, Margont was sweating as if he was under a midday sun.

Three duels ... The first will perhaps be one. But if you’re wounded the second will be a murder, an execution!’

‘Not at all. If I’m hurt we’ll examine the wound together. If it’s decided that the wound is superficial, my adversary will be declared winner and I will go on with the next duel.’

Margont interrupted with a gesture. He could no longer bear these rules and the logic that conferred an illusion of rationality on the madness.

However, Relmyer, caught up in his explanation, continued: ‘Of course, a serious injury would mean the end of fighting, but there would be a problem if the wound was disputed. If a unanimous view cannot be amicably reached, we will have to ask the opinion of a doctor whose word will be final. Exhaustion postpones the duel by one day, a serious injury postpones it to the day following complete recovery.’

‘But why? Why take still more risks?’

‘You’re asking that question because you don’t understand the life of a renowned duellist. Of course he attracts other duellists avid to fight him. He’s famous and everywhere he is feared in the same measure as he is admired and envied. He makes money giving lessons and winning duels that are wagers he gambles on. He progresses rapidly up the ranks. Without my sabre I would not be a lieutenant. Lieutenant at twenty years old! Certain women - superb ones, I can tell you - are ready to do anything to have a well-known swashbuckler hold them in his arms.’

‘And all that’s worth risking death for?’

‘It’s worth risking death ten times over. If any one of these sabre-fighters succeeds in piercing my chest, that life will be his. Take Pagin, for example. A few months ago he was afraid of everything and everyone. His apprenticeship with the sabre has transformed him. Look at his assurance today, his joie de vivre ... that’s why he’s always dashing about the place: he is catching up the years that he lost in inertia, held back by his fears.’

Margont chased away the flies buzzing round his horse’s head, endlessly irritating it.

‘You are just like him. Pagin is “fortifying himself with iron” to confront a nameless danger that torments him. You’re acting the same way. Except that you have a clearer idea of the threat you’re confronting.’

‘Yes and no. Only in part. I was damaged by what happened to me. My sword is my crutch: take it away from me and I’ll collapse. I am grateful to it for helping me to walk again but at the same time it reminds me of the past and it attracts duellists.’

Margont looked at him with a mixture of compassion and fear: in his eyes, Relmyer was suffering from a malady that was little by little increasing its stranglehold on him.

‘You started to train with the sabre to learn to defend yourself. But arms are like wine - in the end they take you over. Lukas, you have become the scabbard of your blade.’

‘As long as this investigation remains unresolved, I will not be able to give it up. Afterwards, I will try ...’

Warrant Officer Cauchoit rode closer.

‘You’re making it too complicated. Better to have ten days of glory than ten thousand of mediocrity.’

‘What a magnificent epitaph,’ replied Margont. Then, turning to Relmyer, he added: ‘Let’s suppose that you win these three duels: how many duellists will be attracted by that triple ... success?’

‘All of them of course! My duel with Piquebois is not the only reason for this situation. My reputation carries weight. It’s not very easy to—'

To chase away the flies Relmyer’s horse had just lifted its head when part of it burst open under the impact of a shot. Margont, his face splattered with blood, saw the horse collapse on its side as Relmyer was thrown to the ground, a leg and a stirrup in the air, his hands pulling on the now useless reins. This first bullet was immediately followed by a concert of detonations. A hussar in the vanguard, mown down, fell backwards, while the mount of his companion collapsed along with his trooper. Clouds of white smoke appeared everywhere: in the thickets, behind the trees ... A grey silhouette took aim at Margont but Lefine immediately fired his pistol, catching the figure in the thigh.

‘It’s the militia! Death to the Landwehr!’ cried Cauchoit.

Sabre in hand, and dragging his trumpeter friend and some hussars in his wake, he charged straight at a mass of infantrymen that had formed in front of them. These Austrians were not professional soldiers. They had thought that the surprise and success of their first volley would send the French into disarray. The thirty amongst them who had just made themselves defenceless in order to adjust their sights were struck head on by the troopers. The warrant officer moved as if in a trance. His sabre attacked furiously, wounding, killing, killing, wounding ... The trumpeter aimed his blows exclusively at faces and throats, leaving nothing behind him but dead and disfigured bodies, dehumanised corpses. The troop of militia disappeared beyond a clearing; the carnage had sewn confusion amongst the Austrians. Although they were still more numerous, and for the most part sheltered behind trees, many of them fled, vanishing through the vegetation. Others continued to riddle the French with gunfire. The poor guide they had

pressed into service was taken for a traitor and received two balls in the back. The hussars plunged at a trot into the wood, laughing in the face of their fear. They passed no one without mowing him down with their pistols or laying him out with their sabres. Relmy-er, already on his feet, having freed himself, but covered in his horse’s blood, feverishly scanned the thickets. He paid no attention to his men or to the battle that raged around him. He pointed in the direction of the shot that had killed his horse.

‘It’s him! He killed Franz! Him!’

Such a coincidence was impossible. Had Relmyer been driven mad? Or had they been betrayed? In the woods, the officer Relmyer was pointing to detached himself from the combatants to take flight. The Austrian wore a grey coat with red cuffs and lapels. The elegance of his uniform contrasted with the coarse coats of certain of the militia. Light brown hair could be seen under his black bicorn, braided with gold. Margont briefly caught a glimpse of the man’s face. He seemed to be in his forties. Relmyer had launched into the woods in pursuit, his pistol in one hand, his trusty sabre in the other. All about him there was carnage. The hussars, although very much inferior in number, definitely had the upper hand over their adversaries. They attacked and charged at anything that moved. Their horses plunged into groups of militia, knocking into bodies, and the troopers wielded their sabres as though they were mowing the grass. Margont found himself facing a wave of Austrians in disarray. How many were there? Dozens? He thought he was going to be slashed to pieces but his very presence exacerbated the panic of the fleeing Austrians. But the tide of humanity ricocheted around him and the militia scattered in other directions. Margont wanted to pursue them, but hands were raised all around him. He had just taken fifteen prisoners. A hussar burst out of a thicket brandishing his sabre. It was the trumpeter from the élite company. He whirled like the wind into the midst of what he took to be a pocket of resistance and launched an attack towards the face of the horseman he took to be the leader of the rabble. Margont scarcely had time to duck down by his horse’s neck. The point of the sabre pierced his shako. He wanted to cry out to