Officer's Prey

While Saber was dreaming of being a Polish count, the count was imagining himself living in a Greater Poland … Margont wondered, then, what he himself aspired to. Normally his immediate, idealistic response to such questions was the liberty of nations, an end to the slaughter, a stable peace in Europe, the spread of republican ideas … But that evening he was weary. All he wanted was to have a pleasant time. Noble aspirations are considerably diminished by hunger and tiredness.

Natalia was not listening to her father. In any case, she had heard him recount the battle of Ta

All these visitors had behaved in an extraordinarily inept ma

Oh, the war! Men waged war for a thousand different reasons but what difference did victory really make? She could find only one answer: the colour of the uniforms and the designs on the ba

When the servants brought in the coulibiac, salmon in pastry, with mushrooms, celery, onions and dill, she said to Margont: ‘Here’s a little more Russian culture for you to devour.’

‘Well, you devour our writers: Voltaire, La Fontaine …’

So he had noticed the books? An accident, no doubt.

‘So you know the fables of La Fontaine, do you? They make edifying reading. “The Wolf and the Lamb” for example. “Might Is Right”.’

‘Dear Natalia,’ the count interjected, ‘having sung all summer, the cicada was caught unprepared when the north wind blew.’

Which was supposed to mean: if the cicada Natalia continued to mock, eternal winter – that is, the marriage she so much feared – would come earlier than expected.

‘Dura lex, sed lex,’ Margont summed up.

‘But Natalia is always happy to please her parents, Captain,’ the countess claimed. ‘Do you not say in France “blood will out’’?’

‘Well, we usually say, “What a woman wants, God wants.” Mademoiselle, I quite understand that our enforced presence is a

‘What do you know about Russian hospitality?’ Natalia asked.

‘Well, it’s said that samovars are pot-bellied because people want to be sure there’s always enough boiling water to be able to serve tea to all the guests.’

The young woman was surprised. So he knew that, did he? He really was not like the others. She wanted to scratch this varnish just to check.

‘What present would you offer your hosts by way of thanks?’

Her mother smiled, interpreting the question as the expression of a child’s greed. In her mind there could be no other explanation.

‘Poland! Poland!’ whispered the count, beaming.

Natalia stared at Margont, wondering whether he too was pla

‘The promise to give them an equally warm welcome in France. But without the caviar, I’m afraid …’

Natalia then asked with false naïvety: ‘Would my father also have to come in uniform and accompanied by five hundred thousand soldiers?’

‘We’d have enough ca

The count was furious. With a discreet gesture he ordered his army of servants to enter the battlefield. The salmon coulibiac was replaced by a hare à la polonaise. Bacon, lard, fresh cream, juniper and caramel: extravagant but delicious. It was served with potatoes and red cabbage. All the guests rejoiced at the sight. Fanselin’s joy was the most intense, such was his love of discovering new flavours, in the widest possible sense of the word.

‘Natalia plays the harpsichord very well,’ a

The young countess gracefully placed her napkin over her mouth so as not to be seen gritting her teeth. So they also expected to make her play after the meal, did they?

‘It would seem that she doesn’t play enough, since it is said that music soothes the savage breast,’ Margont joked.

Natalia was flabbergasted. So now she was being attacked on ironic territory, her territory! Because if they took away her irony, how else could she express herself freely? The colour of the feathers of her nightingales and the length of her shawls?

‘A soldier presumes to explain to me how music soothes the savage breast,’ she retorted.

‘I’m a soldier only because we are living in a time of war.’

‘What will you do when the peace treaty has finally been signed?’ asked the countess.

In the countess’s mind the question was a tactful way of finding out about the officer’s wealth. Admittedly, she thought him low-ranking. But he did belong to the French army, the only one in which any soldier could climb to the very top. She had learnt that Murat was the son of an i