The Officer's Prey

CHAPTER 22

NOTHING, absolutely nothing was happening, and this nothing was making the French army desperate. The Russians continued to fall back. Whole regions were being invaded with hardly a shot fired, but all they found was ashes.

For many, the lack of action was an ordeal because it made the agonising wait before the fighting even longer. For Margont being inactive was like being dead. Advancing in a column was killing the days; all those regiments were grinding them to dust. He salvaged a few hours by talking to various people, but the march made those without horses short of breath. He made up short stories, plays and even changes to the Constitution. But tiredness drained his mind. These pointless, wasted days ebbed away like blood oozing from the veins of a wounded man. To combat his melancholy, he forced himself to shave every day and spent time dusting down his uniform. His theory was this: since a nice glass sometimes makes a drink taste better, why should the same not be true of uniforms and soldiers? His efforts paid off. A little. His smart appearance and the impeccable creases in his uniform – in the mornings, at the start of the day’s march – helped to contain his distress. In addition, he kept volunteering for things: patrolling to obtain provisions, sending messages … His Russian horse was sufficiently tough to withstand the extra miles and, paradoxically, the effort alleviated his own weariness and tiredness. Fortunately, the day of 2 September was so eventful that it managed to revive him just as he was teetering on the brink of depression.

The morning had begun in the normal, tedious way. Margont was spending – or rather wasting – his time roaming around. He was bringing deserters and marauders back to the ranks, knowing full well that they would slip away again as soon as his back was turned. He also expended a great deal of energy jollying the stragglers along. He tied their knapsacks to his saddle to lighten their load, used diplomacy, threats, encouragement … But hunger and fatigue dogged the soldiers’ steps. Margont gazed at the endless succession of columns on the plain. The ranks were slack, the uniforms filthy and a great many men were missing, a great many. The horizon, consisting of interminable stretches of plains, hills and forests, seemed to lead nowhere. Margont decided to fall back in with his battalion.

Of the many strange phenomena that occurred in armies, one of the most curious was rumour. News that was more or less true sprang up somewhere and developed like an epidemic, spreading joy, hope or fear and unfailingly nonsense. During this campaign, everything moved slowly apart from rumour. It had its own way of galloping from one mind to another, of disturbing the rearguard before, a moment later, exciting the vanguard. It was like a swarm of sparkling fireflies flitting from someone too talkative to someone else too credulous, before frightening the army corps commander himself. Today it was in one person’s head and tomorrow in the heads of the whole army; now in the Russian plains and in three weeks’ time in the Paris theatres. How did it perform its magic? No one knew. Margont lent an ear and reaped a good harvest.

The long-awaited great battle was going to take place because the Russian generals had become so exasperated at having to fall back that they had rebelled and hanged the Tsar in their anger. There was nothing left of the Russian army. Almost all its men had been killed at Austerlitz and its survivors had been exterminated at Eylau, Friedland and Smolensk. So they were chasing a ghost. There would at last be a confrontation in less than three days. This was bound to be the case because the Russians were ruined and desperate and could no longer retreat. But that rumour had been heard every day since the crossing of the Niemen two months earlier …

Another fashionable opinion was that Alexander was falling back so far that this campaign would end up in India. Margont smiled to himself as he imagined this bizarre scene. Would Napoleon meet the same fate as Alexander the Great, seeing his soldiers mutiny on the banks of the Ganges and refuse to continue their astonishing series of victories? Or, on the contrary, would he watch them scrambling aboard every imaginable vessel in their haste to add the other side of the river to the Empire? He would then be able to exclaim: ‘Now I am mightier than the great Alexander!’

Apart from rumour, there were constant conversations – but only in the mornings before tiredness took its toll. The problem was that by this point every soldier had already told his neighbour his life story, including details both real and invented. A scar-faced sergeant with a drooping moustache suggested attacking the Prussian and Austrian contingents ‘just to keep our hand in’. His joke produced gales of laughter in the battalion. Margont wondered if this reaction would be enough to start a rumour and, if so, whether he should note down how these strange psychological shifts of mood came about. Saber rebuked the sergeant sharply. A few minutes later, the man could be seen running along the column, red-faced and brandishing his musket in the air, tirelessly repeating as he paused for breath: ‘Long live our friends the Prussians! Long live our friends the Austrians!’

Lefine caught up with Margont.

‘So, Fernand? Anything new from your men?’

‘Naught but the dusty road and swaying sward.’

‘Very funny. And what about von Stils?’

‘Two of my friends are actively searching for him.’

‘Good. Where’s your knapsack gone?’

Lefine displayed a pair of dice and kissed them.

‘Voltigeur Denuse has been carrying it for me for the last fifteen days, then it’ll be Sergeant Petit’s turn. Unless they get themselves killed, which would be the sign of a bad loser.’

‘You’re always playing with words, and people and the rules. One day it’ll end in disaster.’

‘In any case, life always ends in disaster.’

Lefine pointed at his shoes. They were worn through. Not even a vagrant would have wanted them.

‘I’d be surprised if my soles lasted out until Moscow.’

‘As long as it’s only your shoes that get left behind on the plain.’

‘You really have the knack of restoring the morale of the troops, Captain. Have you stopped gathering up your stray sheep to set them back on the right path to Moscow?’

‘The shepherd’s tired,’ Margont sighed.

‘I understand. Apparently the Emperor wants to have all the marauders shot as an example, which is the same as telling one half of the army to execute the other.’

‘The worst thing is that it’s not even certain whether the right half would be doing the shooting.’

A cavalryman hurtled down a hill and spurred his horse into a gallop to catch up with the column. He looked splendid in his yellow dolman and gilded helmet with a black crest and white plume.

Saber went up to Margont. ‘Just look at him! Who does he think he is?’

‘What is he?’

‘A show-off.’

Margont tossed his head impatiently.

‘He’s a trumpeter from the Württemberg Mounted Chasseurs,’ a corporal decreed.

‘A trumpeter!’ Saber said angrily. ‘A trumpeter without a trumpet wearing a captain’s epaulettes?’

‘There are a few yellow jackets among the Neapolitans,’ said Lefine, suddenly remembering.

Saber shook his head. ‘Saxony Life Guards!’

‘Correct, Lieutenant!’ shouted a voice from the ranks.

The officer was getting closer. Seeing Margont and Saber, he turned in their direction. His lofty bearing and disdainful air immediately earned him the regiment’s hostility and Saber’s hatred.

‘Just because he’s dressed in yellow he needn’t think he’s a ray of sunshine,’ muttered Lefine.

The Saxon brought his horse to a halt in front of Piquebois. His cheeks and nose were red from sunburn. This colour contrasted with the limpid blue of his eyes, which resembled two small lakes in the middle of a face on fire.

‘Captain von Stils, from the Saxony Life Guards.’

Piquebois introduced himself and the Saxon carried on immediately, as if he did not really care who he was dealing with as long as they knew who he was.

‘I’m looking for Captain Margont. He’s serving in your regiment.’

‘You’ve knocked on the right door, Captain. Here he comes now.’

Margont and von Stils saluted each other. Von Stils seemed put out.

‘A corporal came to tell me on your behalf that Colonel Fidassio from the 3rd Italian of the Line owed you some money and has been slow to settle up.’

Margont wanted to give Lefine a hug.

‘Absolutely. But whenever I try to have a talk with Colonel Fidassio, Captain Nedroni, his adjutant, stands in the way.’

‘His adjutant stands in the way?’ the Saxon spluttered. ‘And my letters are never answered!’

‘Since I’d heard that Colonel Fidassio was also in debt to you I thought that a joint approach might be more … profitable.’

‘I’m delighted to accept. If you’re available, let’s solve this problem straight away.’

Margont agreed and made his horse do an about-turn.

‘The Italians are to the rear.’

‘Even further to the rear? For almost the last hour I’ve been going up and down your army corps in search of the Pino Division and people keep telling me to go and look further to the rear. Are these Italians of yours still in Rome?’

Saber asked to accompany them. Margont agreed reluctantly. The plain, which stretched out as far as the eye could see, nevertheless seemed too narrow to him for two such large egos.

The riders were advancing at walking pace. They came across some stragglers who speeded up when they knew they were being watched, sleeping infantrymen and marauders. Von Stils looked them up and down contemptuously until they bowed their heads. A soldier from the 8th Light, his chest crisscrossed with two strings of sausages, saluted the three officers.

‘Looters do not salute!’ thundered the Saxon.

Margont, watching the feast move off, was practically drooling.

‘You speak good French,’ he declared to von Stils in an attempt to get to know him better.

‘It’s easy. French is a shallow and simplistic language.’

Margont refrained from retorting that it was minds not languages that were shallow and simplistic. They continued their journey in silence. Margont gazed at the plain. This unbelievable expanse of greenery was too great not only for the eye but also for the mind itself to take in. How could any country be so vast? It had swallowed up an army consisting of four hundred thousand men like a giant might have swallowed a chickpea. Saber grabbed his gourd and took a good swig of water. Margont did likewise but the tepid water hardly slaked his thirst. He noticed that von Stils was not drinking although his lips were cracked and the heat stifling. If the Saxon thought that this made him in some way superior, he had obviously not realised that the sun would always win in the end.

‘Were you at Jena?’ he asked out of the blue.

Margont shook his head. ‘We were at Auerstädt.’

‘It’s the same thing, isn’t it? The same day, two battles between the French and the Prussians allied with the Saxons and the same result: a complete victory for the French. Whether we were at Jena or Auerstädt in Prussia, each year we mourn the 14 October. I was at Jena, the Beviloqua Regiment, the von Dyhern Brigade, the von Zeschwitz 1st Saxon Infantry Division. You crushed us, slaughtered and decimated us … No, you did even worse than that.’ He gave a sad smile and added: ‘You said I spoke your language well but I still can’t find the right word to describe what you inflicted on us.’

‘Flattened,’ Saber kindly suggested.

Von Stils suddenly turned towards him. Margont noted that the Saxon exercised far better control over his thirst than over his anger, whereas with him it was the opposite.

‘You flattened us,’ the Saxon continued, emphasising the word. ‘Everything happened so fast … How can a war be lost so quickly? Do you play chess?’

‘Not very often but one of my acquaintances does,’ Margont replied.

‘Well, it was exactly like fool’s mate. The game has only just begun when your opponent tells you it’s checkmate. We were defeated, humiliated and sickened. I remember envying my comrades who’d been killed. To forget this disaster, I had myself assigned to the cavalry. I left the woman I loved, stopped seeing my friends, gave up my law studies, changed my haircut and moved house … It was as if everything belonging to the past was cursed. In fact, when all’s said and done, perhaps I really did die at Jena. Poor Louisa, she never understood. In a word, on this road from Paris to Moscow I feel I am moving in the wrong direction. I’m told to shout, “Long live the Emperor!” when I’d like to yell, “Fire for all you are worth!” The game of political alliances really is too sophisticated for my sense of patriotism. But I shall obey orders and fight bravely. And like my King, I pray that Napoleon will throw us a few crumbs of territory at the end of his Russian feast. However, you will excuse me if I’m not the most cheerful of companions. My legendary good humour has been … flattened.’

Margont forgave von Stils his haughty air. It was his way of keeping up appearances. They met a score of Polish lancers who were escorting Russian prisoners. Von Stils gave the Russians a pitying look. It was as if he were one of them.

‘The Cossacks! The Cossacks!’ Saber yelled suddenly, galloping forward.

Margont and von Stils unsheathed their swords with equal speed while the Poles turned in their direction. Saber was tearing across the plain, his sword drawn, not noticing that a lone lancer had followed him in his charge. Far from there, at the edge of a wood, three Cossacks were watching him. All were armed with lances – their best weapon, their standard, their trademark and, on top of all that, an extra limb. When Saber had covered three-quarters of the distance, they disappeared under cover of the trees.

‘He’s been flattened,’ von Stils declared.

‘Made a laughing stock would be nearer the mark.’

Saber resigned himself to turning back. Wild with anger, he was gesticulating, his sabre still in his hand.

‘Oh, the bastards! The swine! They aren’t soldiers, they’re clowns!’

Margont pointed at his sheath, urging him to put his sword back in it before he hurt someone. Saber thought that he was indicating more Cossacks and made his horse do a half-turn. He turned round again, more furious still.

‘They’re taunting me from the woods, are they? Is that it? Curse these wretched Cossacks! Why do they keep scattering like sparrows? What’s the point?’

‘Ask your horse. Even he knows the answer to that,’ Margont interrupted.

The poor animal had come to a halt. Mouth open, nostrils quivering, it was attempting to recover its breath. This type of repeated effort would kill it before long. It was impossible to get Saber to calm down.

‘They aren’t soldiers but militiamen! No, they aren’t even men, they’re too savage. Always yelling as they gallop, like wild animals. Centaurs … centaurs that have survived from the beginning of time! Why didn’t you follow me? I demand an answer!’

Von Stils stroked his mount’s neck. ‘I belong to the heavy cavalry. Our horses are stronger but have less stamina. They’re intended for charging in line, not for this type of chase.’

‘Quibbles! Quibbles!’ Saber exclaimed in the triumphant tones of a lawyer who has just unmasked a case of perjury.

‘Irénée, pull yourself together.’

‘And what about you, Captain Margont? What’s your excuse for inertia?’

‘I’m past the age of playing hide and seek in the woods.’

Saber bowed his head. ‘Gentlemen, allow me to take my leave.’

With that, he tried to spur his horse into a gallop but in its weakened state the animal only managed a fast trot.

‘Why does your friend hate the Cossacks so much?’ von Stils enquired.

‘Lieutenant Saber is very chivalrous and the Cossacks’ sudden raids are the opposite of his idea of a heroic military confrontation. As the Cossacks also have the bad taste to actually be successful …’

‘It’s true that the French military hate being defeated by peasants in rags. It goes back to the battle of Agincourt.’

‘Jena, the Cossacks, Agincourt. Could we stop talking about war, please?’

Von Stils nodded slowly. ‘With pleasure.’

He then launched into a long speech about Saxony. He described his country methodically and in detail, like an art expert analysing a painting by an old master. However, his chauvinism distorted the picture. The rivers were as clear as crystal; the towns the most beautiful in the world; the Saxon people possessed all possible qualities and a few more besides; the forests inspired poets, and you hadn’t really lived unless you’d visited Saxony …

Margont listened attentively and interrupted him to ask questions. He was preparing for the moment when he would try to find out more about Fidassio.

The two men met up with sixty or so gunners officered by the occasional Polish lancer. For the past few days there had been torrential downpours, turning the road into a vast quagmire. A gun had become bogged down in a rut and eight gunners were trying to free it. The soldiers were struggling with all their might, some leaning forward and shoving with the full weight of their bodies, others pulling on the wheels strenuously enough to tear ligaments. The team of horses was also doing all it could. But the cannon would not budge. Knees bent, the soldiers sweated, swore, and held their breath … to no effect. Margont said to himself that the whole army was like this cannon, bogged down and struggling against all the odds to continue its advance. Von Stils once again wore an expression that was both conceited and melancholy. He was gazing at the artillery pieces.

‘The famous Gribeauval cannon. Their muzzles have blown apart more than one enemy army.’

Margont went up to a captain who was nervously dusting off his jacket.

‘Where’s your escort?’

‘The Poles, you mean? Oh, heavens! A good third of them have deserted, another third are roaming around in search of food and the rest have gone to hunt the Cossacks over there,’ replied the gunner, pointing vaguely towards a wood in the distance.

‘So what are these Polish lancers doing with IV Corps?’

‘What of it? You’re with a Saxon Life Guard yourself! Their major was wounded in Smolensk. His men stayed with him and, now that he’s recovered, they are trying to rejoin their regiment. What a bloody shambles this campaign is, don’t you think?’

‘You’re exposing yourself to—’

Margont did not finish his sentence. A roar rose up from the plain. ‘Huzza!’ Three hundred Cossacks had suddenly emerged from a wood and were bearing down on them. They were dressed in black or navy-blue uniforms. The few Poles present rushed at them, considering the Cossacks their eternal enemies. As they too were wearing navy-blue uniforms, it was difficult to distinguish them from their opponents. Bodies fell to the ground and were trampled, the wounded screamed, pistol shots punctuated the air and strange entangled shapes moved about … The Poles were quickly overwhelmed and the Cossacks sprang up from all sides in the midst of the gunners. The gunners shot the Cossacks at point-blank range and were spiked through in return. A lieutenant close to Margont was nailed to a munitions wagon by a spear neatly thrust through his heart; the teams of horses were bolting, the Cossacks yelling at the tops of their voices: ‘Huzza! Huzza! Huzza!’

Margont charged. A young trooper, hoping to cover himself in glory by capturing a French officer, rode straight at him. With disconcerting ease he turned his lance round. He was no longer brandishing the point but the end of the shaft. Margont attempted to ward off the attack with his sword, felt a violent blow to his breastbone and fell. He landed on his back and the pain took his breath away. Hoofs galloped past close to his eyes, throwing earth on to his face. The Cossack nimbly dismounted. He must have been sixteen. He could have been a little boy, really happy at the idea of giving his father a present but slightly worried because he was after all in the middle of a battle … His prisoner looked in a poor state and he didn’t know how to set about taking him away. Margont tried to move but his back gave him terrible pain. He felt like a wretched insect crushed by a shoe, surviving only to endure agony. The Russian placed his pike on his throat.

‘I won’t move,’ Margont said in Russian.

The adolescent looked at him wide-eyed. It was inconceivable to him that this man could speak his language because the French were agents of the devil. He carefully examined his captive’s uniform. Yes, he definitely was a Frenchman.

‘You are my prisoner!’ he proudly exclaimed.

‘I don’t doubt that for a second,’ replied Margont.

The Russian removed his belt and set about tying the Frenchman’s wrists. Margont feared the moment when the adolescent said to himself that it would be much easier to kill him than to take him prisoner. All around them the Cossacks looked as if they were celebrating rather than fighting. They were whirling and galloping about in every direction, like leaves blowing in the wind, triumphantly yelling ‘Huzza!’ Their frenzy was indescribable: they ran their opponents through until their lances broke, fired their pistols, slashed around with all their might and rode their horses at the gunners to trample them. The Poles showed equal ferocity in the combat. They were fighting as if each Cossack killed freed one square yard of Poland crushed beneath their horses’ hoofs.

The French were defending their guns. Gathered around their cannon, they gave as good as they got. They were taking advantage of the mêlée to put their muskets against the bellies of Russians engaged in sword duels before firing. They cut into the enemy with their bayonets, swords and even knives. The Cossacks were drooling over the artillery. An elderly sergeant was jealously guarding his Gribeauval and his gunners, like a cockerel guarding his hens.

After smashing two skulls with his musket butt he shouted: ‘God Almighty! What would the Emperor say if they nabbed our fire-belchers? What a disgrace that would be!’

These words galvanised the defenders. Margont was struggling to his feet when the first sign of an adverse wind made the Cossack storm die down. A substantial party of Polish lancers had appeared from a distant wood and was galloping towards them.

‘The escort’s coming back!’ yelled someone.

Margont rejoiced at the thought that these troopers had finally realised they had fallen into a trap, pursuing a decoy intended to lead them away from the convoy. Then he thought that perhaps the Poles had deliberately gone off on this false trail to encourage the Cossacks to attack at last. The adolescent who had captured him was looking at him with an expression of deep sorrow. There were still a few wisps of straw left in his tousled ginger hair from where he had slept. One felt like removing them with a paternal gesture and sending him back out to play. Margont had taken his expression to be one of disappointment but it was more one of guilt. He seemed to be about to apologise. He unsheathed his sabre and approached the captain intending to execute him. Margont rushed him. The Russian brandished his sword but the Frenchman barged into him and his shoulder charge sent him flying to the ground. The shock revived the pain in Margont’s back, giving him the impression that his opponent had, in spite of everything, managed to thrust his sabre into his backbone.

There was a sign of hesitation in the Cossack attack, clearly perceptible by the dying away of the shouts of ‘Huzza!’ The Russians decided to release their prey. A horseman stopped beside the adolescent and shouted something to him as he stretched out his arm. The young man shook his head and again faced up to Margont. If he couldn’t take back a captive, at least he’d have the lovely epaulettes that he’d snatched from an officer’s dead body. Margont easily rid himself of the belt that was shackling his hands. There were almost no Cossacks left. One of them broke away from the group who were fleeing and came galloping back towards the convoy. Aged about fifty, bearded and with wavy ginger hair, he rode his horse between the two adversaries, made it rear up and grabbed the adolescent more by the scruff of the neck than by the collar. The boy shouted out but nimbly threw himself on to the horse’s back. They fled just as the Poles reached the guns and skewered the last remaining Russians as they would chickens or turkeys at Christmas: one after another and without ever feeling sated.

Saber was also back, alerted by the firing. His exhausted mount covered the last few yards at walking pace, its weakened gait contrasting with the efforts of its rider to make it gallop off in pursuit of the enemy.

‘Did you see that, Quentin? They deliberately chose to attack after I’d left.’

Saber really believed he was well known in this part of Russia and that when they talked among themselves the Cossacks would sometimes say: ‘So let’s attack this convoy. It’s poorly guarded.’ ‘No, my friend, because Lieutenant Saber’s with them.’ ‘Oh! If Saber’s there, there’s no point in even thinking about it.’

Margont was having difficulty walking and was trying to recover his sword, his shako, his mount and his pride. He needed a warm, comfortable bed. Yes, that was exactly it – a warm, comfortable bed.

Saber looked him up and down. ‘That’s the second time the Cossacks have unhorsed you, isn’t it? Next time, throw yourself straight to the ground. You’ll save time.’

Saber often tried to outshine his friends with this type of withering remark. For him, glory was not something to be shared. Every man has his limits, so Margont moved towards Saber to grab him by the sleeve and unhorse him, to see which of the two would be the next to end up on the ground. Saber thought it preferable to move away.

Von Stils came back, with a haughty look on his face. His heavy cavalry sabre was bloodstained. He dismounted and wiped it clean with the tunic of a dead Cossack.

‘I killed two of them. I imagined I was charging at two French hussars.’

Margont eyed him coldly. ‘If you hate us so much, why don’t you go over to the Russians? Instead of dirtying this tunic, put it on.’

The Saxon sheathed his sword abruptly, slamming the hilt against the sheath. ‘A Saxon wears a Saxon uniform and obeys the King of Saxony.’

‘To be faithful to one’s ideals or to one’s duty … I would have chosen ideals. Your fringed epaulette has been cut off by a sabre.’

Von Stils looked at his left shoulder. ‘Not content with trying to run me through, they want to strip me of my rank as well!’

Margont and von Stils went to the aid of the wounded. Saber was barking orders for setting up a gun in firing position. The gunners were rushing about, laboriously pushing the wheels, busily bringing round shot. They were obviously very willing but Saber was hurling abuse at them: ‘Layabouts, bunglers …’ However, there was very little likelihood of the Cossacks coming back. So much wasted effort to unhitch the gun, put it into position and load it before firing it at ant-like figures, and then hitching it up again … Margont realised that his friend was frightened. Saber was carefully avoiding looking at the wounded. His aim in putting this gun in a firing position was not to create more victims but to prevent him from seeing the ones already there. Saber completely blotted out this aspect of war. He wanted to fight, but like a child with tin soldiers which don’t bleed when they’re knocked down. So he remained on his horse, sword in hand, ready to order a gun to be fired at Cossacks who never came. When the last of the wounded had been tended and put into a cart and the bogged-down gun pulled out of its rut, an annoyed artillery captain, his arm covered in blood, came to retrieve his cannon. The convoy moved off again.

Saber, Margont and von Stils abandoned it. In the distance could be seen the front of the Pino Division.

The Pino Division was in an appalling state. It was trying to find provisions in an area that had been set on fire by the Russians and pillaged by all the regiments that were ahead of it. The men’s gaunt and haggard faces were worse than any Margont had seen so far.

As the three riders trotted up to the 3rd Italian of the Line, Margont asked: ‘Do you often play with Colonel Fidassio?’

‘Yes, because he loses.’

‘How does he play?’

Von Stils did not seem surprised at this question, as if everyone had a gambling instinct. And perhaps that was true.

‘He takes no risks, constantly undervalues his hand, is suspicious of his own partners. He continually loses money – a lot of money – but when he wins, he’s as happy as a sandboy.’

‘I’d like to play a few rounds with him.’

‘He’s stopped playing now that no one will give him credit.’

‘Who does he still owe money to?’

‘A few of his subordinates who don’t dare to ask for it back!’

‘Does he owe any to that guard dog of his, Captain Nedroni?’

‘As far as I know, Nedroni doesn’t gamble. He merely follows behind Colonel Fidassio to negotiate his debts by staggering the repayments, reducing the amount in exchange for a letter of recommendation …’ Von Stils at once added with a sneer: ‘Yes, that’s exactly it! Captain Nedroni follows behind his colonel!’

‘I’m afraid I don’t really understand what you’re getting at.’

‘I think those two are sodomites! Now do you understand better?’

‘Personally, I don’t have any prejudices against such men.’

‘Neither do I, in fact. Only against bad payers.’

‘Are you sure of what you’re suggesting about their relationship?’

‘No, but it wouldn’t surprise me.’

Colonel Fidassio was riding some way off from his regiment, as was his custom. He turned pale when he noticed von Stils. Nedroni, who was at his side, immediately galloped up to meet these unwelcome visitors.

He brought his horse to a halt in front of them, to block their way, saluted politely and said: ‘May I enquire as to the reason for your visit?’

‘I am Captain von Stils, from the Saxony Life Guards, and this is Captain Margont from the 84th,’ the Saxon replied in a curt tone of voice. ‘We’ve come to talk to Colonel Fidassio about the debts he’s supposed to have paid us some time ago.’

‘I’m extremely sorry but that is impossible. Commanding the regiment occupies all the colonel’s attention.’

Von Stils turned even redder than from exposure to the sun. ‘It’s a matter of honour, sir! I insist!’

Nedroni remained courteous but firm. ‘It’s impossible and I’m sincerely sorry. But if you’re willing to leave me a message, it will be delivered in the shortest possible time.’

‘A message!’

‘Yes, we do have a message,’ Margont intervened. ‘Tell the colonel that we are going to ask General Dembrovsky to order your colonel to receive us immediately.’

Nedroni was taken by surprise. ‘You aren’t going to pester a general about money problems, surely?’

‘Deliver your message by all means,’ said Margont sarcastically before setting off towards the brigadier-general and his aides-de-camp, who were surveying the surroundings through field glasses from the top of a hill.

‘Very well,’ Nedroni conceded. ‘Please follow me, but be brief.’

When they reached Colonel Fidassio he was conversing with a major of the chasseurs. As this officer was French, that was the language the two men were using. The colonel’s face betrayed his dismay.

‘Have you deployed your squadrons to protect our flanks?’

‘Yes, Colonel,’ the chasseur assured him.

The major looked puzzled. It was clear that Colonel Fidassio was faced with a difficult choice. The chasseur couldn’t see what the problem was and was cursing himself for his lack of perceptiveness.

‘Yes, but aren’t your squadrons too spread out? If they are too spread out they won’t be able to stand up to a large-scale attack at one particular point. Tell your troopers to be at the ready but not too spread out. There needs to be a happy medium between being spread out and grouped together.’

‘I’ll transmit your orders immediately, Colonel.’

‘Everything in life is a question of a happy medium. “Always a little, never too much!”’

Always a little, Colonel, never too much, thought Margont.

The chasseur went away feeling he had not properly understood his instructions. Fidassio seemed to be about to call him back to add or subtract something but he restrained himself. Nedroni’s knuckles were white from holding the reins so tightly.

‘Colonel, these two officers wish to speak to you. I told them how overburdened with work you were but they insisted. They quite understand that you can only give them a few seconds.’

The few seconds in question seemed longer to Fidassio than eternal damnation. His face fell when Margont informed him that he’d been entrusted by the late Lieutenant Sampre with the task of recovering the dead man’s debt. Fidassio explained that he did not have the requisite amount on him but paid each of the two men a down payment of two hundred francs in exchange for a receipt. Fidassio kept looking at Nedroni for help. It’s Nedroni who’s the colonel and Fidassio his shadow, concluded Margont.

He and von Stils set off again. Margont turned round. Fidassio seemed more downcast than ever as Nedroni talked to him. Nedroni gave the Frenchman a look of hatred. He was angry with him for having guessed his friend’s secret, for discovering that a colonel’s magnificent epaulettes were too heavy for Fidassio’s shoulders and that Nedroni was helping him to bear this glorious burden. ‘Why did my mother want to make me a colonel?’ Fidassio must have lamented to himself. Yes, of course. But also, why had Fidassio gone along with it? It was true, however, that colonels always obeyed generals.