Margont had no appetite for talk, least of all for small talk. He was inspecting the lie of the land. In what direction would they be made to charge? Probably straight ahead. What could be seen from that forest of birch trees opposite him? Was there an easily defendable position that he could fall back to with his men if the attack went badly?
‘What’s that road over there, Captain?’
Margont sighed heavily and turned towards the chatterbox. The soldier could hardly have been fifteen years old. His face was covered in red or suppurating spots.
‘How old are you, boy?’
‘Twenty!’ the other replied, thrusting his chin out defiantly.
‘Say eighteen and you’ll be scarcely more credible.’
‘Twenty, Captain! And I’ve already caught the pox!’
Margont smiled. He’d wanted to make him think acne was the pox.
‘You’re a canny one, but stop talking so much. Make the most of the silence. There’ll be enough of a din when everyone starts firing.’
The young man puffed out his chest. A captain had just paid him a compliment! If it had been up to this adolescent, he would already have charged at the enemy with a thousand others like him, before even waiting for the artillery to prepare the ground.
‘Begging your pardon again, Captain, but why don’t you wear your Legion d’Honneur?’
Margont should really have been expecting this one.
‘So that I don’t lose it, and so as not to annoy the Russians even more. Wearing your Legion d’Honneur is like sewing on to your chest the inscription “Shoot at me”.’
The reply disappointed the soldier and he made no attempt to disguise it. Margont was not surprised. His reply had two advantages: it was sincere and it shut the other person up.
‘Captain Varebeaux and Sergeant Parin wear theirs.’
At this, the boy stood stock-still and did not utter another word.
Margont went back to examining the area. He was scrutinising the road to Vitebsk when a series of thunderclaps rang out. Tongues of flame and coils of thick white smoke were spewing from the French guns. Immediately, the gunners scurried about like excited ants. They were putting the guns back in place to compensate for the recoil, stuffing the water-soaked sponges of the rammer into the muzzles of the monsters, filling their long, hungry mouths with gunpowder, wadding and round shot, cramming it all down, then training it to adjust the aim … Finally, the firer, linstock in hand, looked straight at the chief gunner, waiting for the order to fire. A heavy, dense smoke built up around the batteries. The sound of mighty, earsplitting explosions could be heard. A hail of round shot rained down on the woods opposite the Delzons Division. The foliage of the birch trees rustled and clusters of torn branches fell to the ground. A shell exploded in a bush and two mangled bodies were tossed into the air for all to see. A roar of triumph greeted this horrific spectacle.
‘So, Captain, is it the Russians or not, today?’ asked Lefine as he reached Margont. ‘Whatever the case, company morale is good. For the time being …’
‘Fernand, I’ve been thinking a lot about this name “Acosavan”.’
Lefine blinked. ‘Well, this is hardly the moment, that’s for sure!’
‘After a lot of thought I realised that “Acosavan” is an anagram of “Casanova”. Perhaps it’s only a coincidence. But if it’s not, we can say that this man possessed a particularly ironic sense of humour. He was swearing to be faithful to Maria and love her for ever while his pseudonym was spitting in her face.’
‘Very interesting. Perhaps we could talk about this again after the battle, because I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, but there is indeed going to be a battle. I suggest that first we deal with the Tsar’s armies. Then we can resume this conversation somewhere quieter. A mass grave, for example. Who knows?’
At that, Lefine went back to his position, muttering, ‘Between Saber, who wants to change all the battle plans and give Prince Eugene a piece of his mind, and this one with his head in the clouds, we’ve got a right pair! It seems to me that in this army the dafter you are the higher up you get. Apologies to the Emperor. If only they’d let sergeants take command of the army, everything would be fine, I can tell you.’
Eventually the order came through to move forward. The Huard Brigade, consisting of the 8th Light, the 84th of the Line and the 1st Croat, was at the front, to the left. Margont still did not know if he was heading towards practically empty woods or a teeming mass of enemy soldiers. In fact, near the village of Ostrovno, Murat’s cavalry and IV Corps had just engaged in a skirmish with the left flank of the Russian army. The latter was made up of the 4th Corps, commanded by General Count Ostermann-Tolstoy, reinforced by dragoons, hussars of the Guard, Soussy’s hussars and the artillery. He was also going to receive the support of General Konovnitsin, who had been put in command of the 3rd Division of the 3rd Corps. It was not yet the general assault the French so yearned for, but it might well turn into it.
CHAPTER 13
PART of the French infantry had deployed in line and was resolutely moving forward. At the head, lieutenants and captains were flourishing their swords or using them to point towards the enemy and exhort their men. They advanced with colours flying and drums beating. It was impossible not to think about death. Some were praying quietly; others humming martial tunes. They touched their amulets: a fiancee’s lock of hair, a wedding ring, a letter, a bonesetter’s charm. The loudmouths were boasting, ‘They still ain’t going to get me, just like at Eylau!’ ‘Here I am!’ ‘Stick around, green coats! I want my Legion d’Honneur, I do!’
Margont, at the head of his company, was for his part struck by the beauty of the world around him: the soft green of the plain, the darker green of the woods, the blue sky. What a shame about the heavy roar of gunfire. His blue eyes took in the greenery opposite. He remembered a childhood friend, Catherine: an adolescent love affair they had shared one summer in the countryside and broken off the following one. In between had been ten months of painful waiting and an exchange of letters riddled with spelling mistakes. What could have become of her? She was probably bringing up children while he was perhaps going to die like a dog in some foreign place.
He suddenly felt a violent shove in the back and fell flat on the ground. Ten or twelve soldiers slumped down behind him. Margont, staggered, still had no idea of what had just happened. A soldier rushed towards him. People were shouting. A black cannonball rolled swiftly along the grass, not far away. Another bounced off the butt of a musket lying on the ground, making it explode. Saber, wearing white gloves, lifted his friend up, grabbing him under the arms.
‘Are you all right, Quentin? Are you hurt at all?’
Margont managed to get up unaided. He was covered in dirt. Next to him a sergeant was dusting down his uniform.
‘Those Russian bastards! They think we’re already dead and buried, but we’ll show ’em.’
The line of infantrymen was filing past them. The woods were flecked with puffs of white smoke, large and small. Many Frenchmen were already strewn over the plain. Some were groaning as they tried to get up. Others were waving their arms pitifully or seemed to be asleep.
‘This time we won’t be tilting at windmills, eh, Quentin?’
Saber’s face wore a triumphant smile but Margont could read the fear in his friend’s eyes. Saber was putting on a self-assured air that would have charmed many a Parisienne. He was inventing his own stereotype, that of Lieutenant Saber the intrepid officer of the Imperial Army. He felt intuitively that over the years stereotypes sometimes became truths accepted by everyone.
Margont picked up his sword and the two officers resumed marching. The round shot and shells had made breaches in the line. Colonel Delarse, on horseback, was already twenty paces ahead of the brigade. A shell sprayed the infantrymen following him with splinters.
‘The devils can fire all right,’ muttered Saber, putting on a brave face.
The drummers beat the charge. The soldiers knew that music well enough! The line rushed forward,
