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.
‘
‘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 Wurttemberg 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.’
