‘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 Auerstadt.’
‘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 Auerstadt 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.
‘Irenee, 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.
