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.
