and your helmet will protect your body well but not down there. Your rolled-up greatcoat will prevent you from being castrated. What would your pretty filly think if, after letting her young stud go off to war, she saw only an ugly fat gelding come back?’
The cuirassier set off without answering.
Margont got up, gave his apologies and went to the next campfire, despite the request to ‘stay a bit longer’. There, some soldiers were listening to Second Lieutenant Galouche read extracts from the Bible. Margont remembered prayers at Saint-Guilhem-le-Desert. He put his hands together and entwined his fingers, as he used to do. He silently asked Heaven for the battle to cause as little bloodshed as possible, for the Russians to be defeated and for the war to end. And if the Tsar capitulated, then England would be forced to negotiate. Probably. Then at last there would be peace.
A little further on, Saber was busily cutting the Russian army to pieces. With the aid of a stick he was drawing a plan on the ground for the benefit of his supporters – soldiers who swore by him and already imagined themselves colonels of the future marshal of France. There were arrows in all directions; the Great Redoubt had already fallen – rather too quickly in Margont’s opinion – and the Russian Guard was rushing into this ‘death trap’. Saber had in fact ordered the French right wing to fall back to make the Russians think that there had been a rout on that side. The Russians had been quick to send in all their reserves, including the Guard, to finish smashing through the right enemy flank. Then Saber ordered the cavalry of the Guard to charge at their flank and break up their columns. The Old Guard followed and finished them off. It was obviously very effective in the sand since Saber was energetically wiping out Russian squares and columns. But he was taking no account of the human factor. Even if the Russians actually believed they had broken through the French right, how could anyone be sure the French would not think the same? And if they did, then the left wing and the French centre, thinking the right wing had been routed, would in turn break up in disarray … Any movement towards the rear was dangerous because it very soon led to all sides following suit.
Piquebois was smoking his pipe some distance from the others. Lying on his back, with a treatise on astronomy resting against his knees and his head on his knapsack, he was gazing up at the sky. His eyes were full of stars.
‘Why do you have such a passion for them?’ Margont asked him.
‘Because they’re so far away.’
Margont then caught up with Lefine, who was selling phials containing a greenish liquid. It was his ‘remedy for fear’, an infusion of verbena and eucalyptus. Margont grabbed him by the collar and, when they saw the expression on the sergeant’s face, all his potential customers immediately realised that the product was a swindle.
‘Ripping people off again!’ thundered Margont.
‘It works. It’s been scientifically proved, Captain. The truth is that you’re against progress.’
‘Give me your report instead of adding fuel to the flames.’
‘If I had fuel I wouldn’t waste it, I’d drink it, even if it were lamp oil.’
Margont let go of Lefine, who made a show of readjusting his collar.
‘My men will try to keep an eye on all our suspects during the combat.’
‘Excellent, I’m relying on them.’
‘Captain, aren’t you afraid?’
‘Why? Do you want to sell me that filthy potion of yours?’
‘No, seriously …’
‘Of course I am. But my fear doesn’t paralyse me and doesn’t ruin my life. So I can consider myself content.’
Margont walked away. He wanted to sleep for a while. Lefine downed three of his phials in quick succession. He didn’t think it would work, but just in case …
His heart was pounding. The Russians were here at last! He was convinced that the Emperor was going to see to them in his own way and he already felt sorry for them. While waiting for the general assault, he had just made up a new game that he found very entertaining. The aim was to imagine the worst possible death for Captain Margont. His wishes were then arranged in ascending order of preference.
For the moment these were the results: For round shot to blow his arm off and for him to lie for hours watching the blood pour out of his stump; for grapeshot to make mincemeat of him; for a blow from a sword to smash his teeth and slash his face from ear to ear; for a hail of bullets to burst open his spleen, liver and bowels; for him to be seriously wounded, unable to move and left behind in a corner of the battlefield feeling the crows pecking his eyes out; for all that to happen at once.
For him, Margont was a louse he hadn’t yet managed to crush. And if he didn’t disappear, this louse would end up, like any other, getting squashed.
*
At three in the morning the order of the day was read out to the troops. It was the Emperor’s address:
‘Soldiers, here is the battle you have yearned for! From now on victory depends on you. We need it; it will guarantee us plentiful food, good winter quarters and a swift return to the homeland! Conduct yourselves as you did at Austerlitz, at Friedland, at Vitebsk, at Smolensk and may all the generations to come proudly hail your conduct on this day. Let it be said of you: “He was at that great battle beneath the walls of Moscow!”’
Colonel Pegot went to find Margont just after the speech had been read out. The cheering and the shouts of ‘Long live the Emperor!’ meant that he had to take Margont to one side to make himself heard. Napoleon had decided to reinforce IV Corps for the battle so he had placed the Morand and Gerard Divisions under Prince Eugene’s command. Some of their regiments had, however, lost a very large number of officers.
‘Officers are therefore being temporarily assigned to other regiments. These are orders,’ explained Pegot. ‘At the battle of Smolensk, the 13th Light lost one-third of its strength and about thirty officers. Consequently, I’m transferring you to it.’
‘That’s out of the question, Colonel. I want to remain with the men from my company. I know them and I …’
Pegot shook his head. He was a pitiful sight with his bloodshot, dark-ringed eyes.
‘It’s only for the duration of the battle. One of the battalions of the 13th Light is without its major. I’m putting you in charge of it. You will take Saber, Piquebois and Galouche with you and you will give them the remnants of two companies each.’
He was being put in charge of a battalion, was he? Promotion was close. To refuse the battalion was to refuse promotion. Margont wanted to ask something but Pegot was already off, waving him away.
‘No time, no time. I have to find some gunners to make up the numbers in our artillery companies, horses for our cavalry and our cannon, and I need to patch together what’s left of the companies … What a life! And on top of all this they’re taking my officers away.’
The sun rose. Napoleon exclaimed that it was the sun of Austerlitz, the one that had broken through the clouds on 2 December 1805 to hail the victory. But today the sun was dazzling the French and showing up their positions. The sky was clear. Dew moistened the grass, pleasantly cooling the atmosphere. It could have been a beautiful day.
CHAPTER 24
AT five thirty a battery of the Guard’s artillery fired three shots, giving the signal for hostilities to begin. The roar of artillery fire was already deafening a few minutes later as the French attacked at several points. In both camps they were saying: ‘This is it at last.’
Time was passing. The Morand Division was positioned in the front line on the left wing, in column by regiment, motionless, awaiting orders. Elsewhere there was slaughter; here there was waiting.
Margont rode along the ranks of his new battalion. He tried to reassure those who were as white-faced as a
