whole districts built of stone, vast avenues … Moscow, with its Baroque and Byzantine architecture, belonged to a different world from that of Paris, Vienna, Berlin and Rome. This was already Asia.
Margont felt as if he were discovering a city from the tales of the Arabian nights. He bowed down and made the sign of the cross out of respect for this wonderful city and because that was the custom for Russians when they gazed at this holy city from the Hill of Salvation. However, he crossed himself in the Catholic, not the Orthodox, way. Then, like everyone else, he began to shout: ‘Moscow! Moscow!’ because this word was so great, so magnificent, that it alone filled his whole mind. He repeated it, yelling for joy until he was hoarse.
Saber, arms outstretched to the heavens and sabre drawn, was exclaiming: ‘Victory! Total victory!’ Lefine, who was too much the pragmatist to believe in dreams, muttered, ‘It’s not possible, it’s not credible …’ Piquebois, wanting to greet the city in his own fashion, was stuffing his pipe with the last pinch of tobacco that he had kept for the occasion. His face seemed composed but his fingers were trembling. The fighting, the hunger, the extreme tiredness, the lost comrades: all were forgotten.
Feasting their eyes on palaces and the red ramparts of the Kremlin, the 84th went down towards the city in perfect order because they had to be impeccable to show themselves worthy of Moscow. ‘I’m in Moscow’: the phrase rang in their ears like the pealing of the bells of a whole city. Everything was over, no one doubted that for a second. The Tsar was on his knees and the Russian army in pieces. Alexander would sign the armistice and they would spend the winter here, with spoonfuls of caviar in their mouths, being treated like princes.
Disillusion set in as soon as they entered the former capital. The city was absolutely silent. The regiments and squadrons followed one another in columns but there were no crowds as they went by. For a moment they thought that the people had locked themselves away in their homes. But there were no faces to be seen at the windows. They realised that Moscow had been deserted. Panic and the evacuation orders given by Count Rostopchin, the governor-general of Moscow, had emptied the city. Of the three hundred and twenty thousand inhabitants, the only ones left were those of French, German or Italian extraction, the destitute, the wounded who could not be transported, and the deserters.
Margont looked about him on all sides. He marvelled at every sight. The wide, straight streets, some lined entirely with mansions and palaces surrounded by gardens the size of parks, offered superb vistas. The famous fortress of the Kremlin was the jewel of Moscow. Its surrounding wall of red brick was topped with white, swallow-tail battlements and it was protected by numerous towers. The walls allowed glimpses of gilded cupolas crowded together, turrets decorated with faience and small bell towers. They envied those who would be privileged enough to have quarters there while they watched over the Emperor, because he deserved nothing less than the Kremlin.
Prince Eugene set up his headquarters in Prince Momonoff’s palace, whose luxury bordered on the incredible. The 84th was allotted a sector. Margont, Lefine, Saber and Piquebois chose a pretty little house and went inside laughing, convinced that the worst was behind them.
Margont was in a deep sleep. His dreams were not in keeping with the day’s brilliant spectacle. He saw an actor on stage, wearing a toga like a classical tragedian and holding a smiling mask over his face. The stranger changed his mask with such speed that Margont did not even have time to glimpse his face. This second, sad- looking character aroused pity. Another change made him resemble a child seeking protection. Then it was the face of an honest-looking man before becoming that of an adolescent enraptured by his own youth. The stranger was also a magician and he conjured up the masks at will. Margont was staring at the figure. He wanted to know if it had its own face or if it was only a hollow shell. But at the same time he wondered if it would be possible to tell the difference between this genuine face and yet another flesh-coloured mask.
He was roused from his sleep by someone shaking him violently. He had difficulty opening his eyes. Piquebois’s face was leaning over his own.
‘Quentin, for heaven’s sake! The house is on fire! Wake up!’
A cloud of thick black smoke was already pouring in through the bedroom door while white smoke was filtering through the gaps in the floorboards.
‘We’ve taken your belongings. The others are already outside. Come on!’
Margont got dressed in a flash. However, the two men were unable to get through the doorway. The corridor was nothing but a blazing shell. The constant sound of crackling flames could be heard, frequently drowned out by a great crash as part of the ceiling collapsed. They retreated back inside the room. Margont made a dash for the window and opened it. For a second he was taken by surprise. How could that be? Was it daylight already? Why hadn’t he been woken up early in the morning? Then he realised that it was still the middle of the night. But in many parts of the city fires were devastating whole neighbourhoods and the brightness rivalled that of a summer afternoon. Down below in the street, Lefine and Saber were waving their arms about.
‘What the hell are you doing, Quentin? Get out of there!’
Margont disappeared before returning with sheets and clothes in his arms. He knotted them together as fast as he could. Saber was holding a horse’s bridle in each hand. The panic-stricken animals were neighing heart- rendingly. Lefine was having great difficulty controlling his terrified konia, which was edging backwards, not noticing that everything behind it was also on fire. Margont slid quickly down his makeshift rope, gritting his teeth as the material peeled the skin off the palms of his hands. Piquebois did likewise and the four men hurried away without having the slightest idea where to go to escape from the flames.
‘Over there,’ decreed Saber, rushing off in one direction.
They found themselves face to face with a group of hussars from the 8th Regiment who thought safety lay in the opposite direction. Most of them had not even had time to put on their pelisses or their shakos. Dressed only in dirty shirts and red trousers, they considered themselves lucky to have retrieved just three of their mounts.
‘Don’t go that way, the streets are on fire!’ exclaimed Saber.
‘It can’t be worse than where we’re staying!’ retorted a barefoot trooper, who had flung himself on the neck of his beast to calm it down.
Another hussar was ranting and raving, sabre in hand.
‘It’s the Russians who are setting fire to their own city.’
‘That’s impossible!’ said Margont angrily. ‘It’s some irresponsible fools who’ve knocked over candles while ransacking houses or have lit fires and haven’t kept an eye on them. It’s drunkards who are the cause of this damn mess!’
But the hussar was categorical. ‘I agree with you that drunks are responsible for some of the fires, but several fire-raisers have already been arrested. Russians. Some have confessed in front of the firing squad that Count Rostopchin gave the order to set fire to the city. He got policemen to disguise themselves as beggars and emptied the prisons. They’ve caught convicts who were completely drunk going along the streets throwing torches through windows.’
‘I can’t believe such a thing. They’re liars,’ Margont stubbornly maintained.
‘Well, how do you explain the fact that there’s not a single fire pump left in the city? Rostopchin had them all taken away!’
While Margont was trying to overcome his consternation, the two groups were arguing. Unable to agree, each of them decided to stick to their original conviction. Two hussars and the single mount they were sharing did, however, join Margont and his friends.
The heat was becoming extremely hard to bear. Sweat was pouring from their faces, running into their eyes, soaking their bodies and making their clothes stick to their skin. They passed between two rows of rustling, crackling flames. Explosions rang out at regular intervals, nearby or further away, sometimes isolated and sometimes in succession like a firework display. The sky looked amazing. It was a shifting kaleidoscope of colours: the black of the smoke merging into the black of the night, a thousand varying hues of glowing orange, the yellows sometimes paling into incandescence … It looked like a vast canvas smeared with thick layers of gouache. A mansion collapsed on itself with a terrifying crash. The horse belonging to the two hussars whinnied as it reared up. It brought its forelegs down heavily, almost crushing the foot of the one holding it by the bridle, and kicked out with its hind legs. The second hussar received the full force of one of its hoofs in his stomach. He was flung against a wall and fell, hunched up, to the ground. The mount reared once more and finally freed itself. It wanted to flee but, realising that it was surrounded by flames, it began to go round in circles. The buildings were threatening to collapse.
Margont shouted to the hussar to abandon his animal and to help his companion but the hussar stubbornly
