The conversation about Spain became heated. Why did the Spanish resist the French presence so fanatically? Why did they reject the fruits of the Revolution? Why did they rise up en masse to defend a society that oppressed them? Margont felt particularly unsettled by these questions. Another debate also occupied their minds: would it not have been better to have got out of the Spanish quagmire before launching the Russian campaign? The Spanish campaign was mobilising a considerable number of French and allied troops to face up to the Spanish, the Portuguese and the English. In addition, there was concern about the Emperor being such a long way from the battlefield, especially since the English were involved.

Margont was watching Barguelot. It is said that all roads lead to Rome. Here, all comments led to Barguelot. So what if a captain had been at the battle of Roliça? He, Barguelot, had been at the battle of Gamonal. So what if someone admired Goya’s paintings but expressed doubts about their feelings for France? Colonel Barguelot announced that he knew the great painter well and, moreover, that the latter had started work on the colonel’s portrait. In a word, whenever someone had taken a hundred prisoners in one battle, Barguelot had captured three hundred in the next one, and it was as if each well-known person had said to himself, ‘Now that I’m famous, it’s time I met Colonel Barguelot.’

A servant placed a thin slice of pork on each plate. The finest tableware could not make up for the lack of food … Margont was very surprised to note that Barguelot ate nothing. He was not even served any food and did not touch his wine even though the claret was excellent, despite leaving the slightly bitter aftertaste of homesickness. Margont discovered that Barguelot had distinguished himself in numerous battles, owned a château near Nancy and had married a wealthy baroness, Marie-Isabelle de Montecy. Barguelot also mentioned his ancestors. He was from a long line of Dutch soldiers, the Van Hessens. His grandfather, the youngest son, had inherited nothing and, out of spite, had settled in France. He had had only one child, a daughter, so the Dutch name had died out. A procedure was under way to add the name Van Hessen to that of Barguelot.

At the end of the meal, Barguelot motioned discreetly to one of his servants. The man took his glass, poured a little more wine into it and placed it directly in the colonel’s hand. Barguelot rose to his feet and everyone did likewise, holding their glasses.

‘What a shame I haven’t had time to give you an account of the liberation of Copenhagen in 1638 by the Dutch fleet. One of my ancestors was involved as a ship’s captain. His ship was at the head of the squadron and distinguished itself by running the Swedish blockade. But it will have to wait for another time. Gentlemen!’

He brandished his glass and twenty others did likewise.

‘To Moscow, soon to be Paris’s little sister!’

‘To Moscow!’ all the officers replied in unison.

These fine words revitalised them as much as the good claret and they went their separate ways cheerfully enough, while all around them the horizon was studded with fires gleaming in the night sky. The next day the French would as usual be tramping through ashes.

The days that followed proved particularly frustrating for Margont. Despite all his efforts, he was unable to meet the other two suspects.

Colonel Fidassio was never available. Captain Nedroni, who assisted him, stood in the way. He played the role of compulsory go-between, the one who each time was sorry to say that the colonel was too busy for the time being but who would be delighted to pass on a message.

Nedroni took pride in his appearance without being ostentatious. His dark hair made his complexion look even paler, a feature that distinguished him from the other Italians.

Colonel Fidassio, whom Margont had managed to glimpse from a distance, seemed preoccupied. He rode alone, some way off from his regiment. The colonel was approaching thirty-five. His hair was brown, his huge face rendered even more thickset by his broad cheekbones. This brief portrait, sketched hurriedly and from afar, was all that Margont could obtain.

As for Colonel Pirgnon, he seemed very elusive. He was only rarely to be found with his regiment. Sometimes he would accompany a detachment out foraging for food; sometimes he would engage in conversation with the chief physician or with the person in charge of fodder; sometimes he would go off on a reconnaissance mission or gallop around on a horse taken from a Cossack to try to break it in. Margont had not managed to catch sight of him even once.

Lefine had recruited some men he could trust and the four suspects – four because Lefine, unlike Margont, considered that Delarse should not be ruled out – were watched discreetly day and night. Except for Pirgnon, who was followed whenever possible.

Time went by agonisingly slowly. Until 26 July.

On the morning of 26 July, IV Corps was in a state of feverish excitement. The Russians were there! Was it true? Or was it just a false rumour? No! The previous day the 1st Light Division of the 1st Reserve Cavalry Corps had engaged with the enemy in a serious skirmish. As was his custom, Marshal Murat, who was in command of this corps, had led a charge and wrought havoc. But the Russians were still there.

Prince Eugène was deploying his troops. An assault seemed imminent. Margont was waiting patiently at his position, in the Huard Brigade. This brigade belonged to the Delzons Division and, since this division was the spearhead of IV Corps, it would be in the front line of the attack. Like most of the officers and soldiers, Margont was completely unaware of the situation. He did not know if he was going to charge ten thousand Russians, fifty thousand, a hundred thousand … or three hundred thousand. Many of the combatants had come to terms with their ignorance of what was really at stake in the fighting, but not Margont. No, not knowing anything was exasperating for someone like him, who was so eager for knowledge of even the most useless kind (although for him it was impossible for any knowledge to be useless). So he did his best to make judgements from what he could observe.

Prince Eugène was prancing about from one end of his army to the other, followed by his flamboyant retinue of aides-de-camp, orderlies and generals. Everywhere troops were taking up position. The 8th Hussars, in their green pelisses, red breeches and shakos, had massed further ahead in the plain, in two lines. The Delzons Division was on the move – a long and broad column, dark blue and white in colour, topped by a forest of bayonets that glinted in the sunlight. Several regiments followed, wondering which of them would enter the combat and which would be held in reserve. The artillerymen were busy positioning their guns, crowding together to push a cannon or unloading munitions from the wagons. Elsewhere, squadrons of chasseurs were lining up, and regiments in column formation were hurrying forward. In the front line, skirmishers standing a few paces apart were taking shots at the Russians. The battlefield consisted of slopes, some of which were wooded, which meant that the Russians could not be seen. Only plumes of white smoke were visible from where their guns were firing.

‘Begging your pardon, Captain, but do you think this is the battle we’ve all been waiting for?’

‘How should I know?’ Margont replied curtly, without turning his head.

‘There wouldn’t be all this commotion just for a few Cossacks, would there?’

Margont had no appetite for talk, least of all for small talk. He was inspecting the lie of the land. In what direction would they be made to charge? Probably straight ahead. What could be seen from that forest of birch trees opposite him? Was there an easily defendable position that he could fall back to with his men if the attack went badly?