‘Got to get out of here, Captain. Things are going badly,’ someone declared in a tense voice.

‘Leave him. He’s already dead,’ another called out.

The soldier let go of his sleeve. The Russian officer straightened up by leaning on his elbows. Margont started to retreat again. He noticed Colonel Delarse at the edge of the wood and hurried towards him. Delarse was furious.

‘Those wretched Russians. They’re like swings: the further you push them away the faster they come back at you. Get your breath back, Captain Margont. You’re more asthmatic than I am.’

‘Colonel, where’s General Delzons? Where’s the Roussel Brigade? And the Sivray and Alméras Brigades?’

‘The whole handsome lot are on their way, Captain Margont.’

The reply was only for form’s sake because it was quite obvious that the colonel had no idea of what was happening.

Margont turned round and gazed at the French artillery at the other end of the plain. He peered at the groups of troopers and the comings and goings of the messengers. Somewhere over there was Prince Eugène and his general staff. Margont knew that his chances of survival depended on decisions being made there. Prince Eugène seemed as remote a figure as God and, at this moment, more powerful than the Almighty Himself. The Russians were still following on the heels of the Huard Brigade. Margont told himself that he had to keep on running, running to the other end of the plain, to the French artillery. That was where his own side was: batteries, fresh troops eager to fight it out, Eugène, Murat … Then he noticed Russian hussars galloping across the plain. The French were caught between a rock and a hard place.

Colonel Delarse urged his horse into a trot. He looped back and met up with Margont again after a brief but unsuccessful attempt to rally the fleeing band of soldiers.

‘Let’s go straight through them,’ he exclaimed, pointing at the troopers with his sabre.

It was at that moment that the hussars charged. The French infantrymen were too disorganised to form square, a formation that would have provided effective protection against cavalry. They immediately paid the price: the cavalrymen wove in and out of the scattered groups, encircled some and began slashing and hacking on all sides. Some hussars went at it furiously, as if intent on massacring the brigade single-handedly. Others were content merely to gallop towards a handful of men and fire pistol shots before tugging the reins and pulling away. This tactic bore fruit: groups harried in this way were slowed down considerably. The Russian infantry eventually caught up with them and slaughtered them. Margont heard the sound of a horse galloping behind him. His neighbour to the left collapsed whilst a hussar rode past with a blood-soaked sabre in his hand. Another hussar suddenly appeared from behind him. He stood up in his stirrups until he was almost fully erect, holding his sabre aloft. Margont brandished his sword above his head and managed to deflect the blow. The horse continued running and curtailed the engagement, and the two men escaped with only sore wrists. Another cavalryman, coming in from the right, pointed his sabre towards Margont and spurred his horse into a gallop. Margont faced up to him and stared at the blade he was to ward off. The hussar veered away at the last moment and gave up on him.

Margont turned round and saw the frightening spectacle of the green infantry arriving at the double, bristling with bayonets and now close to him. He raced once more towards his own lines. In turn a hussar spurred his horse on towards Margont. If Margont did not stop to face up to him, the cavalryman would kill him. And if he did stop, his opponent would ride off, like the previous one, leaving him in the hands of the infantry. Margont threw his sword to the ground like a panic-stricken deserter. This gesture convinced the hussar that he was being handed an easy victory and he did not turn his horse away. But at the last minute, Margont spun round. The Russian was standing up in his stirrups, flourishing his sabre. Margont leapt at him and clung on to his pelisse. As he leant to the side to deliver his blow, the hussar lost his balance and the two men fell. Margont immediately picked himself up and ran towards the horse as the hussar recovered from his concussion but not from his surprise. Margont mounted the animal and spurred it into a gallop, roaring with laughter.

He caught sight of Delarse grappling with three hussars, attracted like wasps to his honey-coloured braiding. Margont would have attempted to help him if he’d been armed. He had to make do with trying to find where the Russian hussars stowed their horse pistols. The colonel was amazing. Staying perfectly straight on his mount, he thrust his sabre into the side of the adversary to his right. He immediately withdrew the blade and swung round sharply to slash the face of the cavalryman attacking him on the left. The last Russian, who was further behind, trained his pistol at the colonel’s back. Darval, Delarse’s adjutant, who had himself just finished dealing with another hussar, brought his sabre down on the pelisse slung over the Russian’s left shoulder. This popular mode of dress protected the arm undefended by the sabre. The blade sliced through the garment, which softened the blow enough to prevent a serious wound. The hussar turned tail and fled.

Margont was stunned. He, who was always criticising his friends for judging people by appearances and having preconceptions, was now quite by accident being taught a lesson on the subject by Delarse! Margont had thought the colonel was at death’s door but he now had to admit that there was far more life in him than in those two hussars who had set upon him. He immediately restored Delarse to the status of possible suspect.

The situation remained critical: the Huard Brigade was pouring back to the French position in disarray. A captain galloped up to Margont and bombarded him with questions. Where was General Huard? What were the enemy forces? Margont did not reply. He was merely an empty shell, staring at a man who was gesticulating and raising his voice. The officer trotted away, shaking his head.

Russian and French soldiers were engaging in bayonet duels, shattering bodies with their musket butts, relentlessly shooting one another … The artillerymen, in their blue coats and trousers, were regrouping around their precious guns. A chaotic mêlée was taking place amidst swirling dust. The hussars had changed tactics. They were no longer harrying but charging and slashing at anything blue. Their dexterity was impressive. Margont noticed one galloping his way through. A horizontal sword-stroke to the right sent a gunner crashing to the ground, then a sideways stroke to the left made a soldier fall to his knees clutching his face, and a vertical stroke to the right sent a lieutenant toppling backwards … His horse shuddered and collapsed on to its hindquarters, like a dog sitting! Margont had never seen anything like it. The animal was bleeding profusely from its right flank.

Someone grabbed him by the arms and shook him frantically.

‘Captain, do something! Save us!’

It was the young soldier who had criticised him for not displaying his Légion d’Honneur. Tears were streaming down his face. He was talking incoherently. He ended by saying that they had to run away but, confused and distraught, he made straight for the Russians. A musketeer whirled his weapon about and brought it down on the nape of the boy’s neck, sending him to the ground. The Russian brandished his bayonet but Margont rushed at him and smashed straight into him, this time knocking him down. He picked up the musket and hammered his opponent with the butt.

‘Enough! Enough! Enough!’ he yelled as if he were the one being hit.

But he continued to strike him. When the Russian raised his arms to his face he gave him a blow to the stomach and when the Russian put his hands on his stomach he smashed his jaw or his ribs.