‘Good. Where’s your knapsack gone?’

Lefine displayed a pair of dice and kissed them.

‘Voltigeur Denuse has been carrying it for me for the last fifteen days, then it’ll be Sergeant Petit’s turn. Unless they get themselves killed, which would be the sign of a bad loser.’

‘You’re always playing with words, and people and the rules. One day it’ll end in disaster.’

‘In any case, life always ends in disaster.’

Lefine pointed at his shoes. They were worn through. Not even a vagrant would have wanted them.

‘I’d be surprised if my soles lasted out until Moscow.’

‘As long as it’s only your shoes that get left behind on the plain.’

‘You really have the knack of restoring the morale of the troops, Captain. Have you stopped gathering up your stray sheep to set them back on the right path to Moscow?’

‘The shepherd’s tired,’ Margont sighed.

‘I understand. Apparently the Emperor wants to have all the marauders shot as an example, which is the same as telling one half of the army to execute the other.’

‘The worst thing is that it’s not even certain whether the right half would be doing the shooting.’

A cavalryman hurtled down a hill and spurred his horse into a gallop to catch up with the column. He looked splendid in his yellow dolman and gilded helmet with a black crest and white plume.

Saber went up to Margont. ‘Just look at him! Who does he think he is?’

‘What is he?’

‘A show-off.’

Margont tossed his head impatiently.

‘He’s a trumpeter from the Württemberg Mounted Chasseurs,’ a corporal decreed.

‘A trumpeter!’ Saber said angrily. ‘A trumpeter without a trumpet wearing a captain’s epaulettes?’

‘There are a few yellow jackets among the Neapolitans,’ said Lefine, suddenly remembering.

Saber shook his head. ‘Saxony Life Guards!’

‘Correct, Lieutenant!’ shouted a voice from the ranks.

The officer was getting closer. Seeing Margont and Saber, he turned in their direction. His lofty bearing and disdainful air immediately earned him the regiment’s hostility and Saber’s hatred.

‘Just because he’s dressed in yellow he needn’t think he’s a ray of sunshine,’ muttered Lefine.

The Saxon brought his horse to a halt in front of Piquebois. His cheeks and nose were red from sunburn. This colour contrasted with the limpid blue of his eyes, which resembled two small lakes in the middle of a face on fire.

‘Captain von Stils, from the Saxony Life Guards.’

Piquebois introduced himself and the Saxon carried on immediately, as if he did not really care who he was dealing with as long as they knew who he was.

‘I’m looking for Captain Margont. He’s serving in your regiment.’

‘You’ve knocked on the right door, Captain. Here he comes now.’

Margont and von Stils saluted each other. Von Stils seemed put out.

‘A corporal came to tell me on your behalf that Colonel Fidassio from the 3rd Italian of the Line owed you some money and has been slow to settle up.’

Margont wanted to give Lefine a hug.

‘Absolutely. But whenever I try to have a talk with Colonel Fidassio, Captain Nedroni, his adjutant, stands in the way.’

‘His adjutant stands in the way?’ the Saxon spluttered. ‘And my letters are never answered!’

‘Since I’d heard that Colonel Fidassio was also in debt to you I thought that a joint approach might be more … profitable.’

‘I’m delighted to accept. If you’re available, let’s solve this problem straight away.’

Margont agreed and made his horse do an about-turn.

‘The Italians are to the rear.’

‘Even further to the rear? For almost the last hour I’ve been going up and down your army corps in search of the Pino Division and people keep telling me to go and look further to the rear. Are these Italians of yours still in Rome?’

Saber asked to accompany them. Margont agreed reluctantly. The plain, which stretched out as far as the eye could see, nevertheless seemed too narrow to him for two such large egos.

The riders were advancing at walking pace. They came across some stragglers who speeded up when they knew they were being watched, sleeping infantrymen and marauders. Von Stils looked them up and down contemptuously until they bowed their heads. A soldier from the 8th Light, his chest crisscrossed with two strings of sausages, saluted the three officers.

‘Looters do not salute!’ thundered the Saxon.

Margont, watching the feast move off, was practically drooling.

‘You speak good French,’ he declared to von Stils in an attempt to get to know him better.

‘It’s easy. French is a shallow and simplistic language.’

Margont refrained from retorting that it was minds not languages that were shallow and simplistic. They continued their journey in silence. Margont gazed at the plain. This unbelievable expanse of greenery was too great not only for the eye but also for the mind itself to take in. How could any country be so vast? It had swallowed up an army consisting of four hundred thousand men like a giant might have swallowed a chickpea. Saber grabbed his gourd and took a good swig of water. Margont did likewise but the tepid water hardly slaked his thirst. He noticed that von Stils was not drinking although his lips were cracked and the heat stifling. If the Saxon thought that this made him in some way superior, he had obviously not realised that the sun would always win in the end.

‘Were you at Jena?’ he asked out of the blue.

Margont shook his head. ‘We were at Auerstädt.’

‘It’s the same thing, isn’t it? The same day, two battles between the French and the Prussians allied with the Saxons and the same result: a complete victory for the French. Whether we were at Jena or Auerstädt in Prussia, each year we mourn the 14 October. I was at Jena, the Beviloqua Regiment, the von Dyhern Brigade, the von Zeschwitz 1st Saxon Infantry Division. You crushed us, slaughtered and decimated us … No, you did even worse than that.’ He gave a sad smile and added: ‘You said I spoke your language well but I still can’t find the right word to describe what you inflicted on us.’

‘Flattened,’ Saber kindly suggested.

Von Stils suddenly turned towards him. Margont noted that the Saxon exercised far better control over his thirst than over his anger, whereas with him it was the opposite.

‘You flattened us,’ the Saxon continued, emphasising the word. ‘Everything happened so fast … How can a war be lost so quickly? Do you play chess?’

‘Not very often but one of my acquaintances does,’ Margont replied.

‘Well, it was exactly like fool’s mate. The game has only just begun when your opponent tells you it’s checkmate. We were defeated, humiliated and sickened. I remember envying my comrades who’d been killed. To forget this disaster, I had myself assigned to the cavalry. I left the woman I loved, stopped seeing my friends, gave up my law studies, changed my haircut and moved house … It was as if everything belonging to the past was cursed. In fact, when all’s said and done, perhaps I really did die at Jena. Poor Louisa, she never understood. In a word, on this road from Paris to Moscow I feel I am moving in the wrong direction. I’m told to shout, “Long live the Emperor!” when I’d like to yell, “Fire for all you are worth!” The game of political alliances really is too sophisticated for my sense of patriotism. But I shall obey orders and fight bravely. And like my King, I pray that Napoleon will throw us a few crumbs of territory at the end of his Russian feast. However, you will excuse me if I’m not the most cheerful of companions. My legendary good humour has been … flattened.’

Margont forgave von Stils his haughty air. It was his way of keeping up appearances. They met a score of Polish lancers who were escorting Russian prisoners. Von Stils gave the Russians a pitying look. It was as if he were one of them.