Margont nodded. The air entered Delarse’s lungs easily but then became trapped inside. Breathing out was slow and painful.

‘I’m not afraid. I have two mothers, my own mother and death. Both nurtured me as a child, both cradled me in their arms, both think of me constantly and both occupy my thoughts too much. I write this because my mother was so possessive that sometimes she was more stifling than my asthma. I tried everything to fight death: to deny its existence, to despise it, to plead with it, to taunt it … In combat I ran every possible risk as if to say to it: “Come on, come and get me! Do what you should have done long ago!” Sometimes I would even think that the fact of my still being alive was one of the many small things that were wrong with the world and that I should put it right. Sometimes, contrarily, I would expose myself to enemy fire to prove I was immortal.’

The pencil moved across the sheets of paper with surprising speed and no sooner had Delarse covered one with writing than he let it drop to the floor and started on the next. It was true that time was short …

‘One day I understood that by behaving like this I was merely re-enacting my childhood. Because even when I was well I needed to dice with death by playing silly games: jumping from tall trees, swimming as far as I possibly could … Anyway, the fact is that after every battle, once the danger was over and my concentration wandered, I was always surprised that I was still alive. One step forwards, two steps backwards. What cruel game was death playing with me?’

Delarse had become so emotional in writing these lines that his breathing quickened and became even wheezier, and his writing more untidy.

‘While thousands of soldiers were covering themselves in eternal glory at Austerlitz, I was choking at an inn. That says it all, doesn’t it? As an adolescent I read the biographies of Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar. Both suffered from epilepsy and I thought that my asthma would not count against me any more than their fits did against them. It looks as if I was wrong. But you must be wondering why I’m telling you all this. Well, your colonel told me that you were keeping a journal about this campaign. Is that correct?’

‘Absolutely, Colonel. But I didn’t realise that Colonel Pégot knew about it.’

Delarse’s face lit up. ‘So you’re writing your memoirs, are you?’

‘For the time being my plan is to launch a newspaper. Amongst other things, I shall recount the Russian campaign.’

‘Censorship will turn it into a walk in the country!’

‘In that case, instead of cutting out the censored passages, I’ll cover them in ink and people will go and protest beneath the windows of the prefect, brandishing the black pages.’

Delarse smiled. He did not have enough breath to laugh.

‘On a more serious note, Colonel, I shall point out to my readers that it’s an “official” version of the campaign. Then, as soon as I can, I’ll publish the real version, in the form of articles, memoirs and first-hand accounts.’

‘That’s why I sent for you. I hope you will tell people who Colonel Delarse was. I have struggled to ensure that my life amounted to more than just my asthma. I do not want to be remembered as “the asthmatic colonel the Russians didn’t even have to kill themselves”. And then there’s the general staff! They look at me in the pitying and frustrated manner of those watching a man die whilst implicitly criticising him for not cutting short this moment which is “painful to all concerned”. Change that! Say what I did for the brigade. Talk about the Great Redoubt! Tell people that I lived life to the full, that I did great things, even though I was haunted by death.’

‘I shall do so. Is there anything else they should know about you, Colonel?’

Delarse looked at him wearily. It was difficult to read his expression. Margont wanted to repeat his question but the colonel’s new adjutant was already ushering in the next visitor. The fellow had taken it upon himself, given the circumstances, to speed things up.

*

That same evening Margont had to move once more because his quarters had been requisitioned by the Pino Division. He refused to set himself up in the house allocated to him.

‘Too inflammable for my liking,’ he declared, patting the wooden walls with the flat of his hand.

He discovered that Saber, almost as soon as he had been promoted, had pulled rank to take possession of a Moscow palace, driving out some Neapolitans who had angrily sworn to come back with King Murat in person.

The building was vast. It was big enough to accommodate what was left of the 2nd Battalion of the 84th. It had only one storey but it boasted twenty French windows, with windows just as big above. The entrance was so high and so wide that a trooper could have passed through it without having to dismount. Above it was a triangular pediment. Two elegant covered walkways branched out from the central part. Unfortunately, this semicircular construction led only to piles of ashes, so that the palace resembled a bull whose horns had been amputated. The building had been white but was now covered with black soot, in mourning for Moscow.

Margont climbed the steps leading to the entrance and turned round to survey the view of the garden. The rows of trees, the trimmed hedges, the pond, the colonnade surrounding a statue of Diana, the classical pavilion, the orchard: all that would have looked splendid were it not for the bodies that hung, swaying in the wind, from the branches of the fir trees and lampposts in the avenue.

‘They’re fire-raisers, Captain,’ explained a fusilier, sitting astride the banister while polishing his weapon.

Margont did not rebuke him for failing to salute. This one was not disguised as an Orthodox priest, had not blessed him, was not drunk and was busy with his musket. That was already quite something. In the entrance hall a voltigeur let out a yell on seeing him. He had been assured that a Russian hussar had sliced Margont’s head off at the Moskva. He fell down on his backside with shock, and immediately helped himself to another ladleful of punch from a large bowl. Margont, who strongly disliked seeing drunken men with muskets in their hands, grabbed hold of the bowl and angrily overturned it. The punch spread out in a sweet-smelling pool of vanilla, lemon and cinnamon. The voltigeur raised his arms in protest.

‘Steady on there, Captain!’

He took out a worn handkerchief and started to soak up the alcohol with it before wringing it out over the container. There would be no problem finding scores of men wanting to drink it.

On the first floor, Margont came across a note pinned with a dagger to a rosewood door: ‘Strictly reserved for Captain Saber, Captain Margont and Lieutenant Piquebois.’ The room was long and narrow. Its walls, hung with red velvet, and its brown, carved ceiling added to its solemnity. A double row of candelabra provided the lighting but, for fear of fire, only a few candles had been lit. At the end of this corridor of darkness, in a pool of light, Lefine was sitting on a throne acting like the Tsar of all the Russias.

A corporal, bowing respectfully, was listening to him as he declared majestically: ‘I dub you Knight of the Order of St Andrew, General of the Hussars of the Guard, Count of Smolensk and Prince of Siberia.’

‘Oh, yes? Prince of Siberia, is it?’ exclaimed Margont as he rushed forward to launch a palace revolution.

Lefine, who had celebrated Moscow by drinking punch, pointed at Margont and exclaimed: ‘General, arrest this impudent fellow and send him to the salt mines!’

The newly promoted Prince of Siberia preferred to slip away discreetly while Margont grabbed Lefine by the collar.

‘Well, what a sorry situation! You bestow all these honours on someone but as soon as the tide turns he just drops you.’