Marianne said nothing. The behaviour of men in general and of Napoleon in particular was becoming increasingly alien and incomprehensible to her. Hadn't he told her that he was not a man to leave ruins behind him? Apparently he had changed his mind again. Those changes of mind were happening more and more often, and with less and less reason. But after all, who could say what his feelings towards herself might be when, if God willed it so, they met again in Paris?
The journey dragged on for eighteen long days and very rapidly became a nightmare. The weather turned wet and freezing cold and this had its effect on the tempers of the sick men. All day long it was nothing but quarrelling, cursing and abuse; flying back and forth between the wagons which were continually having to be manhandled out of ruts or across streams, with or without fords, where the bridges had been broken down. Each time it meant another three or even four hours' wasted time.
A little way short of Mojaisk, they passed a camp of Russian prisoners. Hideous yells came from it, with a stench of rotting cabbage and other decaying matter. Marianne was appalled and shut her eyes tightly so as not to see the bearded, demoniacal faces pressed to the fence, pouring out a stream of filth which she, mercifully, could not understand but which had Barbe crossing herself almost continuously.
At Mojaisk itself, where the Westphalian troops of the Eighth Corps, under the Duke of Abrantes, were encamped, they found the main ambulance unit and took on a fresh batch of wounded, many of them with amputated limbs. Junot had succeeded in getting together a number of vehicles, peasant carts for the most part, but they were not nearly enough and the wagons that had come from Moscow were more crowded even than before. The sky was grey and the men's spirits no brighter.
The crossing of the battlefield of Borodino and its village was another ordeal. Even Beyle's habitual pose of elegant, slightly cynical scepticism deserted him at the sight that met the travellers' eyes and he sat staring speechlessly. For all the dead of that great battle were still lying where they fell. No effort had been made to bury them. The field was thick with them. Only the frost, covering them with a thin coat of rime, had arrested the processes of decomposition sufficiently to make them still recognizable. Everywhere lay the bodies of horses, half-eaten by dogs and carrion birds, and all round them the remains of drums, helmets, breastplates and weapons, while the fat, black crows were all about. In spite of the cold, the smell was abominable.
But while Marianne, half-fainting, muttered prayers under her breath and Beyle, stiff with revulsion, held a pouch of tobacco to his nose, the wounded with the convoy seemed to revive at the sight. They forgot their troubles, their disputes and bad tempers and pointed out to one another with pride the places where they had fought, recalling great feats of arms and acts of heroism and the fierce scent of victory. Some were pointing out the cottage that had served as General Kutuzov's headquarters, others gazing at the celebrated redoubt which brooded over the tragic landscape like some Aztec temple.
'They must be mad,' Marianne murmured incredulously. 'It's not possible! They must be mad!'
A great roar of laughter answered her.
"No, lad! They're not mad. But what can a green youth like you know of soldiers? All of us here have toiled and suffered on this field. It's true that there are plenty of our own good fellows lying there, but there are many more Russians. It was a great day and a great victory, and it made Ney a prince!'
The man who had spoken was one of the two occupants of the carriage ahead of theirs. He was a big, splendidly bewhiskered fellow, with a general officer's greatcoat slung negligently over an empty sleeve. The legion of honour glowed on his breast and a long scar, still not quite healed, ran down one cheek and vanished under his high, braided collar. He was eyeing Marianne as if he could cheerfully have hacked her in pieces there and then. Beyle deemed it prudent to come to her rescue.
'Come now, General,' he said laughing, 'don't be too hard on my young secretary here! He's Italian and his French is not good. Besides, he's only seventeen.'
'I was already a subaltern at his age! The boy should be capable of sitting a horse and handling a sabre, for all his girlish features and those great staring eyes of his. I'll remind you of what poor Lassalle said, that a hussar who's not dead at thirty isn't worth his salt!'
"That's as may be. Anyone who gave this lad a sabre would be taking a lot on himself. He's as blind as a bat! Put on your spectacles, Fabrice,' he added in Italian. "You know you can't see a thing without them.'
Angry and annoyed, Marianne obeyed. She found herself hating the arrogant officer who was watching her with such open contempt. Indeed, it cost her a considerable effort to refrain from telling him just what she thought of him and his like. To them, a battlefield, even one covered with dead men, was, if not precisely paradise, at least a very special place. It was the gigantic board on which they played out their favourite game, the heady sport of war. They did not care if they left various portions of their anatomy on the field, what mattered to them was the game itself, its frenzy, its intoxication and its dreadful glory. And to the devil with the cost!
When the convoy moved on again and the general had got back into his own vehicle, Marianne tore off the spectacles, which were making her nose sore, and vented her rage on her companion.
'Who is that bloodthirsty imbecile? Do you know him?'
'Yes, of course. He is General the Baron Pierre Mourier, commanding the 9th brigade of cavalry of the 3rd Corps, which is Ney's own. He was wounded on this very field. Nor, let me add, is he in the least imbecile. He merely said what any experienced soldier would have said at the sight of a good-looking young man with nothing apparently wrong with him and all his limbs intact, sitting comfortably in a well-sprung carriage.'
'Oh. Well, you need not go on about it. It was not my idea to dress as a man.'
'No, it was mine. It was the only way you would be acceptable in a military convoy.'
'What about Barbe, then?'
'She is my servant. I said she was my cook. Come now, Marianne, try to keep your spirits up in spite of everything. You are likely to encounter many more incidents of the same kind. It is simply one of the necessary evils of your disguise. Be patient. And you may tell yourself, if it's any comfort to you, that the general thinks much the same of me. He doesn't think much of an auditor of the Council of State, especially one my age. He'd call me a shirker. Just keep your mind on playing your part properly and we'll be all right.'
Marianne glared at him but he had already ceased to pay much attention to her. He had taken a small book, elegantly bound in brown calf from his pocket and plunged into it with such evident enjoyment that Marianne could not resist the urge to disturb him a little.
'What are you reading?' she asked.
'Madame du Deffand's letters,' he said, without taking his eyes from the page. 'She was blind but so intelligent! Far too intelligent ever to interrupt someone else's concentration.'
There was no mistaking his meaning and Marianne subsided indignantly rather than engage in further argument. She flung herself back sulkily into her corner and did her best to sleep.
Progressing at the rate of three or four leagues a day, the journey became depressingly monotonous. The cold set in so bitterly that Beyle and Marianne formed the habit of walking a little way each day to stretch their legs and to ease the horses. The road was broad and quite good, winding in a serpentine fashion through thick forests of dark fires and pale birches. It was all up and down and in the early stages some of the more heavily laden wagons had to be pushed very often. In all this time, they did not see a living soul. Such villages as they came across were deserted and more than half ruined.