Marianne, a pistol thrust through her belt, walked behind Beyle, with Barbe at her heels. She was praying with all her heart, convinced that death was going to strike at any moment.
The silence in the forest was oppressive. The wheels of the wagons had been greased during the night and the horses' hooves muffled with cloths. In the thick fog they might indeed have been a procession of spirits moving endlessly through a ghostly world. The mist was so thick that it was impossible to see more than three paces ahead. As Beyle said, it could be a gift from heaven.
Mourier had vanished. He was now at the head of the column with Van Caulaert, guiding them all. The minutes crept by slowly, one by one, and each, to Marianne, seemed like a miracle. Keeping her eyes fixed on Beyle's back, she followed him blindly, her mind concentrating on all those whom she would probably never see again… her beautiful baby boy… Corrado, so noble and generous and yet so sad… her dear Jolival… young Gracchus with his mop of red hair… Adelaide, in Paris, who had probably given her up for dead long ago… The thought of Paris made her smile. Here in the midst of this wild, dangerous forest, in the choking mist, it seemed impossible that there could really be such a place as Paris… Suddenly, she had a desperate longing to see Paris again. She thought of Jason, too, but, oddly, her mind refused to dwell on him. It was as if he had chosen deliberately to leave her and she did not want to mar her last moments with thinking of him. In the end, she made up her mind to give those minutes to Sebastiano and she clung to that with a desperate intensity of love and tenderness that she had never felt before. At least her useless life would have served some purpose if it had produced that fine boy to be the heir of a great name.
Between her prayers and these bitter thoughts, she ceased to notice the passage of time. Only after they had been marching for four hours and the mist parted suddenly as they came to the end of the forest did she realize that the danger was past. The convoy was now in an open plain, empty except for an occasional dump of trees. They had made it! A great shout of joy went up from every throat. Beyle turned round and Marianne saw that he was as white as a sheet and his lower jaw was quivering uncontrollably, but he was smiling.
'It seems it wasn't to be this time, after all,' he said simply. She smiled back at him.
'It's a miracle! I can't believe it!'
'Perhaps it is. Let's hope we have a few more miracles between here and Smolensk. This time, the enemy can't have thought us worth pursuing.'
Certainly they were not seen again. They went on for two more days and saw nothing of them. But another problem arose, which was the lack of food. They had brought from Moscow only sufficient for a ten days' march, for no one could have imagined that the journey would take so long. In addition, the weather became much worse. Snow began to fall, thickly and continuously, hindering their progress. They had to slaughter some of the horses, partly because there was no fodder for them and partly to feed the men. Every night it was a little harder to find shelter and each morning, when they broke camp, they found a few men missing. Men who had gone looking for food in the unharvested fields or ruined villages about.
One night a few cossacks attacked them. Uttering their shrill war-cries, they charged like thunderbolts at the rearguard, transfixed several men with their lances and then disappeared as quickly as they had come. The dead were buried and fear crept slowly and insidiously into the hearts of the weakening convoy.
Ignoring all Mourier's efforts to persuade her, Marianne steadfastly refused to take a place in one of the wagons reserved for the wounded, although he was much distressed by her pinched cheeks. With Beyle on one side of her and Barbe, as tireless as a machine, on the other, she marched on with blistered feet, gritting her teeth and trying not to listen to the groans and screams of the most severely injured men. And always there was the same lowering, yellowish-grey sky with, now and then, a flight of black birds like a presage of misfortune.
Beyle did his best to cheer her and the men. He was always saying that Smolensk was not far now, that they would be safe there and find everything they needed. The wounded would be fed and cared for. They need only be brave a little longer.
'I may reach Smolensk,' Marianne told him one evening when they had managed to find shelter in a huge barn that was still standing, 'but I shall never see Paris again. I can't. It's too far. There's the cold and the snow – and the country's so vast! I shall never do it.'
'Then you had better spend the winter in Smolensk with me. The Emperor will be at Kaluga, so you will have nothing to fear. In the spring, as soon as it is possible, you can resume your journey.'
Weary and depressed after a painful day's march, in the course of which they had suffered another attack by cossacks, Marianne shrugged.
'How can you be sure the Emperor will stay at Kaluga? You know as well as I do that he wants to be nearer to Poland. If he winters in Russia at all, it will be at Smolensk or Vitebsk. Kaluga is nearly as far from the Niemen as Moscow itself. Sooner or later we shall see him come. So I must go on, and the sooner the better if I want to avoid the worst of the winter.'
'Very well, then, you shall go on. After all, this convoy is bound for Poland. Why should you not stay with it? I'll ask Mourier to take care of you.'
'Upon what pretext? Everyone thinks I'm your secretary – all except Mourier and he thinks I'm your mistress. What would they say if we were to part company?'
'You might be ill, unable to endure the climate, frightened of the snow – or something of that sort. Our gallant general is more than half in love with you already. He'd be delighted to be rid of me.'
'That is precisely what I wish to avoid,' Marianne answered uncommunicatively. She had not been unaware of the alteration in Mourier's feelings towards her and she did not like it, for she was not at all attracted to him. She had found him an annoyance from the beginning but she had come to regret the bluff, soldierly manners and the coarse pleasantries because now he had taken to hovering close to her at every possible opportunity, especially when there was no one else at hand. Consciously or unconsciously, he had begun to treat the supposed secretary with something perilously close to gallantry, stroking her hand furtively whenever it came within reach and trying to slip his arm round her waist when an alarm obliged them to stand close together. His barrack-room jokes had at least had the advantage of making the men laugh and so helping to lull their suspicions. Now, whenever they were together, men followed them with their eyes, wondering…
More than once, already, Marianne had warned him tactfully. He would apologize and promise to take more care but almost at once the glowing look would be back in his eyes and, to an attentive observer, it looked odd to say the least. No, it was quite simply impossible for her to continue the journey under those conditions, and especially without Beyle! Marianne felt that she would a hundred times rather go on alone and on foot than have to defend herself against continual pressure to which, sooner or later, she would be bound to yield.
Barbe had listened to the conversation with Beyle but she said nothing then. That night, however, she watched until she saw Marianne turn away to go to the fire and then came up to her.
'Don't worry,' she whispered. 'I'll think of something else. I don't want to go on like this either.'
'Why not, Barbe? Is something troubling you?'
Barbe's broad shoulders were seen to shrug under her mass of shawls.
'I'm the only woman in this convoy,' she said shortly, 'and I've no intention of going back to my old ways.'
'Then what do you suggest?'