flinging of a pack of French dogs into a Russian game of skittles. The French, encouraged by the miraculous success of their efforts, rampaged through the Russians, pressing them ever further back. The French combatants were mad with fury. They felt invincible, immortal. Although they were being cut down by bullets and bayonet thrusts, they succeeded in crossing through the enemy lines, which immediately closed up behind them.
Margont, Piquebois and Lefine were among those who escaped and made for Paris. At the very top of the hill, meanwhile, the Russians were massacring the last remaining gunners. Margont was crying: Saber was not with them.
One of Marmont’s aides-de-camp had tried to reach the summit ofMontmartre to find out if Joseph had left someone in command of its defence.
Fie was unable to fulfil his mission because Langeron had launched his attack. But he was there during the last few minutes of the resistance of Montmartre and Saber’s charge. He returned to present his report to Marshal Marmont.
‘That’s extraordinary!’ Marmont exclaimed. 'King Joseph is supposed to be in command of us all, but he’s left! And it’s a colonel who’s distinguishing himself instead! What’s the name of this colonel?’
‘He’s Colonel Saber of the 2nd Legion, Your Excellency.’
‘I want the Emperor notified that I would respectfully ask that this colonel be promoted to the rank of general. He has succeeded in causing the accursed Langeron a lot of trouble with the help of only a handful of men!’
‘But ... Your Excellency ... the colonel is dead. I saw him fall with my own eyes.’
The marshal’s face hardened. ‘That changes nothing. He is to be made a general posthumously.’
The regiments of the Army of Silesia, the Russian Guard and the
Prussian Guard finally managed to seize the heights of Chaumont. There were so many Prussians there that all along the slopes and heights their blue forms could be seen like so many ants. It was like a flood submerging the grassy heights, about to spill over and engulf the capital below.
These troops overwhelmed Marshal Marmont’s men from the rear, forcing them to withdraw to Belleville, and then hurried to set up their batteries of cannons and twelve-pounders. When they opened fire their shots battered the city of Paris itself.
The room was tiny, perched right at the top of an old house. Its walls and beams were covered with dozens of paintings, shunted together, their frames touching. There were depictions of naval battles with ships on fire sinking into the waves, the Great Fire of London in 1666, a forest fire, setting suns that seemed to set the sky ablaze ... It was a display of scarlets, oranges, vibrant yellows and other fiery hues, amidst expanses of sooty black, making it seem as if the room were permanently on fire.
Varencourt was standing facing the only window, watching the distant battle and counting the plumes of smoke. He distinctly saw black shapes crossing the sky and falling on the houses. In most cases, he didn’t witness any impact but from time to time a projectile struck the roof of a building at full tilt, spraying up debris, or clipped a corner, sending a wall crashing down, releasing clouds of dust. As he watched, a house burst apart, and another shell knocked a roof into the air. The detonations merged into one another, eventually making one continuous crackling. Now buildings were falling on all sides. A plume of black smoke over there -the first fire! Then somewhere else a building collapsed, burying an entire street. Debris showered over north-west Paris and the columns of smoke accumulated. Varencourt took a flask of vodka that he had bought in the ruins of Moscow after the French had left. He had never tasted it, keeping it instead for this very occasion. He poured himself a glass and drank a toast to the cannonballs destroying Paris. As the spirit slipped down his throat he felt as if he were swallowing the fire of Moscow.
Napoleon was still advancing. He was accompanied now only by those closest to him and about a hundred cavalry. All he wanted now was to reach Paris and take command of the defence of the city.
In the end the entire French front simply folded under the weight of the enemy. The heights were lost and the exterior defences overwhelmed, and still there was no sign of the Emperor. At four o’clock Marshal Marmont, who was wounded in the arm and had narrowly avoided capture, sent three officers to the enemy vanguards to ask for a suspension of hostilities.
The Allies had lost nine thousand men, either injured or killed, and the French, four thousand.
The silence was eerie. The soldiers’ ears still rang with the cacophony of combat, as if they could not believe that calm had returned. The silence spoke to Catherine de Saltonges, huddled in a torpor in the corner of her cell. It was murmuring something to her: the Allies had won. But she herself had lost everything. Almost everything. She still had her pride! In spite of the torment her ex-husband had put her through, in spite of the hardships of the Revolution, of her inability to keep her lover in her arms, the loss of her child, yes, in spite of all that, nothing would ever succeed in breaking her spirit.
She stood up, walked over to the door and began to beat on it with the flat of her hand and called out to her gaolers, This is it, Messieurs. It’s time for us to change places.’
CHAPTER 44
AFTER several hours of negotiation, the capitulation of Paris was signed.
The regular troops of the French army had been authorised to withdraw and they were to leave Paris by seven o’clock the next morning. The National Guard, on the other hand, was pronounced to be ‘in a totally different category from the troops of the line’. The text of the capitulation specified that ‘... it would be maintained, disarmed or discharged, according to the will of the Allies’. These orders circulated and Margont was alarmed when they reached him. Paris was going to be occupied and he was specifically forbidden to go with the retreating army. He was to wait for the Allies in the capital and report to them. He was worried that he would be thrown in gaol. On the other hand, if he disobeyed orders and followed the French army, he would be arrested anyway. ‘We’ll just have to discharge ourselves! I’d rather remove myself than wait to be forcibly removed by others,’ declared Lefine.
He took Margont and Piquebois round to his lady-friend’s house. It was dark. A woman opened the door. Margont was so exhausted and demoralised that he felt completely drained. The only things he took in about the woman were her striking face and the fact that her eyes were red from weeping. She burst into tears as she took Lefine in her arms. Margont stretched himself out on the floor and fell asleep instantly.
On the morning of 31 March, Margont, Lefine and Piquebois took the time to wash thoroughly to remove all traces of the gunpowder they were covered in. Lefine’s friend was a widow. They borrowed her husband’s clothes in order to pass themselves off as civilians. ‘We have to find Varencourt,’ Margont stated. ‘I’m sure he’s still in Paris.’
Lefine knew Margont much too well to be surprised by his proposal. He knew that his friend needed this investigation. But he was torn between his desire to help Margont and his desire to stay and protect his lady-friend, in case any enemy mercenaries should
show up. They finally agreed that Piquebois would stay with her and they would barricade themselves in. Piquebois was a formidable swordsman and woe betide anyone who provoked him to unleash his sabre!
Margont and Lefine left. They had stuffed their uniforms into two bags, which they abandoned a few streets away in the heart of the Marais, in a dark corner. They were unarmed, having given their weapons the day before to the retreating regular army. Piquebois, however, had kept his sabre, which he refused to be parted from, and a pistol.
Margont tried to work out what he would do if he were Varencourt. Would he wait in Paris? Would he try to profit from the general chaos to get close to Napoleon? Where would Napoleon be, and had he been warned about the proposed attempt on his life?