The Russians were falling, slipping, tripping over one another and killing each other. Their corpses littered the slope. But they were
persevering. Their sappers were attacking the palisades with axes, their infantry giving their comrades a leg up over the sides. All that separated them from Margont were some posts and earth bulwarks. He could not believe his eyes. The enemy were blithely approaching the mouths of the French cannons pointing out of the portholes. How could they do that, knowing the batteries were about to fire? They took aim at the artillerymen, picked off one here, wounded another there ... Finally the cannons fired, belching forth a hail of cannonballs that massacred everyone. There was a moment of hesitation as the smoke cleared, revealing a gaping hole in the Russian ranks. Then the enemy converged anew, closing up the gaps and resumed felling the sides of the palisades. Some Russian riflemen succeeded in heaving themselves onto the top of the palisades, but were cut down immediately. Margont called over a group of firemen and guardsmen, only to see them torn apart in front of his eyes. Some other Russians had got hold of one of the French cannons and turned it on their enemy, even though in doing so they sprayed as many of their compatriots with fire as they did French soldiers. The cannon was already being reloaded by the Russians. Margont threw himself forward to reclaim it. He thought the soldiers that went with him were helping him, but in fact they were fleeing another breach, unaware that they were throwing themselves at further danger. There were only a handful of Russians manoeuvring the cannon. They continued to load the cannon instead of defending themselves; they let themselves be massacred. There were only two of them left. One of them protected his companion by standing in front of him, and was mown down by three musket balls. The other fired off a shot before collapsing, mortally wounded. Margont threw himself to the ground just in time, sheltering behind the corpses. A hail of shot pulverised everyone around him. When the smoke had cleared it seemed as if the entire world had perished, as if he were the only survivor.
He spotted Saber addressing his soldiers. There were Lefine and Piquebois too. He hurried towards his friend. ‘We’ll have to fall back ... But where to?’ he demanded.
Saber looked at him, not seeming to recognise him, and retorted: ‘I will never give up! If there’s only one man left standing it will be me! I will be the last Parisian!’
He brandished his sabre in the direction of Paris.
‘Counterattack with bayonets!’
‘You’re mad, Irenee! We’re surrounded! We’ve lost! Look around you! There is no one left, everyone is dead!’
‘The dead are coming with me!’ he yelled.
And he dashed forward, straight at the Russians, who were cutting off their escape route. He ran down the slope towards Paris, followed by about forty defenders, charging with their bayonets at the ready. Piquebois was amongst them, brandishing his sabre that seemed to promise death to anyone who tried to stand in his way. ‘Counterattack!’ yelled Margont in his turn, throwing himself into the turmoil, followed by Lefine. It was impossible to stay still; either they had to move up the hill or go down and Margont had just had a kind of premonition. Up there at the foot of one of the Montmartre windmills - maybe even at the same spot where he had lain daydreaming the other day - his tomb awaited him. He preferred to throw himself into the jaws of death rather than to wait for it to catch him.
The rank and file had no idea what to do in the midst of the collapse. Whenever they saw a colonel, a lieutenant-colonel, a captain or other foot soldiers attacking the Russians they imitated them, hoping that those officers would guide them to their salvation.
Up until that point, the Russians had been the assailants, and they were very surprised to see the French charging desperately down the slope straight at them and slicing down anyone in their path. The Russians behind those felled in this way were flung backwards. They retreated, not because they wanted to, but because they were being shoved back by this group of mad Frenchmen, who were swept along on a wave of incredible determination. They were slipping and losing their footing, stumbling and rolling over, but nevertheless these men knocked into the enemy, destabilising them in their turn. The slope was so steep it was very difficult to stay upright. This was not so much a counterattack as the frenetic
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