These facile words did not reassure the floods of refugees pouring into Paris from the north-east.
The streets were often clogged with long columns of prisoners. Parisians crowded round to reassure themselves. And they found that the Cossacks on foot, the limping dragoons, the starving Austrians and the Prussians in their tattered uniforms were indeed less frightening than had been imagined. The people offering the prisoners hunks of bread had to withdraw their hands quickly for fear of losing a finger, such was the avidity with which the soldiers fell on the food.
Margont found it difficult to get through the streets. Because he was an officer he was hailed on all sides, or grabbed by the arm. ‘Where is the Emperor?’ ‘Is it true that General Yorck’s Prussians have devastated Chateau-Thierry?’ ‘What’s the news? Tell us the
news!’ ‘Where are your soldiers?’ ‘How many Austrians are left after all their losses in the last few weeks?’ ‘It’s old Blücher we have to kill, he’s the most dangerous, we can manage all the others! ...’ Margont did not reply. He would not even have stopped had the crowd not pressed suffocatingly around him. These people wanted him to appease their fears, but frankly he had his own to deal with. When he considered the situation, he imagined the Empire as a giant ship taking on water and listing increasingly to one side.
He finally reached his barracks in the Palais-Royal quarter. The sentry on duty tried to present arms, but his rifle escaped his grasp and landed in the mud. A soldier only since yesterday — he’ll be dead tomorrow, thought Margont bitterly.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he called. ‘The important thing is to learn to fire it properly.’
The National Guard had inherited the old principles of the militia — they had to admit as many civilians as possible to their ranks and they were to help the regular army to defend the country if it was invaded.
In the courtyard, it was bedlam. Piquebois - who had just been made captain - was surrounded by his men and was being harangued by an officer of the Polish Krakus. The officer had been fired on by a soldier of the National Guard, who had taken him for a Russian and panicked. Since the Russian campaign, all the powers had taken it into their heads to have their own Cossacks. The King of Prussia now had a squadron of guard Cossacks. And Napoleon wanted to ‘cossackise’ French farmers by transforming them into impromptu troops operating on the edges of the enemy forces. He also had his Polish Krakus. They resembled their eponymous Russian counterparts, except for their headgear, which was a traditional, scarlet domed hat. Unfortunately, this detail was not sufficient to distinguish them from the Cossacks ... Margont hastily saluted his friend, who was offering profuse apologies to the Polish officer.
Sergeants shouted commands at the disorderly line of soldiers of the National Guard, in their navy jackets and bicornes with the red, white and blue cockade. Men in civilian dress and clogs were
also in the line, men who the day before had been labourers, millers, cobblers, carpenters, wig-makers, coppersmiths, shopkeepers, students, boatmen. The seasoned fighters were somewhere near Reims with the Emperor. All that were left in Paris were thousands of militia, the wounded, soldiers taken on the day before, conscripts who were too young, veterans who were too old but had been pressed back into service, and a few officers to try to whip that rabble into some semblance of an army. Plus the soldiers who were being punished by being transferred here ... At that thought, Margont ground his teeth.
Since 1798, he had served in the regular army. And now, instead of being with the Grande Armée helping to stave off the abominations of an invasion, he was here! Thanks to his friend Saber and his damnable talent for strategy! Saber had been a lieutenant at the beginning of the Russian campaign and now he was a colonel! Such a promotion, obtained in a very short time, solely on the basis of merit, was not just rare but unheard of. He had been a captain at the start of the German campaign of 1813, during which he had distinguished himself several times. Then he had been a major at the Battle of Dresden and had participated in Marshal Victor’s II Corps attack on the Austrian left flank, leading his battalion into a mad charge, holding back hordes of chasseurs deployed as skirmishers, overcoming and routing a series of Austrian units one by one and then pursuing the fleeing troops so that they crashed into the advancing enemy lines, throwing them into disarray. The enemy positions yielded one after another, collapsing like a line of dominoes. At one point Saber found himself at the head of the entire II Army Corps, which had earned him the nickname ‘Spearhead’. In January 1814 the miracle he had been waiting for had finally materialised: he was promoted to colonel and had obtained permission from his previous colonel to transfer his friends, if they agreed, to the regiment he was to command. So he had taken Margont, Piquebois and Lefine with him.
Since then, however, he had become puffed up with monstrous pride. He had hardly arrived before he was bombarding his brigade general with advice. He wanted to reorganise everything,
to promote some and demote others. The regimental regulations were unsatisfactory because of this, the cavalry were not up to standard because of that, they were not following the right routes, they were not aggressive enough, not warlike enough with the enemy, the food provisions were not worthy of the French army ... Realising that the general paid no attention to his advice, he declared him ‘an arrant incompetent and an imbecile’ and addressed himself instead to the general of the division, Duhesme. The latter found himself with a choice: if he kept Saber, all the other colonels and generals would ask to be transferred! It was him or the others
Duhesme got rid of Saber - or rather persuaded him to leave - by dispatching him to the National Guard of Paris, under the pretext that he was very good at training men. Marshal Moncey, who was second in command of the National Guard and was constantly begging for experienced officers to drill his multitude of militiamen, greeted him with open arms. So, in the end, Saber commanded his regiment for only thirty-five days. General Duhesme sent all Saber’s friends with him.
Margont wanted to cut quickly through the disorganised crowd, but his appearance caused a stir and soon he was surrounded. News! Everyone wanted news; he just wanted some breathing space.
‘I don’t have any information!’ he declared.
The guardsmen persisted. Yes, yes, of course he had information, he was a ... Actually, what was he? He had two colonel’s epaulettes, but bizarrely the silver braid was mixed with gold. His shako was also weird — there were two stripes at the top, one wide gold one and then one thin silver one. And his plume? In the infantry of the line, a colonel’s plume was white, and a major’s red. Margont’s was half red, half white. He must be a ‘half-colonel’ or a ‘major major’.
‘Make way for the lieutenant-colonel!’ boomed a captain. Lieutenant-colonel?What was that then? Where did that fit in? Margont beckoned over Lefine, who was explaining to the new recruits how to operate the 1777 model of rifle, modified in the year
9, and led him off to see Saber. The National Guard gloomily watched them go. Where was the Emperor? Were they winning the war or were they about to lose?
Colonel Saber was buried in his office. It looked like a library where a bomb had gone off. He was scribbling a letter whilst at the same time dictating two others to his adjutants. Although he was still friends with Margont, Lefine and Piquebois, his attitude towards them had altered since his dazzling promotion. He was so busy criticising those more highly ranked than he that he scarcely had time to look downwards. It was said that Marshal Moncey had almost choked on his coffee when he read the first missive Saber had penned to him. Fortunately for Saber, there was no one available to replace him. At that very moment Saber was writing a tenth letter to the marshal. Margont could not make out the subject but the handwriting spoke for itself: words running into each other through haste, paper tortured by the over-heavy pressure of the pen, a long list of indentations ...