As for Colonel Pirgnon, he seemed very elusive. He was only rarely to be found with his regiment. Sometimes he would accompany a detachment out foraging for food; sometimes he would engage in conversation with the chief physician or with the person in charge of fodder; sometimes he would go off on a reconnaissance mission or gallop around on a horse taken from a Cossack to try to break it in. Margont had not managed to catch sight of him even once.
Lefine had recruited some men he could trust and the four suspects – four because Lefine, unlike Margont, considered that Delarse should not be ruled out – were watched discreetly day and night. Except for Pirgnon, who was followed whenever possible.
Time went by agonisingly slowly. Until 26 July.
On the morning of 26 July, IV Corps was in a state of feverish excitement. The Russians were there! Was it true? Or was it just a false rumour? No! The previous day the 1st Light Division of the 1st Reserve Cavalry Corps had engaged with the enemy in a serious skirmish. As was his custom, Marshal Murat, who was in command of this corps, had led a charge and wrought havoc. But the Russians were still there.
Prince Eugène was deploying his troops. An assault seemed imminent. Margont was waiting patiently at his position, in the Huard Brigade. This brigade belonged to the Delzons Division and, since this division was the spearhead of IV Corps, it would be in the front line of the attack. Like most of the officers and soldiers, Margont was completely unaware of the situation. He did not know if he was going to charge ten thousand Russians, fifty thousand, a hundred thousand … or three hundred thousand. Many of the combatants had come to terms with their ignorance of what was really at stake in the fighting, but not Margont. No, not knowing anything was exasperating for someone like him, who was so eager for knowledge of even the most useless kind (although for him it was impossible for any knowledge to be useless). So he did his best to make judgements from what he could observe.
Prince Eugène was prancing about from one end of his army to the other, followed by his flamboyant retinue of aides-de-camp, orderlies and generals. Everywhere troops were taking up position. The 8th Hussars, in their green pelisses, red breeches and shakos, had massed further ahead in the plain, in two lines. The Delzons Division was on the move – a long and broad column, dark blue and white in colour, topped by a forest of bayonets that glinted in the sunlight. Several regiments followed, wondering which of them would enter the combat and which would be held in reserve. The artillerymen were busy positioning their guns, crowding together to push a cannon or unloading munitions from the wagons. Elsewhere, squadrons of chasseurs were lining up, and regiments in column formation were hurrying forward. In the front line, skirmishers standing a few paces apart were taking shots at the Russians. The battlefield consisted of slopes, some of which were wooded, which meant that the Russians could not be seen. Only plumes of white smoke were visible from where their guns were firing.
‘Begging your pardon, Captain, but do you think this is the battle we’ve all been waiting for?’
‘How should I know?’ Margont replied curtly, without turning his head.
‘There wouldn’t be all this commotion just for a few Cossacks, would there?’
Margont had no appetite for talk, least of all for small talk. He was inspecting the lie of the land. In what direction would they be made to charge? Probably straight ahead. What could be seen from that forest of birch trees opposite him? Was there an easily defendable position that he could fall back to with his men if the attack went badly?
‘What’s that road over there, Captain?’
Margont sighed heavily and turned towards the chatterbox. The soldier could hardly have been fifteen years old. His face was covered in red or suppurating spots.
‘How old are you, boy?’
‘Twenty!’ the other replied, thrusting his chin out defiantly.
‘Say eighteen and you’ll be scarcely more credible.’
‘Twenty, Captain! And I’ve already caught the pox!’
Margont smiled. He’d wanted to make him think acne was the pox.
‘You’re a canny one, but stop talking so much. Make the most of the silence. There’ll be enough of a din when everyone starts firing.’
The young man puffed out his chest. A captain had just paid him a compliment! If it had been up to this adolescent, he would already have charged at the enemy with a thousand others like him, before even waiting for the artillery to prepare the ground.
‘Begging your pardon again, Captain, but why don’t you wear your Légion d’Honneur?’
Margont should really have been expecting this one.
‘So that I don’t lose it, and so as not to annoy the Russians even more. Wearing your Légion d’Honneur is like sewing on to your chest the inscription “Shoot at me”.’
The reply disappointed the soldier and he made no attempt to disguise it. Margont was not surprised. His reply had two advantages: it was sincere and it shut the other person up.
‘Captain Varebeaux and Sergeant Parin wear theirs.’
At this, the boy stood stock-still and did not utter another word.
Margont went back to examining the area. He was scrutinising the road to Vitebsk when a series of thunderclaps rang out. Tongues of flame and coils of thick white smoke were spewing from the French guns. Immediately, the gunners scurried about like excited ants. They were putting the guns back in place to compensate for the recoil, stuffing the water-soaked sponges of the rammer into the muzzles of the monsters, filling their long, hungry mouths with gunpowder, wadding and round shot, cramming it all down, then training it to adjust the aim … Finally, the firer, linstock in hand, looked straight at the chief gunner, waiting for the order to fire. A heavy, dense smoke built up around the batteries. The sound of mighty, earsplitting explosions could be heard. A hail of round shot rained down on the woods opposite the Delzons Division. The foliage of the birch trees rustled and clusters of torn branches fell to the ground. A shell exploded in a bush and two mangled bodies were tossed into the air for all to see. A roar of triumph greeted this horrific spectacle.
‘So, Captain, is it the Russians or not, today?’ asked Lefine as he reached Margont. ‘Whatever the case, company morale is good. For the time being …’
‘Fernand, I’ve been thinking a lot about this name “Acosavan”.’
Lefine blinked. ‘Well, this is hardly the moment, that’s for sure!’
‘After a lot of thought I realised that “Acosavan” is an anagram of “Casanova”. Perhaps it’s only a coincidence. But if it’s not, we can say that this man possessed a particularly ironic sense of humour. He was swearing to be faithful to Maria and love her for ever while his pseudonym was spitting in her face.’
‘Very interesting. Perhaps we could talk about this again after the battle, because I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, but there is indeed going to be a battle. I suggest that first we deal with the Tsar’s armies. Then we can resume this conversation somewhere quieter. A mass grave, for example. Who knows?’
At that, Lefine went back to his position, muttering, ‘Between Saber, who wants to change all the battle plans and give Prince Eugène a piece of his mind, and this one with his head in the clouds, we’ve got a right pair! It seems to me that in this army the dafter you are the higher up you get. Apologies to the Emperor. If only they’d let sergeants take command of the army, everything would be fine, I can tell you.’