CHAPTER 18
IV Corps had been ordered to find quarters in the suburbs of Smolensk. Now everyone was fighting for the best places. Lefine and Margont’s accommodation was beyond their expectations. Piquebois, Saber and a certain Captain Fanselin had taken over nothing less than a palace. Lefine stood awestruck in front of its yellow façade decorated with white stucco. The pediments of the windows were overladen with elegant arabesques. Broad columns with acanthus leaves framed the door, and smaller classical columns rose up from the balcony to support the overhang of the roof, which was crowned by a cupola. Despite its originality, the palace had adhered to the traditional rules of houses of the Russian nobility. The main building was linked to two wings by semicircular galleries, thus creating an elegant space at the foot of the edifice. Unfortunately, the right wing had burnt down.
Saber, overjoyed at having found accommodation worthy of him, was in full flow.
‘It’s the residence of a family of Russian aristocrats of Polish extraction, the Valiuskis. They’ve stayed on. I’ll introduce you. They love the French! The count has only one aim, for the Emperor to deprive Russia of the area from the Niemen to Smolensk and recreate Greater Poland. He even said to me: “Remember, there’ll always be enough room in Poland to bury all the Russians found there, either dead or alive.” He’s having a banquet prepared for us.’
‘A banquet?’ repeated Margont, sceptical at the prospect of such delights.
‘You should see their daughter! Such noble beauty …’
Saber could already see himself as a general, Count of Greater Poland, spending the summers in ‘his’ palace in Smolensk and wintering in Paris.
‘But it took some doing, I can tell you. The building was swarming with cuirassiers when we arrived. So I went to find their lieutenant to explain to him politely that these quarters had been allotted to the 84th Regiment and he sent me packing. Me, Lieutenant Saber!’
‘That’s unthinkable!’ Margont exclaimed, pretending to look shocked.
‘I swear to you it’s true! I returned with Piquebois, and a Red Lancer, who also wanted to settle in here. You should have seen how Piquebois sorted them out. There were ten cuirassiers in the drawing room, so Piquebois planted himself in the middle and exclaimed: “Good God! My lodging’s crawling with silver-shelled beetles!” Then he grabbed the lieutenant by the sleeve, just as if he were picking up a real beetle by the leg! He dragged him outside with such confidence that the other fellow acquiesced without complaining. It almost led to a duel when Piquebois added, “A big mouth but a small sabre.”’
‘Oh dear! I hate it when he starts acting the hussar again.’
‘A cuirassier began to protest but our Red Lancer yelled: “What the hell are you doing here in your fancy get-up? Out! Obey orders!” when he had no damned right to be there either.’
At that very moment the lancer came up to them. He bowed politely. He had a strange bearing, bow-legged as if he were permanently in the saddle, with or without a horse. Ever the cavalryman. His auburn hair hung down in small plaits and his moustache curled up at both ends.
‘Allow me to introduce myself: Captain Edgar Fanselin, 2nd Regiment of the Chevau-Légers Lancers of the Guard commanded by General Baron Édouard de Colbert-Chabanais. Ten years of loyal service and morale always excellent. Long live the Emperor!’
‘Long live the Emperor!’ exclaimed Saber and Margont a few moments later.
Fanselin was a handsome man and seemed amiable enough, but there was something intense about him. It was the look in his eye. It was impossible to define this something, or to give it a name, but its presence was undeniable.
‘To whom do I have the honour of speaking?’
‘Captain Margont, 84th …’
But Fanselin had already embraced him before immediately releasing him.
‘He has the Légion d’Honneur and the rank of Officer, what’s more. He’s a man of courage! Lieutenant Piquebois told me about you just now.’
The three men walked as far as the entrance to the palace, followed diffidently by Lefine, who didn’t know if he could accompany the officers into the central building or whether he had to make do with the left wing that the soldiers and NCOs had taken over. Margont motioned to him to join them and the sergeant’s face broke into a smile once more. Captain Fanselin explained how, as he was walking through the city, he had decided to settle himself here – and nowhere else. His tone gave the impression that it would be more difficult to dislodge him than ten cuirassiers. Saber could not take his eyes off the flamboyant uniform. The short jacket – the kurtka – was crimson and decorated with a blue breastplate. A blue stripe ran down the sides of the trousers, which were also crimson. The headgear was a chapka of red linen with a white plume.
Is a general of the Red Lancers more or less prestigious than a Polish general and count? wondered Saber.
The majestic-looking entrance hall was of white marble. Statues of muses or goddesses stood next to armchairs with embroidered upholstery. A red and gold stucco frieze, close to the ceiling, matched a colossal gilded chandelier containing fifty or so candles. Paintings depicting the inevitable classical ruins decorated the walls. Saber flung his sabre and shako on to an armchair and, pointing at a tall double door, invited his friends to follow him. He already considered himself at home. Captain Fanselin seemed to want to examine each canvas.
‘Look at the effect of calm produced by this colonnade in the middle of this park. The place doesn’t exist and yet how I would like to be there.’
‘If you like the painting so much, Captain, take it,’ said Lefine.
‘You have a sense of humour, Sergeant,’ Fanselin guffawed.
Lefine couldn’t see what a sense of humour had to do with his suggestion. Fanselin turned round and spoke to Margont enthusiastically.
‘The world is full of misery, but when I see these artistic masterpieces I say to myself that all is not yet lost. Like you, I have suffered from this gruelling march. However, I have no regrets and I shall often think of all these peasants whose world will never extend further than the patch of land they cultivate.’
In the next room they were confronted by a double flight of steps. At the sides were two doors framed by still lifes. An elderly man suddenly appeared from the right-hand door. The bald crown of his head was encircled by an abundance of grey hair. He looked like a Caesar with a garland of grey laurels. On his huge nose was a pince-nez behind which sparkled small brown eyes. He was dressed in black trousers and a pearl-grey shirt over which he wore a mauve waistcoat.
‘Count, allow me to introduce my—’
Saber broke off when he saw the joyful expression on the other man’s face. Even his wrinkles seemed to smile.
‘A Polish officer!’ he exclaimed, embracing Fanselin.
‘You are mistaken, Count. I am French. It’s my Polish-style uniform that has confused you. I am a lancer of the Guard.’
‘If you are a lancer then you are at least half Polish. The lance is our national weapon,’ replied the count.
It was obvious from the warmth of the introductions how pleased the count was to welcome the Frenchmen. The burnt-out villages seemed a distant memory. No matter how friendly Count Valiuski tried to be, he still radiated an aristocratic authority. It was evident in his discreetly refined and assured gestures, in the modulations of his voice, which was husky with age, in his confident air. Such manners had been fashioned day after day by a sophisticated education, the result of generations of careful thought. Margont felt there was something familiar about the count but he was unable to say what.
‘Please forgive me for not arranging for my major-domo to welcome you but he has left. Half of my servants fled the city when your army’s arrival was announced. The rest are in the kitchens or preparing your bedrooms. Dinner will be served at eight o’clock, if that is convenient to you.’