The Emperor knew the country but still he refused to believe that his army was short of provisions. Little matter. Next day the weather was mild, all his go had returned and he took lunch with Duroc and Prince Eugène.
‘Berthier?’
‘In his apartments, sire,’ replied Duroc.
‘Isn’t he hungry?’
‘You warmed his ears this morning: Not only are you a good-for-nothing but you actually do me harm!’
‘Because he is incapable of finding any bloody sauerkraut in the land of the cabbage. Can’t he stand being hauled over the coals anymore, the old girl? Old girl, that’s it! It’s no coincidence he took the Tsarina’s apartments!’
The two guests forced themselves to smile as the Emperor laughed until he cried. He wiped his eyes with the corner of the tablecloth and became serious again; gulping down a mouthful of beans, he abruptly changed the subject. ‘What is the most glorious death?’
‘Charging the Cossacks!’ Prince Eugène cried passionately, holding his cutlet by the bone.
‘Which is what awaits us,’ added Duroc.
‘I would like to be carried off by a cannonball during battle, but I shall die in my bed like an idiot.’
Then they spoke of the great deaths of Antiquity, those who took poison, who died laughing, who committed suicide by holding their breath, who were stabbed. His Majesty often looked for forebears in Plutarch; he shuddered at the death of Sulla, that general without fortune, rank or land, who, with the army’s support, lived to govern Rome and command the world. Like Napoleon, he had to control an immense empire; like Napoleon, he interfered in his citizens’ private lives, legislated heavily, struck coins bearing his own likeness. His wife Caecilia belonged to the aristocracy, like the Empress Marie-Louise. The parallels impressed the Emperor, but Sulla’s end, no, not at any price: ‘Can you see me rotting like him? Can you see me surrounded by actresses and flute players, drinking and gorging myself as swarms of maggots ooze out of my corrupted flesh until it bursts? Puoah!’
‘Plutarch’s account is very exaggerated, sire,’ said Prince Eugène.
‘My destiny is so like his …’
‘Or Alexander the Great’s,’ suggested Duroc, who knew the Emperor’s inclinations and dreams.
‘Ah! India …’
Ever since his ill-starred campaign in Egypt, Napoleon had dreamed of reaching the Ganges, like Alexander. He saw resemblances there as well. The Macedonian had launched himself eastwards with several thousand barbarians, Scythian and Iranian horsemen, Persian infantry, Illyr-ians from the Balkans, Thracians, untrustworthy Greek mercenaries, each with their own dialect just like the Grande Armée. He likened the Agrian javelin-carriers to his Polish lancers, the Bulgarian bandits to the Spanish battalion, the Cretans with goat’s horn bows to his regiment from eastern Prussia …
‘We could march on India,’ he went on, looking at the ceiling.
‘Are you really considering it, sire?’ Duroc asked anxiously. ‘How long will letters from Paris take?’
‘How many months to get there?’ wondered Eugène.
‘I’ve consulted the maps. From Astrakhan you cross the Caspian and reach Astrabad in ten days. From there, a month and half to the Indus …’
*
The auditorium set up in a wing of the Posniakov mansion was like a genuine theatre à l’italienne, with two curving rows of boxes, stalls and an orchestra pit. Chandeliers from the Kremlin hung over the stage without a set; the troupe would play against a backdrop of tapestries, with a few pieces of furniture for props. A row of paper lanterns served as footlights. The bandsmen of the Guard, sitting on chairs, were preparing to improvise pieces of their choice to emphasize theatrical effects or provide links between scenes; admittedly they weren’t used to this sort of music, but it passed the time between parades. The officers and civilian staff filled the boxes; the soldiers sat in the stalls or stood, leaning against the pillars. Drums rolled to drown out the hubbub, and the Great Vialatoux stepped forward dressed as an aristocratic fop, his face powdered with talc; he gestured, silence fell, and he declaimed:
‘Behold the French within your gates
Bow your head, Alexander, capitulate!
This is no children’s game that meanders on and on.
You swore us false, you breached our trust
We’ll settle your hash in the Russian dust.
March on St Petersburg? We’ll march beyond
A Grande Armée against your petty, lowly one.
For tell us, pray – where is your Napoleon, Napoleon?’
An ovation prevented him continuing. He spread his arms, bowed as low as possible and basked in his triumph, until, judging the applause was abating, he straightened up. ‘Gentlemen, Mme Aurore Barsay’s troupe of French actors has the honour this afternoon to perform for you The Game of Love and Chance by Monsieur Marivaux!’
The band struck up an imperial march, then, by the light of hundreds of candles, the comedy began to the sound of clarinets. Mlle Ornella emerged from the wings in the role of Silvia, resplendent in a braided, striped velvet skirt and a bustier cut from a chasuble which set off her bosom and naked shoulders. With a slightly forced, simpering manner, she asked: ‘But tell me once again! What right had you to interfere? Why did you answer for my feelings?’
‘Because I thought your feelings in this case would be like those of everyone else’ The redheaded Catherine gave as good as she got as the maid, her apron a converted surplice, her hands on her hips and her feet in slippers.
The spectators in the boxes assumed an earnest air; in the stalls they couldn’t understand a word but they stared wide-eyed at the stage: stuck-up though she may have been, this Silvia had a very fascinating neckline. At the end of a scene, the characters went behind a large Chinese screen decorated with mother-of-pearl birds, Silvia disappearing round one side, as Vialatoux burst out the other as either Orgon or Dorante – the men were playing several parts and only changing a hat or cloak each time, to the stalls’ confusion. Trooper Bonet felt lost. He asked Paulin, at the back of the room, to explain the play to him.
‘It’s very simple,’ Paulin said. ‘The mistress swaps places with her maid to test the sincerity of her intended fiancé but meanwhile he’s swapped places with his valet.’
‘What difference does that make? Even when she’s disguised as a marchioness, the maid still talks like a maid.’
‘It’s for comic effect.’
‘Well, it doesn’t make me laugh.’
The audience had started shouting and stamping, because Ornella, dressed as the maid now, had just split her blouse at the back.
‘Bravo!’
‘The blouse! The blouse!’ the grenadiers chanted.
‘You’re much better off without it, my chick!’
Very dignified, Ornella continued saying her lines as if nothing had happened. Equally imperturbable, Vialatoux as Dorante recited, ‘l will leave incognito, and I will write a note to Monsieur Orgon that will explain everything.’
Ornella, aside, that’s to say facing the auditorium: ‘Leave! That was not in my plan.’
‘Do you not approve of my idea?’
‘Well … not wholly,’ Ornella continued as Silvia, presenting her back to the louts who clapped wildly and heckled.
‘Stay like that!’ an elite gendarme screamed.
‘Rip it a bit more!’
The final scene ended in uproar and Ornella didn’t come back to take a bow with the rest of the troupe. In the wings, she burst into tears in Mme Aurore’s arms.
‘Come now,’ said the manageress. ‘It’s not the first time.’
‘I feel ashamed!’
‘Go and take a bow, they’re asking for you. Can you hear them?’
‘Alas, yes …’
Mme Aurore pushed her towards the stage. On her entry the applause became louder than ever. Looking at that mocking, bawdy audience, she noticed a pale young man in a stage box who was smiling at her. It was Sebastian Roque.
Since the weather had turned out fine, the Emperor had taken the opportunity to inspect the building work he had ordered. Baron Fain had therefore allowed his clerk to work a half-day and he had leapt at the chance to go to the theatre. Reassured by his presence, emboldened in fact, Ornella advanced toward the footlights, tore off her blouse and bowed to the right, then to the left. Amid wild cheers, shakos, bearskins, caps and tartar hats flew into the air, as high as the balconies. The actress whipped those louts into a frenzy, thrusting out her breasts, showing herself off; to a chorus of boos, Vialatoux draped his long cloak over her shoulders, wrapped it around her and led her off. ‘You’re mad! What if they’d climbed on the stage?’
‘Their officers would have stepped in.’
‘Are you joking?’
Unaware of the risk that she had taken, Ornella imagined that Sebastian would never have let those oafs come near her or paw her skin. She exaggerated the power of the Emperor’s undersecretary. The poor fellow wouldn’t have stood a chance of bringing a garrison on heat under control.
*
In the week that followed, Sebastian didn’t have the chance to return to the theatre. He regretted not having congratulated Mlle Ornella, who, despite his resolutions, he still had feelings for, but he had been swept out of the theatre by the rowdy crowd and then found himself being whisked back to the Kremlin by officers in a barouche.
Snow fell for three days but didn’t settle; Napoleon used this as an opportunity to attend to matters of Empire without leaving his apartments. He displayed terrifying amounts of energy, seemingly much less troubled by his stomach, overwhelming his secretaries with work, not giving them a minute’s respite, dictating letters to his ministers in Paris or the Duke of Bassano who, as Governor of Lithuania, secured the liaison with Austria and Prussia. ‘Have oxen sent from Grodno to Smolensk, and uniforms.’ He re-routed a Württemberg regiment, entirely re-wrote the regulations of the Comédie-Française, established procedures for convoys of the wounded, the first of whom were being evacuated from Moscow in private carriages, and then grew emotional as he wrote to the Empress. ‘The little king gives you, I hope, great happiness.’ All of which was said in a furious rush, in fragments, different letters to different secretaries who had to guess the recipient from the tone, while he gave orders – the silverware in the Kremlin’s churches was to be melted down and the ingots deposited in the Army Treasury – received visitors, listened very little and issued a great deal of commands. As soon as the weather grew milder, he sent the sappers of his Guard to climb the dome of Ivan’s tower; he wanted to bring its great gilded iron cross back as a trophy. Sebastian had watched the dangerous undertaking from his window. The sappers had looped chains around the cross and pulled for a long time, until it swayed, buckled and finally fell, taking part of the scaffolding with it. The ground shook as it landed and smashed into three pieces. It was Sebastian’s only distraction. Exhausted, he took notes, copied them out, then copied them out again as fast as his fingers could move, slept little, dreamed even less and ate in a rush at his desk. He had been living in Moscow for a month now.
On 18 October, the Emperor was reviewing Marshal Ney’s infantry in one of the courtyards when one of Murat’s dispatch riders appeared, leapt from his horse and ran up to announce, panting, ‘Sire, in the plain …’
‘What in the plain?’
‘Thousands of Russians have attacked the II Cavalry Corps.’
‘What about the armistice?’
‘They captured some of the King of Naples’ grooms yesterday.’
‘And?’
‘The King wrote to the commander of the enemy outposts to ask for their return.’
‘In what terms?’
‘Very strong.’
‘Be specific.’
‘If the grooms were not returned, the truce would be broken.’
‘And?’
‘The truce was broken.’
‘Had no one taken any precautions? Must I be everywhere!’
‘The Russians were hiding in a wood on higher ground.’
‘And?’
‘The moment our men went foraging, they attacked.’
‘How have we responded?’
‘Badly, very badly, sire.’
‘Be specific.’
‘General Sebastiani’s artillery is destroyed.’ ‘Prisoners?’
‘Probably more than two thousand.’
‘Dead?’
‘Too many.’
‘And Murat? Where is Murat?’ ‘Leading the charge.’
*
Guiding himself by the muffled sounds of combat, Murat was galloping on frost-hardened ground, his long corkscrew curls flying in the wind, a pale sun picking out his diamond earrings, the gold braid of his dolman, the frogging of his pelisse slung from his shoulder. He led a detachment of carabineers. Only the brass of their cuirasses and helmets with scarlet horsehair crests gleamed, flashes of colour that were all there was to be seen in a blanket of mist that swallowed up their white uniforms. They shot out in the enemy’s rear, sabres drawn, yelling. The Russians had operated a circular movement to cut off Sebastiani from the Moscow road; they weren’t expecting this violent attack from behind. The first in line were sabred before they could even turn about, the others fled. ‘Fire on the rabble!’ shouted Murat. His men let their sabres hang from their wrists, shouldered their carbines and brought down the runaways closest to them with a ringing salvo, and then gave chase.
Murat didn’t think. He attacked. Capable of throwing his exhausted cavalry against ramparts and small forts, he was a man of lightning raids and showpiece actions. His subordinates knew it. At Borodino they had delayed relaying his orders to the squadrons so that he would realize his mistakes and change his mind; this deliberate procrastination had saved a lot of lives. A genuine tactician, cold-shouldered by the Emperor, Davout constantly challenged his decisions and hated him; he accused Murat of leading his troops to their deaths for no purpose, of having lost the cavalry to show himself off to advantage. Yet the Emperor always took Murat’s side, his impulsive brother-in-law whose ardour and chaos he loved. The Russians admired him and dreaded him – look at him on horseback, lithe as a Cossack, outrunning bullets and cannonballs, always safe, magical, mad. He thought himself a real king, no different to other kings, this grocer’s assistant from Saint-Céré. He tried to forget that the crowns distributed by Napoleon were only toys, that these kingdoms were the equivalent of sub-prefectures in a vast Empire. Murat had wanted the throne of Westphalia, of Poland, of Switzerland, of Spain, but no, he had to be kept in check, and when he was given Naples he fell ill. The very blonde Caroline Bonaparte, his wife whom he mistrusted, always intriguing in her white satin chamber, had also found this crown a size too small for his head, but it couldn’t be helped, the Neapolitans adored the pair of them. Napoleon had summoned Murat to Russia, dazzling him with the promise of a hundred thousand cavalry, and the King hadn’t known how to refuse. But could he have anyway? It was only on horseback, in his theatrical uniforms, that he truly felt alive.
Pursued by his carabineers, the Russian cuirassiers were crossing a river, throwing up fans of water. Murat halted on the bank as if at a border. To his left he heard cannon: smoke was rising above Winkovo, where his vanguard was encamped. He led his cavalry there, and saw Asiatic Cossacks in brightly coloured clothes, a great throng bristling with lances.
Murat spurred his horse; the impact was brutal. A pike tore his pelisse, he caught it in mid-thrust, pulled the Tartar in the pointed cap towards him, guiding his horse with his knees, ran him through, slashed left and right, barged riders aside and forced his way past. Again and again he charged until the enemy were driven back towards the woods or the river, leaving behind them a devastated camp, half burnt to the ground, unusable cannon, equipment reduced to cinders, men dead and dying and the wounded being hoisted onto four-wheeled carts with their thighs shattered or their shoulders blown off. Sebastiani had survived. Murat didn’t dare accuse him, even if
he did spend all his time in slippers reading the Italian poets. He had been just as negligent as his general; he should have ordered patrols, made sure they couldn’t be taken by surprise. He had known for a week that Orthodox priests were raising peasant militias, that there was a ring of Russian armies surrounding Moscow, keeping their distance. None of his cavalry was left. It didn’t exist anymore.
*
That same day, two baggage-masters appeared at the Convent of the Nativity. They were transporting their heavy registers in a charabanc. One of them stepped down, brushed dust from the sleeve of his frock coat and asked the dragoons guarding the entrance, ‘Which brigade?’
‘Saint-Sulpice, 4th Squadron.’
‘How many able-bodied?’
‘About a hundred.’
‘Precisely?’
‘I don’t know. Eighty-eight or seven or six.’
‘Saddle-horses?’
‘Ninety.’
‘That gives us four extra.’
‘So you say. You’d better check, at least.’
‘No time.’
The second baggage-master, on his bench, had opened one of the registers and was running his finger along the lines. He made a note in pencil. Captain d’Herbigny had heard the creak of cartwheels and came out to ask what was happening.
‘We’re registering, Captain,’ said the first baggage-master.
‘We’re taking your horses that are of no use to you,’ added the second.
‘But they will be of use!’
‘The artillery is short.’
‘These horses don’t pull caissons!’
‘They will though, sir,’ retorted the first baggage-master.
‘Have you got any wagons?’ asked the second.
‘No.’
‘Barouches, gigs, britzkas?’
‘Those neither. Just baggage carts.’
‘Ah, carts! Those have to be declared,’ ordered the first.
‘And given a registered number,’ said the second.
‘Why the devil?’
‘Every conveyance without a registered number will be confiscated, by order of the Emperor.’
The Retreat Page 12
