*
D’Herbigny and Paulin, with white beards, ragged as tramps, walked up the dark, twisting alleys of Vilna. They had just come from the Old Town with its hundred church towers, where they had passed wine shops without stopping; these would be the first establishments swamped by the army of beggars that stretched for kilometres behind them; even so Paulin, dying of thirst and hunger, had protested.
‘Up ahead,’ the captain had said, ‘there’ll be shops and cafes and townsfolk who’ll welcome us.’
‘How? With cudgels?’
‘Don’t think like an idiot.’
‘Are people going to offer us hospitality looking, and stinking, like this?’
‘Maybe not because of our looks, but with the pearl necklaces bound around the rags on my pins, oh yes, I think we’ll be able to buy something that will make us look like men again.’
‘May heaven hear you, sir.’
‘Leave heaven where it is, you old church hen! What hotel-keeper is going to throw an officer out of the room he’s paid for?’
‘One who’s a bit crooked.’
‘I still have my sabre.’
‘Strength and victory are no longer on our side, sir.’
‘Hold your tongue!’
Their breath had frozen on their moustaches and shaggy chins; the situation hardly lent itself to optimism. The captain and his servant were alone in the wreckage of the army. As soon as the Emperor’s departure was known, disorder had increased, even in the heart of the Guard, among the dragoons and grenadiers. No one obeyed anyone but themselves. Germans, Croats, Spaniards and Italians scattered. The real vultures disguised themselves as Cossacks to terrify their former comrades and rob them. Across the plain, frozen bodies stretched on and on – but now in impeccable uniforms: those of the twelve thousand conscripts from Vilna who had come to the rescue of the Army of Moscow; with no chance to acclimatize after the warmth of barracks, they hadn’t withstood the cold of the bivouacs.
D’Herbigny and Paulin saw the shutters of the houses close as they passed. The captain thought this perfectly normal: ‘Civvies are always afraid of soldiers.’
‘Sir, on the little square, Neapolitan troopers!’
‘Well then, blockhead, let’s go and join them.’
‘It looks as if they’re leaving …’
‘They’re leaving, oh yes, they’re all leaving.’
Behind them stood an extremely tall grenadier whose bearskin seemed to make him even taller. He wore a lamb’s wool frockcoat and sturdy new boots; his stentorian voice, a little forced but powerful enough, boomed through the fur scarf covering his face up to his eyes.
‘Explain yourself,’ said the captain.
‘They’re running like rats, all of them, the Governor, the commissariat, the Treasury, even the King of Naples. We’d be well advised to follow their example – but I know your voice, I’ve got a good memory for intonations. You are Lieutenant d’Herbigny.’
‘Captain.’
‘You had such a pretty helmet enturbanned in panther skin.’
‘Navy calfskin. Who on earth are you?’
‘Can’t you hear? The theatre is there, innate, in everything I say, gentlemen!’
‘I know,’ said the captain, staggered to recognize the Great Vialatoux’s bombast.
‘Ah yes,’ continued the actor, ‘your helmet used to set me dreaming, I could have played Britannicus, with a few little changes here and there.’
‘It wasn’t a toy!’
‘No, but it was a good part of a costume.’
‘Talking of which, you are not very convincing as a soldier in the middle of rout. Too well kitted out.’
‘A long story, Captain.’
‘You couldn’t tell it to us in a warm tavern, could you?’ suggested Paulin, shaking with cold.
‘I can do better than that.’
They disappeared down an alley that wound between boarded-up houses and the wall of a mosque before coming out on a small square, where a grocer was fixing shutters over his windows. Vialatoux knocked at the entrance of a palace built of heavy, sombre stone; a valet opened the door and almost fainted at the sight of the captain and Paulin, whom he took for the living dead freshly risen from their graves. He understood French, however, and Vialatoux reassured him, ‘These men are close associates of General Brantôme’s, despite their pitiful appearance.’ The valet crossed himself. In a practised authoritarian tone, Vialatoux continued, ‘When her ladyship returns from mass, tell her that I am personally looking after the general’s friends.’ The valet nodded, although concerned about these paupers’ disgusting trotters tramping all over his carpets.
Following the actor, they ascended to the first floor, where a grenadier on a gilt chair was guarding the landing and burping; he had eaten and drunk too much. Good sign, thought Paulin, his mouth watering in anticipation. In the vast bedroom, near a faience stove, a table was strewn with dishes and plates. The window was wide open; in front of it sat a human figure covered with a sheet, an arm hanging over the arm of the armchair, a waxy hand, a blue sleeve with gold braid.
‘Here is our General Brantôme,’ said Vialatoux by way of introduction.
‘Never heard of him,’ said the captain.
‘Us neither.’
‘Where’s he sprung from?’
‘Had to call him something,’ groaned a corporal, lying on a sofa digesting an enormous meal.
‘Brantôme – where does that name come from?’
‘A village near Périgueux; my father is the miller there.’
‘Is he dead?’ asked Paulin.
‘Extremely dead,’ confirmed Vialatoux. ‘We’ve left him by the window so he won’t thaw too quickly.’
‘What’s the meaning of this sham?’
‘Sit down, Captain, finish what’s left and I’ll tell you.’
Paulin hadn’t waited to be invited, he was already gnawing on a chicken carcass with relish; d’Herbigny began to work his way through a series of small carafes. Standing in the middle of the room, one hand on his hip, the other outspread to orchestrate his story, the Great Vialatoux struck a storyteller’s pose. ‘The company of the Guard I’d slipped into thanks to a uniform which I’d – how shall I put it, borrowed, yes, that’s the word – borrowed from a sergeant who had no need for it anymore was marching at the head of the army. In the panic, I’d been accepted without question. Anyway, an hour from Vilna, as we were marching past some abandoned carriages, we saw a bunch of lackeys looting one of them. We went closer and scared off the scoundrels, who escaped on a sleigh with their booty. Inside the berline what do we see? A general. He’s completely white and as stiff as a board. We peer into his face. He’s dead, just like that, sitting on the seat. We try to undress him to steal his uniform – a general’s uniform can always come in handy, rich Poles give them a warm welcome, so people say. But he’s too stiff. No way of getting the uniform off. The harnessed horses look strong, it’s a mystery why they haven’t been eaten or stolen. So we set off with the dead man and are some of the first to arrive in Vilna, before the flood of people on foot and the destitute, just after the commissariat. We look for a palace, find one in the Old Town and ask for shelter for a poor general. A Polish countess greets us and she is very moved when I explain, “General Brantôme is very ill, but he eats enough for ten.” The ruse works. We take the general out of the carriage and link arms to make a chair for him; his appearance alarms the countess, but his gold braid sets her mind at rest and we bring him up to this room. Valets bring us trunks of clothes, boots, water to shave, razors, soap and best of all, this slap-up dinner. We stuff ourselves, I leave the palace to purchase some sleighs so we can get to the Niemen as quickly as possible, and that’s when I bump into you.’
A grenadier in a fox-fur coat opened a trunk and tossed clean clothes on the bed. Vialatoux offered to shave the captain and Paulin, but asked, for pity’s sake, could they first get rid of their rags?
‘Are you playing all the parts? Even the barber?�
�
‘All the parts, Captain,’ said Vialatoux, giving himself airs. ‘People say that actors have no character because, by acting so many different roles, they lose the identity nature gave them and become fake, in the same way that a doctor or a surgeon or a butcher becomes callous. But I think that is to mistake the cause for the effect; I think they’re only suited to act at all because they don’t have a character in the first place.’
‘Meaning?’ asked the captain, taking off his shirt, in which regiments of lice were frisking about.
‘That I am whoever I want to be as soon as I put on their get-up. To emphasize the soundness of these observations, I should point out that M. Diderot is their author.’
‘I don’t know that comedian.’
A racket was approaching, the square filling with a raucous crowd who were attacking doors and shutters. These survivors had taken over the city; they had stripped shops and cellars, ransacked cafes and stores, drunk the taverns’ wines. However, even this pandemonium could not drown out the boom of cannon to the east of Vilna. Kutuzov’s armies were attacking.
‘Time’s run out,’ roared Vialatoux. ‘We’re packing up, everybody to the general’s carriage!’ Vialatoux threw some clothes at the captain, who shared them with his servant. The others wrapped the general in his shroud and picked him up. ‘He can still be useful,’ said Vialatoux, excelling in the role of director. ‘Good chap that he is …’
*
‘Thank you, General,’ Vialatoux said to the corpse, ‘but your journey stops here.’
‘Thank you for the boots and furs,’ continued d’Herbigny. ‘We are in your debt.’
‘We’ve only just got a carriage and now we have to leave it,’ Paulin groaned.
‘Have you got a better solution, you oaf?’
It was 10 December when the fugitives abandoned their vehicles by the hundred at the bottom of the Ponari hill. With its steep, icy sides and summit obscured by fog, the only way to continue was to climb on all fours, holding on to shrubs and jutting rocks; the guests of the dead general had no choice but to follow suit. Before getting out of the berline, they wrapped more cloaks over the fur-lined ones they already wore and took a last look at the bogus General Brantôme, at his frozen face, his fixed, colourless eyes and the absurd braid at his collar and sleeves.
‘Still,’ the captain said ruefully, ‘I would have liked to know his name.’
‘Perhaps he wasn’t a general,’ Paulin conjectured.
‘You’re right,’ continued Vialatoux. ‘The costume determines the role, that’s what I’ve always said. Look, with this bearskin and these epaulettes, I’m brave.’
‘Perhaps he was a civilian who’d dressed up to have a better chance of escaping.’
‘Either way, the uniform is genuine.’
‘How long do you fellows intend to go on about this?’
‘We’re coming, sir.’
‘You first, Captain, you’re the most senior now …’
Once outside they didn’t open their mouths. The cold was fearsome, the slope as smooth as a mirror; even the sleighs were no use. The captain and his band forged ahead into the tangle of empty carriages where men were taking down barrels from three of the Treasury’s covered wagons. Each barrel was lifted by several soldiers who smashed it repeatedly on the ice until it burst open and discharged its load of gold louis. They then rushed to pick up the coins, stuffing them into their clothes, double bags and hats. Paulin and the grenadiers, warmly dressed thanks to the Vilna countess, looked at the captain. They understood one another instantly and, without a word, threw themselves into the melee. They climbed onto one of the wagons, tipped a barrel onto the ice, grabbed it, and all seven of them picked it up and dashed it on the ground until the wooden slats finally broke and coins spilled across the snow. Plenty of them joined in the plunder but there was gold enough for them all. Paulin elbowed the captain in the back; with his eyes he indicated that Cossacks were bearing down on the bandits.
Absorbed by the pillaging, which officers were trying to check in order to save at least part of the treasure, most of the soldiers paid no attention to the Cossack horsemen and carried on breaking barrels and scooping up capfuls of louis without looking up; the few that did notice their enemies’ approach ran off into the woods. The captain automatically tried to draw his sabre but couldn’t as the blade had been frozen to its leather sheath. To die without being able to defend oneself, run through against a barrel of gold, how absurd! They should have taken the other route, longer but not as hilly, the captain thought; it was easily worth another day’s march; unfortunately they, like the rest of the cortege, had wanted to reach Kovno and the Niemen by the shortest route. Now, even supposing they managed to escape, they would have to finish the journey on foot.
The Cossacks weren’t moving, however, in the face of the snarl of vehicles. They had no intention of charging into that chaos. They stuck their lances in the snow and slid from their saddles.
Then they became a blur of motion. They squeezed between the barouches and wagons, climbing over and under them, working their way in, slipping through gaps until they stumbled over the wagons of the Treasury. D’Herbigny found himself face to face with a burly Cossack. The brute had a white fur cap which he wore pushed back like a Chechen and a broad, curved sabre which he kept sheathed in its shoulder-strap; he didn’t need it yet because he was raising a hatchet. A barrel stood between the two men. D’Herbigny was looking for something to defend himself with when the axe fell and split open the lid; the soldiers were of no interest to the Cossacks, only the gold. They plunged their arms into the barrels, shovelling coins out with both hands, not bothering to pick up what they spilled, but just rolling more barrels over and setting to work on them instead. Snowflakes began to fall, rendering conquerors and conquered indistinguishable. The captain had never seen a Cossack so close but now was the moment to leave. Once sated, wouldn’t these brigands kill them or take them captive? The burly Cossack in the white cap raised his arms skywards, opened his hands and let a shower of coins fall on the snow. His laugh was deafening.
*
That same day the Emperor was in Warsaw. He had chosen to occupy a ground-floor room at the end of the courtyard of the Hôtel d’Angleterre in Willow Street. Under the name of Reyneval, he was posing as the grand equerry’s secretary. The shutters were open slightly. A Polish maid was trying to light a fire of green wood, which wasn’t catching; the main room was so badly heated that Napoleon hadn’t taken off his box coat and was now walking back and forth to stretch his legs.
‘Caulaincourt!’
‘Sire,’ said Sebastian, coming in from next door.
‘I didn’t call you! Where is Caulaincourt?’
‘The Duke of Vicenza has gone to our embassy to fetch M. de Pradt.’
‘That humbug Pradt! I’m going to tear his ears off, that incompetent! An ambassador? What a joke!’
Sebastian wondered about this monarch he was seeing at such close quarters. He couldn’t determine what lay behind his terrible temper. Was it callousness or firmness? If he was too kind, would people take advantage of him? At the last relay before Warsaw, Sebastian had witnessed a scene where His Majesty’s sincerity could not be doubted. At the postmaster’s house, just as at the Hôtel d’Angleterre, a young maid had been lighting a fire to prepare soup and coffee while they changed the sleigh’s horses. Sunk in a couch, the Emperor had taken pity on the scantily clad little girl; he’d ordered Caulaincourt to give her an armful of coins so she could buy herself warm clothes, and later, as they had continued their journey in the sleigh, he had revealed himself a little. Sebastian had just carefully written down his words from memory, in the next room. ‘Ah yes, Caulaincourt, whatever anyone thinks, I have compassion and a heart, though it is the heart of a sovereign. If the tears of a duchess leave me cold as marble, I am touched by the sufferings of the people. When peace is established, when England submits, I will attend to France. We will spend four months in ever
y year travelling within her borders, where I will visit thatched cottages and factories, where I will see with my own eyes the state of roads, canals, industries, farms; where I will invite myself into my subjects’ homes and listen to them. Everything remains to be created but prosperity will be universal if I reign another ten years, in which case I will be blessed as wholeheartedly as I am hated today …’
The Abbé de Pradt entered the room; he had a small pursed mouth, a broad, high forehead and not much of a chin. ‘Oh! Sire! You have caused me no small amount of worry but I am pleased to see you in perfect health.’
‘Save your compliments, Pradt. The people who lauded you to me are asses.’
Caulaincourt pushed Sebastian into the next-door room, leaving the Emperor to his rage and the ambassador to his embarrassment. The grand equerry began dictating a dispatch for Bassano, who he thought was still in Vilna, but even while scribbling, Sebastian missed none of the volley of insults emanating from the salon. The more the Abbé de Pradt sought to justify himself, the more the Emperor yelped.
‘Caulaincourt!’
The grand equerry left Sebastian and his correspondence, only to return immediately, throwing down a visiting card, on which Sebastian could read: ‘Get rid of this scoundrel!’ Behind the door the argument continued.
‘Without money,’ the Abbé was saying, ‘it was impossible for me to raise the smallest troop in the Grand Duchy.’
‘We are fighting for the Poles and what are they doing?’
‘They haven’t: a crown piece left, sire.’
‘They’d rather become Russian?’
‘Or Prussian, sire …’
To rescue the Emperor, Caulaincourt announced that his food was getting cold. A moment later the door of the apartment shut. The Abbé had left. Railing against the incompetence of his ambassador to Warsaw, the Emperor dined, and having ascertained that Roustam’s sleigh had caught up with them, asked Caulaincourt about the road they had to take. The grand equerry fetched the map he had brought from the embassy and pointed out the stopping places with a finger.
‘We are going towards Kutno.’
The Retreat Page 23
