He fired and two infantrymen did likewise. A hot-headed young lieutenant rushed up, sabre in hand.

‘Who’s attacking us?’

‘Private Mirambeau’s seen a Russian spy leaping about on the rooftops, sir.’

‘There are three of them at least,’ someone claimed authoritatively.

Further along the street other soldiers were firing or calling on their comrades to do so.

‘A great big devil of a fellow!’ declared one unsuccessful marksman.

His companion took aim.

‘Devils don’t scare me – take that!’ But his shot failed to halt the moving figure.

‘Surround the buildings!’ the lieutenant shouted excitedly.

The gang of soldiers split into two groups which charged off in opposite directions. Some were laughing their heads off, finding, in their drunken high spirits, this manhunt even better entertainment than a game of cards.

The fugitive kept running and with each step might have fallen to his death. A bullet struck a chimney near him, showering him with fragments of stone. He could hear shouts and cries, and the sound of firing. Someone yelled: ‘The Russians are taking pot shots at us from the rooftops!’ and the street was soon alive with the rumour. One bullet shattered a tile at the fleeing man’s feet, another whistled past his ears while a third broke a windowpane and produced a burst of drunken laughter.

Suddenly he noticed a tree growing against the back of the building. Without hesitating, he ran down the steep slope and flung himself as far forward as possible, arms outstretched. The leap seemed to last an eternity. Then foliage grazed his face. He grabbed a branch but immediately it bent beneath his weight and snapped. His ribs were struck a painful blow by another considerably thicker branch, but he clung on to it, now only a few feet above the ground. He dropped down and landed in a puddle.

He was about to rush off into the shelter of the nearby forest when a voice rang out behind him.

‘Hold it. So where do you think you’re going, old son? You wouldn’t be the cause of all these fireworks, would you?’

The man turned round. A sergeant was pointing his musket at him, the bayonet fixed.

‘Come closer to the light.’

The shouting was getting nearer. The man obeyed.

The sergeant blinked several times, straightened his musket and stood to attention. ‘Beg your pardon, Colonel. I’ve only just recognised you.’

The man lunged forward and stabbed him with his knife, right in the heart.

‘More’s the pity for you …’

*

That 29 June 1812, Captain Margont watched the crossing of the Niemen in fascination. The river marked the border between the Grand Duchy of Warsaw, an ally of France, and Russia. Getting across this obstacle was therefore the first test in this campaign. A few days earlier, Napoleon and the bulk of his troops had crossed the broad stretch of water further to the north via the three bridges built by General Éblé in record time. Margont was serving in IV Corps, made up of forty thousand men under the command of Prince Eugène de Beauharnais, Napoleon’s stepson and Viceroy of Italy. Now it was the turn of this force to enter Russian territory.

The regiments were impatiently crowding one another, bunching up the ranks of those in front, who were going too slowly. The infantrymen were calling the cavalry mounts ‘lame hacks’, ‘worn-out nags’ and ‘meat barely good enough for the butcher’s knife’, to which the mounted chasseurs retorted that the battalions were just ‘brainless centipedes’ and the infantrymen ‘big mouths on short legs’.

Perched on a hilltop, Margont could make out nothing but a seething mass of humanity. This dark, tightly packed column of men, their muskets glinting in the brilliant sunshine, cut a swathe through the green expanse of fields and the blue strip of river. The 84th Infantry Regiment of the Line, in which Margont served, had still not crossed and the men were wilting in the heat. Since it would not be their turn for some time yet, they had been allowed to make themselves more comfortable. They had fallen out of line, stacked their muskets and taken off their knapsacks before spreading out. There had been a brief scramble for the few shady spots under the trees, but now the pragmatists were dozing while the idealists hotly debated the merits of the campaign.

Margont wiped his brow with the back of his hand. The sun was giving him a headache and he regretted not being able to remove his shako, the cylindrical headgear that was so heavy. This campaign meant a lot to him. He was not the staunchest supporter of the Emperor’s decisions, considering that Napoleon had let himself get carried away by his countless successes. Worse than that, the wars, which had formerly been intended to defend the state, safeguard the ideals of the Revolution and free nations from the yoke of ancient monarchies, were now turning into imperial conquests. But he admired the genius of the man, a strategist who had won so many unlikely, even impossible, victories. By defeating Austria, Prussia and many other countries, Napoleon had preserved the achievements of the Revolution: the abolition of feudal privileges, the establishment of the Constitution and the Declaration of the Rights of Man and the Citizen, including the passage that appealed so much to both heart and mind: ‘Liberty consists in the freedom to do everything that injures no one else …’

The war between France and Russia had broken out because of the Tsar’s decision to stop enforcing the blockade imposed by Napoleon with the aim of ruining England financially until she was forced to sue for peace. But Margont was not naïve. He knew that another reason for this conflict was that Europe was too small for two such powerful emperors. He himself was preparing to take part in this war for other reasons (though he would have been forced to fight anyway). Committed to the values of republicanism, citizenship and liberalism, he dreamt of the day when all monarchies would collapse and be replaced by republics that would blossom like flowers in a wasteland. Although he was now thirty-two, his ideas were the clear-cut, strongly held convictions of youth. Nevertheless, he was aware of the irony of a situation whereby, in the interests of the republican cause, he was serving a republican emperor who was becoming ever more imperialistic. Reality has an unpleasant habit of overriding one’s ideals with its contradictions, disillusions and ironies. But Margont thought that it was Napoleon who was really the plaything of the Revolution and not the reverse. French soldiers carried with them the ideas of liberty and equality and these ideals took root in people’s minds.

An aide-de-camp galloped down a hillside, knocking over a stack of muskets, and brought his horse to a halt in front of a group of men. Three infantrymen turned round and pointed towards Margont, and the horseman set off again in his direction. On reaching Margont, he reined in his horse, wheeling it round under control. His uniform was soaked with sweat. His chubby cheeks and round face made him look like a peach oozing its juice. Locks of fair hair were plastered to his forehead. He must have wished he was back in Alsace or Normandy.

He hurriedly returned Margont’s salute and asked hopefully: ‘Are you Captain Margont of the 84th?’

‘That is correct.’

‘In that case, I request that you follow me without further ado.’

‘May I know why?’

‘No. They are orders.’

This type of answer annoyed Margont. And he hated even more what he was going to reply.

‘I’ll follow you.’

The two men set off at a gallop. Margont turned round for a last look at the Niemen. But he would be seeing it again before long. He would even have the pleasure of hearing it flowing beneath him.

Margont took the same route as the day before, but in the opposite direction. Soon he reached the 15th Division, the Pino Division, consisting of Italians, who made up the rearguard of IV Corps. The Italians were easily recognisable from their green or white and green coats, whereas the dominant colour in the French infantry was dark blue.