‘The Cossacks! The Cossacks!’ Saber yelled suddenly, galloping forward.

Margont and von Stils unsheathed their swords with equal speed while the Poles turned in their direction. Saber was tearing across the plain, his sword drawn, not noticing that a lone lancer had followed him in his charge. Far from there, at the edge of a wood, three Cossacks were watching him. All were armed with lances – their best weapon, their standard, their trademark and, on top of all that, an extra limb. When Saber had covered three-quarters of the distance, they disappeared under cover of the trees.

‘He’s been flattened,’ von Stils declared.

‘Made a laughing stock would be nearer the mark.’

Saber resigned himself to turning back. Wild with anger, he was gesticulating, his sabre still in his hand.

‘Oh, the bastards! The swine! They aren’t soldiers, they’re clowns!’

Margont pointed at his sheath, urging him to put his sword back in it before he hurt someone. Saber thought that he was indicating more Cossacks and made his horse do a half-turn. He turned round again, more furious still.

‘They’re taunting me from the woods, are they? Is that it? Curse these wretched Cossacks! Why do they keep scattering like sparrows? What’s the point?’

‘Ask your horse. Even he knows the answer to that,’ Margont interrupted.

The poor animal had come to a halt. Mouth open, nostrils quivering, it was attempting to recover its breath. This type of repeated effort would kill it before long. It was impossible to get Saber to calm down.

‘They aren’t soldiers but militiamen! No, they aren’t even men, they’re too savage. Always yelling as they gallop, like wild animals. Centaurs … centaurs that have survived from the beginning of time! Why didn’t you follow me? I demand an answer!’

Von Stils stroked his mount’s neck. ‘I belong to the heavy cavalry. Our horses are stronger but have less stamina. They’re intended for charging in line, not for this type of chase.’

‘Quibbles! Quibbles!’ Saber exclaimed in the triumphant tones of a lawyer who has just unmasked a case of perjury.

‘Irénée, pull yourself together.’

‘And what about you, Captain Margont? What’s your excuse for inertia?’

‘I’m past the age of playing hide and seek in the woods.’

Saber bowed his head. ‘Gentlemen, allow me to take my leave.’

With that, he tried to spur his horse into a gallop but in its weakened state the animal only managed a fast trot.

‘Why does your friend hate the Cossacks so much?’ von Stils enquired.

‘Lieutenant Saber is very chivalrous and the Cossacks’ sudden raids are the opposite of his idea of a heroic military confrontation. As the Cossacks also have the bad taste to actually be successful …’

‘It’s true that the French military hate being defeated by peasants in rags. It goes back to the battle of Agincourt.’

‘Jena, the Cossacks, Agincourt. Could we stop talking about war, please?’

Von Stils nodded slowly. ‘With pleasure.’

He then launched into a long speech about Saxony. He described his country methodically and in detail, like an art expert analysing a painting by an old master. However, his chauvinism distorted the picture. The rivers were as clear as crystal; the towns the most beautiful in the world; the Saxon people possessed all possible qualities and a few more besides; the forests inspired poets, and you hadn’t really lived unless you’d visited Saxony …

Margont listened attentively and interrupted him to ask questions. He was preparing for the moment when he would try to find out more about Fidassio.

The two men met up with sixty or so gunners officered by the occasional Polish lancer. For the past few days there had been torrential downpours, turning the road into a vast quagmire. A gun had become bogged down in a rut and eight gunners were trying to free it. The soldiers were struggling with all their might, some leaning forward and shoving with the full weight of their bodies, others pulling on the wheels strenuously enough to tear ligaments. The team of horses was also doing all it could. But the cannon would not budge. Knees bent, the soldiers sweated, swore, and held their breath … to no effect. Margont said to himself that the whole army was like this cannon, bogged down and struggling against all the odds to continue its advance. Von Stils once again wore an expression that was both conceited and melancholy. He was gazing at the artillery pieces.

‘The famous Gribeauval cannon. Their muzzles have blown apart more than one enemy army.’

Margont went up to a captain who was nervously dusting off his jacket.

‘Where’s your escort?’

‘The Poles, you mean? Oh, heavens! A good third of them have deserted, another third are roaming around in search of food and the rest have gone to hunt the Cossacks over there,’ replied the gunner, pointing vaguely towards a wood in the distance.

‘So what are these Polish lancers doing with IV Corps?’

‘What of it? You’re with a Saxon Life Guard yourself! Their major was wounded in Smolensk. His men stayed with him and, now that he’s recovered, they are trying to rejoin their regiment. What a bloody shambles this campaign is, don’t you think?’

‘You’re exposing yourself to—’

Margont did not finish his sentence. A roar rose up from the plain. ‘Huzza!’ Three hundred Cossacks had suddenly emerged from a wood and were bearing down on them. They were dressed in black or navy-blue uniforms. The few Poles present rushed at them, considering the Cossacks their eternal enemies. As they too were wearing navy-blue uniforms, it was difficult to distinguish them from their opponents. Bodies fell to the ground and were trampled, the wounded screamed, pistol shots punctuated the air and strange entangled shapes moved about … The Poles were quickly overwhelmed and the Cossacks sprang up from all sides in the midst of the gunners. The gunners shot the Cossacks at point-blank range and were spiked through in return. A lieutenant close to Margont was nailed to a munitions wagon by a spear neatly thrust through his heart; the teams of horses were bolting, the Cossacks yelling at the tops of their voices: ‘Huzza! Huzza! Huzza!’

Margont charged. A young trooper, hoping to cover himself in glory by capturing a French officer, rode straight at him. With disconcerting ease he turned his lance round. He was no longer brandishing the point but the end of the shaft. Margont attempted to ward off the attack with his sword, felt a violent blow to his breastbone and fell. He landed on his back and the pain took his breath away. Hoofs galloped past close to his eyes, throwing earth on to his face. The Cossack nimbly dismounted. He must have been sixteen. He could have been a little boy, really happy at the idea of giving his father a present but slightly worried because he was after all in the middle of a battle … His prisoner looked in a poor state and he didn’t know how to set about taking him away. Margont tried to move but his back gave him terrible pain. He felt like a wretched insect crushed by a shoe, surviving only to endure agony. The Russian placed his pike on his throat.

‘I won’t move,’ Margont said in Russian.

The adolescent looked at him wide-eyed. It was inconceivable to him that this man could speak his language because the French were agents of the devil. He carefully examined his captive’s uniform. Yes, he definitely was a Frenchman.

‘You are my prisoner!’ he proudly exclaimed.

‘I don’t doubt that for a second,’ replied Margont.

The Russian removed his belt and set about tying the Frenchman’s wrists. Margont feared the moment when the adolescent said to himself that it would be much easier to kill him than to take him prisoner. All around them the Cossacks looked as if they were celebrating rather than fighting. They were whirling and galloping about in every direction, like leaves blowing in the wind, triumphantly yelling ‘Huzza!’ Their frenzy was indescribable: they ran their opponents through until their lances broke, fired their pistols, slashed around with all their might and rode their horses at the gunners to trample them. The Poles showed equal ferocity in the combat. They were fighting as if each Cossack killed freed one square yard of Poland crushed beneath their horses’ hoofs.