No one knows what would have happened if Napoleon had tried to force his way through to take the road to Kaluga. But what is certain is that the return journey via the devastated road to Smolensk was one of the main factors in turning the retreat into a disaster.

Kutuzov’s army began a long march along the flank, keeping parallel to the French and forcing them to stick to the road to Smolensk. The Cossacks and other light cavalry troops as well as the partisans constantly harried the Grande Armée.

Margont, Lefine, Saber and Piquebois were in the process of preparing their lunchtime soup, rather a grand term for the vile liquid made from coffee and flour. They ate better in the mornings because Margont had advised Colonel Pégot to make the regiment march behind the mounted chasseurs. Thus, as soon as they got up, the soldiers of the 84th rushed to the encampment abandoned by the chasseurs and hurriedly devoured the horses that had died in the night, horses that had already been partly devoured by their riders. It was important not to wait until the carcasses froze because then it became impossible to cut them up, even with an axe.

On 27 October there had been a very heavy snowfall. This, added to the hunger and the anxious realisation that they were taking the road to Smolensk again, had begun to transform the army. The spirit of camaraderie was wearing thin. If you possessed horses or supplies of food, you had to guard them overnight to prevent them from being stolen. As for sharing, it was a concept that was rapidly disappearing. Margont was deep in thought about such matters while gazing at the snow-laden branches of the fir trees, when he heard Lefine laughing.

‘Why do you put your hood on only at night, Captain? You look such a sight! Only your eyes are visible!’

‘That’s right. Have a good laugh. In a few days’ time you won’t be able to hear the nonsense you talk because your ears will have frozen and dropped off.’

‘What? Is it going to get even colder?’

Margont was clutching his bowl of hot soup to warm his gloves.

‘This is only the start,’ he answered.

Every word he spoke produced coils of steam. He was dreaming of fig jam. As a child, he had got through whole jars of it as his mother looked on in horror, like any parent watching the excesses of its offspring. Although he gorged himself on this jam, by one of those contradictions that make human beings such strange creatures, he sobbed his heart out if anyone tried to make him eat figs in the form of fruit. By adulthood he had become more sensible: he now loved both the jam and the fruit.

‘What is there to eat this evening?’ asked Piquebois.

‘A raw egg and some sweets,’ Lefine announced.

‘Do you call that a meal?’

‘In the 8th Light they only have sweets and caviar; in the 1st Croat they have beef that they wouldn’t exchange for all the money in the world but they might exchange some for flour because, like us, they haven’t got much of it. I’d need to exchange coffee and fish with Demay’s gunners for some fodder, which I’d exchange with the 9th Chasseurs for the flour to—’

‘All right, we trust you. Organise it as best you can,’ Margont interrupted.

Morale was declining and yet the four men were among the more fortunate. Piquebois was watching over their bony, worn-out horses. He stroked them to apologise for the misfortunes they were suffering and to be forgiven for finally having taken to eating horsemeat. He swapped part of his meals for fodder and, at night, he tied the two bridles around his wrist. ‘If anyone wants to steal them, they’ll have to deal with Piquebois first!’ he’d announced. And as everyone knew that he could still wield his sabre like a true hussar … One day, one of the mounts had slipped on a patch of ice and had accidentally thrown Lefine into the snow. The sergeant had cursed loudly as he got back on his feet and the two horses had immediately sought refuge with Piquebois.

Saber was munching a snowball to quench his thirst.

‘It’s unbelievable all the same! The army’s in a bad state, I can tell you. It’s been impossible for me to get my captain’s epaulettes! I’m a captain on paper but not in uniform because of the poor organisation. What sort of impression are we going to give if, when the Russians attack, the captains look like lieutenants? This sort of laxity will be our downfall!’

‘You’re really getting up my nose!’ thundered Piquebois. ‘Go and take them from a dead body if it matters so much to you!’

‘Are you mad?’ stuttered Saber in horror.

‘Well, well,’ Margont said gleefully, ‘you tell all and sundry you’re an atheist, you make fun of me when I say a prayer, but it turns out you’re superstitious. You’ve replaced God with black cats, rabbits’ paws and tarot cards.’

Saber walked off in annoyance, trying to retain his dignity. ‘At least I went up a rank.’

‘And don’t we know it,’ retorted Piquebois.

Margont looked longingly at his bowl. Was it empty? Already?

‘Cheer up!’ he exclaimed. ‘In two weeks we’ll be in Smolensk. Talking of which, I suggest we drink a toast to the paradise awaiting us.’ Then, raising a snowball, he said: ‘To Smolensk!’

‘To Smolensk!’ Lefine and Piquebois repeated.

They toasted one another before gulping down the snow. The march resumed. What remained of the 84th, that is, fewer than eight hundred men, was making painful progress. Lefine looked up at regular intervals. A flock of black birds was following the never-ending column of the retreating army.

‘Filthy crows!’ he spat.

‘It looks as if a Napoleonic crow has formed an avian Grande Armée and ordered the birds to mimic us.’

‘I bet each of these pests has already chosen the soldier it plans to devour,’ Lefine grumbled.

Margont pointed with his finger. ‘Look, there’s yours!’

‘Don’t say that! Must never say that, Captain.’

Margont’s legs felt heavy. ‘Let’s keep quiet. We’d be better off saving our breath.’

‘Yes, and in any case the words seem to freeze in our mouths.’

The road was littered with corpses. Soldiers were dropping from exhaustion, never to get up again. Some were almost naked: they had been stripped of their possessions.

‘It’s good, though, to say something from time to time,’ Lefine added further on. ‘That way you know you’re not completely dead yet.’

‘To take your mind off things, think about what you’ll do when this war’s over.’

‘Go on to the next one, of course. There’s nothing to think about!’

Margont spotted an infantryman cutting across the fields, struggling almost knee-deep in snow and waving at him frantically. Margont went to meet him. Lefine could tell how animated the conversation was by the amount of steam coming from their mouths. Margont came back looking worried and took his friend to one side.

‘I made some calculations but I was mistaken. So I’m changing my strategy.’

‘What does all this gibberish mean?’

‘That we’re going to have a talk with Colonel Barguelot. Now.’

Margont and Lefine caught up with the 9th of the Line. This regiment now made up only a small fragment of the never-ending black column winding its way through the snow, leaving a trail of corpses in its wake. It had almost ceased to exist at the battle of Maloyaroslavets. Margont had discovered from his spy that Colonel Barguelot was still alive. He had in fact been ‘concussed by an explosion’ that had left him unconscious at the rear for the whole duration of the fighting. He had only regained consciousness when it was time to withdraw. Margont approached the colonel who, on recognising him, stared at him in disbelief.

‘How dare you come to see me? I’m going to have you shot on the spot!’

Margont handed him the letter signed by Prince Eugène himself.

‘At least you’ve stopped sending me anonymous letters. Now you bring your notes yourself,’ sneered Barguelot, snatching the missive from his hands.