set the trumpeter straight, but he was long gone, chasing other moving figures. Had he really been mistaken in all the confusion? Margont seized one of his two horse pistols and had to fight against the urge to shoot at the horse of the madman. Pagin arrived in the meantime, his sword bloody, his face scratched by branches. He looked in astonishment at Margont and the captives.

‘Victory!’ he bellowed, standing up in his stirrups, his sabre pointing towards the sky.

His shout made the fifteen Austrians flinch.

Relmyer returned at the run. ‘He’s escaping! Pagin, your horse!’

The hussar did not dare protest and got down from his mount. Margont tried to say something, but Relmyer bounced into the saddle and set off, spurring the horse until it bled. Margont followed, abandoning Pagin, who, disdainful of the prisoners, looked for someone to fight. The two horsemen overtook Warrant Officer Cauchoit, who was a terrifying sight. He was covered in blood and had eviscerated everyone who opposed him. He was a veritable angel of death.

Margont found himself in an artificial clearing. Some Austrian horses were stamping and restless, tied to branches. At the other end of the expanse of felled trees, figures were fleeing on horseback.

‘He’s not far ahead of us!’ cried Relmyer.

Margont and Relmyer’s horses dashed along, devouring the distance. They were far superior to the old nags the Austrian army furnished the militia with. Little by little the fleeing man became easier to make out. The officer with the bicorn pointed his weapon in their direction.

‘That’s him!’ shrieked Relmyer.

‘Duck!’ warned Margont.

A detonation sounded but the ball missed its target. The fugitive changed tactics, tugged on his reins and disappeared into the forest. Relmyer was quivering.

‘He’s heading north-east. He wants to get over to the Austrian side but the Danube is blocking his way.’

The two pursuers were engulfed in their turn in the woods. The figure of the Austrian appeared and disappeared intermittently. Margont used shot after shot from his horse pistol, trying to hit the Austrian’s mount, but in vain.

‘We’re miles away from our army!’

‘Where did he go?’ agonised Relmyer.

The man seemed to have been swallowed by the vegetation. Margont slowed his horse and saw him cut off down a path.

‘That way.’

The fugitive had taken a badly maintained path. Margont had just made out his grey uniform through the jumble of thicket. Relmyer, who had almost got lost, had been overtaken by his friend and was hitting the flank of his mare with the flat of his sabre. His horse took off like a whirlwind at twice the speed of Margont’s mount, forcing him off the path. Margont steadied himself and settled back into his galloping rhythm. He felt fear swelling in him. He was now convinced that nothing about the fugitive had anything to do with chance. He and Relmyer saw only a random labyrinth of vegetation whilst their adversary moved as easily as if he were strolling about the streets of his hometown. Margont no longer felt like a hunter tracking a wolf; he felt like a pike throwing itself onto a fish-hook.

He shouted to Relmyer: ‘He knows this forest: it’s he who’s masterminding this chase, not us!’

Relmyer was not listening to him. He was noticing something else. The militiaman’s horse was not up to the tactics of its rider, and was starting to show signs of fatigue. His own, on the other hand, neck stretched out and nostrils quivering, was eroding the distance that separated them. Margont was struggling not to be left behind; he was not experienced in chasing people on horseback. The branches whipped his face, confusing him, while the bushes murdered his legs and the flanks of his horse. Relmyer, paying no heed to these inconveniences, brandished his sabre, promise of devastating retribution.

The terrain was now gently sloping, which meant the horses speeded up. The fugitive manoeuvred his horse between

obstacles. He suddenly cut off to the right, abandoning the path to head into an entanglement of little bushes. The vegetation swallowed him up. It was an astonishing choice of route: on the path beyond there were fewer obstructions and so it was much faster. Relmyer continued on straight. Margont chose to follow the tracks of the runaway to close the trap. In spite of his advantages, the man was slowing down. Relmyer left the path in his turn and gained on him. He came level with him fifteen paces to his left. He was going to overtake him and cut off his route when the militiaman and his horse seemed to subside, as though the ground had given way beneath them. The slope he had been descending had suddenly become much steeper. Relmyer was now looking down on the fugitive, who descended still further. Relmyer’s horse reared. His frightened whinnying terrified the young hussar. Relmyer, clutching his reins, guessed rather than saw the danger. His mind could not interpret the chaos of images it was receiving: sky, trees, a rocky outcrop ... Relmyer lost his balance and crashed into the stony ground. That was what saved his life. When the legs of his horse landed, one of them encountered the void. The beast toppled head first and crashed to the ground fifteen feet below. It rolled over, kicking up dead pine needles, and finished up against a tree trunk, its broken neck forming a right angle.

Margont’s attention had been deflected. When he looked again at the man he was pursuing, he barely had time to duck. The man had stopped and, turned towards Margont, was aiming his pistol at him. He had chosen his moment to perfection, proof that everything had gone as he had planned. Margont tugged frantically on his reins. The ball struck his horse in the neck and it went sprawling on its side. Shaken by his fall, Margont was drowning in pain. He freed his sword and tried to get up, but collapsed, caught by one of his stirrups. His mount, in agony, vainly tried to get to its feet, trapping Margont on the ground, his right foot crushed by the struggling animal. He tried to free himself while brandishing his sword. He was not going to be taken like this! He thrashed about like a wild thing. The militiaman looked at him, hesitating. Had he had another pistol he could have finished off the wriggling worm. He had taken hold of his sabre, but worried that the captain might wound him with his sword.

The Austrian decided not to linger. There might be others following him as well. The man spurred on his horse. A stone ricocheted off a tree trunk nearby. Standing on top of the rocky outcrop, Relmyer was throwing stones at him, hoping to knock him out. Stones! Pathetic ... Margont finally freed himself but a red-hot pain invaded his side. His wound had opened up.

CHAPTER 20

MARGONT was resting stretched out on some straw, his side in flames. Lefine came to sit down beside him. Margont watched him woozily. In preparation for being sewn up again he had been made to drink brandy and a concoction of laudanum, opium, cinnamon, cloves, wine and saffron. He was in a field hospital set up in a large farm in the village of Ebersdorf. All the wounded from Essling finished up here, either to recuperate or to die. The walls and the beams were impregnated with the odour of gangrene and blood. Even months later, the place would smell of death, haunted by those who had perished there.

Margont tapped his friend’s knee.

Thank you! Without you I’d still be there waiting for help.’

That would have been what you deserved! You galloped off like furies; several times I nearly lost you. Happily your route was not difficult to follow with all those broken branches and trampled bushes.’

‘We really almost got him.’

‘No, he almost got you! Croups of militia were circling the front line from north to south. They were crossing the Danube in boats or by ford or by the bridges that are still standing, to come and support the partisans who were already at our backs. Everyone knew that, but no! Relmyer and you, you’re always deaf to such things. A fine result, in truth!’