'Not bad, those boots, eh, Fayolle''
'The jacket's not half bad either. A bit short, but damn it all, the fat pig has made it filthy!'
'I tell you what, I fancy those braces. Blow me if they're not velvet. . .'
He crouched down to take them off, but, before he could, they both started. Someone behind them had stifled a cry. A young peasant girl in a short pleated skirt was squeezed into a corner, behind a bedpost. She was covering her mouth with both hands, her huge dark eyes open wide. Cuirassier Pacotte levelled his pistol at her but Fayolle pushed down his arm. 'Stop, you idiot! It's not worth killing her: well, at least not yet.'
He went up to her, blood dripping from his sword. The Austrian curled up into a ball. Fayolle put the point of his sabre under her chin and ordered her to stand up. She didn't move: only trembled.
'She can't understand a word you say, Fayolle. Have to give her a hand.'
Pacotte caught her arm and pulled her to her feet: she
leant against the wall, shaking. The two cuirassiers looked at her. Pacotte whistled in admiration: she was full-breasted, just the way he liked. Fayolle raised his sabre and wiped the back of it against her blue bodice. With the sharp edge he sliced off the bodice's silver buttons and tore off her lace blouse; lunging at her, he snatched off her woollen cap. The girl's golden-brown hair fell down over her shoulders. It was smooth and glossy, with a sheen like Indian silk.
'Shall we take her to the officers''
'You must be mad!'
'Maybe there's more of these bloody yokels spying on us with their cleavers and scythes.'
'We'll think about it,' Fayolle said, tearing away the skirt and what was left of the blouse. 'Had any Austrian girls, have you?'
'Not yet. Only Germans.'
'German girls, they don't know how to say no.' 'Not to me, they don't.' 'What about Austrian girls''
'From the look of this one, she knows how to say no and something a lot stronger than that.'
'You think so?' Turning to the girl, he asked, 'Don't you find us handsome?'
'Have we given you a fright?'
'Mind you,' Fayolle said, chuckling, 'if I was her, your mug would put the wind up me!'
They heard the third cuirassier calling to them from outside: Fayolle went to the window. 'Don't yell like that! There are snipers . . .'
He stopped in mid-sentence. The cuirassier was not alone. Jingling, dust, the rattle of hooves: the cavalry had
Ram baud
occupied Essling and General Espagne in person was waiting at the foot of the house.
'Have you spotted any of them?' he asked.
'Well, that's just it, General,' said Fayolle. 'There was one tub of lard who wanted to butcher me alive.'
Cuirassier Pacotte dragged the peasant's body to the window, lifted it onto the ledge and tipped it over. The corpse crashed limply to the ground like a a sack of wet dough, and Espagne's horse shied away.
'Any others?'
'He's the only one who saw a few stars, General.'
Through his teeth, Fayolle said to his companion, 'You're a bit of a sap, aren't you? We could have kept his boots, they looked sturdy, at least a lot sturdier than my espadrilles.'
'You up there!' the General shouted again. 'Come down! Every one of these shacks has to be checked and a sweep done of the whole village!'
'Yes, General!'
'What about the girl?' Pacotte asked Fayolle. 'We'll keep her on the boil.'
Before rejoining their squadron, Fayolle and Pacotte tore the blue petticoat and lace blouse into strips and bound the peasant girl; they stuffed her cap in her mouth, tied it in place with the dead man's braces and threw her on a horsehair mattress. Before slipping off, Fayolle kissed her on the forehead. 'Be good, sweetheart, and don't you worry. How could we forget a lovely looker like you? Hey! Feel that, our treasure has got a boiling hot forehead . . .'
'Must have a fever.'
Shouting with laughter, they went down to their comrades.
Vincent Paradis poked at some charred logs.
'Just need to blow on there and they'll catch, Colonel.' 'They saw us, then they bolted.'
'I don't think so. There are only two of us. There were more of them. Look at the brushwood trampled bv their horses.'
Accompanied by his new scout, Lejeune had reconnoitred far beyond the villages, suspecting Austrian spies in even the smallest copse.
'It must have been the same uhlans as before/ he said.
'Or some other lot who haven't gone far. There's plenty of places to hide around here.'
A rustling of leaves put them on their guard: Lejeune cocked his pistol.
'Don't you be afraid, Colonel,' said Paradis. 'It's only an animal climbing that beech. It'll be more terrified than we are.'
'Are you scared?' 'Not yet.'
'But you're not entirely at ease either, by the look of you.' «
'I don't like galloping through crops and ruining a harvest.'
Lejeune had borrowed a mount from the horse artillery for his protege, who was still wearing his voltigeur's uniform. Looking at him, Lejeune said, 'Both sides are going to slaughter each other with their cannon on this green
plain tomorrow. There'll be plenty of red then, and it won't be poppies. When this war is over . . .'
'There'll be another one, Colonel. With this Emperor, war will never end.'
'No, you're right.'
They wheeled their horses, and headed back towards Essling at an easy pace but still watchful. Lejeune would gladly have stayed behind, with his sketchbook, to draw this gentle, deserted countryside. Troops were still pouring into the village. On the square in front of the church, Lejeune recognized Sainte-Croix and some of Massena's staff officers, which meant that the marshal couldn't be far off. In fact he was visiting the village granary, a three-storeyed brick and stone building at the end of an avenue of oaks, separated from a large farm by a walled garden, which had dormer windows on the roof and round loopholes covered with bars under the gables, where sharpshooters could take up position.
'I have counted forty-eight windows,' Massena said to Lejeune. 'The walls are more than a metre thick, the doors and shutters are lined with sheet metal: it's a solid piece of work. If the worst comes to the worst, we can entrench here and hold it. Here, Lejeune, I've had it measured. Take these figures to the Chief of Staff — they're accurate.'
Massena thrust the piece of paper into the colonel's hand, who glanced over it: the building was 36 metres long and 10 metres wide, the ground-floor windows were placed 1.65 metres above the ground . . .
'Are you staying in Essling, Your Grace?'
'I haven't a damned notion,' said Massena, 'but on this bank, yes. How far did you push up to?'
'That clump of beeches, over there.'
'And? Any luck?' 'Tracks, but no people.'
'Yes, that's just what Lasalle says. Espagne as well. His cuirassiers only killed one skulker, but why had that imbecile stayed behind? I smell the Austrians all around us, and I've got a nose for that particular scent!'
Massena came closer to murmur in Lejeune's ear, 'Have you got my information?'
'What information, Your Grace?'
'You numskull! Gad, the Genoese millions of course!'
'Daru claims that they don't exist.'
'Daru! Of course he would! That liar pockets anything with a shine to it! Like a magpie! Never ask Daru a thing! You may go.'
Grumbling, Massena went back into the village granary.
In the main courtyard of Schonbrunn, Daru had perched on the hub of the first cart in a supply convoy and w as opening sacks at random. Each one caused him to exclaim furiously, 'Barley!'
'There are no more oats, my lord,' a deputy commissary said in an embarrassed voice.
'Barley! Out of the question! The cavalry needs oats!'
'The new crop isn't ripe yet, we could only find barley . . .'
'Where has M. Beyle got to? This was his job, damn it all!'
&
nbsp; 'I am his replacement, my lord.' 'And that sloth?' 'In bed, most probably, my lord.' 'With whom, if you please?'
'With his habitual fever, my lord: here, I have a note vouching for him, I was meant to give it to you . . .'
Daru tore the piece of paper out of his hand and read a bona fide notice of sick leave, signed by Carino, a German doctor, and countersigned by the Surgeon-Major of the Guard. Unable to find fault with it, Daru almost choked with rage; he took a handful of barley and threw it in the deputy's face. Tine, our cavalry will feed on barley! Go!'
And he signalled to the convoy to start off for the island of Lobau.
Henri did indeed have terrible migraines, for which he was taking belladonna, but the true cause of his suffering was the pox, as unfortunately there was no other choice but to call those ailments that plague a gallant's adventures, those painful, although not serious, conditions about which a man might smile amongst his fellow men, but still feel embarrassed by in a woman's company. This handicap, to which Henri had eventually become accustomed, did not, however, prevent him fighting other battles on his own behalf. He wasn't actually in bed, despite his exhaustion and unpleasant, feverish sweats. Instead he was waiting at the far end of the Prater in a ruined hunting lodge, not far from a group of bizarre-looking mock-Gothic constructions. A few months earlier in Paris he had lost his heart to Valentina, an actress of easy morals who, off-stage, was known simply as Louise. She, like so many of her kind, had followed the troops to Vienna, and Henri had given her this rendezvous in order to break off their liaison, since he dreamt only of Anna Krauss and, stoked by his fever,
this new love burned white-hot in his breast. How to get rid of Valentina? She had become a burden. Henri wanted absolute freedom. How to announce the split? Brutally : Henri couldn't set about anything in that fashion. With a feigned weariness? Coldly? Henri began to smile to himself. He had been so jealous over Valentina! He wondered how he'd ever risked fighting a duel with her official lover, a leathery captain in the horse artillery: that was another occasion when his migraines had saved him from being wounded or making a ridiculous spectacle of himself. Valentina was late. Perhaps she'd forgotten? He had noticed her that winter at the Feydeau theatre in Paris: she was singing in The Inn at Bagmeres, a fresh, unpretentious comic opera by MM. Jalabert and Catel:
When I wear my little hat,
My dress of amaranthine,
My shawl and my poppy red shoes,
What a picture's to be seen . . .
Valentina arrived in a barouche, dressed very like the character in her song, that's to say just as flimsily, but her crepe dress was a shade of hydrangea, she wore satin ankle boots, a heavily embroidered bodice, and two long feathers waved above her black velvet toque. Her brown hair fell in corkscrew curls about her temples. As pale as the fashion demanded but rather plump, Valentina favoured certain mannerisms: she wrinkled her nose, swivelled her hips and made a point, whenever she smiled, of showing her teeth, which she knew to be perfect.
'Amove mioF she said, her Italian heavily laced with a suburban Parisian accent.
'Valentina .. .'
'This is it! The theatre at the Carinthian gate is going to reopen: the theatre on the Wien too!' 'Valentina . .
'I'm going to appear, Henri! It's a dream! Me, on stage, here, in the capital of theatre! Can you imagine, my sweetheart?'
Oh yes, her sweetheart could imagine, but he couldn't get a word in edgeways and, seeing the pretty actress so elated, he was hardly brave enough to crush her spirits.
'There are four rows of boxes! The sets change without the curtain having to fall! And Vesuvius is even going to erupt on stage!'
'Is it an opera about Pompeii?'
'No, nothing like that, it's Don Juan'
'By Mozart?'
'By Moliere, of course!'
'But, Valentina, you're a singer.'
'It's sung from start to finish.'
'Don Juan} By Moliere?'
'That's right, you silly old roly-poly!'
Henri became sullen. He didn't feel silly and he couldn't stand references to his weight. He decided to extricate himself by taking evasive action, reflecting that flight is sometimes the most sensible tactic, at least in matters of the heart. It helped that his teeth were chattering and that he was shivering despite such a mild May. He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, exaggerating his discomfort only slightly.
'I am ill, Valentina.'
'Then I will look after you!'
'No, no, you have to rehearse Moliere's songs.'
'We'll manage. Why, you can help me learn them!'
'I don't want to be a millstone round your neck.'
'Don't worry, my sweetheart, I'm strong enough to carry it all off: my career and you. No, no, what I mean is: you and my career as well!'
'I'm convinced of that, Valentina . . .'
'So, do you agree?'
'No.'
'Must you leave Vienna?' 'Most probably.' 'Well, then, I'll follow you!' 'Be reasonable . . .'
What a blunderer I am, thought Henri as he uttered these words. How could one appeal to Valentina's reason? She possessed everything save that. He was tying himself in knots. The more pitiful he made himself, the more attentive and loving she became. Vienna's church bells started ringing.
'Five o'clock already!' said Valentina. 'Six,' lied Henri, 'I counted.' 'Oh, no, I'm terribly late!'
'Come on, off you go quickly and try on your costumes and learn your part.'
'I'll take you back in a barouche!' 'No, no, I'll take you.'
Henri dropped the actress off at the theatre where she hoped to make her debut. Before leaving, she kissed him frenziedly; he closed his eyes and could only respond by imagining that he was kissing the lips of another, whom he loved too deeply and at too great a distance. Valentina ran towards the theatre door and, under the columns, quickly turned to sketch a last wave of her gloved hand. Henri sighed. What a coward I am, he thought, and then gave the
coachman the address of the pink house in the Jordangasse where he had lodged for the last three nights. He instantly forgot the war, his illness and his friends and fell into a reverie about Mile Krauss, who displayed all the human virtues, each in its purest form. Every second he discovered something new to add to the sum of her qualities. He had considered Cimarosa to be the finest of all composers only the week before and yet, here he was, humming Mozart. Every evening, in their large, bare drawing room, Anna and her sisters would play Mozart on the violin for no one's pleasure but his alone.
There was only one stone house on the island of Lobau, a former hunting lodge where the Habsburg princes took shelter from sudden storms. M. Constant was laying logs in the fireplace on the first floor. Valets were cleaning, sweeping and setting out the furniture transported on wagons from the neighbouring castle of Ebersdorf where the Emperor had spent the previous night. Cooks were unpacking pans and spits, the obligatory Parmesan which His Majesty ate with everything, his favourite macaroni and his bottles of Chambertin. Two lackeys were carrying his iron bedstead upstairs. The chamberlains, meanwhile, were overseeing the preparations and,chivvying along His Majesty's domestic staff.
'Hurry up there!'
'The china! The chandeliers!'
'Carpet, here, at the top of the stairs!'
'I very much regret it, Marshal, but this is the Emperor's house!'
Marshal Lannes was taller, less refined and considerably
stronger than the chamberlain barring his path; catching the man by the silver lapels of his uniform, therefore, he simply pushed him hard in the chest. M. Constant rushed downstairs when he heard the servant's yelp of protest and the Marshal's gruff voice, growling in exasperation. But he too had no choice but to give way to the intruder, who had no patience with protocol. Lannes set himself up on the ground floor in a low-ceilinged room filled with straw, and furnished his new quarters with a candlestick, a chair and a desk on which he threw his sabre and tricorn covered in feathers. Renowned for f
urious bouts of rage which, although he mastered them, still turned his face a deep red, Lannes's square features otherwise bore a tranquil expression. His light, wavy hair was cut short and, at forty years old, his stomach was still flat and his back still straight, thanks to a stiff neck — the legacy of a wound he'd received at Saint Jean d'Acre. Whenever the old ache made him bring a hand up to his nape, his mind would go back to that battle. It was their twelfth assault on the citadel. His friend, General , had come within a hair's breadth of taking Djezzar Pasha's seraglio, but the reinforcements he hoped for had not arrived and he had barricaded himself and his men in a mosque. Lannes could still see the ditches piled with Turkish corpses. General had been killed. Wounded in the head, he had himself been believed dead. The next day he had climbed back into the saddle and led his men over the hills of Galilee . . .
The marshal was worn out by fifteen years of fighting and danger. He had just led the horrific siege of Saragossa. Rich and married to the most beautiful and discreet of the duchesses at court, the daughter of a senator, he would have liked to retire to his native Gascony and live with his
family and watch his two sons grow up. He was tired of always leaving and not knowing whether he'd come home as a corpse packed in a crate. Why did the Emperor refuse him this tranquillity? Like him, most of the marshals only aspired to the peace of the countryside now. These adventurers were turning bourgeois with time. At Savigny, Davout built wicker runs for his partridges and got down on all fours to feed them bread; Ney and Marmont adored gardening; MacDonald and Oudinot only felt comfortable when they were surrounded by their villagers; and on his land at Grignon, Bessieres was out hunting whenever he wasn't playing with his children. As for Massena -ensconced in his property at Rueil, looking onto Malmaison, the Emperor's retreat - he was fond of saying, 'I can piss on him from here!' And yet they had all come to Austria on an order, at the head of a motley army of young soldiers who had no good reason to kill. The Empire was already in decline; it had only existed for five years. They sensed this. Yet still they followed.
The Battle Page 5