The Retreat by Patrick Rambaud Read Free Book Online

Everything was written. He knew he was invulnerable but still the image of Charles XII haunted him.
    Every evening he’d return to Voltaire’s description of that young Swedish king’s disastrous undertaking; a century earlier he had lost his army and his throne on the road to Moscow. He’d experienced the same inconclusive battles; hisartillery and wagons had become mired in the same marshes, the dragoons of his vanguard had been similarly weakened by surprise attacks from the Muscovite rearguard. People had called him invincible too, but he’d ended up fleeing to Constantinople on a stretcher. Was that repeating itself? It was unthinkable. And yet there were coincidences that troubled Napoleon. A little while ago, when he saw one of his captains throw a moujik armed with a pitchfork into the Moskova, he had remembered a story told by Voltaire at the end of the first part of his
History of Russia
. An old man dressed entirely in white, holding two carbines, had threatened Charles XII in the same fashion; some Swedes had cut him down. The peasants had mounted a revolt in the fens of Mazovia; they had been captured and forced to hang one another. But then the King had pushed deep into desert wastes chasing Peter the Great’s armies, who kept on retreating, drawing him on, leaving nothing but scorched earth behind them … The Emperor stirred nauseously in his armchair. ‘Constant!’
    His valet, stretched out in front of the half-open door, an ear cocked, stood up, straightening his uniform.
    â€˜Sire?’
    â€˜Constant, my son, what a terrible musty smell!’
    â€˜I will burn some vinegar, sire.’
    â€˜It’s unbearable. My coat.’
    Constant draped a slightly worn sky-blue coat with a gold embroidered collar over the Emperor’s shoulders; he’d worn it in Italy and since then whenever he was under canvas. He went downstairs treading heavily, one step at a time, disturbing the secretaries, officers and servants; they were spending what they anticipated would be a short anduncomfortable night on the stairs. Immediately outside Napoleon found Berthier and some generals engaged in animated conversation.
    â€˜Fire, Your Majesty,’ said the major general, pointing to a glow in the city.
    â€˜Where?’
    â€˜Barges caught fire on a branch of the river and then the wooden piers and a brandy warehouse,’ explained an aide-de-camp who that moment had come back from Moscow.
    â€˜Our soldiers can’t work out how to light the Russian stoves,’ Berthier said ruefully.
    â€˜Get a bloody move on! Those
coglioni
had better not torch my brother Alexander’s capital!’

Two

THE FIRE

    H IS BRAWNY HANDS resting on one of the Byzantine crenels of the Kremlin’s parapet, old Marshal Lefebvre was watching the blue flames rising in the distance from the alcohol warehouse. ‘My eye!’ he stormed. ‘Vat are they shilly-shallying for, those bluudy sapperrrs!? It’s not that complicated, pourrring riverrr water on a shack!’ He took a deep breath and said to the officers of his staff, ‘I haf seen some firrres in my time, some devilishly big ones, as a materrr ov fact.’ Lefebvre was starting to repeat himself, endlessly chuntering on about his past exploits. Decent fellow though he was, he was about to launch into a story that was all too familiar to his staff when, wrinkling his potato-shaped nose, he caught sight of Sebastian.
    â€˜You’rrre still herrre?’
    â€˜To obtain your permission, Your Grace …’
    â€˜Still your agtors? Can’t you see I’m busy vatching these insects in uniforrrm who can’t even put out a campfirrre on the Moskova?’
    â€˜Yes, Your Grace, but …’
    â€˜My dearrr sirrr, concerrn yourself with copying out His Excellency Barrron Fain’s notes in ink and imparrrting an elegant turn ov phrase to His Majesty’s vords; ve all haf our worrrk.