The Retreat by Patrick Rambaud Read Free Book Online Page A

Aparrrt from those in the Emperror’s service,therrre’s no kvestion of me prrroviding quarters for civilians. Do you underrrstand?’
    â€˜Yes, Your Grace, but …’
    â€˜He’s stubborrrn, the little nitvit,’ grumbled the marshal, crossing his arms.
    â€˜Can I at least borrow a barouche to drive them back to their neighbourhood?’
    â€˜Do whateverrr you so please, monsieur le segrétaire, but I don’t vant to see your band of jackanapes in fancy dress loiterrrring anywhere near me! Do you vant my infantry to trample your leading ladies underrfoot?’
    â€˜No thank you, Your Grace.’
    As Sebastian was leaving, the marshal shrugged his shoulders and sighed, ‘They’re all the same, these civilians, they haf no idea. And that other lot, over there, not bloody able to put out a chit ov a firrre! Where are they vrom? Not vrom my part of the country, at any rate – a rrreal peasant can put a burrrning barn out vith a glass of vater!’
    Son of a Rouffach miller, whose accent he had inherited, husband to a laundress of whom the hereditary nobility of the Court made fun, and yet the first to be rewarded by Napoleon with an imaginary duchy, Lefebvre took pride in recalling his humble origins at every possible opportunity. But today, his officers thought, even armed with a bucket, his ideal peasant wouldn’t have had any luck: that was a mighty blaze raging on the other side of the city.
    *
    At ten o’clock in the evening, an open army barouche equipped with lamps that reached only as far as the horses’ hindquarters left the Kremlin and headed towards the north-east corner of the city. Mme Aurore’s entire troopwas crammed into it: the Great Vialatoux had agreed to take off his centurion’s helmet and one of Joan of Arc’s greaves was sticking out of the door. Sebastian had positioned himself on the box next to the postilion, Intendant Bausset having given him permission to escort his protégés, and he kept on turning round in his seat to try to see Mlle Ornella’s silhouette in the darkness. This furtive contemplation was complicated by the omnipresence of Mme Aurore, who knew the way by heart and was an outspoken guide; standing in the middle of the carriage, despite the bumpy road, she pointed out the short cuts to their rented lodge.
    â€˜To the right, down there, we’re going to drive round the bazaar …’
    The carriage turned where the manageress said.
    â€˜It would be shorter going through the bazaar,’ the chatterbox carried on. ‘But the cellars’ trapdoors open right in the middle of the street and, just look at that scrimmage …’
    The carriage passed narrow streets of single-storey brick houses with porticoes. Finally rid of their officers, the soldiers were stocking up, squabbling over barrels of honey or a scarf woven with silver thread. This was the Chinese quarter; Lan Tchu’s merchants dispatched goods here from all over Asia. They came from beyond the River Amor, from places where one no could be sure where Russia finishes and China begins. Their caravans left the Silk Road north of the Caspian and travelled up the Volga and the Don to Moscow to sell white silk from Bukhara, engraved copperware, sacks of spices, sticks of soap and blocks of pink-veined salt. Hanks of hair swung in the shop windows, lit up by lanterns of the pillagers of the Guard. Uniforms disappeared under garishly coloured brushedvelvet, shakoes were swapped for Tartar caps with earflaps; they pilfered objects made from walrus tusks and draped yellow- and violet-striped fabrics from Hissar round themselves as capes. The men poured out of the bazaar in unrecognizable bands and the carriage had to fight its way through; the horses were reduced to a walk. The journey seemed endless but Sebastian was growing more and more thrilled, the longer he spent in the presence of Mlle Ornella, who seemed to him to possess