Memory of Flames Read Online Free PDF Page A

withdraw their hands quickly for fear of losing a finger, such was the avidity with which the soldiers fell on the food.
    Margont found it difficult to get through the streets. Because he was an officer he was hailed on all sides, or grabbed by the arm. ‘Where is the Emperor?’ ‘Is it true that General Yorck’s Prussians have devastated Chateau-Thierry?’ ‘What’s the news? Tell us the
    news!’ ‘Where are your soldiers?’ ‘How many Austrians are left after all their losses in the last few weeks?’ ‘It’s old Blücher we have to kill, he’s the most dangerous, we can manage all the others! ...’ Margont did not reply. He would not even have stopped had the crowd not pressed suffocatingly around him. These people wanted him to appease their fears, but frankly he had his own to deal with. When he considered the situation, he imagined the Empire as a giant ship taking on water and listing increasingly to one side.
    He finally reached his barracks in the Palais-Royal quarter. The sentry on duty tried to present arms, but his rifle escaped his grasp and landed in the mud. A soldier only since yesterday — he’ll be dead tomorrow, thought Margont bitterly.
    ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he called. ‘The important thing is to learn to fire it properly.’
    The National Guard had inherited the old principles of the militia — they had to admit as many civilians as possible to their ranks and they were to help the regular army to defend the country if it was invaded.
    In the courtyard, it was bedlam. Piquebois - who had just been made captain - was surrounded by his men and was being harangued by an officer of the Polish   Krakus.   The officer had been fired on by a soldier of the National Guard, who had taken him for a Russian and panicked. Since the Russian campaign, all the powers had taken it into their heads to have their own Cossacks. The King of Prussia now had a squadron of guard Cossacks. And Napoleon wanted to ‘cossackise’ French farmers by transforming them into impromptu troops operating on the edges of the enemy forces. He also had his Polish   Krakus.   They resembled their eponymous Russian counterparts, except for their headgear, which was a traditional, scarlet domed hat. Unfortunately, this detail was not sufficient to distinguish them from the Cossacks ... Margont hastily saluted his friend, who was offering profuse apologies to the Polish officer.
    Sergeants shouted commands at the disorderly line of soldiers of the National Guard, in their navy jackets and bicornes with the red, white and blue cockade. Men in civilian dress and clogs were
    also in the line, men who the day before had been labourers, millers, cobblers, carpenters, wig-makers, coppersmiths, shopkeepers, students, boatmen. The seasoned fighters were somewhere near Reims with the Emperor. All that were left in Paris were thousands of militia, the wounded, soldiers taken on the day before, conscripts who were too young, veterans who were too old but had been pressed back into service, and a few officers to try to whip that rabble into some semblance of an army. Plus the soldiers who were being punished by being transferred here ... At that thought, Margont ground his teeth.
    Since 1798, he had served in the regular army. And now, instead of being with the Grande Armée helping to stave off the abominations of an invasion, he was here! Thanks to his friend Saber and his damnable talent for strategy! Saber had been a lieutenant at the beginning of the Russian campaign and now he was a colonel! Such a promotion, obtained in a very short time, solely on the basis of merit, was not just rare but unheard of. He had been a captain at the start of the German campaign of 1813, during which he had distinguished himself several times. Then he had been a major at the Battle of Dresden and had participated in Marshal Victor’s II Corps attack on the Austrian left flank, leading his battalion into a mad charge, holding back hordes of