What can I say of that inexorable march that would take us to Strasbourg by summer’s end? To begin with, Uncle Charles had to return to his traveling hospital and I almost never saw him anymore—in accordance with the new regulations, the only women authorized to travel with the troops were the sutlers and washerwomen. In those four weeks I never once slept in a bed, and considered myself lucky to find a straw pallet in some barn or another to sleep on, in public, fully clothed and surrounded by strangers. Usually though, I spent the night in Aunt Margot’s carriage, Françoise and I making do on the seats, and Pierre on the roof, in the open air, wedged among our luggage. On the occasional afternoon, if we came to a river—we crossed the Oise, the Mosa, the Mosela—we would clean the crust of sweat and dust that covered us and wash our laundry in the muddy water, though no matter how we scrubbed our sheets and blouses they always came out a dingy earth color that was impossible to remove. The peasants rarely sold us anything other than bread, cheese, and fodder for the horses, and even these items came at extremely high prices. Fortunately, we were positioned between the carriage of a grenadier colonel’s wife and that of the jovial Italian family of a fortifications engineer, assigned to the General Staff of the Imperial Guard—it was from those women that I learned that the section of the column we were traveling in was especially for officials with the Imperial Guard. Sometimes, to distract ourselves, we would visit one another and gossip happily over the false rumors that were circulating. It was said that, upon invading Bavaria, the Austrians serving under General Mack had discovered that the inhabitants, in a show of collective disgust, would not speak to them or answer their questions; we were assured that Villenueve had toppled an English squadron in Spanish waters and that, due to some murky event in Poland, a serious problem had erupted between the Russians and the Poles. Also, while we took turns reading chapters aloud from Paul et Virginie, or Delphine, we would share the few sweets we still had left: a delicious chocolate confit, half-melted from the heat, a lump of sugar, a licorice candy, the very rare cup of tea, a piece of biscuit soaked in wine. It was not easy to find fresh water and milk, and as a result we all suffered from stomach ailments, especially Françoise and Silvana, Signora Grimaldi’s younger sister.
From time to time my uncle would appear and offer a glum report, lowering his head to speak with me through the carriage window without dismounting his horse: “Our wagons are overflowing with febrile soldiers. If things go on like this, six to eight thousand men will arrive ill at the Danube.” He’d leave us a few bites of beef or ham for supper, then set off again for his wagons, which were traveling half a league ahead of us. I don’t know exactly where our carriage was positioned within the column. We must not have been too far to the rear though, because once, when our carriage paused on the crest of a hill, I climbed up to Pierre’s coachbox and looked behind us. A veritable army of women extended as far as I could see; they traveled by coach, carriage, wagon, cart, horse, mule, donkey and their own two feet. Many of them left the road to take care of their personal necessities, and their colorful dresses and hats dotted the recently harvested, straw-colored countryside, like flowers in full summer bloom.
One night, while we roasted a miraculous chicken that Pierre had bought at a nearby farmstead, Uncle Charles arrived, glowing with contentment. He had come from Strasbourg, where the troops were setting up camp on the outskirts of the city. They would wait there until the Emperor arrived from Saint-Cloud to resume the march. There were to be two days of tributes and festivities. Thanks to Doctor Larrey’s generosity, he had been able to secure lodging in a local clockmaker’s home.
“I’ll sleep in the workshop and you’ll take the upstairs bedroom. The carriage won’t make it,” he said, gesturing at the overcrowded road. “You’ll go on my horse. I’ll come for you at dawn. Right now, I’m off to say hello to a friend.” As he was leaving, he added: “What coincidences do occur in this life! Can you guess with whom you’ll be sharing the room? No less than Madame Polidor! I assume you won’t object. She’s a refined and intelligent woman and you can trust her. I’m told she was a famous opera singer.”
Naturally, coincidence had nothing to do with it. As I was soon to discover, during his nocturnal rides to and from our carriage, Charles had come across Madame Polidor’s coach, and an intimate friendship had sprung up between them.
The clockmaker—an old man named Simon Lévi who welcomed me in a high-pitched, singsong voice—had a modest house that seemed, to me, more sumptuous than a palace. After devouring an enormous salad with hard-boiled eggs and vegetables, I washed myself from head to toe with soap and hot water, put on a clean shift—with the inevitable earth-colored tinge—and collapsed on the bed. I was so exhausted that, no matter how I tossed and turned, trying to find a comfortable position, I couldn’t manage to fall asleep. Suddenly, a strange song, barely audible over the street noise below, curled its way up the spiral staircase that connected the workshop to the upper floor. I couldn’t understand the words, but I recognized the clockmaker’s inimitable voice. I imagined that he sang as he repaired the mechanism of one of the many clocks that I had seen downstairs. I pictured him bent over, with the magnifying lens affixed to his forehead, his black silk cap half-covering his white hair, his voice issuing through his whiskers like an irrepressible flock of swallows. Mesmerized by the song, I fell, little by little, into a dream in which Aunt Margot and I were floating high above the towers of Strasbourg, surrounded by flotillas of hot-air balloons, angels with enormous feathered wings, and flying carriages.
I awoke the next day, startled by the sound of cannon-fire and the ringing of bells. “Napoleon has entered the city,” said a voice from the floor, just next to the bed. It was Madame Polidor, stretched out on a pallet, completely naked, a bundle of clothing under her head as a pillow. “When I came in last night, you were sleeping so deliciously that I didn’t want to wake you,” she added with a smile, speaking to me familiarly, as though we were already dear friends. “But now we should get dressed and fix ourselves up as quickly as possible. Your uncle is coming for us this evening, but first, I want to confirm the whereabouts of some friends, Robert among them. I know that he’s in Strasbourg.”
Any shred of reservation that I’d had about her disappeared instantaneously. Her personality was enchanting, lively and warm, and a powerful aura emanated from her still beautiful body, disarming the rigid mores that usually defended my timidity. It didn’t seem to concern her one bit to be naked in front of me. Sitting up in bed, I watched her open her valise, take out an iron and a blue muslin dress. I had never seen anyone move her arms and hands with such natural elegance. While she lit the coals in the brazier, I asked her if she knew Robert well.
“I met him last year. I appreciate him a great deal. He’s a gentleman, which is hard to come by these days. A man who protects his honor.”
“Does he have a lover?” I dared to ask her.
“What Hussar doesn’t? Her name is Corinne. They were living together when Claudette and I arrived at the encampment in Boulogne. I visited them once. A modest, two-room flat near the cavalry’s barracks. Things must not be easy for them, though. They have very different tastes,” she said, spreading the dress out across the bed.
“If I’d known . . . ” I murmured, utterly crestfallen.
“Darling, single men almost always have a lover or an affectionate friend they like to sleep with. If you’re worried about Corinne, I’ll tell you that you are younger and more beautiful than she is. And anyway, things must not be going well between them recently. Remember that he went alone to the dance in Boulogne. But above all, remember that you are here and she, as far as I know, has not accompanied him. Not all women are willing to follow their men to war.”
I was silent a moment, savoring Maryse’s last words: “Follow their men to war.” It was the use of the possessive their that had struck me; I had never heard it used for a woman about a man, only the inverse. I started laughing, at the thought