'Yes,' I said, 'that man begins to puzzle me, and if it goes on I shall ask him what it means.'
At that very moment he rose, threw down his napkin, and passed into the office where travellers' names were registered. He re-entered the dining-room, exclaiming aloud, 'It is he—I was not mistaken' (calling me by my name). 'It is indeed my friend.'
I recognised him by his voice, and we were in each other's arms. It was Rossi, whom I had not seen since 1813, seventeen years before. He believed me dead, and I thought the same of him, for I had learnt on my return from prison that he had been wounded under the walls of Paris. This recognition interested all who were present, about twenty in number, and we were asked to relate our adventures during the Russian campaign. This we did willingly, and at midnight we were still at table, drinking champagne to Napoleon's memory. It is hardly surprising that at first I did not recognise my comrade, for I left him delicate, and I found him stout and strong, his hair almost gray. He lived at Montauban, and was now a rich merchant.
When the moment of departure came, I thought no more of remaining behind, but it was impossible to walk alone. Grangier and Leboude held me up under the arms, and others did as much for Rossi. At the end of half an hour's walking I was much better; but all the way I needed the help of one arm, often of two. In this manner we arrived in good time at the little village where we were to sleep; there were very few dwellings to be found, and, although we were the first to arrive, we were obliged to sleep in a yard. By chance we were able to find plenty of straw, which we used to cover us; but, with our usual ill-luck, the straw took fire. Everyone saved himself as best he could; many had their coats burnt. A quarter-master of Vélites, named Couchère, was more unfortunate than the others; the fire caught his cartridge-case, and his whole face was burnt. And as for me, without the help of my comrades I should probably have been roasted, as I could not possibly move by myself. I was taken by the legs and shoulders, and dragged up to the hut, where General Roguet and other officers were quartered. They fled on seeing the flames, thinking that the house itself was on fire. After this misfortune came a high north wind, and, as we were without shelter, we entered the General's house, which consisted of two rooms. We took possession of one, in spite of him; more than half of us were obliged to stand up the whole night, but, still, it was better than staying outside exposed to bad weather. That would have killed three-fourths of us.
December 13th.—Kowno was at least ten leagues off, so General Roguet made us start before daybreak.
A shower of hail had fallen, forming ice upon the road. If, as on the preceding evening, I had not had my friends' help, I should very probably, like so many others, have finished my life's journey on that last day in Russia.
It was hardly dawn when we reached the foot of a mountain which was one sheet of ice. What trouble we had climbing it! We had to squeeze ourselves into groups to obtain mutual support. On this march there was more readiness to help one another than before. Probably it was the hope of arriving at the end of the journey. I remember that, when a man fell, cries were heard, 'Stop! there is a man fallen!' I noticed a sergeant-major of our battalion shout, 'Stop, there! I swear that not one of you shall go on until the two left behind have been picked up and brought on.' It was by his firmness they were saved.
At the top of the mountain it was light enough to see, but the slope was so rapid, and the ice so smooth, that no one dared to venture down. General Roguet, some officers, and several sappers who were walking in front, had fallen. Some picked themselves up, and those who were strong enough went down in a sitting position, guiding themselves with their hands; others who were weaker trusted to Providence—that is to say, they rolled over and over like barrels. I was of this latter number, and I should most likely have thrown myself into a ravine, or been lost in the snow, but for Grangier, who went in front of me, moving backwards and stopping, so that I ran into him. He drove his bayonet into the ice to hold on by, and when I came up he moved further, sliding and repeating the same process, till I reached the bottom, bruised all over, and my left hand bleeding. The General had ordered a halt to assure himself that everybody had come up—the roll-call had been taken the evening before—and happily no one was missing. It was broad daylight, and we could see that the mountain might have been avoided by turning to the right. The other corps who were marching after us came along this side of it without accident. This climbing had tired me so much that I could only walk very slowly, and, as I did not wish to abuse the kindness of my friends, I begged them to follow the column. One of the company, however, stayed with me, a Piedmontese, by name Faloppa. I had not seen him for several days.
Those who were fortunate enough to keep their health, to have unfrozen feet, and to march at the head of the column, missed seeing all the disasters which I, for instance, sick and crippled, witnessed daily. Those in front could not see the men who fell around them, while we in the rear passed over the long train of dead and dying that each corps left behind it. We had also the disadvantage of being harassed by the enemy at our heels.