After having looked to our boots—an important consideration—we cooked a piece of horseflesh, of which Picart had a good store. After eating, and drinking a little brandied snow, we put some meat into our knapsacks, and, standing to warm ourselves before the fire, we considered the next step to be taken.
'Well,' said the good fellow, 'which way now for us?'
'That infernal music's in my ears still,' I said.
'Perhaps we are making a mistake. Very likely it's the first bugle, or our Horse-Grenadiers' reveille—you know the air:
'Fillettes, auprès des amoureux
Tenez bien votre serieux,' etc.
I interrupted Picart by telling him that there had been no first bugle or reveille for the last fortnight; that we had no more cavalry; that with the few that still remained a squadron called the Doomed Squadron had been formed, commanded by the oldest Marshal in France, that the Generals were Captains, and the Colonels and other officers served as private soldiers; that just the same thing had happened to a battalion now called the Doomed Battalion; that, in short, of 40,000 men in the cavalry, only 1,000 remained.
Without leaving him time to reply, I told him that what we had heard was the signal of departure for the Russian cavalry, and it was that which brought him out of the waggon.
'Oh, mon pays, it wasn't only that which made me clear out: I had been watching you some time trying to set me on fire!'
Picart had hardly finished speaking, when he seized me by the arm suddenly, saying, 'Silence! Lie down!' I threw myself on the ground at once. He followed my example, and covered the fire with a cuirass. I looked up, and saw the Russian cavalry defile above us in the utmost silence. This lasted for quite a quarter of an hour.