At Solferino, whose square tower has proudly dominated for some centuries that country, where for the third time have just met two of the greatest powers of modern days, one still picks up much debris which covers, even in the cemeteries, the crosses and the bloody stones of the tombs. The ground is strewn with swords, guns, haversacks, cartridge boxes, tin boxes, shakos, helmets and belts. Almost everything is twisted, torn and broken.
I arrive at Cavriana at about 9 o'clock in the evening.
The train of war surrounding the headquarters of the Emperor of France is an imposing sight.
I seek the Marshal, Duke of Magenta, with whom I am personally acquainted.
Not knowing exactly where his army corps is encamped, I stop my little carriage on the park opposite the house occupied, since Friday evening, by the Emperor Napoleon. I find myself suddenly in the midst of a group of generals, sitting on straw chairs and wooden stools, smoking their cigars and inhaling the fresh air before the improvised palace of the Sovereign.
While I inquire about the location of Marshal MacMahon, several generals, very suspicious of my arrival, question the corporal, wounded at Magenta, who begged permission to accompany me on this excursion through the armies as his rank would ensure me safe conduct. Sitting beside the coachman, he gives me, in a certain degree, official character. The generals desire to know who I am and to discover the object of the mission with which they suppose I am charged, for they cannot imagine that a simple traveler would dare to risk himself alone in the midst of the camps at such a time.
The corporal, who knows nothing, remains impenetrable, while he replies respectfully to their questions. Their curiosity increases considerably when they see me leave for Borghetto where the Duke of Magenta is.
The second corps, commanded by the Marshal, has been moved from Cavriana to Castellaro, which is at a distance of five kilometers; its divisions are encamped on the right and left of the road leading from Castellaro to Monzambano. The Marshal, himself, with his staff, occupies Borghetto.
Although the night has arrived, we continue our way. The fires of the bivouac, fed by whole trees, and the lighted tents of the officers, present a picturesque appearance. The last murmurings of a sleeping, yet watchful, camp soothes a little my excited imagination. Under this beautiful star-lit sky, a solemn silence at last takes the place of the noises and emotions of the preceding days. I breathe with delight the pure sweet air of a splendid Italian night.
Having obtained only incomplete information, we mistake our way and follow a road leading to Volta. We are about to fall into the army corps of General Neil, made Marshal three days before, which is encamped on the outskirts of the town.