Робер Казановас
Pillage

WARNING

This novel is based on extensive historical research, including the rare Chinese testimonies that have survived, British and French military reports, contemporary journalist accounts, and European museum archives. Although some characters are fictional as individuals, their experiences and actions are based on actual survivor accounts. Details about objects, buildings, and events are as historically accurate as available sources permit. The Summer Palace was truly one of the world's architectural wonders, and its destruction represents one of the greatest cultural losses of the 19th century.

The original version, written in French, has been translated into several foreign languages. Translated versions may contain linguistic errors, misunderstandings, or approximations.

English Version

Pillage

Robert Casanovas

casanovas@hotmail.com

Legal deposit December 2025 – Digital ebook and paperback version

© 2025 Casanovas. All rights reserved

ISBN: 9791098073199

www.international-restitutions.org

Cover: The restored Old Summer Palace – China Information 2025

By the same author: The stolen room (novel)

The testament was au forgery (novel)

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1: The Road of Infamy

Chapter 2: The Treasure of the Son of Heaven

Chapter 3: The Silent Witnesses

Chapter 4: The Journey

Epilogue

PILLAGE

PROLOGUE

Paris, November 4, 1859

The cobblestones of Rue Saint-Dominique glistened under a fine rain that transformed Paris into a tableau of greyness. General Charles Guillaume Cousin de Montauban stood before the window, hands behind his back, watching the passersby hurrying beneath their umbrellas.

Behind him, Marshal Randon, Minister of War, leafed through documents with a mechanical gesture. The silence stretched between them, punctuated by the creaking of the floorboards and the occasional rustling of a page. Randon raised his head, his bushy eyebrows furrowed.

"Montauban," he said in a grave voice, "the Emperor is entrusting you with a mission that far exceeds the scope of an ordinary military expedition."

The general pivoted toward him. His chiseled face, marked by campaigns in Africa, remained impassive. His blue eyes, of a disturbing clarity, settled on the minister.

"I am ready to serve the Empire wherever it may be, Monsieur le Maréchal. China frightens me no more than the Algerian deserts."

Randon sketched a smile. He rose from his armchair—his corpulence made each movement laborious—and approached a vast map displayed on an adjacent table. It showed the Chinese Empire in all its extent, an immense territory marked with strange characters and approximate tracings.

"It's not just about courage, Montauban. The English failed last year to force the mouth of the Pei-Ho. Their ships were repulsed, their dead numbered in the dozens. The face they lost gnaws at them like an infected wound. Lord Elgin burns to avenge himself."

The general joined the map in turn, examining it with the attention of a hunter studying his terrain. His finger traced an area from the coast toward the interior.

"They made the mistake of attacking head-on. If I've understood the reports correctly, the Chinese had time to fortify the mouth. We'll need to go around, strike where they don't expect us."

"That's what His Majesty expects of you," Randon replied, placing a hand on the general's shoulder. The familiarity of the gesture contrasted with his usual reserve. "Ten thousand soldiers will be allocated to you. Two brigades under the command of Generals Jamin and Collineau. Seasoned men who will follow you to hell if necessary."

Montauban nodded. He turned away from the map and took a few steps in the room. His mind calculated distances, delays, the innumerable variables of a campaign at the other end of the world.

"And the English? What will be the extent of their commitment?"

"General Grant will have twelve thousand men. More numerous, certainly, but less disciplined than ours. You'll be dealing with colonial troops, Indians, heterogeneous contingents. Coordination will be a challenge in itself."

The general emitted a low grunt. He knew the reputation of British armies, their efficiency tempered by a tendency toward pillage that officers struggled to contain. The idea of a joint campaign worried him, but he let nothing show.

"When must I leave?"

"As soon as possible. The ships are ready at Brest and Toulon. You should be in Hong Kong by February."

Randon returned to his desk and took out an envelope bearing the imperial seal.

"Here are your official instructions. The Emperor includes a personal letter. Don't disappoint him."

The general took the envelope with an almost religious respect. The weight of the paper, the gleam of the red wax, everything embodied the will of the Empire. He slipped the envelope into his tunic, against his heart.

"Your confidence will be justified, Monsieur le Maréchal."

Randon escorted him to the door. Before leaving, Montauban turned one last time.

"May I permit myself a question, Monsieur le Maréchal?"

"I'm listening."

"What do we really know about this Chinese emperor? About this palace everyone talks about so much?"

Randon's face hardened. He hesitated, as if weighing the opportunity to share a confidence.

"The Jesuits who stayed there speak of an architectural marvel. Immense gardens, dozens of palaces. Emperor Hien-Fung resides there more willingly than in the Forbidden City. They say this place contains treasures accumulated over centuries. But these are only rumors, Montauban. Your mission is military. To force the ratification of the Tientsin treaty. The rest… the rest will depend on circumstances."

Montauban went out into the dimly lit corridor. His steps resonated on the marble with a martial cadence. One thought gnawed at him: in distant wars, circumstances had an unfortunate tendency to escape all control.

CHAPTER 1 – THE ROAD TO INFAMY

The Farewells of Paris

Paris, November 10, 1859

A week after his interview with Randon, in the salon of the Montauban family mansion on Rue de Varenne, a very different atmosphere reigned. Heavy garnet velvet curtains muffled the sounds from the street. Bronze candelabras cast a golden light on the assembled faces. Louise de Montauban, the general's wife, presided over this modest circle with an elegance that poorly masked her anxiety.

Seated near the fireplace, she held between her fingers a Sèvres porcelain cup she had not touched. Her two daughters, Mathilde and Clémence, flanked her in an unusual muteness. Facing them, Captain Armand Delmas, a young artillery officer freshly promoted to the general's staff, endeavored to reassure these ladies with an optimism he felt only halfway.

"Madame," he began, choosing his words carefully, "the general your husband is a man of incomparable experience. His campaigns in Algeria have forged him a reputation that the entire army recognizes."

Louise raised her gaze. Her pupils, ordinarily gentle and benevolent, bore a disturbing intensity.

"Captain, I married Charles twenty-three years ago. I've learned to read in his silences what he never says. This expedition worries him more than he wants to admit. China is not Algeria."

The captain leaned forward, joining his hands between his knees. At twenty-eight, he retained that youthful fervor that drives men to believe in military glory. Yet, facing this woman who had lived through so many departures and waits, his assurance wavered.

"For this very reason, the Emperor chose your husband, Madame. Because he knows how to adapt, to anticipate. We won't be alone. The English…"

"The English," cut in Mathilde, the elder daughter, with a touch of acidity in her voice. At twenty-one, she possessed the composure of well-educated young women who read newspapers and follow world affairs. "The same English who were repulsed last year? Father says their Admiral Hope lost four ships and hundreds of men."

The officer searched for his words, but it was Clémence, the younger sister, who broke the awkwardness with the disarming frankness of her seventeen years.

"I've heard that the Emperor of China lives in a marvelous palace, with gardens that extend endlessly. Is it true, Captain?"

"Indeed, extraordinary things are told, Mademoiselle. Missionaries have seen this palace called Yuen-Ming-Yuen, the Garden of Perfect Brightness. It appears to be a city within the city, with artificial lakes, marble bridges, hundreds of pavilions. The Emperor had copies of famous landscapes from all over the Empire built there."

"And the treasures?" asked Mathilde with less innocent curiosity. "They speak of jade, ancient porcelains, precious objects accumulated over dynasties."

Louise set her cup on a pedestal table with a sharp sound that brought attention back to her.

"Mathilde, Clémence, these questions are inappropriate. Your father is leaving on a military mission, not to plunder palaces like a common adventurer."

The reproach, though formulated gently, made the two young women blush. Delmas, embarrassed, tried to salvage the situation.

"Of course, Madame. The general is very clear on this. Our objective is to force the Chinese to respect the treaty signed at Tientsin. The opening of new ports to trade, freedom of movement for our missionaries. Nothing more."

"Nothing more," Louise repeated, fixing him. "And you really believe that, Captain?"

The question caught him off guard. In those scrutinizing eyes, he read a wisdom born of years spent waiting, hoping, dreading news from the front. She had seen men leave with flowers on their rifles and return broken, or not return at all. She knew that conflicts always escape plans, that the unexpected dictates its law.

"I believe, Madame, that the general will do his duty with the honor that characterizes him. What will happen there… no one can really predict. But I give you my word that I will watch over him to the best of my ability."

Louise sketched a sad smile.

"You are a sincere man, Captain. I hope this sincerity will survive what you see in China."

That same evening, in the staff offices on Rue Saint-Dominique, activity was in full swing despite the late hour. General Jamin, commanding the first brigade, and General Collineau, who led the second, were bent over endless lists with Montauban. The smell of tobacco and cold coffee permeated the confined atmosphere.

Jamin was defining limits on a map with his pencil.

"The troops are at full strength. Five thousand men per brigade. Infantry, artillery, engineers. I've made sure we have mountain guns, they'll be indispensable if we have to move away from waterways."

Collineau, more massive and jovial, intervened.

"What worries me isn't the cannons. It's the bellies. Ten thousand men to feed for months in a hostile country. The English will have their own supply lines, we'll have ours. If we find ourselves separated…"

"We won't separate," Montauban cut in with an authority that admitted no reply. "I've warned Grant. Our troops will advance together. The English paid dearly for their isolation last year. They won't make that mistake again."

Jamin put down his pencil and stretched.

"And if the Chinese refuse to negotiate? If we have to march on Beijing?"

The silence that followed carried all the implications of this question. Montauban went to the window and contemplated the Parisian night. A few gas lamps flickered in the darkness. He thought of his wife, his daughters, this comfortable life he was preparing to leave for months.

"Then we'll march on Beijing. And we'll do what must be done."

Collineau exchanged a glance with Jamin. Both knew this determination in Montauban. Once he had made a decision, nothing could shake him. This quality made him a formidable commander. It also worried those who knew him well.

"The men are ready," Jamin affirmed. "They'll embark at Brest in two months."

"Good."

Montauban faced his generals.

"Spread the word: absolute discipline. No pillaging, no excesses. We are the army of the French Empire, not a band of mercenaries. If we must confront the Chinese, we'll do so while respecting the laws of war."

Collineau approved.

"And the English? Their colonial troops are not renowned for their restraint."

"The English do what they want with their men. We will maintain our discipline. However, I have no illusions. Once an army has tasted blood and booty, containing it becomes a challenge. We'll have to be vigilant."

He returned to his desk and took out a blank sheet. In the flickering light of the oil lamp, he began drafting his preliminary orders. His pen scratched the paper with regularity, tracing these words that would seal the fate of thousands of men.

Jamin and Collineau watched him work. They were witnessing a historic moment. In a few months, they would be at the other end of the world, facing a millennial empire that refused to bow before the West. What would happen there would doubtless escape the best-laid plans, the strictest orders.

Wars have their own logic. And this logic, Collineau thought while observing the shadows dancing on the walls, never respects noble intentions.

The next morning, in a room at the Tuileries Palace, Empress Eugénie was receiving Baron Gros, the plenipotentiary designated to accompany the expedition. The rococo gilding, silk hangings, and master paintings created a setting of an opulence that contrasted violently with the austerity of military offices.

Eugénie, in a pale blue satin dress that highlighted her porcelain complexion, stood near a window overlooking the gardens. At thirty-three, she embodied imperial elegance with a natural grace that fascinated the court. But beneath this delicate appearance lay a sharp political intelligence and an iron will.

"Baron Gros, the Emperor asked me to sponsor this expedition. I accepted, of course. But I would like to understand what is expected of this enterprise."

Baron Gros, a seasoned diplomat with an emaciated face and precious manners, bowed with respect.

"Your Majesty, the objective is above all diplomatic. To force the Chinese emperor to ratify the Tientsin treaty, guarantee the security of our Catholic missions, open new ports to French trade."

"And the English? What are their true objectives?"

A gleam of amusement passed through the diplomat's gaze. The Empress had touched the heart of the problem with her usual perspicacity.

"Lord Elgin is a… complex man, Your Majesty. Son of the famous Lord Elgin who brought the Parthenon marbles to London, he bears a prestigious name and an excessive ambition. Last year's failure humiliated him. He will seek to redeem himself through a brilliant victory."

Eugénie took her seat gracefully on a sofa and motioned to Gros to sit facing her.

"Which means?"

"Which means, Your Majesty, that we'll have to navigate skillfully. The English have their own interests, which don't always coincide with ours. The opium trade, for example…"

"Opium," Eugénie repeated with barely veiled disgust. "That infamous trade that the English defend with such ardor."

"Alas, Your Majesty. One of the reasons for this war lies in that. The Chinese want to prohibit its trade, the English want to legalize it. We French are caught between two fires."

The Empress left her seat and took a few steps in the salon, her petticoats rustling on the waxed floor. She stopped before a marquetry globe and spun the sphere until she found China.

"I've heard about this palace. The Yuen-Ming-Yuen. They say it contains wonders."

Gros stiffened. The conversation was taking an unexpected turn.

"Indeed, Your Majesty. The Jesuit missionaries who worked for the emperor report extraordinary descriptions."

"And if these wonders fell into our hands? If the fortunes of war led us to this palace?"

The baron chose his words carefully. Every word spoken before the Empress carried weight.

"The laws of war are clear, Your Majesty. What belongs to the vanquished enemy… becomes the property of the victor. But there is a difference between seizing goods within the framework of military operations and allowing savage pillage."

"Of course."

Eugénie returned to her seat, fixing the diplomat with a thoughtful eye.

"General de Montauban is a man of honor. I count on him to maintain the dignity of our army."

"He will do so, Your Majesty. I am convinced of it."

Eugénie gazed through the window at the carefully maintained gardens, these French-style flowerbeds that embodied order and mastery of nature. She thought of those Chinese gardens everyone spoke of, so different, where nature was celebrated in its apparent freedom.

"Baron Gros, I have endowed the expedition with medical supplies, equipment to care for our wounded. My duty as sponsor requires it. But I also expect something in return."

"Your Majesty?"

"If art objects should fall into our hands, I would like a selection of the finest pieces brought back to me. To constitute a collection. A testimony of this era, of this encounter between two civilizations."

Gros bowed, thus masking the trouble that invaded him. The Empress's words amounted to giving imperial blessing to the seizure of Chinese treasures. He understood that this expedition far exceeded a simple military conflict. It carried within it moral questions that would haunt him for years.

"It shall be done according to your will, Your Majesty."

When he left the palace an hour later, Gros walked at a measured pace, lost in his thoughts. The Parisian sky was a heavy gray that announced snow. In a few weeks, he would be on a ship en route to the other end of the world. He carried with him diplomatic instructions, official orders, and this implicit desire of the Empress.

He wondered how all this would unfold, how noble intentions would transform in the face of ground reality. History had taught him that distant wars always escape the control of those who order them from comfortable palaces.

That same evening, as the street lamps were lighting in the streets of Paris, General de Montauban was returning home. Louise waited for him in the private salon, a piece of embroidery on her knees remaining untouched. When he entered, she raised her eyes and smiled at him with resigned sadness.

"Is it decided? You're leaving?"

"In fifteen days."

He sat beside her and took her hand in his. For a moment, they remained thus without speaking, united in a silence that said more than all words. Outside, Paris continued its carefree life, unaware that events were preparing that would mark history and forever tarnish the honor of those who participated in them.

Preparations accelerated. Ships were loaded, men assembled, final orders given. And one misty morning in late January 1860, the first transports left Brest, carrying toward the Orient a French army that knew not what awaited it.

The Crossing

At Sea, January-June 1860

The frigate Impératrice Eugénie rolled on the Atlantic swell. Aboard, General de Montauban stood on the poop deck, gripping the railing, contemplating the gray immensity extending to the horizon. The salty wind whipped his face, bringing with it a smell of iodine and spray that reminded him of other crossings, other campaigns. But never had he gone so far. Never had the distance between him and Paris been so dizzying.

Behind him, Ship Captain Duperré approached with the swaying gait of sailors who have spent more time at sea than on land. A man in his fifties, his face weathered by sun and salt, his eyelids creased from having scrutinized too many horizons.

"Mon général, we're making good progress. If the weather holds, we should round the Cape of Good Hope in three weeks."

Montauban approved without turning his attention from the ocean. The waves succeeded each other with hypnotic regularity, each similar to the previous one yet unique. He thought of Louise, his daughters, of Paris that was moving a little further away with each beat of his heart.

"Three weeks to the Cape. And how long to Hong Kong?"

"Two and a half months, perhaps three if we must make stops at Aden or Singapore."

Duperré waited a moment.

"You know, mon général, I've made this route a dozen times. The Indian Ocean can be treacherous. Storms arrive without warning, and when they arrive…"

"When they arrive, Captain, we face them like everything else. The soldiers I command do not fear the elements."

A fleeting smile passed over Duperré's lips. He had already transported troops, seen seasoned men on land turn green and trembling as soon as the boat pitched a bit hard. But he kept all commentary to himself.

"Your men are holding up well for now. A few cases of seasickness in the lower batteries, but nothing alarming. The chief medical officer is distributing his potions and advice."

Montauban faced the captain. His blue gaze scrutinized the sailor with intensity.

"Speak to me frankly, Duperré. You who know these seas, these distant lands. What do you think of the expedition? Of our chances?"

The captain hesitated. The question was direct, almost brutal. He wasn't used to a general asking his opinion on strategic questions. But Montauban's voice, with its imperceptible crack, invited confidence.

"I think, mon général, that we're not confronting the Maghreb tribes. The Chinese are numerous, organized. Their empire has existed for millennia. We're going to strike them at the heart, and a wounded empire can react unpredictably."

"You speak like my wife. She too warned me. She has that feminine intuition that sees what military strategists neglect."

"Women are often wiser than us, mon général. They don't have our masculine vanity, our need for glory."

In the distance, other transports of the flotilla were progressing in tight formation, their sails swollen by the following wind.

"How many men are we transporting on our frigate?"

"Three hundred fifty soldiers, mon général. Plus the crew and your staff. We're loaded to the gills. The holds are full of ammunition, provisions, equipment. If we had to face a serious storm…"

"We won't sink, Captain. The Empire needs us in China."

"The ocean knows neither empire nor king, mon général. It takes what it wants, when it wants."

In the lower decks, the atmosphere was quite different. Crammed into cramped spaces where air barely circulated, the soldiers tried to adapt to maritime life that was foreign to them. The smell of sweat, tar, and vomit mingled in a stench that caught in the throat. Hammocks hung in tight rows, swaying to the rhythm of the ship.

Sergeant Beaumont, a forty-year-old veteran marked by a scar across his cheek, tried to maintain his section's morale. Sitting on his pack, he distributed advice and jokes with a gruff good humor that made him an appreciated leader.

"Come on, lads," he called out to a group of greenish recruits, "it's like a boat ride on the Seine. Except it lasts longer and the water's salty."

"Sergeant," moaned a boy who couldn't have been twenty, "I think I'm going to die. My stomach…"

"Your stomach will survive, Dubois. In three days, you'll be used to it. In a week, you'll go up on deck demanding your rum ration like a real sailor."

"And if I never get used to it? If I'm sick for the entire crossing?"

Beaumont leaned toward him with a paternal look.

"You'll be sick. But you'll still arrive in China. And there, believe me, you'll have something else to sink your teeth into besides seasickness."

Another soldier, older, intervened. Corporal Leroux, a man with broad shoulders and thick peasant hands.

"Sergeant, is it true what they say? That the Chinese have secret weapons? Powders that drive you mad, poisons that kill in seconds?"

"Nonsense, Leroux. Propaganda to scare us. The Chinese are men like us. They bleed like us, they die like us."

"But they're numerous. They say they can line up hundreds of thousands of soldiers."

Beaumont stood up, making his joints crack. He had survived three campaigns in Algeria, seen things these young men couldn't even imagine.

"Listen to me, all of you. Yes, the Chinese are numerous. Yes, we're going to fight far from home, in a country we know nothing about. But we have two advantages: our discipline and our weapons. The Minié rifles we carry can kill at three hundred meters. Our rifled cannons are the best in the world. And above all, we have General de Montauban. A man who has never lost a battle."

"There's always a first time," someone muttered.

"Who said that?"

Beaumont thundered.

"Who dares speak like a coward?"

Beaumont directed his attention over the tense faces, lit by the faint glows of oil lamps.

"We are not cowards. We are soldiers of the French Empire. In a few months, we'll enter History. Our names will be engraved in military annals. Our children will proudly recount that their father participated in the China campaign. Keep your head high and your rifle clean. The rest will come in its time."

A murmur of approval ran through the lower deck. Beaumont approved. But he wasn't as confident as he let appear. He had seen too much, lost too many comrades to blindly believe fine words. War was a lottery, and no one could predict who would return and who would remain there, in a foreign land, under an anonymous cross.

On the upper deck, in the general's cabin, a staff meeting was being held around a table cluttered with maps and documents. Montauban presided, flanked by Captain Delmas and Commander Favier, his artillery chief. The lamp swinging from the ceiling projected moving shadows on the concentrated faces.

"The last reports we received before departure are worrying," Favier explained. "The Chinese have reinforced the Dagu forts. They've installed new cannons, dug trenches, laid obstacles in the river."

Montauban studied the map attentively. His fingers established imaginary markers, calculated distances, evaluated firing angles.

"If we attack head-on as the English did, we'll suffer the same losses. We must find another landing point. Further north, perhaps. Go around these defenses."

"Mon général," the officer intervened, "the English will never agree. Lord Elgin wants to wash away last year's affront. He'll want to take these forts by force."

"He'll do so without us. I won't sacrifice my men to satisfy an English lord's conceit."

The gazes of Favier and the captain crossed. Both were aware that this position would put Montauban at odds with the British.

"We'll have to be diplomatic, mon général. We need the English. Their warships, their naval artillery, their colonial troops who know the terrain."

"I'll be diplomatic. But I won't be suicidal. We'll land at Peh-Tang, north of the forts. We'll take the defenses from behind. The only sensible strategy."

He leaned over the map, following with his finger the tracing of the coast.

"Peh-Tang is about twenty kilometers to the north. We'll have to march through hostile territory, without knowing what we'll find. The Chinese might be waiting for us there too. They can't be everywhere. And even if they're waiting for us, we'll have the advantage of mobility. Once on land, we can maneuver, choose our terrain."

The discussion continued for over an hour, examining every detail, every contingency. Montauban asked precise questions, demanded clear answers. His rigor made him a formidable strategist. He left nothing to chance, anticipated problems before they arose.

When the meeting ended and Favier had left, Delmas remained alone with the general. He hesitated to ask the question that tormented him.

"Mon général, may I speak to you in confidence?"

Montauban looked up from the map he continued to study.

"I'm listening, Captain."

"I'm thinking back to my visit to your wife before our departure. She said something to me that haunts me. She asked me if I believed our mission was only military."

The general straightened up.

"And what did you answer her?"

"That I believed you would do your duty with honor. But she saw something I didn't want to see. This expedition… it's not only a military operation, is it?"

Montauban went to the porthole and contemplated the black ocean extending beneath the moon. The waves sparkled with silver in the night. Somewhere, very far away, China awaited them with its mysteries and dangers.

"Wars have several faces, my friend. The official face, that of treaties and strategic objectives. And then there's the other face, the one nobody wants to see, but that everyone knows. Booty, pillage, riches that change hands."

"But you told your generals…"

"I said what a commander must say to maintain discipline. But I'm not naive. Baron Gros spoke with the Empress before our departure. She made him understand that she expected certain things from the expedition. Art objects, testimonies of this distant civilization."

The captain felt a chill creep into his veins. The idealism that inhabited him collided with the reality of power.

"Will we go seize this place? The Yuen-Ming-Yuen everyone talks about so much?"

"We'll do what circumstances demand. If war leads us to this palace, if the Chinese emperor refuses to negotiate, if his troops attack us… then yes, we'll take what can be taken. But we'll do it in an orderly, controlled manner. Not like barbarians, but as representatives of a civilized nation."

"And you think we can pillage in a civilized manner?"

The question was direct, even insolent. Montauban turned around, and in his pupils shone a gleam he had never seen before.

"You are young, Captain. You have illusions about the nature of war. You believe there's a clean way to fight, that military honor can preserve our soul from the darkness of combat. I envy you. I had these illusions too, years ago, before Algeria. Before having seen what men become when they're afraid, when they're hungry, when they've seen their comrades die."

"But you're different, mon général. You're a man of principles."

"Principles are like this ship's sails. They move us forward when the wind is favorable. But when the storm arrives, it's the Emperor's orders that count. And the Emperor wants a complete victory. He wants China to open to French trade, for our missionaries to be able to circulate freely. He also wants to show England that France is its equal. All this has a price."

The ship pitched, producing the familiar creaking of working wood. Somewhere in the lower decks, a harmonica played a tune that spoke of distant homes and lost loves.

"I'm not sure I can accept that."

"You don't have to accept, Captain. You must obey. The only virtue asked of a soldier. However, I promise you one thing: I'll do everything in my power to ensure we remain men of honor."

He left the cabin. On deck, he breathed the salty night air. Above him, the stars shone with an intensity he had never seen in Paris. Unknown constellations took shape in the sky.

Louise de Montauban's words resonated in his head. She had been right. This expedition was not what it claimed to be. Beneath the noble diplomatic objectives hid darker ambitions, less avowable desires. And he, Armand Delmas, captain full of ideals, was going to be complicit in something he deeply disapproved of.

The weeks passed with exhausting slowness. The ship progressed southward, hugging the African coasts, crossing waters sometimes calm, sometimes agitated. The soldiers gradually got used to maritime life, their faces took on tanned hues, their bodies adapted to the constant rolling.

One morning, as the sun rose in an explosion of orange colors, the lookout cried from his crow's nest.

"Land! Land to starboard!"

All gazes turned toward the horizon. A dark mass took shape in the morning mist. The Cape of Good Hope. The end of the known world for many of these men who had never left France.

Montauban stood on the poop deck, observing the approach of the African land. Beside him, General Jamin, who commanded another transport of the flotilla and had transferred to the ship Impératrice Eugénie for a consultation, contemplated the spectacle with an indecipherable expression.

"We're halfway there. Just two more months and we'll be in China."

"If all goes well. The Indian Ocean is unpredictable. And we don't know what we'll find in Hong Kong. The latest news dates from several weeks ago."

"Do you think the English are there?"

"Grant was supposed to leave at the same time as us. With a bit of luck, we'll arrive together. That will facilitate coordination."

Jamin turned toward his commander. A pragmatic man, little inclined to soul-searching, but troubled from the beginning of the crossing.

"Montauban, have you thought about what will happen if we have to march on Beijing? If we have to enter this forbidden city the missionaries speak of?"

"I think about it every day."

"And?"

"And I don't know. It's the first time in my career I'm going to war without having a clear idea of the outcome. Algeria was different. We knew what we were confronting. Nomadic tribes, courageous, but disorganized. Here… we're going to strike an empire thousands of years old. An empire that has survived more conquerors than we can count."

"You doubt?"

"I'm thinking. It's not the same thing."

A sailor passed near them pulling on a rope, humming a tune from his native Brittany.

"Do the men have good morale?"

"They're bored. Good sign. Men who are bored aren't afraid. But we'll have to keep them busy once on land. After three months at sea, they'll want action."

"They'll get action soon enough. I prefer soldiers who are bored to soldiers too eager to fight. The latter make mistakes."

The conversation drifted to tactical questions, to the organization of brigades, to ammunition and provisions needs. But both shared the same unspoken anxiety: they were entering the unknown, and no past experience could truly prepare them for what awaited them.

The Cape of Good Hope was rounded without major incident, although a storm had shaken them for two days, tearing away a sail and sending two barrels of provisions overboard. Then came the immensity of the Indian Ocean, this liquid void punctuated by a few lost islands where they made stops to replenish fresh water.

At Aden, a British port with an infernal climate, they stayed five days. The men could go ashore, drink lukewarm beer in smoky taverns where sailors of all nationalities mingled. Montauban took advantage of this to meet the British governor, an obese and smug colonel who confirmed that the English fleet was en route to China.

"General Grant is a determined man. He won't let the Chinese get away with it this time. We're going to show them what the British Empire is made of."

Montauban listened politely, but British arrogance annoyed him. The English considered themselves masters of the world, and their way of speaking about other peoples, with a mixture of condescension and contempt, revealed a colonial mentality that exasperated him.

"We hope, Colonel, that this campaign will be conducted with respect for the laws of war. France does not wish to be associated with excesses."

The colonel burst into a greasy laugh that made his triple chin tremble.

"The laws of war! Mon général, you'll quickly learn that Orientals don't know these laws. They're perfidious, cruel, unpredictable. You must speak to them in the only language they understand: that of force."

Montauban restrained himself from responding. He saluted coldly and left the governor's residence with a presentiment. Coordination with the English would be difficult. Their objectives weren't the same, their vision of the world was radically different.

Back on the ship, he convened his staff and shared his concerns with them.

"We'll have to be vigilant. The English have their own agenda. The opium trade, territorial expansion, the humiliation of China. We French must remain faithful to our objectives: the protection of our Catholic missions, commercial opening, dignity in victory."

"If there is victory," Favier murmured.

"There will be victory. Because we have no other choice."

Singapore was their last stop before Hong Kong. The port swarmed with activity, a mixture of Chinese junks, British steamers, Arab dhows. The air was saturated with humidity and exotic smells: spices, incense, dried fish, tropical fruits. For most of the French soldiers, this was their first contact with the Orient, and they wandered through the narrow streets with the amazed eyes of children discovering a New World.

Montauban took advantage of this to meet French merchants established in the region. These men, who lived in Asia, had an intimate knowledge of the Chinese situation.

In a private salon of a colonial hotel, he conversed with a certain Monsieur Dufresne, a silk trader who did business with Canton.

"Mon général, you cannot imagine the state of chaos reigning in China right now. The Qing empire is being eaten away from within. The Taiping rebellion has caused hundreds of thousands of deaths. The southern provinces are in civil war. Emperor Hien-Fung is weak, manipulated by incompetent advisers."

"Which should facilitate our task, no?"

Dufresne shook his head vehemently.

"Don't be mistaken. An empire in decomposition is more dangerous than a strong empire. Because it has nothing left to lose. Because the usual rules no longer apply. I've seen dreadful things these past years. Entire villages massacred, families decimated. Violence has reached unimaginable levels."

"Will the Chinese fight?"

"Oh yes, they'll fight. Not in a conventional manner, perhaps. But they'll fight. And if you reach Beijing, if you threaten the heart of the empire…"

"Speak frankly, Monsieur Dufresne. What do you fear?"

The merchant crushed his cigar in an ashtray.

"I fear you'll unleash a force that no one can control. The Chinese have a tenacious memory. If you humiliate their emperor, if you desecrate their sacred places, if you pillage their treasures… they'll never forget it. And we, French who live here, who do business with them, we'll pay the price for generations."

Montauban left this interview troubled. Dufresne's words resonated in his mind, joining his wife's concerns, Delmas's doubts, his own questions. But it was too late to turn back. The die were cast, the troops en route. All that remained was for him to do his best so that this campaign ended in the most honorable manner possible.

In mid-February, after more than two months of crossing, the coasts of Hong Kong appeared on the horizon. Green hills stood out against a limpid blue sky. The port teemed with British ships, their flags snapping in the wind. General Grant's fleet was there, imposing, threatening.

When L'Impératrice Eugénie dropped anchor in the roadstead, a British launch approached. On board, an officer in scarlet uniform who introduced himself as Major Worthington, General Grant's aide-de-camp.

"General de Montauban, General Grant presents his compliments and invites you to a planning meeting tomorrow morning aboard HMS Furious. Lord Elgin will also be present."

Montauban nodded stiffly. The moment he dreaded had arrived. He would have to collaborate closely with these English he didn't know, share with them the dangers and perhaps also the responsibilities of decisions he disapproved of.

That night, unable to find sleep, he wrote to Louise:

"My dear Louise,

We have arrived in Hong Kong after a crossing that seemed interminable to me. The men are well, morale is good. Tomorrow, I will meet the English to establish our campaign plan.

I often think of you, of our daughters. Of Paris which is so far away, so different from this Orient where we find ourselves. Sometimes, I wonder what I'm doing here, why I accepted this mission. And then I remember that I'm a soldier, that my duty is to serve the Emperor.

You told me, before my departure, that you feared I would lose something of myself in this campaign. I laughed, with that masculine peculiarity that refuses to listen to feminine intuitions. But perhaps you were right. I feel that things are happening within me that I cannot fully understand.

Pray for us, my sweet. Pray that we remain men of honor, whatever happens. Your husband who loves you, Charles"

He sealed the letter, knowing it would take months to reach Paris, that Louise would read it when perhaps everything would be over. But writing did him good, created a tenuous link with this world he had left behind.

The First Battles

The next day's meeting was everything Montauban had feared. In the spacious cabin of HMS Furious, the British flagship, about twenty English and French officers crowded around a vast table where a map of the Tientsin region was displayed.

General Grant was a man of tall stature and curt manners. Lord Elgin, the British plenipotentiary, was shorter, rounder, but his piercing gaze and cutting voice revealed a dominating personality.

"Gentlemen," Elgin began in English before repeating in approximate French, "we are here to avenge the affront the Chinese inflicted on us last year. This time, there will be no failure. We will take the Dagu forts, we will go up the Pei-Ho to Tientsin, and if necessary, we will march on Beijing. The Chinese emperor will sign the treaty, or we will make him sign it by force."

Montauban politely waited for the end of the speech, then intervened.

"Lord Elgin, I believe a frontal attack on the Dagu forts would be a strategic error. The Chinese have reinforced their defenses. They're expecting us. I propose we land further north, at Peh-Tang, and take the forts from behind."

The British officers exchanged glances where could be read their opinion of these French who pretended to give them strategy lessons.

Grant leaned over the map, studied the position of Peh-Tang, then raised his head.

"General de Montauban, your suggestion has merit. But it also presents risks. Peh-Tang is twenty kilometers to the north. That means a march through hostile territory, without naval cover."

"I know. But it's preferable to a frontal assault that would cost hundreds of lives."

Elgin intervened, his voice charged with impatience.

"General, we're not afraid of combat. British honor demands that we confront the enemy where he challenges us."

"Honor doesn't demand suicide. I won't sacrifice my men to satisfy an abstract principle."

The French and English measured each other with their gazes, each entrenched in their positions. It was Baron Gros who tempered the situation.

"Gentlemen, we are allies in this enterprise. Our objectives are the same: to force China to respect the treaties. The means of achieving this can be the subject of reasonable discussion. I propose that we study both options in detail, that we evaluate their respective advantages and risks, and that we make a common decision based on military logic rather than national pride."

Spirits calmed. The discussion resumed, more technical, less impassioned. Maps were unrolled, calculations made, scenarios envisioned.

After three hours of debate, a compromise was found. The allied forces would land at Peh-Tang, as Montauban wished, but part of the British fleet would conduct a demonstration before the Dagu forts to fix the Chinese defenders' attention.

When the meeting ended, Montauban went out on deck with a mixed feeling. He had won on the essential point, but at the price of lasting tension with the British. Grant had looked at him with a new coldness, and Elgin hadn't even deigned to shake his hand on leaving.

Baron Gros found him a few moments later, an enigmatic smile on his lips.

"You made enemies today, mon général."

"I don't care. What matters is my men. Their lives are worth more than Lord Elgin's friendship."

"Noble sentiment. But we're going to have to live with these people for months. This coldness could complicate many things."

Montauban shrugged and fixed on the Hong Kong harbor extending before them, a human anthill where Chinese, Europeans, Malays mingled in an incessant commercial ballet.

"The English will eventually understand that I'm right. When we've taken the forts without excessive losses, they'll forget their resentment."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps they'll seek to make up for it later, to take revenge on our prudence through excessive audacity. The British sometimes have unpredictable reactions when their pride is wounded."

These prophetic words would mark Montauban for a long time. But for now, he had other concerns. Preparations for the landing, logistical organization, coordination with different army corps. The time for reflection was over. That of action was approaching.

Intensive preparations began rapidly. French troops trained on Hong Kong's beaches, simulating landings, testing their equipment in the stifling heat and crushing humidity. Many soldiers fell ill, struck by tropical fevers or dysenteries that decimated the ranks as surely as a battle.

Sergeant Beaumont, with his section, participated in these daily exercises. The recruits had matured during the crossing, their features had lost that adolescent roundness. They were men, or at least what came closest to it.

One evening, as they bivouacked on a beach, Beaumont gathered his section.

"Listen to me well, lads. In a few days, we'll embark for real. We'll go north, and there, we're going to fight. It won't be like the exercises. There will be blood, fear, chaos. Some of you will die. That's the reality of war, and I'm not going to lie to you by saying otherwise."

The silence was total. Even the insects seemed to be waiting. Dubois, the soldier who had suffered so much from seasickness, asked in a trembling voice:

"Sergeant, how do we avoid being afraid?"

Beaumont stared at him before responding.

"We can't. Fear is always there. Even for me, after twenty years of service. Even for the general. What matters isn't not being afraid. It's doing your duty despite the fear. Staying at your post. Protecting the comrade next to you. That's being a soldier."

"And if we find ourselves face to face with a Chinese? If we have to kill him?"

"You'll kill him. Because otherwise, he'll kill you. There are no scruples in a battle. There's only survival."

Corporal Leroux, who had listened in silence, intervened.

"They say the Chinese mutilate their prisoners. That they cut off their heads and plant them on spikes."

"Latrine nonsense. The Chinese are men like us. They're afraid like us, they suffer like us, they die like us. Don't dehumanize them by imagining horrors. That only serves to justify our own atrocities."

The conversation drifted to other subjects, lighter ones. The soldiers spoke of their families, their villages, what they would do when they returned to France. Beaumont let them dream, knowing that these dreams were sometimes the only thing that kept a man alive in the darkest moments.

But not all would return. Some of these faces he saw would soon disappear, carried away by a bullet, a disease, or by war's cruel chance.

The departure took place in early July. An imposing fleet of French and British ships left Hong Kong heading north. The troop transports were escorted by frigates, their cannons pointed toward the horizon like so many promises of violence.

On the deck of L'Impératrice Eugénie, Montauban watched the port recede. Delmas stood at his side, silent. Between them, a new complicity had developed, born of these nocturnal conversations where they shared their doubts and hopes.

"Are you ready, Captain?"

"As much as one can be, mon général. I've thought about what you told me. About the nature of the expedition, about what awaits us. I've tried to prepare myself mentally."

"And?"

"I don't know if it's possible to prepare for certain things. There are situations where all our principles, all our convictions are put to the test. I pray to have the strength to remain faithful to what I believe."

"We all pray for that. But sometimes, war changes us despite ourselves. I've seen good men become cruel, honorable men commit infamy. Not by choice, but because circumstances drove them to it. Be vigilant, Delmas. Stay conscious of your actions. That's the only thing I can advise you."

The fleet progressed northward, following the Chinese coast. The days succeeded each other in growing tension. The soldiers checked their weapons, sharpened their bayonets, perhaps wrote their last letter. The atmosphere was electric, charged with that waiting that precedes major events.

On August 1, 1860, the coasts of Peh-Tang appeared on the horizon. A deserted beach, bordered by dunes and marshes. No visible fortification, no sign of Chinese military presence. Montauban's plan seemed to be working.

The landing began at dawn. Launches went back and forth between the ships and the beach, transporting men, horses, cannons, ammunition, provisions. A complex ballet, orchestrated with precision by naval officers. The French landed to the north, the British to the south, each contingent marking its territory.

Montauban was among the first to set foot on land. His boots sank into the wet sand, and for the first time in months, he felt beneath his feet the solidity of earth that didn't move. This forgotten sensation reminded him that he had become a land soldier again, that his natural element was commanding men on a battlefield, not living in the confined space of a ship.

"Establish a security perimeter. Send scouts toward the interior. I want to know if the Chinese are waiting for us somewhere."

The following hours were a whirlwind of activity. The troops deployed, established a camp, dug trenches. Cannons were set up in battery, pointed toward the interior. A defensive line took shape, transforming this deserted beach into a fortified position.

Evening was falling when the first scouts returned. Their report confirmed what Montauban hoped: the Chinese had not anticipated a landing at this location. The Dagu forts, about twenty kilometers to the south, concentrated all their forces.

"We've won our first advantage. Tomorrow, we'll begin our march toward the forts. We'll take them from behind and take our first step toward victory."

The dawn of August 2 rose in a thick mist that enveloped the encampment. The soldiers emerged from their tents, numb from an agitated night. The heat was already overwhelming despite the early hour, and humidity stuck to uniforms like a second skin.

The general inspected the troops with a critical eye. Features were tense, but determined. These men who had crossed half the world were ready to fight.

Grant arrived on horseback, surrounded by his officers. His meeting with Montauban was cordial, but cold. The two men greeted each other stiffly, exchanged a few words about the weather and logistics, then separated to rejoin their respective troops.

"He still doesn't like us," remarked Delmas who had witnessed the scene.

"It doesn't matter whether he likes me or not. What matters is that he does his job."

The column set out around nine o'clock. Ten thousand French to the north, twelve thousand British to the south, progressing in parallel through a landscape of rice paddies and deserted villages. Chinese peasants had fled at the approach of the foreign army, abandoning their houses, their crops, sometimes even their livestock.

The desertion of the countryside created a troubling, ghostly atmosphere. The soldiers marched in relative calm, disturbed only by the pounding of boots, the clinking of weapons, the orders shouted by officers. In the sky, crows wheeled, black sentinels perhaps announcing the carnage to come.

Sergeant Beaumont marched at the head of his section, scanning the horizon with vigilance. His years of campaigning in Algeria had taught him to read the signs of danger: a movement in the tall grass, a suspicious reflection, a too-deep silence. For now, nothing indicated an enemy presence, but he remained on guard.

"Sergeant, why are all these villages empty? Where have the people gone?"

"They fled. What civilians do when two armies prepare to confront each other. They know nothing good will come of our presence."

"But we mean them no harm. We're here for their emperor, not for them."

"You think the peasants make that distinction? To them, we're foreign invaders. Round-eyed devils who come from the other end of the world to sow chaos. And you know what? They're not wrong."

The conversation ceased when an officer galloped up the column, shouting orders. The march accelerated. Scouts had spotted Chinese troop movements a few kilometers away. The enemy knew they were there.

The first contact occurred in mid-afternoon. The French column emerged from a copse and found itself facing a plain where a Chinese army was deployed. Thousands of soldiers in colorful uniforms, banners snapping in the wind, drums beating a menacing cadence.

Montauban raised his hand, and the entire column stopped. He examined the enemy disposition with attention. The Chinese were numerous, perhaps fifteen to twenty thousand men, but their formation seemed disorganized. Compact masses of infantry, a few pieces of artillery of ancient design, Tartar cavalry on the flanks.

"They want to prevent us from reaching the forts. Vain attempt. They know they're going to lose."

"Perhaps. But desperate men can be formidable."

Montauban turned toward Favier.

"Deploy the artillery on that ridge. I want you to start showering them as soon as we're in position. The infantry will advance in waves, maintaining cohesion. No unnecessary heroics."

Orders were transmitted. The French army deployed with parade precision. Cannons were set up in battery, infantry battalions formed perfect lines, skirmishers took position in the vanguard.

On their side, the Chinese remained motionless, as if petrified by this demonstration of military discipline. Their drums continued to beat, their banners to flutter, but one could sense a hesitation, an uncertainty in the face of this war machine setting itself up before them.

Baron Gros, who had stayed back with non-combatant elements, joined Montauban.

"Mon général, perhaps we should attempt a negotiation? Avoid useless bloodshed?"

"They chose to bar our way. They know the consequences."

"But think of the diplomatic implications. If we can obtain their surrender without combat, it will facilitate future negotiations."

Montauban hesitated. The suggestion made sense. But he also knew the risks of temporizing. The Chinese might interpret this opening as a sign of weakness, reinforce themselves while negotiating, launch a surprise attack.

"Very well. Send an emissary under a white flag. Tell them we're not seeking combat, but that we will pass, one way or another."

Gros bowed and withdrew to organize this approach. A French officer, accompanied by a Chinese interpreter employed in Hong Kong, advanced toward the enemy lines carrying a white flag. Everyone followed this silhouette.

The dialogue lasted about ten minutes. Then the officer returned at a gallop, his horse foaming.

"Mon général, the Chinese refuse to withdraw. Their commander says he received orders to stop us, and that he prefers to die rather than disobey his emperor."

"He will die. Favier, you may begin."

The artillery chief raised his arm, then lowered it. The French cannons thundered in unison, spitting fire and smoke. The cannonballs crossed the air in a deadly whistle and crashed down on the Chinese ranks.

The result was devastating. The compact formations of the enemy infantry offered perfect targets. The cannonballs carved bloody furrows, mowing down dozens of men with each impact. The cries of the wounded rose in the hot air, mingling with the thunder of artillery.

Beaumont, who was observing from his position with his section, watched. He had seen battles, he knew the horror of war. But in this spectacle, a discomfort inhabited him. These Chinese dying by the hundreds hadn't even had the possibility to fight. An execution, not a battle.

"Sergeant," Dubois murmured, eyes wide, "look what we're doing to them. It's… it's a massacre."

"Modern war. Our cannons against their lances. Our technology against their courage. Welcome to the civilized world."

The French artillery pounded the Chinese positions. After fifteen minutes of this deluge of iron, the enemy army began to disintegrate. Groups of soldiers fled in disorder, abandoning their weapons and their wounded. The Tartar cavalry attempted a charge on the French left flank, but was met by the sustained fire of the light infantry. Men and horses collapsed in an entanglement of bodies and screams.

"Cease fire. Jamin, launch the pursuit, but with moderation. I don't want us to scatter."

The French infantry advanced at a run, bayonets fixed. But there wasn't much left to pursue. The Chinese army had evaporated, leaving behind a field strewn with dead and dying.

Montauban dismounted and walked among the corpses. The features frozen in death looked at him with varied expressions: surprise, pain, resignation. Young men for the most part, peasants torn from their villages and thrown into this battle they probably didn't understand.

The captain found him, pale.

"Our losses are minimal, mon général. Three dead, about ten wounded. The Chinese… there must be more than a thousand."

"Evacuate our wounded. For the Chinese…"

Montauban hesitated.

"Do what you can for the wounded. Those who can be saved. The others…"

One couldn't save everyone.

Night fell on the improvised battlefield. French doctors bustled around the wounded, administering opium for pain, amputating crushed limbs, stitching gaping wounds. Their white aprons were stained with blood, their features marked by fatigue and disgust.

Chief Surgeon Renaud worked with a mechanical efficiency born of habit. He had seen so many wounds, so much suffering that he had forged himself an emotional shell.

"Captain, come see something."

Delmas entered the tent dimly lit by lanterns. A sickly sweet smell of blood and burned flesh caught in his throat. On makeshift stretchers lay about ten wounded Chinese soldiers.

"Look at this one. A crushed leg, the left arm torn off. A few hours of life, at most. But see his face. He's smiling."

The captain noted with stupor that the doctor was telling the truth. The young Chinese, despite his agony, displayed a serene smile. His lips moved, murmuring incomprehensible words.

"What's he saying?"

"The interpreter translated for me. He's reciting a Buddhist prayer. He's preparing to die with dignity."

He felt an oppression in his chest. This young man dying far from home, mutilated by weapons he had never seen, faced his destiny with more courage than many men he had known.

"Can we do something for him?"

"Relieve him. That's all."

Renaud waited a moment.

"You know, Captain, I've spent my life treating soldiers. French, Arabs, and now Chinese. And I sometimes wonder if we're not all mad. If all this violence, all this suffering has any meaning."

"War has always existed. It will always exist."

"Which doesn't mean it's just. Or necessary."

The young man had no answer to that. He left the tent and walked through the encampment, seeking a quiet place to gather his thoughts. He ended up sitting on a rock, away from the fires and conversations. The starry sky extended above him, immense and indifferent to the human tragedies playing out below.

He thought of this dying young Chinese, of Louise de Montauban and her prophetic words, of his own naivety in having believed a war could be clean and honorable. He had seen nothing, he knew. This skirmish was only a prelude. What awaited them further on, in the Dagu forts, in Tientsin, and perhaps in Beijing, would be much worse.

The allied army continued its progression. The Chinese tried several other times to stop them, launching attacks that were all repulsed with heavy losses. The French and British advanced inexorably, their technical superiority sweeping away all resistance.

On August 21, they arrived in sight of the forts. Massive constructions of earth and stone, armed with cannons of all calibers, defended by thousands of soldiers. But the French were taking them from behind, as Montauban had planned, while the British fleet bombarded them from the front.

The battle was short, but violent. French artillery opened breaches in the walls, infantry rushed through them. Hand-to-hand combat was fierce. The Chinese defended themselves with fierce courage, knowing they fought for their honor and that of their emperor.

Sergeant Beaumont found himself in the heart of the melee, his rifle useless, fighting with bayonet and rifle butt. Around him, his men screamed, struck, killed. Civilization and its rules disappeared in the fury of combat. There was nothing left but survival, the primal instinct that drives a man to eliminate the other before being eliminated.

Dubois, the soldier who had suffered so much from seasickness, fought with a rage one would never have suspected in him. His face was smeared with blood, his eyes shone with a savage gleam. He had lost all innocence in a few seconds of combat.

When the forts fell, late in the afternoon, the toll was heavy. On the French side, about fifty dead and more than two hundred wounded. On the Chinese side, several thousand dead. The survivors had fled toward Tientsin, abandoning their positions, their weapons, their honor.

Montauban stood on the conquered ramparts, staring at the battlefield extending below. Corpses littered the ground, smoke rose from burning buildings. A victory with a bitter taste.

General Grant found him, a satisfied smile on his lips.

"Fine victory, Montauban. Your strategy was the right one. I readily admit it."

"Thank you, General."

"Now, we can go up the Pei-Ho to Tientsin. The road to Beijing is open."

The two men shook hands, sealing this common victory. But in Montauban's gaze, Grant could have read something other than satisfaction at duty accomplished. He could have seen a trouble, a questioning, perhaps even the beginning of remorse.

But Grant didn't seek to read in men's eyes. A simple soldier, who saw the world in terms of victories and defeats, enemies and allies. Moral nuances didn't interest him.

While the victorious encampment celebrated the taking of the forts with extra rum rations, Montauban withdrew to his tent and wrote:

"My dear Louise,

We have won our first major victory. The Dagu forts have fallen, the road to the interior is open. The men are proud, the British respect us again.

And yet, I cannot help thinking of all these Chinese who died today. They were fighting for their country, for their emperor. They knew they were going to lose, but they fought anyway.

Each victory weighs on me a little more. Each death reminds me that behind our noble objectives hide realities I would prefer to ignore.

But I am a soldier. My duty is to obey, to conquer, to lead my men to success. Doubts have no place in a military campaign.

Pray for me, my sweet. Pray that I keep my soul intact in all this chaos.

Your husband who loves you and thinks of you every day, Charles"

He sealed the letter, which would not leave for several days, when a ship returned to Hong Kong. By then, many things could happen. Other battles, other deaths, other victories…

The March on Beijing

The next day, the allied fleet began to go up the Pei-Ho. The transports progressed slowly, escorted by gunboats. The banks of the river were deserted, the villages abandoned. A land of desolation extended on both sides, testifying to the violence that had swept through this region.

On August 24, the allied forces entered Tientsin without resistance. The city was empty, its inhabitants having fled at the approach of the foreign barbarians. Only a few old people too weak to leave and stray dogs populated the streets.

Montauban established his headquarters in an abandoned pagoda. The walls were covered with frescoes representing scenes from Chinese mythology, dragons and phoenixes in dazzling colors. He contemplated these images of a world so different from his own, trying to understand the mentality of this people he was fighting.

Baron Gros joined him in the evening, bearing news.

"Mon général, Chinese emissaries have presented themselves. They ask to negotiate. The emperor is ready to discuss the ratification of the treaty."

"Really? After all this resistance, he's giving in?"

"Our victories have convinced him. He knows that if he doesn't negotiate, we'll march on Beijing. And that, he cannot allow. It would be too considerable a humiliation."

Montauban reflected. The official mission was about to be accomplished. The treaty would be ratified, the diplomatic objectives achieved. They could return to France with their heads held high, having forced China to open to Western trade.

But he felt it wouldn't be that simple. The British wanted more. Lord Elgin spoke of "lessons to give," of "exemplary punishments." And Empress Eugénie awaited her Oriental treasures.

"Begin negotiations, Baron. But don't rush too much. We'll see where it leads us."

Gros bowed and left, aware that the real decisions would be made elsewhere, in meetings where he wouldn't be invited, between military men who had other priorities than diplomacy.

The negotiations bogged down. The Chinese emissaries proposed concessions, but not enough according to the British. Lord Elgin demanded astronomical financial reparations, the opening of new ports, extraterritorial privileges. Baron Gros tried to moderate these demands, but his voice was drowned out by the louder one of English diplomacy.

Meanwhile, the soldiers settled in Tientsin. The first inhabitants began to return cautiously, testing the intentions of these invaders. Improvised markets organized themselves, where French and British soldiers bartered their goods for fresh food, souvenirs, sometimes even favors from Chinese prostitutes whom poverty pushed to this trade.

Sergeant Beaumont tried to maintain discipline in his section, but it was a lost battle. After months at sea and weeks of combat, the men wanted to enjoy life. As long as it stayed within acceptable limits, he turned a blind eye.

One evening, while making his rounds in the streets near the encampment, he caught three of his men trying to force the door of an apparently abandoned shop. He approached, threatening.

"What are you doing, you idiots?"

The three soldiers froze, caught in the act. Frachon, Coulaud, and a third, Dambach, who had acquired a solid reputation as troublemakers.

"Sergeant, we were just looking for…"

"You were looking to steal."

Beaumont slapped them in turn, resounding slaps that echoed in the deserted street.

"How many times do I have to tell you we're not pillagers? That we represent the French army?"

"But Sergeant," Dambach protested, "the English do it. We've seen them return to camp with crates full of objects."

"I don't give a damn what the English do. You're under my orders, and my orders are clear: no pillaging. If I catch one of you stealing again, I'll have him flogged in public. Understood?"

They nodded, sheepish. But Beaumont saw in their eyes that the temptation remained strong. Discipline was eroding, little by little. And he was aware he couldn't be everywhere to maintain it.

In early September, negotiations suddenly soured. The Chinese emissaries, pushed by conservative elements of the imperial court, hardened their positions. They refused several British demands and requested the withdrawal of allied troops.

Lord Elgin, furious, ordered the arrest of the emissaries. It was a catastrophic error. In the confusion that followed, Chinese soldiers also captured lower-ranking diplomats, interpreters, even a Times journalist who was accompanying the expedition.

These prisoners were taken by the Chinese to Beijing, where they disappeared into imperial dungeons. For several days, there was no news of them. Then, gradually, rumors began to circulate. Horrifying rumors that spoke of torture, of mutilations.

Montauban learned the news during an emergency meeting convened by Grant. The English officers, their faces closed, spoke in low voices. Elgin paced back and forth like a caged beast.

"These barbarians dared to capture British diplomats!" he thundered. "Violation of all international laws! An intolerable affront!"

"What do you propose?" Montauban asked calmly, contrasting with the ambient hysteria.

Elgin looked at him, eyes bright with rage.

"We're going to march on Beijing. We're going to free our men. And we're going to make these Chinese pay for their treachery."

"A march on Beijing is a risky undertaking. We're far from our bases, our supply lines are stretched…"

"I don't care about the risks!" Elgin cut in. "Our dignity has been trampled. It will be avenged, whatever the cost."

Baron Gros tried to intervene.

"Lord Elgin, perhaps we should first attempt to obtain the release of these men through negotiation…"

"Negotiation? With these traitors who violate their own promises? Never!"

The meeting continued for over two hours, but the decision was made in Elgin's mind. The allied armies would march on Beijing. They would crush all resistance. They would bring back the prisoners, by hook or by crook.

Montauban left this meeting with a presentiment. Things were escaping all control. The diplomatic mission was transforming into a punitive expedition. And he had the intuition that the worst was yet to come.

The march on Beijing began on September 18, 1860. Twenty-two thousand men, French and British, set out toward the imperial capital. An impressive column extending over several kilometers, snaking through the fertile plains of North China.

Delmas rode alongside Montauban, observing the passing landscape. Burned villages, trampled fields, corpses of Chinese soldiers rotting in the sun. War left its mark on this millennial land.

"Mon général, do you think we'll find these prisoners alive?"

Montauban kept his attention fixed on the horizon.

"I hope so, Captain. I sincerely hope so. Because if they're dead, if the Chinese tortured them… nothing will be able to hold back British vengeance. And we'll be swept up in this spiral of violence, whether we want it or not."

"We could refuse. Maintain our distance from English excesses."

"We're allies. Our honor obliges us to remain in solidarity, even when we disapprove of their actions."

"Honor…"

The captain shook his head.

"I have the impression this word is losing its meaning as we advance."

Montauban shared this feeling. Military honor, noble principles, the fine words from Paris… all this was dissolving in the raw reality of this campaign. Nothing remained but the necessity to advance, to conquer, to survive.

And somewhere ahead of them, beyond the horizon, Beijing awaited them with its mysteries and dangers. The Summer Palace the missionaries spoke of so much was drawing nearer. And with it, the temptation, the greed, the possibility of a pillage that would forever mark the history of this expedition.

On the morning of September 21, the allied column resumed its march after an agitated night. The soldiers had slept in the fields, wrapped in their cloaks, lulled by the strange sounds of this Chinese countryside: the croaking of frogs in the rice paddies, the distant howling of wild dogs, sometimes the cry of a nocturnal bird that resembled a human lament.

Beaumont had barely closed his eyes. He had remained awake, smoking his pipe, observing the shining stars. Near him, his men snored, exhausted by the previous day's forced march. Dubois moaned in his sleep, pursued by nightmares Beaumont could easily imagine. The boy had killed for the first time during the taking of the Dagu forts, and this experience had marked him indelibly.

When dawn broke, Beaumont woke his section with abrupt orders. The men emerged from their blankets grumbling, limbs numb, features drawn. They swallowed a meager breakfast composed of hard biscuits and lukewarm coffee, then lined up in ranks, waiting for the departure signal.

Delmas passed before them on horseback, inspecting the troops with a distracted eye. He too had slept poorly, haunted by thoughts that tormented him. The conversation he had had with Montauban on the ship, Louise's prophetic words, all of it mingled in his mind.

"Captain," Beaumont hailed him, "what's our destination today?"

He stopped his horse.

"We're heading northwest. There's a fortified village about fifteen kilometers away. The scouts report that Chinese troops have entrenched themselves there. We'll probably have to force passage."

"More blood. Always more blood."

"It's war, Sergeant. You know that as well as I do."

"I know. But it doesn't get any easier."

Delmas approved and withdrew. He understood what Beaumont felt. He too was weary of these incessant combats, of these victories that had a taste of ashes. But they had no choice. They had to advance, always advance, until the Chinese emperor capitulated or their forces were exhausted.

The column progressed for three hours through landscapes alternating between flooded rice paddies and sorghum fields. The heat was overwhelming, humidity saturated the air to the point one had the impression of breathing water. Uniforms stuck to skin, packs weighed more and more on tired shoulders.

Around ten o'clock, the first gunshots rang out. Isolated shooters, hidden in the tall grass, harassed the column. Their bullets whistled overhead, rarely causing damage, but keeping the soldiers in a state of constant tension.

"Skirmishers forward!" an officer shouted. "Clean out those bushes for me!"

Light infantry deployed in dispersed order, carefully searching suspect areas. From time to time, a volley rang out, followed by a cry. Sometimes it was a Chinese who fell, sometimes a Frenchman. War continued, implacable, reducing men to statistics, to figures in military reports.

The fortified village appeared in early afternoon. An agglomeration of about a hundred houses surrounded by a rammed earth wall. Chinese flags floated on the ramparts, and silhouettes of soldiers could be seen coming and going.

Montauban had the column halt a kilometer from the village and convened his officers. They gathered around a map displayed on a cart hood, studying the topography of the place.

"Classic defensive position. They have the terrain advantage, solid walls, doubtless reserves of food and ammunition. A frontal assault would be costly."

"We won't attack frontally. Favier, install your artillery on that hill, to the east. You're going to pound the defenses. Meanwhile, Collineau, you'll go around the village from the north with your brigade. When the defenders are concentrated on our artillery, you'll strike from the rear."

"And if the Chinese have anticipated this maneuver? If they're waiting for us in the north?"

"We'll improvise. But I doubt they have the troops to defend all sides at once."

Orders were transmitted. The French army split into several groups, each heading toward its assigned position. The soldiers marched with that tension preceding combat, checking their weapons, adjusting their equipment, exchanging a few words in low voices.

Beaumont gathered his section behind a copse of stunted trees and repeated to them what he had already said multiple times.

"Listen to me well. In an hour, perhaps less, we're going to attack this village. Some of you will die. Others will be wounded. I'm not going to lie to you by saying otherwise."

He let his words take effect, examining the faces that tensed, the jaws that clenched.

"But if you stay together, if you support each other, if you obey orders without hesitating, you have a chance. A good chance. We're the best soldiers in the world. Never forget that."

The French artillery opened fire at precisely two o'clock. The cannons thundered in a deafening concert, spitting their iron cannonballs against the village walls. The result was immediate. Entire sections of wall collapsed in clouds of dust, roofs flew off, fires broke out here and there.

From his position, Montauban observed the bombardment with a satisfaction mixed with unease. A demonstration of crushing power, but it also reminded him how much modern war had become impersonal. Men died at a distance, killed by projectiles launched by artillerymen who would never see them, who would never know their names, who would never bear the weight of their deaths.

"Mon général, Collineau's brigade is in position. It awaits your signal to attack."

"Have it wait ten minutes. I want the Chinese to be completely disoriented before launching the assault."

These ten minutes elapsed in the continuous din of artillery. The French cannons fired with metronome regularity, destroying enemy defenses. In the village, one could imagine the panic, the terror, the wounded screaming, the dead piling up.

Montauban gave the signal. A flag waved on the hill, and Collineau's brigade launched the assault. Five thousand men surged from the north shouting, rushing toward the breaches opened in the walls.

Chinese resistance was short, but intense. The defenders, stunned by the bombardment, tried to repel the assailants with frenetic bravery. Hand-to-hand combat broke out in the narrow alleys, brutal and merciless.

Beaumont and his section were part of the second assault wave. They discovered a spectacle of devastation. Dismembered bodies littered the streets, houses burned, wounded crawled moaning.

"Forward!" Beaumont shouted. "Don't stop, keep advancing!"

They progressed through the burning village, pushing back the last pockets of resistance. Dubois fired at a Chinese soldier charging toward him, hitting him square in the chest. The man collapsed coughing blood, his eyes wide staring at the sky in an expression of frozen surprise.

The young Frenchman remained petrified, contemplating the man he had just killed. Beaumont slapped him violently.

"No time for that! Reload your rifle and advance!"

Dubois obeyed mechanically, but his face had become cadaverously pale. Something had just broken in him, something that would never be repaired.

The combat was brief. When silence fell again, the village was conquered. The Chinese survivors had fled to the west, abandoning their wounded and their dead. The French counted their losses: fifteen dead, about forty wounded. The Chinese had left nearly three hundred corpses.

Montauban entered the village on horseback, escorted by his staff. Around him, soldiers searched abandoned houses, looking for food, water, sometimes valuable objects.

"Stop the pillaging. I want strict discipline. These people will perhaps return when we've left. They mustn't have the impression we're savages."

Jamin moved away to transmit the order, but Montauban knew he was limited in his power. Pillaging was as old as war itself. One could circumscribe it, not prevent it. Soldiers took what they wanted, justifying their acts by the dangers they faced, by the distance from home, by the certainty that no one would really punish them.

In an interior courtyard, Chief Surgeon Renaud had installed his aid station. Wounded lay on mats, waiting their turn. Some screamed in pain, others remained still, their gaze empty. Renaud went from one to another, providing his care.

"Mon général, we have a problem. Several of our wounded have been hit by poisoned weapons. Arrows dipped in who knows what substance. The wounds are becoming infected at a terrifying speed."

"Can you save them?"

"Perhaps. If we amputate without delay, before the poison spreads throughout the organism. But it will be painful, and I lack opium to anesthetize them."

"Do what you can. They're our men."

Renaud nodded and returned to his bloody work. Montauban moved away, unable to bear any longer the cries of the amputees. He had commanded armies, won victories, received decorations. But these cries of mutilated men haunted him more than any battle.

Night fell on the conquered village. The French soldiers established their encampment in the ruins, lighting fires to warm themselves. The atmosphere was singular, a mixture of relief at having survived and unease in the face of the destruction they had caused.

Beaumont sat with his men around a fire, sharing a ration of canned beef that had an unappetizing metallic taste. No one spoke. The soldiers ate silently, lost in their thoughts.

It was Leroux who broke this oppressive silence.

"Sergeant, have you ever killed a man up close? I mean, while looking at him?"

Beaumont continued his meal without answering right away. A question that had been asked of him dozens of times over the years, and he had never found a satisfactory answer.

"Yes. In Algeria. A rebel who had taken me by surprise in an oasis. We struggled for what seemed like an eternity to me. I ended up planting my knife in his throat. I felt his warm blood flowing over my hands. I saw the light go out in his eyes."

"And how… how did you manage to continue? To live with that memory?"

"We have no choice. We continue because we must continue. We drink a bit more than reasonable, we try not to think about it too much, we concentrate on the comrades who are alive."

He waited a moment.

"And then, with time, the memory becomes less vivid. Not that we forget, no. We never forget. But it hurts less."

Dubois, who had barely touched his food, intervened in a strangled voice.

"I killed him today. That Chinese. I watched him die. And I can't help wondering who he was. If he had a family. Children waiting for him somewhere, who will never know what happened to him."

"Don't do that. Don't inflict that torture on yourself. You did what you had to do. You defended your life and that of your comrades. That's all that matters."

"But he was a man, Sergeant. A human being, like us. He hadn't done anything to us."

"He wore an enemy uniform. He was defending a position we had to attack. That's enough. War isn't a personal matter, Dubois. It's a matter of States, of politics, of things beyond us all."

The young soldier shook his head negatively, unconvinced. He got up and moved away from the fire, seeking solitude. Beaumont let him go, knowing each must confront his demons in his own way.

Dambach, who had listened to the exchange, spat in the fire.

"All this for what? To force the Chinese to buy our merchandise? So merchants get rich while we die here?"

"Careful, Dambach. That kind of talk can lead you before a court-martial."

"I don't care. I'm saying what everyone thinks. This expedition makes no sense. We kill people who've done nothing to us, we destroy villages, we burn crops. And for what? For the Empire's honor?"

Beaumont remained silent. He shared these doubts. But he was a sergeant, he had to maintain discipline, preserve morale. He swallowed his own questions and forced himself to smile.

"This war will have meaning when we return to France, covered in glory, with pockets full of money and medals on our chests. That counts, lads. Not philosophy. The reward."

But his words rang false, even to his own ears.

The Summer Palace

Meanwhile, in an abandoned house transformed into a temporary headquarters, Montauban presided over a meeting with his principal officers. General Grant was also present, as well as Lord Elgin and Baron Gros. The atmosphere was tense.

"Gentlemen," Elgin began, pacing the room, "we have received news of our prisoners. Horrifying news."

He stopped and turned toward the assembly, his features contracted with emotion.

"Eighteen of our men are dead. Dead in Chinese dungeons, after having been tortured in the most barbaric manner. Their bodies have been found, mutilated, disfigured. Some had been tied in impossible positions until their limbs broke. Others had been deprived of water and food until they died of thirst."

A horrified silence followed these revelations. Even the most hardened French officers paled at the enumeration of these atrocities.

"Unacceptable. Violation of all laws of war, of all conventions between civilized nations. The Chinese must pay for these crimes. They must be punished in an exemplary manner."

"What do you propose?"

"I propose we destroy something precious to them. Something that will make them understand one doesn't treat British envoys this way."

"You're speaking of the Summer Palace?"

Elgin faced the Frenchman, his gaze inflexible.

"The Summer Palace is the emperor's favorite residence. It's where he keeps his most precious treasures, his rarest art objects. Its destruction would be a violent blow to imperial prestige."

"It would also be an unprecedented act of cultural vandalism," Gros objected. "You're talking about destroying centuries of art and civilization. Irreplaceable works."

"I'm talking about justice, Baron Gros. Of vengeance for men tortured to death. Your scruples weigh little against these atrocities."

The baron turned toward Montauban, seeking support. But the French general remained silent, his face closed. He was reflecting on the situation, weighing the different options.

"Mon général, you cannot condone this. France has always defended the arts, culture, the preservation of humanity's heritage. We cannot associate ourselves with the deliberate destruction of a historic monument."

"The Chinese tortured diplomats to death. A fact that demands a response."

"But not that one! Not gratuitous destruction! There are other means to punish the responsible parties, to make them pay for their crimes."

"Which ones?" Elgin asked with contempt. "A fine? An additional clause in the treaty? The Chinese mock these punishments. They only understand force, the demonstration of power."

Grant, who had remained silent until then, intervened.

"Lord Elgin is right. Our men were massacred. We must respond. The question isn't whether we should act, but how and with what scope."

The discussion continued for about twenty minutes, opposing those who wanted spectacular vengeance and those who pleaded for moderation. No formal decision was made. Elgin declared he would consult London, Montauban promised to refer to Paris. But everyone knew communications took months, and that decisions would be made on the ground, by men who didn't have time to wait for instructions from so far away.

When the meeting ended and the participants dispersed, Montauban retained Delmas.

"Captain, what do you think? Honestly."

Delmas hesitated. The question was a trap. Telling the truth risked endangering his career. But lying would betray the values he strove to preserve.

"I think, mon général, that we're on a dangerous slope. That each act of violence calls for another. That if we destroy this palace, we'll cross a line we can't cross back."

"And if we don't destroy it? If we let the British do it alone?"

"We'll at least be able to look ourselves in the mirror without too much shame. We won't be accomplices to this act."

"You're an idealist. It's admirable. But idealism doesn't survive war. Sooner or later, you'll have to make compromises. Everyone does."

"Not you. You have values that transcend these contingencies."

"I'm a man who obeys. Nuance."

The officer saluted and withdrew, leaving Montauban alone with his thoughts. The general sat on a stool. He thought of Louise, his daughters, of Paris that seemed to belong to another world. He thought of these eighteen men tortured to death, of their suffering, of their families who would soon receive the terrible news. He also thought of this mysterious palace everyone spoke of, of these treasures that aroused so much covetousness.

And he wondered, for the hundredth time, how he had come to this. How a man who believed himself honorable, who had devoted his life to serving France, could find himself complicit in acts he disapproved of.

The following days, the allied army continued its progression toward Beijing. Other villages were taken, other battles fought. Victories accumulated, but the human cost also increased. Each day brought its share of dead and wounded, of soldiers exhausted by the march and heat, of sick struck down by tropical diseases.

Troop morale was rapidly degrading.

In his section, Beaumont did his best to maintain cohesion. He organized card games in the evening, told stories of his past campaigns, distributed his own tobacco when supplies were late. But discipline was eroding.

Dubois had become taciturn. He accomplished his tasks mechanically, but his gaze was empty, lost in thoughts no one could reach. Beaumont worried about him. He had seen other soldiers sink thus into a melancholy that could lead them to desertion or worse, to suicide.

Dambach, on the contrary, had become cynical and bitter. He openly criticized officers, questioned orders, encouraged pillaging and gratuitous violence. A disruptive element Beaumont had to watch constantly.

One evening, as the section bivouacked near a stream, Beaumont took Dambach aside.

"You're going to calm down. Your comments are demoralizing the others. If you continue, I'll have you put in irons."

"On what grounds? For having told the truth?"

"For insubordination. For undermining troop morale. Choose the formulation you prefer. The result will be the same: you'll be punished."

Dambach spat on the ground with contempt.

"You're all the same, you non-coms. Always licking the officers' boots. Never thinking of the men you command."

Beaumont seized Dambach by the collar and slammed him against a tree.

"Listen to me well, you little shit. I've seen things you can't even imagine. I've buried more comrades than you've ever known. And if I'm here, if I'm a sergeant, it's because I care about my men. Because I do everything in my power to get them back to France alive."

"By sending them to get killed in useless battles?"

"By keeping them disciplined, organized, united. Because in this war, that's the only thing that can save them. Not your complaints, not your criticisms. Discipline and solidarity."

He released Dambach who withdrew muttering insults. Beaumont hadn't convinced the soldier. But perhaps he had made him think, at least for the moment.

October 6, 1860, was a date that would remain engraved in the history of this campaign. That day, the allied armies reached the outskirts of Beijing. The imperial capital stood before them, its imposing walls outlined against the horizon, its glazed tile roofs shining in the sun.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «Литрес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на Литрес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.