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."