Memory of Flames (23 page)

‘So you don’t know who is the father of the baby Mademoiselle de Saltonges was carrying?’

A baby? And why
 
was
 
carrying?’

He turned his head away; he had obviously guessed the answer to the second question. When he spoke again, he was on the verge of tears.

‘You are a very skilled investigator. I had counted on always being one step ahead of you. But you have outstripped me without me

even being aware of it.’

He was again trying to steer the conversation away from Mademoiselle de Saltonges - the only subject that rendered him speechless. He was silent and looked off into the distance. He must be in love with her. Margont repeated his questions. In vain. When he took Varencourt’s sleeve to pull him out of his torpor, Varencourt looked at him in surprise, as if it was a stranger who had tugged at him.

‘Do whatever you want,’ he murmured.

‘Armed rebellion, a campaign of murders ... Now tell me about the third plan.’

Varencourt again looked him in the eye. He had dropped his mask of fear and now his eyes were full of suffering. ‘Ah, yes, the third plan. You have guessed that as well. Joseph wasn’t so stupid after all when he took you on as investigator. Yes, the third plan ... They do have one. But I don’t know what it is and, frankly, now I don’t care! No doubt you will find out what it is eventually. You discover everything whilst I’m just a poor blind man!’

His eyes were swimming with tears. But underneath the salty lakes, an angry, desperate light continued to blaze. Margont was seeing another side to Charles de Varencourt, who said, ‘I think we’ve talked enough today.’

All the same, as Margont turned to leave, Varencourt called him back. ‘I’d like to ask you a question. You owe me that. Suppose the Allies win, and Paris falls into their hands. Then imagine that you finally unmask Colonel Berle’s killer. Will you take the risk of going to the royal police to reveal what you’ve discovered?’

‘Of course!’

Varencourt had expected Margont to say that, but he still didn’t understand.

‘But why? Why not keep a low profile? Why risk going to prison?’ Perhaps Margont would not have replied in other circumstances. But he felt sorry for Varencourt.

‘You can’t understand, because we’re so different. I value justice more than my own life. It comes from my philanthropy, which is a quality that’s hard to bear, I can assure you. But that’s the way it is.

The Revolution changed my life, and gave me my love of liberty. And you can’t have liberty without justice. It’s difficult to explain. I can’t really find the words to explain my determination, but I do beg you to believe that it is unfailing. So yes, I will go on to the end of my investigation, even though I have personally nothing to gain from it and even if the sky falls in before then.’

Varencourt thought about his words. Thank you for the sincerity of your reply.’

‘Since we are sharing confidences, and I have never understood card players, I also have a question. Why do you enjoy it so much? What does it bring you?’

‘It makes me feel alive! Goodbye, “Chevalier”.’

They separated. As he walked Margont reflected that he had upset Varencourt so badly that he might try to exact his revenge by denouncing him. When you push someone to the brink, all he has to do is grab you and spin around and you will be the one tumbling into the abyss in his place ...
 

EVERYTHING was ready! At least that was what Mathurin Jelent had assured Margont, who was hard at work in the printing shop. Outside, Joseph’s agents were keeping watch. He had never met them, and did not try to spot them. He hadn’t noticed them when he had gone out that morning to meet Varencourt in Rue de Rivoli - his life now depended on people he had never met. And he felt that it was absurd that at a time when two hundred thousand invaders were marching towards Paris, and when he might well lose his life in a shoot-out that very evening, he was engaged in printing fripperies! He brandished a proof, the ink still wet and shining. ‘What on earth is the point of this? “Madame la Baronne de Bijonsert has the pleasure of inviting you to her Spring Ball to be held at her house on 29 March.” And she wants five hundred invitations! She might as well have asked for two hundred thousand, because with all the Allies on the way, she could have a fine Spring Ball!’ ‘She’s imperial nobility ...’ explained Mathurin Jelent.

‘And so?’

‘And so she’s squandering her money, throwing it out of the window. She’s doing everything she can to spend a million in a week. Because if Louis XVIII comes to the throne, Baronne de Bijonsert will have to hand her large house over to Baron something or other - Baron
 
Ancien Regime
, that is - who lived there before the Revolution, and perhaps he’ll take some of her worldly goods as well. When you are about to lose everything, or almost everything, you might as well treat yourself to a lovely last evening of fun. No one can make you hand over your memories.’

Margont was furious but pretended to be delighted. He told himself if he continued to live with these double thoughts he would really start to lose his mind. He noticed that he had absent-mindedly screwed up the invitation card into a ball.

‘Spoilt proof. It’ll have to be redone.’

Lefine was also there, installed in front of an empty workbench, inert in the midst of all the activity, like the queen bee, dozing in the midst of the worker bees. After Margont had revealed what

Varencourt had said, Lefine decided he’d better stay with his friend at all times. He had that catlike quality of being able to swing instantly from activity to complete rest and vice versa. Whilst every evening Margont needed an hour of reading to calm his thoughts - if his thoughts were ever really calm - Lefine would plunge effortlessly into a state of beatific repose, enjoying the present without thinking about the dark clouds on the horizon. At the moment he was thinking what a fine thing it would be to be a printer. Baronne de Bijonsert wanted five hundred invitations? You’d just print five hundred and one and then you would be off to the ball! A free banquet, dancing with pretty girls. You’d just have to arrive late, when the Baronne had stopped greeting people at the door, and mingle with the crowd. His fingers slid over another proof that had fallen - quite by chance! - into his pocket.

Margont was kicking himself for having allowed Lefine to be seen by the Swords of the King. Yet again he had failed to think through the consequences of his ideas.

The shadows were lengthening in the streets, like dark plants

extending tendrils of night. The door opened; a gust of icy air filled the room. Margont recognised their visitor. He was one of the men who had come to his lodgings with Vicomte de Leaume. ‘Monsieur Lami and I have some business to attend to,’ Margont announced to his staff.

Lefine and he went outside, following the visitor, who said not a word.
 

CROWDS moved with difficulty through the streets. The poor lighting - old oil lanterns swinging in the wind at the end of their cords like hanged men - increased the impression of chaos. Margont and Lefine had to exert themselves to keep up with their guide. He was walking rapidly, pushing past refugees looking for somewhere to install their families, who were perched on the top of overloaded carts. Margont wondered if Joseph’s agents were managing to follow. How many were there? Mathurin Jelent had not been able to tell him.

One thing was worrying Margont. Their guide never turned round. He should have done, to make sure that no one was following them. Why was he not taking that most basic of precautions?

The Seine appeared. They took Pont de la Tournelle, crossed lie Saint-Louis, the quietest district in Paris even though it was in the heart of the capital, known for its elegant houses built in the reigns of Louis XIII and Louis XIV, and rejoined the other bank by

Pont Marie. They immediately turned right and followed the Seine. Margont called to their guide, ‘Slow down, or we’ll lose you.’

The man set off across Pont d’Austerlitz, taking them back to the left bank that they had just left. It was crowded with refugees heading for the miserable Faubourg Saint-Marcel in the hope of finding cheap accommodation. People were jostling each other and cursing. Margont was waving his arms like a man drowning in a human sea. They were almost back on the other bank again. Margont and Lefine had just passed a forage cart when two men surged up behind them and forced them to speed up again, by pushing them onwards.

‘Faster, Monsieur de Langes, faster.’

Margont recognised one of them; he had also been there when Vicomte de Leaume had made his impromptu visit. The boy guiding the cart pulled on the horse’s bit to drag him out of the way, and the cart blocked the bridge. ‘Careful! Careful! Hey, calm down! Gently!’ he cried, although he was agitating the horse by pulling his head this way and that.

Meanwhile the three men dragged Margont and Lefine along the little streets of the Faubourg Saint-Marcel.
 

MARGONT tried to slow the pace. But the two men behind him were hurrying them harder than ever. They turned off down a little street, then took another, then a third. A drunkard wandering in a labyrinth would not have taken a more circuitous route. Margont was not familiar with the area, which was visibly seedy. The men were doing all they could to mislead him and, in any case, he did not have a very good sense of direction. His only hope of knowing where they were lay with Lefine. They snaked through a passage between two houses so narrow that they had to pass in single file. The man bringing up the rear stopped in the middle of the cutthroat little alley and started to chew tobacco, while the rest of the group moved on. If Joseph’s agents were still following, the man would block their route ...

They arrived in a dingy courtyard choked by the buildings surrounding it. Their guide took them into an old house and indicated the stairs.

'They’re waiting for you up there.’

The guide waited downstairs, sharing guard duty with his accomplice.

A bizarre sight greeted Margont and Lefine when they got upstairs. The closed shutters and drawn curtains transformed the large room into a sort of cocoon illuminated inside by lamps. The five committee members of the Swords of the King sat amongst an array of sumptuous objects: marquetry Regency chests of drawers, Dutch dressers, high-backed Louis XIII chairs, Louis XIV and Louis XV armchairs, card tables, dainty writing tables with little hiding places for secreting compromising letters, alcove sofas ... The room was an Ali Baba’s cave hidden in the midst of the houses of the Forty Thieves.

Vicomte de Leaume invited them to sit down.

‘Coming here is always a pleasure. It’s our treasure-trove,’ he explained. ‘So many of us had to emigrate to all the capitals of Europe. And often had to abandon our larger pieces of furniture. But rather than leave them to the revolutionaries, we sometimes

managed to stow them in hiding places like this. Our refugee friends in London have entrusted us with the task of keeping this place safe. In exchange, we are allowed to sell some of the pieces. As long as we use the proceeds for the cause, of course.'

Margont sat down in a comfortable flowered armchair.

‘A Louis XVI armchair: the chair of the beheaded,’ joked Honoré de Nolant.

The tasteless joke should have attracted the ire of his companions, but they didn’t seem to have heard him. Lefine chose a seat as different as possible from his friend’s. Leaume was relaxed and happy.

‘I see you have brought Monsieur Plami—’

‘“Lami”: L, A, M, I, Monsieur le Vicomte,’ corrected Lefine.

‘It’s of no importance. Whatever his name is, just this once I will allow him to attend our meeting. You’ll understand why in a minute.’

Margont was thinking about all the different elements of the situation at once. He was watching the committee members, studying their demeanour, thinking about Joseph’s agents - perhaps the ones following Varencourt or Catherine de Saltonges had not been shaken off; he was concentrating on playing his role to the best of his ability. He was also taking in every detail of the house. During his campaigns he had learnt to evaluate distances and to note the smallest details, as a matter of survival. When he was leading his soldiers into the open on a battlefield, it was essential to have thought already that shots could come from that wood over there, three hundred paces to the north-west, that, running, they would only need thirty seconds to reach that sunken road that stretched from east to west and would be an excellent defensive position, that there would surely be water - water! - in that verdant green copse tucked off to the east, because he had spied weeping willows there, and those trees were usually found near streams and ponds ... So, without appearing to do so, he was counting the yards separating him from the door and the windows.

He noticed that everyone was nervous except Charles de Varencourt, who had found his equilibrium again. Margont would have

been more reassured to see him as pale as he had been earlier that day. What had happened to soothe him? And Catherine de Saltonges, although tense, showed no sign of the drama she had lived through a week earlier.

Louis de Leaume gloated, This place is the jewel in our crown. We come here when our morale is flagging, when we have suffered a reverse, and it always cheers us up! But today, we’ve come for the opposite reason. The news is not just good, it’s excellent! Miraculous! And I’ve chosen this place for us to celebrate in. The Allies are at the gates of the capital! They will attack at any minute. And it’s important that they take Paris as rapidly as possible. So they need us more than ever at this moment.’

‘All the Parisian monarchist groups have just seen their worth increase tenfold,’ explained Honoré de Nolant.

It was not like Nolant to keep interrupting in that way. Moreover, his humour was dark and cynical. So he was also acting out of character.

The more we help our allies,’ Louis de Leaume went on, ‘the harder it will be for them not to return the throne to its only legitimate claimant: His Majesty Louis XVIII. So now’s the time to swing into action.’

‘Right away,’ added Honoré de Nolant, producing a pistol, which he pointed at Margont.

Guns appeared on all sides. Louis de Leaume also aimed at Margont. Varencourt and Jean-Baptiste de Chatel had Lefine covered. Only Catherine de Saltonges’s hands were empty.

‘What’s this for?’ asked Margont.

Louis de Leaume laughed heartily.

‘Even looking down the barrel of a gun, you still refuse to give up? My opinion of you has gone up a little. But it won’t work. We know you are both traitors.’

‘You sold us out!’ Margont shouted at Charles de Varencourt, who laughed.

‘Not at all! You still don’t understand, do you?’

Vicomte de Leaume could not resist showing off the extent of his triumph. ‘We knew all along, even before our first meeting.’

That was a sledgehammer blow to Margont. But his survival instinct and tenacity allowed him to conceal his shock. His thoughts raced, analysing everything at astonishing speed. His only aim was to escape from this alive, along with Lefine, of course. So first, he tried to stall for time. Joseph’s secret police might still be on their trail, or Varencourt’s or Catherine de Saltonges’s ... They would have to hold tight until they were found!

Catherine de Saltonges did not seem to be enjoying the situation. She wouldn’t look at the prisoners.

Vicomte de Leaume declared: ‘We’re going to lock you in a cellar until the Allies liberate Paris, which won’t be long now. When that happens you will be transferred to prison, until the King's judicial service has time to consider your case. However, I’m pretty sure you don’t have to worry too much. His Majesty will be intent on obtaining the support of all his subjects, royalists, republicans and Bonapartists. Since you haven’t harmed our cause in any way, I’m sure you will soon be freed.’

Catherine de Saltonges rose. ‘I have to go home. I have a prior arrangement...’

‘Co ahead, my dear. Roland will go with you,’ Louis de Leaume replied.

She hurried off. ‘Roland’ must be one of the two men keeping watch downstairs. At least that’s what Margont hoped.

There was something odd about Leaume reassuring them about their fate. And now Catherine de Saltonges was leaving the room, just as she had stayed out of the way the night Honoré de Nolant had held a knife to Margont’s throat. The situation that night could easily have escalated and she didn’t like to witness violence ... And another thing, Vicomte de Leaume had just revealed too much, when he was normally obsessively secretive ... Putting it all together, it was obvious to Margont that the group were going to murder them both. That’s why they had chosen to have them brought here: it was the place that would give the group the necessary fortitude to kill two unarmed men in cold blood. Unless he thought of a way out, Margont had only a few more minutes to live

‘So,’ he said to Lefine, ‘we should have listened to Galouche’s advice! When we tell him this ...’

Their friend Galouche was reposing at the bottom of a communal grave on the Moscow battlefield ... Lefine nodded. He had understood the message.

Leaume made Margont stand up and started to frisk him. ‘Where is it?’ His gestures were quick and precise. His left hand was searching everywhere. His right continued to point the pistol at Margont’s heart. ‘The letter! Where is it?
¹
 ‘What letter?’

‘Oh, no you don’t, Monsieur, no ... I think I’ve proved that you’re the fool here, not me. I want the letter that your bosses gave you.’

If he were to fire, Margont rated his chances of survival as ... nil. Varencourt intervened: ‘He’s trying to play for time. Of course he’s in possession of an official document attesting that he’s working for the Emperor.’

So that’s what they were after, thought Margont. The whole set-up, the faked betrayal by Charles de Varencourt, Margont’s pretend admission to the Swords of the King: all that effort and risk was for the letter. So it must be necessary for the execution of their plan.

‘It’s at home,’ said Margont.

‘No it’s not!’ replied Honoré de Nolant. ‘I searched your room myself and I’m certain it’s not there!’

Leaume was pulling so hard on Margont’s shirt that it tore.

‘We’ll strip you if we have to, but we will find it. Perhaps we’ll have to torture your friend as you watch, until you tell us where it is! The police must have told you my life story. I escaped from a mass grave ...’

Jean-Baptiste de Chatel added, ‘The Angel of Death held him in its arms and even though he escaped, the Angel had time to consume his soul ...’

To protect Lefine, Margont replied, ‘It’s in the buckle of my belt.’ Leaume extracted the hidden paper and moved back with his find. He unfolded the letter, his gun still trained on Margont.

‘This is it!’ He was triumphant. ‘So you’re not a spy, you’re a

soldier. A lieutenant-colonel, no less! That’s why your informants couldn’t identify him, Honoré. Lieutenant-Colonel Quentin Margont. It’s signed by Joseph I, King of Spain!’

Margont was trying to work out when would be the best moment to fling himself at them - they would be two against four. It was useless to wait for them to make a mistake. He would have to provoke an error and rush into the breach. Who was the weak link in the group? Varencourt! He was the one who had carried out the trickiest part of their plan and was in the most delicate situation. That afternoon, he had been on edge because he was worried that Margont would not come to the meeting, or would discover that he was being manipulated. So Varencourt had tried to persuade him to come, with the argument that afterwards he could more completely disappear. Nevertheless he had not been sure that his scheme would work. Had the other members of the group noticed his tension? There it was! That was the chink Margont was looking for! He would play on their suspicion and fears.

‘We’re going to tie you up and gag you. We have everything we

need now,’ concluded Louis de Leaume.

‘So do I. I have succeeded in my mission!’ announced Margont. ‘Oh, really?’ Jean-Baptiste de Chatel challenged him, his index finger caressing the trigger of his pistol.

‘The posters and the assassination of Colonel Berle were just diversions. You needed me for your third plan, the most spectacular one, the one that would have the most impact, your masterstroke!’

Louis de Leaume’s face creased in surprise. ‘How did you hear about that?’

‘He’s cunning,’ warned Varencourt. ‘But he doesn’t know anything more.’

Margont threw his last card on the table: it was just an idea, speculation, an ill-formed hypothesis. But if he said nothing, they would kill him and Lefine, so what did he have to lose?

‘On the contrary, I know everything. You’re going to assassinate Napoleon.’

The group froze in consternation. It was strange to see them still

pointing their weapons but looking worried. Louis de Leaume was dismayed. No, he really had not imagined things turning out like th is. He was experiencing the disappointment of the player who announces with a smirk: ‘Checkmate’ only to have his opponent reply: ‘If you will allow me ...’ and move one of his pieces to continue the game! His error of judgement had tarnished his joy like a spot of grease come to stain the glittering costume of his triumph. Varencourt was worried by their leader’s anxiety. ‘He’s just saying whatever comes into his head, making it up as he goes along. It’s just coincidence that he’s hit on the right thing!’

Margont looked supremely calm. It was just an act but he was putting his soul into it. Noticing this, Lefine followed suit, his serenity echoing his friend’s magnificently. They both acted as if everything was going exactly as they had hoped.

‘Charles de Varencourt told me everything,’ announced Margont. ‘That’s not true!’ Varencourt fumed.

‘I don’t believe you,’ said Vicomte de Leaume. But it was precisely because he was wondering if it could be true that he rejected it out loud.

‘Do you want more proof?’ asked Margont. ‘Charles explained that you wanted to kill the Emperor with a needle soaked in a rare poison with astonishing properties. It acts through the bloodstream and a single drop is enough to finish a man off. It’s called curare and is used by the Indian tribes of the Amazon. It paralyses the muscles and the victim dies of suff—’