Memory of Flames (24 page)

‘But I didn’t tell him anything!’ Charles de Varencourt insisted. He wondered who could have revealed these things to Margont.

The latter was triumphant. His enemies were giving each other worried glances, not sure how to react to this unforeseen development.

Margont spoke to Varencourt: ‘Come on, don’t worry, Charles, you can stop pretending now. The police are surrounding the house. We’ve won! You’re going to be able to realise your dream of spending the rest of your life losing the twenty thousand francs Joseph promised you, playing cards.’

Varencourt lost his temper. He was about to fire at Margont, but

Louis de Leaume grabbed his arm, obliging him to lower his weapon.

‘Now!’ yelled Margont, lunging at Honoré de Nolant, who had turned to look at Leaume and Varencourt.

Lefine, accustomed to hand-to-hand conflict, pounced on Jean-Baptiste de Chatel with the speed of a cat. Chatel fired, but too late: Lefine had already pushed the gun out of the way and the bullet sped off to murder a chest of drawers. Louis de Leaume would have been able to finish off Margont, who had turned his back on him to beat up Honoré de Nolant. But as he believed Charles de Varencourt was guilty of giving their plan away, it was him he floored first with a pistol-whip to the jaw. Varencourt subsided groaning, dropping his pistol, and in the time it took Leaume to pick it up, Margont and Lefine had already reached the door. During their tussle Margont had forced Honoré de Nolant to drop his weapon, but had not managed to get hold of it. Nolant recovered it and, in concert with the Vicomte and Chatel, who took a small-calibre pistol from his pocket, went in hot pursuit of the two fugitives. Margont was taking the stairs several at a time. He could see the man who had guided them here waiting at the bottom holding a pistol. As Margont was unarmed he transformed himself into a projectile, launching himself at the man from the fifth step up. He struck the man at full speed, hurling him against the door. The door handle slammed violently into the man’s back and he collapsed howling. Lefine grabbed the man’s dropped gun and whirled round, pointing it at the top of the stairs, while Margont undid the bolts of the door. The other man who had stayed downstairs was nowhere to be seen - perhaps he had accompanied Catherine de Saltonges, or else he was stationed outside. Lefine took aim at a silhouette. All he could see of his pursuer was his outline against the light, but he guessed that the man was aiming at him too. He did not allow anything to disturb his concentration. He did not let fear or pity muddy his intention. He was not thinking about his own situation, was not worrying about what would happen to him if he were to miss his target. No, all he saw was an imaginary line, a straight line running from the barrel of his gun to

his adversary, who had had more time to adjust his aim but who had manifestly failed to conquer his fears. He delayed and Lefine fired. The silhouette collapsed and instinctively the two men behind fell back to take cover.

Margont and Lefine ran outside and charged across the courtyard. The man charged with blocking the narrow passage appeared, pistol at the ready. He was barring their way.

Lefine prepared to attack him but Margont shouted: ‘Police! Police!’

And their opponent fled, melting into the surrounding alleys. The obsession with secrecy that was second nature to the Swords of the King, and had served them so well until now, was being turned against them. Vicomte de Leaume had not warned the man that Margont and Lefine were spies, for fear of spreading alarm. Shutters creaked open and a shot rang out. The bullet shattered against a wall just as the two fugitives disappeared in their turn into the streets. Lefine led the way and, after several detours, eventually succeeded in finding Pont d’Austerlitz.

‘Help!’ yelled Margont to a line of Marie-Louises.

The young conscripts brandished their weapons in all directions. Some wanted to protect the poor frightened blighter running towards them; others prepared to fire at him to protect Lefine, whom they took to be his victim; still others copied their brothers in arms without having decided yet who they should fire on; the appalled crowd scattered, fearing a shoot-out; several men who could have been taken simply for passers-by pulled pistols from their overcoats; National Guardsmen appeared, rifles at the ready ... Everyone was prepared to kill everyone else. Gradually calm was restored. One of the armed civilians came over to Margont, his weapon lowered to avoid any misunderstanding.

‘I’m delighted to see you safe! I’m Monsieur Palenier. As arranged, we were following you, but we lost you on the bridge because of that damned haycart! Where are the men we need to arrest?’ ‘Imbeciles! Incompetent imbeciles!’ was all that Margont could manage to splutter in response.
 

MARGONT recounted the happenings to Palenier, who in turn relayed them to Joseph. When the latter heard that the Swords of the King had been planning to assassinate his brother, he flew into a terrible rage. But it was obvious that his shouting and recriminations were partly to camouflage his fear. He immediately mobilised all available forces but to little avail.

His personal police burst into various houses where they thought members of the Swords of the King were hiding and arrested some suspects. They went back to the ‘treasure-trove’ and picked up the man Margont had wounded. But as Leaume, with his mania for secrecy, had not told him anything, he could provide no new information. The man Lefine had shot had escaped with the others. There were drops of blood on the stairs, but the telltale trail ended abruptly in the courtyard - he must have taken care to stem the bleeding with a handkerchief. Lefine thought they would find him not far from Charles de Varencourt’s body, but that was not 
the case. Margont voiced the theory that it had taken so long for Joseph’s agents to surround the house - because Lefine had had trouble finding the building again - that Charles de Varencout had been able to prove his innocence to the others. Or else he had profited from the general panic and had managed to escape.

The only committee member they arrested was Catherine de Saltonges, and that was perfectly straightforward. She had gone home, thinking she had several hours before Margont and Lefine’s bosses realised they were missing, and was gathering her belongings, preparing to leave Paris, when Joseph’s police burst in. So it was the least culpable member, the one who had not wanted to be present at a double murder, that was arrested. She had been taken to Temple prison where Palenier interrogated her, but did not mistreat her, Margont having made him swear on his honour not to. Margont was also going to question her. But first, exhausted by the events of the past few days, he returned with Lefine to their barracks, to calm his rage and fears, and work out a tactic to make Catherine de Saltonges talk. For he was absolutely certain that she 
would give nothing away to Joseph’s agents.
 

THE companies of the 2nd Legion were training in the courtyard, sullying the night with the din of their orders and discordant rhythmical steps. The voice of Colonel Saber could be heard at regular intervals bellowing a command, ‘In column formation!’ Then there would be the clatter of running steps, whisperings, the metallic clanking of a bayonet dropping to the ground, confused noises, hesitations, exasperated reprimands from the NCOs. Nothing ever went quite right and Saber would make them start all over again from the beginning. There he was, sitting straight up on his black horse, in full regalia, the Legion d’Honneur on his chest, pointing at wrongdoers with his sabre, for all the world like the god Odin trying to resurrect the Wild Hunt. But the heroic soldiers killed in battle would never get up again to defend Paris ...

Margont was recuperating his strength, stretched out on his bed -a real bed, not a louse-ridden palliasse. He was turning the button in his fingers and it gleamed in the moonlight. The distortions and 
the patterns caught the light in various ways, creating a changing mosaic of shadows and golden points. He felt as if he were handling a box of secrets that he would only be able to open once he had worked out the subtle mechanism. He applied his usual method of approaching the problem from several different angles, hoping that inspiration would strike, allowing him to see the button in a new way. And it did! To such an extent that he wondered if it was the same button ... Those symbols ... There was a sort of A, or a sort of 'A, or n ... An A with a strange accent, horizontal, and attached to the letter and rolled back on itself... A bizarre A’ surmounted by
 
something
 
... Margont sat up suddenly. So suddenly that the button dropped from his fingers and fell on the floor. He could not quite take in the implications of what he had realised. His heart was thumping as if he were in danger; his muscles tensed - he was ready to attack; cold sweat trickled down his back ... His body seemed to have understood before his mind ... Margont wondered why he had not leapt up already to retrieve the button and examine it again. He rose and picked it up cautiously, as if it were one of those old hand grenades, which no army ever used any more because of their tendency to explode in the hands of the grenadiers supposed to toss them at the enemy. He held it in front of his eyes, closer and closer, to try to see it more clearly.

The strange consecutive marks he had mistaken for damage to the button were in fact the astonishing outline of symbols. It was not that the letter was very badly worn away, it was actually only a little damaged. What had misled him was that it was represented in a very unusual way. An A’ styled in the Cyrillic way and topped by a cross with triangular arms: the monogram of Tsar Alexander and the cross of the Opolchenie, the Russian militia. The button came from a Russian army uniform. Margont’s mind was immediately filled with unwelcome memories. How vivid they were! An expanse of grass spread itself rapidly across the floor: the immense Moscow plain unfurled in front of him, pushing back the walls of the bedroom as if they were mere straw. Lines and lines of French soldiers advanced elbow to elbow; Margont was marching with them, Lefine at his side. Cannonballs rained on them, mowing men 
down, dismembering them, throwing up unbelievable sprays of blood. ‘Close ranks! Close ranks!’ yelled Margont. The Russians were converging on them, dark-green multitudes slicing through the vivid green of the hills. They were shouting ‘Hurrah! Hurrah!’ seemingly contemptuous of the missiles raining down on them as well. They were everywhere, on all sides, terrible hordes hurtling down the slopes towards them. Margont was covered in blood, but it wasn’t his, or perhaps it was and he was well and truly injured; he no longer knew ... The lines collided, skewering themselves on the thousands of bayonets. A Russian infantryman charged Margont, his eyes blazing, his mouth stretched wide in a yell of rage, like one of the three Furies. A French soldier intercepted him, brandishing a bayonet, and the Russian, carried away in a trance by his ardour, was impaled on the point. He used his last seconds of life to fire point-blank at his adversary’s stomach. The two soldiers collapsed at Margont’s feet. They seemed to be arm in arm, their lips touching in a bloody parody of a kiss. Margont was wreathed in gun smoke. All around him, figures were massacring each other, making an absurd Chinese shadow theatre. The plain was gradually filling with a reddish light.

Then another memory. It was hot. Something was burning.
 
Everything
was burning. Moscow was in flames. Margont found himself running through the streets, dressed any old how, and still only half awake. Lefine, Saber and Piquebois were dragging him in their wake. Buildings were falling down, spitting out millions of burning fragments, which filled the night, twirling in the wind like swarms of fireflies, then falling to the ground further away. It was like being caught in the rain, but the drops were incandescent. The very night seemed to be turning red as if it were about to burst into flames itself. Then somewhere on the road back to France, snow began to fall. Flakes swirled in a thick fog. Margont shivered inside his many layers of clothing, walking on a carpet of white, seeing nothing but white, swallowing it, even. White on white. The world seemed to have been erased. During the last hours of the Grande Armée’s retreat from Moscow, Margont felt he was the last person alive. The snowflakes were covering him over little by little, 
obliterating him too. And then a fissure appeared in the ground, growing wider. No, not a fissure, it was the river whose black waters were carrying along blocks of ice and corpses. The Berezina. Margont went over to the riverbank. He was so tired. The retreat had been going on for weeks. Marching, always marching under attack from the Cossacks, the partisans or the regular army. He was so desperate he thought of submerging himself in the water. Yes, how tempting to sink into an inky sleep ... A point of light appeared in the depths of the current. It was a little gold object apparently rising to the surface. The button ... Its feeble golden glimmer was shining in his palm ...

Margont came back to reality. He was here in his officers room in his barracks. He was in Paris, Moscow was over. He repeated that obvious truth to himself.

He closed his hand around the button, willing it to disappear. But it was too late, he could not now close the Pandora’s box. A second flood of memories washed over him and he sank again into chaotic reminiscences of snowstorms and massacres.
 

‘Attention!’

Lefine froze. Unluckily a captain had spotted him in a corridor and ordered him into uniform to rejoin his company. His protestations and explanations had proved fruitless. He therefore found himself on Place Vendome, the mustering place of the 2nd Legion - one thousand three hundred soldiers, two four-pound cannons and two eight-pound cannons.

The National Guard were at the end of their tether. Some were swaying gently back and forth. Two had already collapsed in exhaustion. No one dared look up for fear of catching the eye of the colonel. So instead, everyone was staring at his horse, Beau Coureur, or Beelzebub, as he was commonly known. Saber was mad with rage.

‘I appear to be commanding a legion of scarecrows. Unfortunately our opponents are not sparrows!’

Beelzebub came spontaneously over to stand by Lefine, putting 
his muzzle close to Lefine’s face. The horse was said to have supernatural powers, like thinking up insults for his master to use. ‘At ease!’ thundered Saber. ‘Sergeant Lefine! Now you are an experienced combatant! How do you explain the lamentable state of your soldiers’ uniforms?’

Lefine was despairing. To think they had once been friends! Saber had certainly changed. Was that what was meant by power corrupting?

‘The men are exhausted, Colonel!’ he cried.

‘When we are tired, so are the enemy! It’s the first side to yield that loses! On my command: in attack columns!’

The result was pathetic. The National Guard were staggering; they no longer knew left from right. Watching them was like seeing mosquitoes swarming about, attracted by pools of light.

Margont, who had seen that the barracks were almost empty of soldiers, had guessed what had happened when he had discovered that Lefine was nowhere to be found. To make things easier he had had two horses saddled. He rode one and led the other beast by the bridle. Beelzebub immediately turned his head in their direction. Margont spotted Lefine and waved him over. Was he so absorbed in the investigation that he did not notice all the men exercising? Or was he openly rebelling against his colonel? Lefine felt like a piece of meat being fought over by two furious dogs.

‘I’ve discovered something new. We have to act immediately!’ insisted Margont.

Lefine saluted his colonel, gave his rifle to a guardsman who didn’t have one - there weren’t enough to go round - and joined Margont. Saber watched them leaving. He pointed at Margont with his sword.

‘Thank heavens there’s someone other than me in this legion who’s doing something! Continue with your manoeuvre!’

He waited until the attack column was finally formed. He saw the men struggling, knocking into each other, jostling to get into the correct positions. They didn’t look happy. Well then, how would they look when he gave the order to move from attack line to battle 
line?

Margont and Lefine hurried off into the freezing streets.

It was almost midnight, but Paris was still very busy. In the rich quarters conversations and music escaped from the lighted houses. The rich were going to eat, talk, dance and gamble until two in the morning, when tea would be served - not English, of course, lapsang souchong! - and green tea punch and sweet-meats. As incredible as it might seem, many Parisians still did not believe that Paris was threatened. They assumed that Napoleon would sort it all out. In the poorer areas too, people were still about, making merry in the cabarets. In winter cabarets were supposed to close at ten o’clock in the evening, but regulars paid no heed to that and continued to have fun. The commissioner of each arrondissement was supposed to go round enforcing the closing hours, accompanied by an officer of the peace, three inspectors and half a dozen soldiers from the municipal guard, but this inevitably deteriorated into fisticuffs.

Lefine besieged Margont with questions, but did not receive much response. Lefine was accustomed to his friend’s ways and knew he had to wait for him to order his thoughts.

Margont handed their horses to a sentry and Joseph’s men admitted them to the Temple prison.

A warder led them through dark corridors running with humidity. They ended up in a room dimly lit by a single malodorous oil lamp that did not give out much light.

‘I’ll let Monsieur Palenier know you’re here,’ said the warder as he withdrew.

Margont knew next to nothing about Palenier. But he was annoyed with him and the feeling was mutual. Palenier considered that it was Margont’s fault that the arrest of the committee members of the Swords of the King had failed, and he was trying to persuade Joseph of that fact.

‘I would like to know where we stand,’ Lefine stated for the fourth time.

Finally Margont was listening. ‘Yes, of course. Everything is brutally clear now.’

'I'm not sure about clear, but I can certainly believe the brutally part!’

Taking everything in the right order ... It’s when they stole Joseph’s letter from me that I realised that Leaume and his colleagues were going to try to assassinate the Emperor. Then there’s the curare and the fact that we know the man who used it is definitely a member of the Swords of the King. They must have gone to a lot of trouble to obtain such a rare substance. If you want to poison someone in France there are lots of other types of poison available. What was to stop them using arsenic? Or cyanide? Then I realised that imperial bigwigs all have tasters and trusted servants to oversee the preparation of their food. I also understood that the Swords of the King must be aiming at someone extremely important or else the Allies wouldn’t have agreed to help them procure the curare. Even though it’s possible that it was merely a business transaction, and the Swords of the King paid intermediaries, our royalists must have had the co-operation of the Portuguese and perhaps also the English, who have had special links with Portugal ever since they transferred their court to Brazil.’

He passed his hands through his hair, a familiar mannerism of his.

‘Here’s what I think. First, Charles de Varencourt becomes a police informer, but he’s playing a double game, and acting with the knowledge of the committee members. Secondly, one of them, I don’t know which yet, murders Colonel Berle and leaves the group’s emblem on the body. Their aim is to trigger an inquiry, which they hope will be led by a secret police agent, as is often the case when a murder has political and military implications. Varencourt will, of course, be questioned by the investigator. They hadn’t envisaged that I would insist that Varencourt should arrange for me to become a committee member, but they adapt their plan accordingly. They agree to take risks to allay my suspicions: they meet me — all the committee members are obliged to introduce themselves to me, since I had forced them to admit me to the heart of their committee - they go to my printing press ... At our next meeting Varencourt has to try to assess whether I am

going to advise Joseph to try to arrest everyone or not. He’s forced to give me accurate information about the main committee members because if he feeds me nonsense Joseph’s agents will notice that his information does not tally with what they already know. And the aim of all that was just to get their hands on the letter Joseph had given me! It’s not easy to get close to Napoleon. But if someone passes themselves off as one of Joseph’s secret police, if he obviously has detailed knowledge of the investigation he is talking about and if he presents a letter signed by Joseph I, the Emperor’s own brother, then he would be allowed to speak to Napoleon after being searched. And what guard would notice a needle slipped into a pocket? Jean-Quenin assures me that one simple injection of curare is fatal in a few seconds.’

Lefine was gradually grasping the idea.

‘So one of them really was going to try to assassinate the Emperor »

 

‘No!
I
was going to try to assassinate the Emperor! It’s my name written on that letter: Lieutenant-Colonel Quentin Margont!’

He was so furious he seemed on the point of tearing up everything around him, since he could not tear up the damned letter. Lefine was not yet convinced, like a St Thomas demanding further proof. ‘But why the burns? Why kill the Tsar’s envoy?’

Margont brandished the damaged button.

‘The answers are all here! Come with me. I’m going to question Catherine de Saltonges. I’m going to force her to tell me who her lover is. And that, my friend, is our killer.'