Memory of Flames (6 page)

Mejun erupted into the room, panic-stricken.

The police are coming! You have to leave at once!’

‘Investigators fleeing the police?’ asked Jean-Quenin, astonished. Margont was already dragging him by the arm towards the door. ‘Oh, that’s not the only paradox about this case, I can assure you...'
 

THEY escaped by the back door and hurried away, plunging into the side streets to avoid the crowds, and talking in low voices. They did not want to be taken for royalist or republican plotters, or partisans of the Allies ... Jean-Quenin left them, after insisting that they call on him again should the need arise.

Margont was having difficulty gathering his thoughts. Ideas were jumbled in his head, refusing to come together to form a coherent theory.

‘We have to separate what the murderer wanted us to find from what he wanted to hide. He didn’t want us to know the real reasons for his burning his victim. And what are we to make of the royalist emblem and those documents that were taken? Are they red herrings and the burns the real clue? Or the opposite? Or perhaps they’re all linked? We’re left with two leads: the royalist emblem, and the fire.’

‘I find both of them rather worrying,’ commented Lefine.

‘Who is supposed to react to the symbol? And the burns?’

‘We are! We’re the ones trapped in this investigation!’

‘Yes, but apart from us?’

Margont had been a bit slow in grasping what Lefine had meant. ‘Fernand, I’m sorry to involve you once again in a complicated case, but I absolutely depend on you.’

‘That’s all right then. I knew that, but it’s always good to hear it said. You can count on me! What use are friends if they don’t help each other out? But if my services are effectively helping the defence of Paris - that’s what all this seems to be about - I would very much like to be properly rewarded.’

‘Meaning?’

‘I want to be restored to the rank of sergeant-major!’

It was a long story. Throughout the last years, losses had been so heavy that veterans, as distinct from the masses of inexperienced conscripts, had benefited from numerous promotions. Since 1812, Margont had gone from captain to lieutenant-colonel, Piquebois from lieutenant to captain, Saber from lieutenant to colonel. Only

Jean-Quenin Brémond and Lefine had kept their ranks. In the medical officer’s case it was a reflection of the lack of respect accorded to the health services of the army. Priority and favours went to combatants. But as for Lefine, he had only himself to blame for his lack of promotion. In 1813 he had effectively been promoted to sergeant-major and the need for officers was so great that he was about to become no less than second lieutenant... when his major discovered that he was involved in a fraud.

He would present a requisition order for provisions for ten soldiers to a farmer or merchant. But afterwards he would falsify the document, and the requisitioner, who was in cahoots with him, would have him reimbursed by the army for an amount corresponding to food for twenty men. The practice was common. And besides, since the disaster in Russia, the soldiers were practically never paid! In fact, Lefine, like tens of thousands of other soldiers, was sliding gradually into poverty and he had used the money he had diverted in that way to feed and clothe himself. However, the major wanted to have him shot to make an example of him! The

affair rapidly became confused. There was abundant proof of his guilt, but because he was facing a death sentence, Lefine maintained that he was innocent. As he had nothing more to lose he used all his devious talents, lying with such aplomb that the elite police, called in by the court martial, were completely taken in. The police were not in a hurry to convict Lefine since they did not understand why a man should be executed for so little, especially at a time when each soldier counted. Margont, Saber and Piquebois, of course, became involved and their respective ranks carried a lot of weight. But the major persisted, relaunching a trial that would have succeeded had it not been interrupted. Inadvertently, Saber had the last word by being transferred against his will to the National Guard and taking his friends with him. Lefine was the only one to dance with joy on hearing the news. However, the affair robbed him of the rank of sergeant-major and raised the prospect of him remaining sergeant
 
ad vitam aeternum.

‘I was the victim of a regrettable judicial error—’ he began.

‘All right! Don’t bring up that business again. I promise you that if

I succeed, I will not forget to ask Joseph personally for a promotion for you.’

Thank you! So what do we do now?’

‘We go and look together at the documents Joseph gave me. Then I will keep the ones I need and you will take the ones from the police and go and find an inn where you will live during this investigation. You’re supposed to be poor, like me, so don’t go and set yourself up in one of the best addresses in Paris at Joseph’s expense. The lodgings they’ve found me are in Faubourg Saint-Marcel at 9 Rue du Pique. I would like you to be nearby. This evening I’ll go and meet Charles de Varencourt, whom I mentioned to you. I’m very suspicious of him. I’ll tell you where and when I’m meeting him. You will also be there and you will spy on us from a distance without getting yourself noticed. You won’t be able to overhear our conversation, but you should observe his expressions and gestures. Tell me later what you think of him. Also, try to spot if anyone is watching us. Maybe the Swords of the King suspect something and are having him followed, or maybe

Varencourt will have had the same idea as I and will come with an accomplice ... Afterwards you should follow him and then meet me at Pont d’lena, where you can report back to me.’

‘Now that you’re mingling with people who see plots everywhere, suddenly you’ve begun to think the same way!’
 

MARGONT went to Palais-Royal, a district full of restaurants, cafes, sweet shops, gambling houses, moneylenders, theatres and perfumeries. Prostitutes propositioned passers-by under the arcades, trying to drag them up to the lofts above.

In Chez Camille, wine, beer, cider, tea, coffee and waffles were served. You could also ask an errand boy to fetch you a
 
bavaroise
 
from the famous Cafe Corraza; that way you could enjoy it at ease, since it was always packed over there. Margont, ensconced at a table, simultaneously skimmed
 
Le Moniteur
and
 
Le Journal de Paris.
 
He hoped to flush out fragments of truth by comparing the two papers. Alas, the first lied because it was the mouthpiece of the Empire, whilst the latter dared not say anything because it was not. Every time irritation gripped Margont, he gulped a mouthful of coffee. How did they dare to print such things? He imagined the progression of the words, which started out revealing the truth, then submitted to the censorship of the editor, the cuts and

rewritings imposed by the owner of the newspaper, and those demanded by the censors and the Ministry of Civilian Police. He imagined lines being crossed out, hands tearing up entire pages, phrases being reworked to produce a text that was a shadow of its original self, with no subtlety, a Manichaean narrative. More passages crossed out. French losses melting away on the paper; Russians and Prussians perishing by the thousand under the pen blows of propaganda. Everything was fine! Better and better, in fact!

‘Yet I’m not allowed to launch my newspaper!’ muttered Margont. But, of course, his determination to tell the truth would never get past the censors, and what sort of paper would that have made?

A man sat down at his table.

‘Monsieur Langes!’ he declared amiably. Since they were in public he had not used Langes’s aristocratic title.

‘Citizen Varencourt!’

Varencourt was enjoying the fake reunion with this friend who was not actually a friend and who was using an assumed name.

Margont, on the other hand, was ill at ease. But the role he was playing, the dungeon in which he was trapped, was also his protection. So he immersed himself in his assumed character and smiled to encourage his new accomplice.

‘It’s a pleasure to see you, Charles!’

Varencourt served himself a glass of wine. He was dressed shabbily in ill-cut, drab clothes. But his self-assurance gave him presence; he seemed to have nothing to fear. He was a few years older than Margont, so about forty, with attentive blue eyes.

Margont took a look around the room. In spite of the fact that the cafe was crowded he had been able to sit a little apart. They would not be overheard so long as they spoke in low voices. He could not see Lefine but he was sure to be somewhere about. Margont never ceased to be amazed at his friend’s talents.

Varencourt examined his glass by the light of the candle. The wine was improbably dark. He sniffed it curiously.

‘I would say they’ve cut it with extract of logwood, bilberries and eau-de-vie. And perhaps even ink ...’

He drank and grimaced as if an unseen hand was strangling him. ‘Dreadful. So, you’re the new investigator. I was worried they would send me another stooge. Monsieur Natai, the person I give my information to, who pays me, is obviously just a second-rate little official, an intermediary. He came to my lodgings this afternoon - which he promised he would never do! - and explained that I was to continue to pass on what I learnt to him, but that I would also have to meet someone else today, Chevalier Langes. To be honest, until now the authorities have not taken the Swords of the King seriously and have been concentrating their efforts on the Knights of the Faith and the mysterious Congregation. How wrong they were. Now that Colonel Berle has been assassinated, they send you. It’s funny - you’re not what I imagined at all. You don’t look like one of those devious investigators from the imperial secret police.’

Margont said nothing.

‘I’ve already given the police a huge amount of information,’ Varencourt went on. ‘So what else do you want to know?’ ‘Why didn’t you warn them that Colonel Berle was about to be murdered?’

‘I didn’t know! It was Monsieur Natai who told me about his death.’

‘Do you take me for an idiot?’

‘If you were an idiot, they wouldn’t have sent you. There are roughly thirty people in our organisation, perhaps more, and it is run by a committee with five members: Louis de Leaume, Honoré de Nolant, Jean-Baptiste de Chatel, Catherine de Saltonges and me. Although we have a leader, Vicomte de Leaume, all plans must be approved by a majority of the committee. Then they’re explained to the other members, who have to carry them out. It was Baron de Nolant who proposed assassinating the people responsible for the defence of Paris. His plan was debated at length, then we voted and it was blackballed.’

‘What does that mean, “blackballed”?’

Varencourt was astonished at that.

‘You’re not very up to date, are you? Did they not pass on all the

information I gave Monsieur Natai? Louis de Leaume fled to London during the revolutionary years. Over there it’s common practice for gentlemen to belong to several clubs. What kind of clubs? Well, they all have their own themes: philosophy, astronomy, insects, tobacco, the exploration of Africa, or the Indies ... Actually, a nobleman has to be a member of a club to avoid ridicule. Because if you don’t belong to a club, you become the laughing stock of the London nobility. So you put forward your application and the members vote on it. Each member puts a ball in a bag. If there is a majority of white balls:
 
welcome to the club
; if there are more black, you’re blackballed,
bye-bye.
 
It’s the last word in chic for a French aristocrat to blackball. It signifies that you are pure, an ultra, that you would rather flee to England than accept revolutionary France. So when our committee takes decisions we use the English voting system. It has the advantage of being secret. According to Vicomte de Leaume, that reduces tensions within the group. And the plan to launch a series of assassinations was blackballed - two white balls, three black.’ ‘And who voted in favour of the plan?’

‘Honoré de Nolant, since he was the one who proposed it. I don’t know who the other one was.’

‘Apart from you five, did any of the other members know about the plan?’

‘Not as far as I am aware, no. That’s not how we work. The committee does not inform the ordinary members of the projects it’s discussing, to limit the risk of leaks. Our leader is a cautious man. I’ve already explained all this to Monsieur Natai ...’

‘Tell me about your emblem, the lily and the sword.’

‘It’s the heraldic interpretation of the name of our organisation. Initially, our emblem was the traditional fleur-de-lis. Then Vicomte de Leaume decided to replace it with a fleur-de-lis in the shape of a spear. More warlike ...’

‘I’ve seen one. A cockade with a medallion and crossed arms.’

‘You have? Where did you see it?’

Varencourt seemed surprised. But on the other hand, he was a gambler. He must be used to dissembling. As Margont did not

reply, he explained, ‘Vicomte de Leaume had some copies made and distributed them to the members of the committee.’

‘I want you to give me one.’

‘I don’t have any. I didn’t accept them. At the time, I was not acting as a police informer and I didn’t want to have anything like that about me.'