Memory of Flames E-Book

Armand Cabasson

• Herausgeber: Pushkin Vertigo
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 441

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

'The Tsar had long dreamt of taking Paris in revenge for Moscow ...March 1814. With the allied armies of Russia, Austria and Prussia advancing, Paris is in real danger of falling to occupying forces for the first time in 400 years. But at a moment when all efforts should be directed towards the defence of the city, Joseph Bonaparte is concerned with the murder of a retired colonel, and orders Lieutenant Colonel Quentin Margont to conduct a secret investigation into his death. Once again Armand Cabasson marries his phenomenal knowledge of the Napoleonic period with his psychiatric expertise to create a gripping and totally convincing narrative.

Leseprobe

Praise for Armand Cabasson

‘A vivid portrayal of the Grande Armée … worth reading’

Literary Review

‘With vivid scenes of battle and military life … Cabasson’s atmospheric novel makes a splendid war epic …’

Sunday Telegraph

‘Cabasson skilfully weaves an intriguing mystery into a rich historical background.’

Mail on Sunday

MEMORY OF FLAMES

ARMAND CABASSON

Translated from the French by Isabel Reid

Pushkin Vertigo

Contents

Title Page

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

EPILOGUE

About the Author

Also by Armand Cabasson

Copyright

CHAPTER 1

AS he advanced along the corridor an image rose before him. It was as if each of his steps was the ratchet of a cog setting in train other movements. He had prepared his plan with the precision of a watchmaker. That night he was finally starting up the complex mechanism. He heard a noise on the stairs. Someone was coming up. He had orientated himself in the dark by feeling along the wall and had already counted four doors. Now he went back, opened the third door and hid in the bedroom that had previously belonged to the colonel’s only daughter. The room had been unoccupied since she had married. The yellowish-orange light of a candle filtered under the door before moving away. A heavy footstep, slow and uneven: Mejun, the oldest of the colonel’s servants, a retired sergeant whose leg had been shattered by an Austrian cannonball at the Battle of Marengo. He was on his way to light the fire in the study as he did every evening; but he was half an hour early. The colonel must have hurried through his supper. Leaning against the door, the intruder steadied his nerves – he knew the layout and habits of the house inside out. Mejun went back along the corridor with no inkling that anything was amiss.

The intruder slipped out of the bedroom and finally reached the study, where he hid behind the long velvet curtains. All he had to do now was wait.

But almost immediately he was drawn out of his hiding place. The hearth. The fire. The flames, like golden tongues licking the air, seemed to call to him. It was as if they recognised him and wanted to show him something. The way they bent and leapt, weaving themselves together and then separating, the dark interstices they created … Faces with flaming skin and sooty eyes appeared in the dancing tapestry. Pain contorted their features; their mouths opened wide in silent screams. They disappeared, to be replaced by others, coming towards him. In vain they shouted for help, until their unbearable suffering robbed them of consciousness. The presences were so real … the logs crackled and one of them split and burst into a shower of sparks. The frenzy of the victims increased. He saw nothing but the fire. It filled his thoughts; he was reduced to a human husk burning inside. The door creaked, bringing him back to reality, leaving him barely time to hide again.

Footsteps. The exhausted trudge of someone determined to work for a little longer before strength failed. The wood of the desk chair groaned. Only the colonel was allowed to sit there. A pen began to scratch hastily across the paper. The old officer did not notice the intruder coming up behind him.

CHAPTER 2

LIEUTENANT-COLONEL Quentin Margont stood to attention. He was wearing his uniform of the infantry of the line. Although he had been promoted two months ago to field officer of the National Guard of Paris, he had not yet received his new uniform. He had been summoned to the magnificent office in the Tuileries Palace where he now confronted two of the most celebrated figures of the Empire. Unfortunately he disliked the first and was suspicious of the second.

Joseph Bonaparte, elder brother of Napoleon, had accumulated a dizzying array of titles: King of Spain (or, even more impressively King of Spain and the Indies), Lieutenant-General of the Empire, Commander of the Army and the National Guard of Paris. The Emperor had entrusted him with the defence of the capital whilst he himself fought in the north-east of France. It was astonishing to think that in 1812, just before Napoleon had launched his Russian campaign at the head of an army of four hundred thousand men, the Empire had been at its zenith. Yet today, 16 March 1814, less than two years later, he was fighting in France with only seventy thousand soldiers, trying to halt the invasion of three hundred and fifty million Austrians, Hungarians, Russians, Prussians, Swedes, Hanoverians and Bavarians, split into the Army of Bohemia, the Army of Silesia, the Army of the North (part of which operated in Holland, the other part in Belgium). To say nothing of the sixty-five thousand English, Spanish and Portuguese under the Marquess of Wellington, who had just seized Bordeaux and whom Marshal Soult was trying to contain. Or of the Austrians based in Italy, who were fighting Prince Eugène de Beauharnais. How the mighty were fallen! The thought of it made Margont quite dizzy.

Would it still be possible to save the ideals embodied by the Revolution? Perhaps Napoleon would be victorious against all odds. After all he had just pulled off some stupefying victories: against the Russians under Olssufiev at Champaubert on 10 February, and under Sacken at Montmirail on the 11th. On the 12th he had defeated Yorck’s Prussians at Château-Thierry, on the 14th the Prussians and the Russians under the indefatigable Blücher at Vauchamps, on the 17th both Wittgenstein’s Russians at Mormant and then an Austro-Bavarian force under Wrede at Nangis. And the Allies had been even more astounded when Napoleon routed the Austrians, Hungarians and Wurtembergers under the wily generalissimo Schwarzenberg.

The astonishing thing was that Joseph – whom Margont judged, perhaps a little harshly, to be incompetent – resembled the Emperor, with his round puffy face, brown eyes, high forehead and sparse black hair. He considered himself very intelligent, but he was like a mediocre copy of a painting pretending to be the original.

Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord, Prince de Bénévent, known as ‘The Limping Devil’ was in every way, whether considering his qualities or his faults, the polar opposite. Brilliant, far-sighted, witty, manipulative, charming, affable, obsequious, deceitful and unpredictable, he had the gift of the gab. It was rumoured that he had dared to say, after the cataclysmic outcome of the Russian campaign, ‘It’s the beginning of the end.’ The Emperor suspected him of having betrayed him on several occasions and of now plotting for the return of the Bourbons. Relations between them were so confrontational that Napoleon had referred to him to his face as ‘shit in silk stockings’.

But Talleyrand knew how to make himself indispensable. As a dignitary he was always involved in diplomatic manoeuvring, either officially or unofficially. Margont considered him an astute weathervane, adept at anticipating the changes in the wind. But it was not impossible that this devious man did, in his own way, love his country. Perhaps he was sincerely trying to help France and not just working for his own advancement, but he was doing it with the arrogance of someone who believes that only his way will work.

The sixty-year-old, in his powdered wig, was observing Margont with an intensity that belied his relaxed posture and his world-weary air.

‘At ease,’ barked Joseph. ‘Lieutenant-Colonel Margont, we have summoned you because we need you for a secret mission.’

He was studying papers spread out on the desk as he spoke and did not look at Margont, who felt certain that he knew what those papers said about him and longed to seize them and hurl them into the fire that was inadequately heating the vast room.

‘His Highness Prince Eugène charged you with a confidential mission during the Russian campaign. That you know. What you perhaps don’t know is how he characterised you afterwards. Eulogies and encomiums!’

He brandished a sheet of paper and read from it.

‘You are, and I quote, “an admirable man”—’

He had to break off as Talleyrand snorted with laughter. The Prince de Bénévent had long ceased believing that men could be admirable …

‘You succeeded brilliantly in your mission, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. In view of all this praise and of your experience, Monsieur de Talleyrand and I consider that you are the man we need.’

Margont was a confirmed republican. At a time when Paris was threatened, he wanted to play his part in protecting the capital, not to be ‘the man we need’, whatever mission Joseph was about to reveal.

The latter settled back in his chair and stared at Margont.

‘Yesterday evening, Colonel Berle was assassinated at home, here in Paris. We have reason to believe that the crime was committed by one or more royalists—’

‘But perhaps we’re barking up the wrong tree,’ Talleyrand suddenly interrupted.

‘Berle was a military genius, and although now sixty, he had agreed to be pressed back into service because of the situation we are facing. He was one of the officers I had asked to consider the best ways of defending Paris. We are preparing for the worst, as a precaution, even though, of course, the enemy will never succeed in reaching Paris!’

‘But they already have, Your Excellency—’ objected Margont.

‘What insolence! Yet another revolutionary who believes in freedom of expression! And he dares to call me “Your Excellency” instead of “Your Majesty”! I am King of Spain!’

Imperial Spain barely existed any more; it was reduced to Barcelona and part of Catalonia. Joseph was the only one to think his crown still meant anything. Margont made an effort to rein himself in. His candour and his love of the witty retort had already got him into trouble in the past. But the terms ‘Your Highness’ or ‘Your Majesty’ stuck in his throat. His expression was impassive but inside he was boiling. They should have started reinforcing the capital’s defences months ago! But not a single entrenchment had been built and not a single ditch dug! No one had drawn up instructions in case of an attack! Such inaction was criminal. Was Joseph afraid of worrying people? Did he think that ostrich tactics would work? The lieutenant-general paused a moment, hesitating to entrust Margont with the inquiry. Then he launched in.

‘The file we have on you, Lieutenant-Colonel, dwells at length on your revolutionary ardour. But so much the better. Nothing like a republican to hunt down a royalist. The victim was tortured. No doubt his tormentor was trying to force information from him. I don’t know whether poor Berle talked … He was writing a proposal for me to transform the mound at Montmartre into an impregnable redoubt guarded by large-calibre cannons to protect the approaches to Paris … He was also working on plans for entrenchments to guard the residential areas of the city and on what to do about the bridges: how to fortify them, and equip them with landing stages …’

Margont was shaken. Montmartre, the bridges … Of course it was necessary to do all that to protect Parisians. But he found it disturbing to think of the places he loved covered with retrenchments and artillery.

‘The murderer left behind a royalist emblem. A white rosette with a medallion in the middle decorated with a fleur-de-lis in the shape of an arrowhead crossed with a sword. It was pinned to the colonel’s shirt. The murderer also stole some documents. Fortunately, most of them were coded, as I had instructed. Our theory is that a small group of royalists is planning to try to disrupt the defence of Paris.’

Royalist plotters! Everyone was talking about them as if there were tens of thousands of them, when in fact there could have been only a few thousand scattered amongst several different organisations. Since the catastrophic imperial defeats in 1812 and 1813 they had regained credibility and energy. They were stirring up as much trouble as possible, fearing that Napoleon would come to a compromise with the Allies and hold on to his imperial crown. They advocated all-out war against the Emperor and some of them favoured extreme methods: murder and uprising.

‘We think the murderer left the emblem to create a climate of fear. Our enemies within are only a handful – they want to appear more numerous and dangerous than they really are. We won’t play their game! I demand that every detail of the crime remain secret. Neither you nor the servant who discovered the colonel’s body must divulge that aspect of the affair. As for the police, they won’t even know about it. It so happens that we have an advantage and you are going to exploit it for us.’

Joseph let the last few words sink in.

‘The murderer thinks he can hide in the anonymity of the myriad monarchist organisations: the Knights of the Faith, the Congregation, the Aa, the Societies of the Sacred Heart … But he underestimates the reach of our police services. We have an informer in one of their groups, the Swords of the King. Charles de Varencourt is the son of a noble Norman family. A committed royalist, but with an Achilles heel: he’s an inveterate gambler, and so he’s always short of money. A few weeks ago he began to sell us information.’

Margont, who was an idealist, had no time for that kind of person. ‘I see …’ he said. ‘When he runs out of money he betrays his companions.’

‘Exactly. We haven’t arrested them yet for three reasons. First, in this kind of operation we must avoid haste. The longer we wait the more information we’ll gather, and the more members of the group we’ll be able to identify. We haven’t yet managed to find out where the members live. Secondly, the plotters can’t agree on what action to take, so they don’t represent any immediate danger. And thirdly, thanks to them, we will be able to hook a much larger fish, Count Boris Kevlokine. But more about him later. In the meantime Charles de Varencourt has been providing us with information. Some of the plotters plan to wage a murderous campaign against the key members of the team charged with defending Paris.’

Although Joseph tried to hide it, his voice trembled. He was afraid. Did he think that he might be targeted? Margont abstained from assuring him that he was perfectly safe since his enemies would have no interest in eliminating such a hopeless incompetent. In any case, the security of the top brass was assured. Joseph cleared his throat and tried once more to master himself, which only served to make his anxiety more obvious.

‘Colonel Berle was on the list of people they plan to assassinate. I had taken steps to protect the people on the list, discreetly so as not to make it obvious to our enemies that we knew what they were up to. But I have to admit we hadn’t seen this coming. Even in the Swords of the King there aren’t many royalists willing to commit to murder in this way. Murder as a tactic is under discussion but hasn’t been agreed. Some members would like to foment a popular uprising by printing posters; others want to raise arms; and some are just planning to wait until everything is sorted out whilst looking as if they’re taking action … The group had gathered information about potential victims – names, addresses, places of work, regular routes, interests, friends and family, the number of armed guards each had. Colonel Berle’s murderer would have known all these things. At the time of the murder there were fifteen people in the house! There were sentries, his private secretary, two valets, three household servants, the cook, the kitchen maid, the coachman … So the man must have got in through a window and made his way through the house, in spite of all the comings and goings, to the study on the second floor. That proves he knew the habits of his victim. And the symbol he left behind is the secret emblem of the Swords of the King.’

Margont thought of Paris. Could a few crimes like that really put the defence of the capital in jeopardy? Unfortunately, yes. And what about Talleyrand? The Prince de Bénévent had not said a word, although he was paying close attention to what Margont and Joseph were saying, and to their demeanour. Margont was curious to hear what he would have to say.

‘So, Lieutenant-Colonel, what do you conclude from what I have just told you?’ demanded Joseph.

‘Nothing, Your Excellency.’

The lieutenant-general raised his eyes to the ceiling, then let his head fall back. He studied the ceiling with its elegant oval stucco and enormous chandelier whose candles barely illuminated the wintry gloom. But his attitude was unconvincing. Joseph seemed to have struck a pose, like an actor trying to intimidate an audience that was not delivering the correct response. He was a bit-part player who had been made a king because he was the Emperor’s brother. But instead of becoming a Henry V he was nothing but a mediocre King Lear, responsible in part for his own difficulties. He rose.

‘I demand a response, Lieutenant-Colonel.’

‘Perhaps one of the members of the group decided unilaterally to put into operation the plan to destabilise the Empire by committing murder. By leaving the emblem, apart from making it clear that the Empire’s enemies are here in the heart of Paris, he hoped to draw the other conspirators into the plan whether they liked it or not. He was setting in train a process: the crime would force you to step up your efforts against the Swords of the King, which would alarm them and push them to commit increasingly violent acts.’

Joseph was delighted and the smile he gave Margont was supposed to be a reward.

‘That’s what we think too.’

‘Or else …’

The lieutenant-general raised his eyebrows. He had not anticipated an ‘or else’.

‘We also have to entertain the frightening possibility that our informant is the perpetrator,’ continued Margont. ‘The crime increases the value of what he has to sell. I’m sure you will have increased his pay after this.’

Talleyrand tapped his cane on the ground – his way of applauding. He began to speak and his voice was full of warmth, making Margont feel he was someone important.

‘Monsieur Lieutenant-Colonel Margont, do your utmost to arrest the murderer. Help Paris and defend your ideals!’

Talleyrand’s wily reputation was well merited. While Joseph persisted in believing that Margont would obey him simply because he was Joseph I, Talleyrand had immediately hit the nail on the head. His few words were like a finger pointing at the wound in Margont’s soul. The coming days would be crucial. If Napoleon were defeated, France would have to endure an occupation by the powers allied against it. And they all had either monarchs or emperors. The gains of the Revolution, the Republic and the Empire would all be crushed like cockroaches under the boots of the incoming monarchs.

‘There is a third possibility: that the perpetrator is someone close to the colonel,’ Margont stated, ‘and he’s trying to throw the investigators off the scent.’

Joseph shook his head. ‘Our informant was categorical: the Swords of the King have an obsessive fear of spies. They distrust everyone and everything. They protect their secrets. So only the members of their committee know what their emblem is – and Savary, the Minister of Civilian Police, and I. No, it’s clear that one or several of them were responsible for the crime.’

Margont was interested in the way that Joseph disposed the pieces on the chessboard – Napoleon, the Grande Armée much reduced yet still redoubtable, Louis XVIII, the royalists, the numerous pawns formed by the Allied armies, an assassinated colonel, one or more murderers, an untrustworthy spy, Paris … But where did he hope to place Margont?

‘It seems to me that the civilian police would be more than capable of conducting this inquiry,’ he commented circumspectly.

‘And they will do, Lieutenant-Colonel. Whilst you – you will become a member of the Swords of the King.’

‘What?’ yelled Margont. ‘You want me dead? I refuse to—’

‘You will refuse nothing! The decision is already taken.’

‘But I would never succeed! I could never pass myself off as an aristocrat, and as soon as I slipped up, I would be—’

‘On the contrary! You are precisely the man for this mission. You spent several years of your childhood in the Abbey of Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert, because your uncle, against your will, wanted you to become a monk. Draw on that experience! The same thing happened to many of the younger sons of the aristocracy, whose fathers wished to leave all their inheritance to their oldest sons. You read and write well, you know Latin … You are going to pass yourself off as Chevalier Quentin de Langès. The Langès family did actually exist – we haven’t chosen a name at random. They were part of the nobility of Languedoc and were all massacred during the Revolution. You can read their story in the documents we will furnish you with. So if the Swords of the King send someone to investigate your past, they will find evidence of the family: a name here or there, a castle burnt down with no remains … And by the time they’ve travelled the three hundred leagues there and back … You’re an officer, are you not? Tens of thousands of aristocrats who emigrated have come back to France to take advantage of the amnesties generously accorded by the Emperor. And a good many of them have chosen military careers. So you won’t have many lies to add to your own history to make yourself into a believable royalist, and the less you lie, the more credible you will be.’

‘I’ll be unmasked and you’ll find my body floating in the Seine. You already have an informer …’

‘We have no faith in Varencourt. We need someone loyal. The affair is of the utmost importance, we can’t leave it to a mercenary.’

‘When he’s lost all your money at the gaming tables, it’s my life he’ll gamble on! He’s already sold his friends; he’ll be able to redeem himself with them by denouncing me, then he’ll sell you the names of the men who have stabbed me to death!’

Joseph raised his voice, gesticulating and red in the face. He looked like a glass of red wine, shaken and spilt by an angry hand. ‘Be quiet! Those are my orders! Do you think anyone here gives a damn what you think? If you say any more I shall have you sent to be trampled by the Cossacks. Silence!’

There was a jumble of paper, books and other objects on the desk, and Joseph pushed it all towards Margont with both hands.

‘Here is everything you need: Chevalier Quentin de Langès’s biography, an up-to-date passport stating that you returned to France in 1802 to take advantage of the amnesty of 6 Floréal, year 10, a signet ring with the Langès coat of arms – don’t wear it, keep it at home – the key to your lodgings, a little money, fake letters from your former mistress, who lives in Scotland, some works describing Edinburgh, where you lived in destitution, which is what forced you to return, some details of the regiments you served in – the 18th and 84th, which you know well – a list of favourite royalist sayings, a summary of the information supplied to us by Varencourt … Learn it all by heart, then destroy anything that would give you away.’

‘Your Excellency, why don’t you use our own agents? They are accustomed to these kinds of exploits.’

‘It’s too risky. Paris has become the meeting point for plotters and traitors. I am under no illusions: because of our difficulties, there are imperial officials and soldiers and dignitaries willing to betray us. I am certain that the names of many of our agents have been divulged to our enemies. We need new blood!’

‘New blood that you are prepared to spill—’

‘That’s enough!’

Talleyrand, on the other hand, seemed to approve. He said jovially, ‘Good! Repartee! I advise you to behave like that with the Swords of the King. Be proud and arrogant. Adopt an aristocratic superciliousness and you will fit right in!’

‘Yes, that’s true …’ Joseph immediately agreed.

Margont tried to see how Talleyrand had pulled the puppet’s strings. Joseph continued as if nothing untoward had occurred. He was so accustomed to his own changes of tack that he no longer noticed them.

‘The civilian police will conduct the investigation. They must not know about you – there are leaks on their side as well. They will submit regular reports to me, which I will copy and pass to a trustworthy man whom you will choose to assist you. Whoever that is will read them and then burn them.’

‘Perhaps he should eat the ashes …’ joked Talleyrand.

‘Then he will relay to you the contents of the reports. I strongly advise you not to handle the reports yourself! Proceed as I have instructed. Your man should make himself known to my police by presenting himself at 9 Rue de la Fraternité, under the name of “Monsieur Gage”. He should ask to speak to Monsieur Natai, who will be the intermediary between you and me, and who will give copies of various documents to your man. You must never meet Monsieur Natai! Apart from that, you may act as you see fit. The only thing that matters is the result. Keep me informed by giving oral reports to your assistant, who should write them out and hand them to Monsieur Natai.’

Talleyrand put both hands on the pommel of his cane. He leant on it yet did not rise. His movements were like his words – it was hard to make out exactly what they meant.

‘Everyone in this inquiry must play their part: you will handle the royalists, the civilian police will handle other avenues and it will all be supervised by the personal police of His Majesty Joseph I. That sums up your first mission.’

‘Oh, so there’s a second one?’ Margont demanded crossly.

There was a noticeable heightening of tension. Joseph’s forehead creased in worry and the Prince de Bénévent tightened his grip on his cane. Both waited for the other to speak but, of course, it was Joseph who gave in first.

‘I referred just now to a bigger fish, Count Boris Kevlokine. He’s the Tsar’s main secret agent. For several months he has been hiding here in Paris and we absolutely must lay our hands on him.’

‘But no violence, no violence!’ intervened Talleyrand, emphasising each word by tapping his cane on the parquet.

‘That man is spying on us and assessing our forces. He’s trying to find out if the French people are ready to fight to the last man for the Emperor or if they would accept another government … He runs Russian agents, forges relationships with the royalists, tries to work out whether the return of a king to France would precipitate a second revolution, attempts to guess what the English, Prussian and Austrian spies milling about Paris are up to … He’s capable, has access to unlimited funds and knows Paris inside out. The Tsar depends on him to help him formulate his policy towards us. And Count Kevlokine thinks that all-out war against us runs the risk of provoking a national uprising. So he’s in favour of a compromise. He’s a moderate!’

Joseph clasped his hands together as if he were imploring God to come to his aid.

‘Do you understand what is at stake, Lieutenant-Colonel? Our hope of victory lies in the dissolution of the coalition! The Saxons, Bavarians and Wurtembergers fear the dominating aspirations of the Prussians. The Prussians hate the Austrians because they also want to control the Germanic people, by reviving the Holy Roman Empire, but under their leadership. The Austrians hate the Russians, whose power rivals theirs. The Russians are in dispute with the Swedes over control of Finland. The Spanish rival the Portuguese, particularly in South America. And most of these countries distrust the English. They have almost all fought against each other over something and they can’t agree on anything because of their opposing interests. Hatred for the Emperor and for republican ideals is the only thing holding their ludicrous alliance together. Each camp has its own ideas about the future of France. The Russians want to defeat Emperor Napoleon I but don’t know what regime to replace him with; the royalist émigrés will only countenance Louis XVIII; the English also favour the Bourbons; Crown Prince Bernadotte of Sweden agrees that the monarchy should be restored but believes he should be crowned King of France; Austria would like a regency until the Aiglon is old enough to become Napoleon II, but of course it wants the regency to be controlled by Empress Marie-Louise because our emperor’s wife is also their emperor’s daughter; other camps want there to be a regency but on no account do they want it to be controlled by Marie-Louise …’

Joseph paused. He was trying to gather his thoughts, which Talleyrand did for him.

‘At the moment the Tsar is our most implacable enemy and we haven’t been able to win him over. His only thought is to seek revenge for Austerlitz, for the Battle of Borodino, for the loss of Moscow … Unfortunately, each time negotiations start – which they do continually – our envoy, General Caulaincourt, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, is received by all the Allies at the same time. Of course the Allies want to prevent us from profiting from their lack of unity. So it’s impossible to meet just the Russians, or just the Austrians. What we need is the ear of the Tsar in private! Once we have that, we know exactly what to say: if the Emperor retains his throne, France will remain a strong country and that will diminish the margin for manoeuvre of Austria, Prussia and England – to the great benefit of Russia! We think this Count Kevlokine has the Tsar’s ear. If we arrest him, we can persuade him of the advantages of our approach; then we will free him and he will plead our cause with the Tsar, who will listen carefully because they have been friends since childhood and he holds the count in high esteem. And once Alexander stops thinking obsessively about revenge and starts to consider Russia’s long-term interests instead, then we’re in business – anything is possible! Since the Emperor’s recent victories the negotiations have gained some momentum. England, Austria and Prussia are now willing to consider the possibility that the Emperor will keep his throne, but with France reduced to its 1789 frontiers. We have to seize the moment. The Tsar is now the only one of our enemies who persists in resisting that solution. If we succeed in changing his mind, we will be able to achieve peace through diplomacy.’

Russia, Austria, Sweden, England, Prussia … Margont was not accustomed to thinking on such a grand scale. He considered the world in terms of individuals. But he was aware of Talleyrand’s reputation and knew that he was an extremely skilled negotiator who really might be able to persuade the Tsar. He was one of the very few people left who could help Napoleon avoid disaster and prevent France from being invaded.

Joseph spoke again, irritated to hear Talleyrand expressing himself clearly and convincingly whilst he himself had rambled and hesitated. It often happened that they would be walking side by side through the labyrinth of the politico-military situation. Then the Prince de Bénévent would let Joseph hurry down a cul-de-sac or fling himself against a closed door before saying mellifluously, ‘Let’s try this direction …’ And they would be on their way again. Nevertheless, if his path was leading somewhere, only he knew exactly where.

‘Our best investigators are on Kevlokine’s trail: policemen, spies, traitors of every hue, diplomats who’ve rubbed elbows with him … All the royalist groups in the capital are trying to make contact with him, seeking financial backing, information or goodness knows what. They also want to convince him to persuade the Tsar of the benefits of a restoration. And Kevlokine, for his part, is keen to meet the leaders of these groups, to help them stir up trouble and to evaluate whether Louis XVIII would be prepared to support the Tsar if he were crowned king. If the Swords of the King do succeed in getting in contact with him, you must tell us immediately! Your priority must be to learn as much as possible about Kevlokine to help us to arrest him.’

‘I thought my priority was to investigate Colonel Berle’s murder?’ Margont fumed.

Joseph closed his eyes briefly. He was truly becoming irritated by this man’s refusal to lie down like a doormat in front of him. He would have liked to choose someone else of the ‘Yes, Your Majesty’ variety. But there wasn’t such a person – all he had was Margont.

‘Lieutenant-Colonel, you will have to manage both tasks at the same time! All our bloodhounds are looking for Kevlokine, whilst you will concentrate on your inquiry. However, if you come across the Tsar’s agent, you must not let him get away! Monsieur le Prince de Bénévent …’

Talleyrand nodded. ‘I’ve already met Kevlokine during the period when I was Minister for External Relations and when we were on better terms with the Russians … He’s forty-five, very stout, with a fleshy face and red lips. His hair is silver and he has pale blue eyes with perpetual circles under them. He’s usually pale in contrast to his rosy cheeks – a sign of his fondness for drink – he gesticulates when he speaks … He knows how to make himself charming. He speaks with a slight accent, which is particularly noticeable when he rolls his “r”s. He’s a brilliant mind. All that should be enough for you to recognise him should you happen to cross his path. Monsieur de Varencourt has never mentioned the name Kevlokine and you mustn’t ask him about him. We don’t want to run the risk of drawing his attention to Count Kevlokine. Where Monsieur de Varencourt is concerned, we prefer to let him come to us rather than to reveal our exact intentions by asking blundering questions.’

The interview was drawing to its close. Joseph told himself that Margont had had enough stick and now it was time to throw him a carrot.

‘What reward will you ask us for when you have successfully fulfilled your mission?’

Margont was surprised by the question but immediately rose to the occasion.

‘I would like permission to launch a newspaper, Your Excellency.’

A rebellion! Joseph looked like a parish priest whose penitent had just invoked the devil right there in the church.

Even Talleyrand could not hide his astonishment, but he recovered himself and said, ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer money, like everyone else? So much less dangerous …’

‘No, permit me to insist. I would like to become a journalist. I have always loved words, ideas, debate, art and culture … The—’

Joseph cut him off. ‘It’s impossible!’

The Prince de Bénévent added: ‘The best newspapers are those with blank pages. That way they don’t hurt anyone. Must I remind you of the principles of journalism under the Empire? The Emperor says something, that something becomes fact, and the journalists report it. Now you clearly lack the ability to repeat things like an echo, whilst passing them off as your own thoughts …’

Joseph returned to safe territory. ‘You will receive five thousand francs! Double, if you enable us to lay our hands on Count Kevlokine.’

‘That will allow you to finance your newspaper, Lieutenant-Colonel. In Louisiana or Siam … Freedom of expression is a beautiful thing as long as you express what you are told to, or you do it a long way away.’

They were haggling over his reward. Undoubtedly these people spoke a different language from Margont. Joseph took a sheet of paper from his drawer and signed it. He applied his seal and held it out to Margont.

‘When one acts a part it is important to be able to prove who one really is …’

The letter confirmed Margont’s real identity, his rank and the fact that Joseph had given him a confidential mission.

‘Lieutenant-Colonel, this document may save your life, or it may get you killed. It’s up to you to hide it and to make good use of it. Now you must hurry. I have arranged it so that the civilian police will not be notified until midday. You will just have time to return to your barracks, change into civilian clothes and then go to 10 Rue de Provence – not far from the Madeleine Church – to see the victim’s home with your own eyes.’

‘Colonel Berle is expecting you …’ added Talleyrand without any hint of irony.

‘Go to the back door, the servants’ entrance,’ Joseph went on. ‘One of the servants, Mejun, will let you in. He’s waiting for you. You’ll recognise him by his limp. Don’t speak to anyone but him. And don’t give anything away to the other servants!’

‘I’ll do my best, Your Excellency. But if the murderer was so well informed it must be because he had spoken to the servants …’

‘But not Mejun, who has been in the colonel’s service for twenty years, first as a soldier, then as his valet. I order you to remove the emblem of the Swords of the King and give it to Mejun. Agents from my personal police force will then collect it from him. And they will be responsible for seeing if it can give us any clues.’

‘With all due respect, Your Excellency, I would prefer to keep—’

‘The only thing you should prefer is to obey me! My police will deal with the emblem. They are accustomed to that sort of task. If they discover anything at all about it you will be informed via the intermediary you choose to help you in your investigation. The less you are in possession of anything that could compromise you, the safer you will be.’

He paused to enjoy the sight of Margont biting his tongue to stop himself from voicing another objection, then went on: ‘That symbol must remain secret. If it was one of the murderer’s aims to make sure that the civilian police discovered the emblem, then we must ensure that we don’t give him what he wants. Your next task will be to go and meet Charles de Varencourt at the Chez Camille café at Palais-Royal, arcade 54, this evening at nine o’clock. He will be the one to recognise you – we told him you had a scar on your left cheek, as mentioned in your file. We also told him you would be reading Le Moniteur and Le Journal de Paris both at the same time. He will give you various pieces of information and you will organise with him how you are to be admitted to the Swords of the King.’

‘Good luck, Lieutenant-Colonel Margont …’ said Talleyrand, concluding the audience.

His words had the ring of an epitaph.

CHAPTER 3

ON the streets of Paris people expressed all sorts of different views. Some were so confident of Napoleon’s military genius that they were going about their business without a care in the world, amused that others were worried. These people reacted to the rumours with cheerful optimism. The Prussians were on the way? Let them come! The two victories of 14 October 1806, the Emperor’s at Jena, and Davout’s at Auerstadt, had consigned the sparkling Prussian army to oblivion. Napoleon would be able to annihilate them in a few hours, with the ease of a magician performing a practised trick. The English? Far too few of them! And they were only interested in their own survival. At the first defeat they would leave their Spanish and Portuguese allies to be killed, and run off to their ships bound for the Indies, Canada or Africa! And the Austrians? Name one battle won by the Austrians against us these last fifteen years! What about the Russians? Well, it was true that the Russians were … tougher. Invincible in Russia with their partisans and Cossacks behind them. But in battle formation faced with the Grande Armée – that was different! They had been beaten at Austerlitz, Eylau, Friedland and in Moscow. As for the Swedish, well they were just quasi-Russians.

These facile words did not reassure the floods of refugees pouring into Paris from the north-east.

The streets were often clogged with long columns of prisoners. Parisians crowded round to reassure themselves. And they found that the Cossacks on foot, the limping dragoons, the starving Austrians and the Prussians in their tattered uniforms were indeed less frightening than had been imagined. The people offering the prisoners hunks of bread had to withdraw their hands quickly for fear of losing a finger, such was the avidity with which the soldiers fell on the food.

Margont found it difficult to get through the streets. Because he was an officer he was hailed on all sides, or grabbed by the arm. ‘Where is the Emperor?’ ‘Is it true that General Yorck’s Prussians have devastated Château-Thierry?’ ‘What’s the news? Tell us the news!’ ‘Where are your soldiers?’ ‘How many Austrians are left after all their losses in the last few weeks?’ ‘It’s old Blücher we have to kill, he’s the most dangerous, we can manage all the others! …’ Margont did not reply. He would not even have stopped had the crowd not pressed suffocatingly around him. These people wanted him to appease their fears, but frankly he had his own to deal with. When he considered the situation, he imagined the Empire as a giant ship taking on water and listing increasingly to one side.

He finally reached his barracks in the Palais-Royal quarter. The sentry on duty tried to present arms, but his rifle escaped his grasp and landed in the mud. A soldier only since yesterday – he’ll be dead tomorrow, thought Margont bitterly.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he called. ‘The important thing is to learn to fire it properly.’

The National Guard had inherited the old principles of the militia – they had to admit as many civilians as possible to their ranks and they were to help the regular army to defend the country if it was invaded.

In the courtyard, it was bedlam. Piquebois – who had just been made captain – was surrounded by his men and was being harangued by an officer of the Polish Krakus. The officer had been fired on by a soldier of the National Guard, who had taken him for a Russian and panicked. Since the Russian campaign, all the powers had taken it into their heads to have their own Cossacks. The King of Prussia now had a squadron of guard Cossacks. And Napoleon wanted to ‘cossackise’ French farmers by transforming them into impromptu troops operating on the edges of the enemy forces. He also had his Polish Krakus. They resembled their eponymous Russian counterparts, except for their headgear, which was a traditional, scarlet domed hat. Unfortunately, this detail was not sufficient to distinguish them from the Cossacks … Margont hastily saluted his friend, who was offering profuse apologies to the Polish officer.

Sergeants shouted commands at the disorderly line of soldiers of the National Guard, in their navy jackets and bicornes with the red, white and blue cockade. Men in civilian dress and clogs were also in the line, men who the day before had been labourers, millers, cobblers, carpenters, wig-makers, coppersmiths, shopkeepers, students, boatmen. The seasoned fighters were somewhere near Reims with the Emperor. All that were left in Paris were thousands of militia, the wounded, soldiers taken on the day before, conscripts who were too young, veterans who were too old but had been pressed back into service, and a few officers to try to whip that rabble into some semblance of an army. Plus the soldiers who were being punished by being transferred here … At that thought, Margont ground his teeth.

Since 1798, he had served in the regular army. And now, instead of being with the Grande Armée helping to stave off the abominations of an invasion, he was here! Thanks to his friend Saber and his damnable talent for strategy! Saber had been a lieutenant at the beginning of the Russian campaign and now he was a colonel! Such a promotion, obtained in a very short time, solely on the basis of merit, was not just rare but unheard of. He had been a captain at the start of the German campaign of 1813, during which he had distinguished himself several times. Then he had been a major at the Battle of Dresden and had participated in Marshal Victor’s II Corps attack on the Austrian left flank, leading his battalion into a mad charge, holding back hordes of chasseurs deployed as skirmishers, overcoming and routing a series of Austrian units one by one and then pursuing the fleeing troops so that they crashed into the advancing enemy lines, throwing them into disarray. The enemy positions yielded one after another, collapsing like a line of dominoes. At one point Saber found himself at the head of the entire II Army Corps, which had earned him the nickname ‘Spearhead’. In January 1814 the miracle he had been waiting for had finally materialised: he was promoted to colonel and had obtained permission from his previous colonel to transfer his friends, if they agreed, to the regiment he was to command. So he had taken Margont, Piquebois and Lefine with him.

Since then, however, he had become puffed up with monstrous pride. He had hardly arrived before he was bombarding his brigade general with advice. He wanted to reorganise everything, to promote some and demote others. The regimental regulations were unsatisfactory because of this, the cavalry were not up to standard because of that, they were not following the right routes, they were not aggressive enough, not warlike enough with the enemy, the food provisions were not worthy of the French army … Realising that the general paid no attention to his advice, he declared him ‘an arrant incompetent and an imbecile’ and addressed himself instead to the general of the division, Duhesme. The latter found himself with a choice: if he kept Saber, all the other colonels and generals would ask to be transferred! It was him or the others …

Duhesme got rid of Saber – or rather persuaded him to leave – by dispatching him to the National Guard of Paris, under the pretext that he was very good at training men. Marshal Moncey, who was second in command of the National Guard and was constantly begging for experienced officers to drill his multitude of militiamen, greeted him with open arms. So, in the end, Saber commanded his regiment for only thirty-five days. General Duhesme sent all Saber’s friends with him.

Margont wanted to cut quickly through the disorganised crowd, but his appearance caused a stir and soon he was surrounded. News! Everyone wanted news; he just wanted some breathing space.

‘I don’t have any information!’ he declared.

The guardsmen persisted. Yes, yes, of course he had information, he was a … Actually, what was he? He had two colonel’s epaulettes, but bizarrely the silver braid was mixed with gold. His shako was also weird – there were two stripes at the top, one wide gold one and then one thin silver one. And his plume? In the infantry of the line, a colonel’s plume was white, and a major’s red. Margont’s was half red, half white. He must be a ‘half-colonel’ or a ‘major major’.

‘Make way for the lieutenant-colonel!’ boomed a captain.

Lieutenant-colonel? What was that then? Where did that fit in?

Margont beckoned over Lefine, who was explaining to the new recruits how to operate the 1777 model of rifle, modified in the year 9, and led him off to see Saber. The National Guard gloomily watched them go. Where was the Emperor? Were they winning the war or were they about to lose?

Colonel Saber was buried in his office. It looked like a library where a bomb had gone off. He was scribbling a letter whilst at the same time dictating two others to his adjutants. Although he was still friends with Margont, Lefine and Piquebois, his attitude towards them had altered since his dazzling promotion. He was so busy criticising those more highly ranked than he that he scarcely had time to look downwards. It was said that Marshal Moncey had almost choked on his coffee when he read the first missive Saber had penned to him. Fortunately for Saber, there was no one available to replace him. At that very moment Saber was writing a tenth letter to the marshal. Margont could not make out the subject but the handwriting spoke for itself: words running into each other through haste, paper tortured by the over-heavy pressure of the pen, a long list of indentations …

Saber thrust the paper at one of his officers.

‘Add the usual greetings!’

He wouldn’t do it himself because he was so furious with the marshal for not following any of his suggestions for the defence of Paris. Lieutenant Dejal conscientiously tried to imitate Saber’s writing. He murmured, ‘I remain your most trusted and humble servant …’ Saber yanked the paper from Dejal’s hand: his pen involuntarily traced a slanting line and, as if in rage, spat out a blob of black ink onto the light-coloured wood of the desk.

‘Have you lost your mind? Are you also going to add that I will come and polish his boots? Make the formula less obsequious! Rewrite the whole letter! Something like “Yours faithfully” – since I am obliged to be loyal. But dress it up a bit; he’s so sensitive!’

He pretended to go back to dictating to his other factotum, before finally glancing at Margont and Lefine, who were waiting patiently to attention.

‘At ease. What’s the bad news?’

Margont managed to get the two adjutant officers to leave. Then he explained, without going into detail, that he had been given a confidential mission and that he would like to use Lefine to help him. Saber was dismayed by Joseph’s letter. He wondered why the commander of the army and of the National Guard of Paris had not included him in the secret. How did that august leader hope to succeed in anything important to do with Paris without the help of Colonel Saber? He concluded that Joseph was an incompetent, exactly like Moncey, General Duhesme and all the others, and he felt more alone than ever.

‘Very well. I shall obey orders. Since Joseph is for once taking some decisive action, I shall not stand in his way! Lieutenant-Colonel Margont, Captain Piquebois will replace you in your duties. I will notify him. You may take Sergeant Lefine with you. I hope your mission will be speedily completed. You may go now.’

He then called back his adjutant officers. Margont and Lefine were about to depart when Saber said, ‘A secret mission … I don’t like the sound of that. Look after yourselves.’

For a brief moment it was as if the old Saber had reappeared. Margont and Lefine went off as Saber’s voice rang out, seeming to pursue them down the corridor.