Текст книги "Memory of Flames"

Автор книги: Armand Cabasson

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He spotted Saber addressing his soldiers. There were Lefine and Piquebois too. He hurried towards his friend. ‘We’ll have to fall back ... But where to?’ he demanded.

Saber looked at him, not seeming to recognise him, and retorted: ‘I will never give up! If there’s only one man left standing it will be me! I will be the last Parisian!’

He brandished his sabre in the direction of Paris.

‘Counterattack with bayonets!’

‘You’re mad, Irenee! We’re surrounded! We’ve lost! Look around you! There is no one left, everyone is dead!’

‘The dead are coming with me!’ he yelled.

And he dashed forward, straight at the Russians, who were cutting off their escape route. He ran down the slope towards Paris, followed by about forty defenders, charging with their bayonets at the ready. Piquebois was amongst them, brandishing his sabre that seemed to promise death to anyone who tried to stand in his way. ‘Counterattack!’ yelled Margont in his turn, throwing himself into the turmoil, followed by Lefine. It was impossible to stay still; either they had to move up the hill or go down and Margont had just had a kind of premonition. Up there at the foot of one of the Montmartre windmills – maybe even at the same spot where he had lain daydreaming the other day – his tomb awaited him. He preferred to throw himself into the jaws of death rather than to wait for it to catch him.

The rank and file had no idea what to do in the midst of the collapse. Whenever they saw a colonel, a lieutenant-colonel, a captain or other foot soldiers attacking the Russians they imitated them, hoping that those officers would guide them to their salvation.

Up until that point, the Russians had been the assailants, and they were very surprised to see the French charging desperately down the slope straight at them and slicing down anyone in their path. The Russians behind those felled in this way were flung backwards. They retreated, not because they wanted to, but because they were being shoved back by this group of mad Frenchmen, who were swept along on a wave of incredible determination. They were slipping and losing their footing, stumbling and rolling over, but nevertheless these men knocked into the enemy, destabilising them in their turn. The slope was so steep it was very difficult to stay upright. This was not so much a counterattack as the frenetic

flinging of a pack of French dogs into a Russian game of skittles. The French, encouraged by the miraculous success of their efforts, rampaged through the Russians, pressing them ever further back. The French combatants were mad with fury. They felt invincible, immortal. Although they were being cut down by bullets and bayonet thrusts, they succeeded in crossing through the enemy lines, which immediately closed up behind them.

Margont, Piquebois and Lefine were among those who escaped and made for Paris. At the very top of the hill, meanwhile, the Russians were massacring the last remaining gunners. Margont was crying: Saber was not with them.

One of Marmont’s aides-de-camp had tried to reach the summit ofMontmartre to find out if Joseph had left someone in command of its defence.

Fie was unable to fulfil his mission because Langeron had launched his attack. But he was there during the last few minutes of the resistance of Montmartre and Saber’s charge. He returned to present his report to Marshal Marmont.

‘That’s extraordinary!’ Marmont exclaimed. 'King Joseph is supposed to be in command of us all, but he’s left! And it’s a colonel who’s distinguishing himself instead! What’s the name of this colonel?’

‘He’s Colonel Saber of the 2nd Legion, Your Excellency.’

‘I want the Emperor notified that I would respectfully ask that this colonel be promoted to the rank of general. He has succeeded in causing the accursed Langeron a lot of trouble with the help of only a handful of men!’

‘But ... Your Excellency ... the colonel is dead. I saw him fall with my own eyes.’

The marshal’s face hardened. ‘That changes nothing. He is to be made a general posthumously.’

The regiments of the Army of Silesia, the Russian Guard and the

Prussian Guard finally managed to seize the heights of Chaumont. There were so many Prussians there that all along the slopes and heights their blue forms could be seen like so many ants. It was like a flood submerging the grassy heights, about to spill over and engulf the capital below.

These troops overwhelmed Marshal Marmont’s men from the rear, forcing them to withdraw to Belleville, and then hurried to set up their batteries of cannons and twelve-pounders. When they opened fire their shots battered the city of Paris itself.

The room was tiny, perched right at the top of an old house. Its walls and beams were covered with dozens of paintings, shunted together, their frames touching. There were depictions of naval battles with ships on fire sinking into the waves, the Great Fire of London in 1666, a forest fire, setting suns that seemed to set the sky ablaze ... It was a display of scarlets, oranges, vibrant yellows and other fiery hues, amidst expanses of sooty black, making it seem as if the room were permanently on fire.

Varencourt was standing facing the only window, watching the distant battle and counting the plumes of smoke. He distinctly saw black shapes crossing the sky and falling on the houses. In most cases, he didn’t witness any impact but from time to time a projectile struck the roof of a building at full tilt, spraying up debris, or clipped a corner, sending a wall crashing down, releasing clouds of dust. As he watched, a house burst apart, and another shell knocked a roof into the air. The detonations merged into one another, eventually making one continuous crackling. Now buildings were falling on all sides. A plume of black smoke over there -the first fire! Then somewhere else a building collapsed, burying an entire street. Debris showered over north-west Paris and the columns of smoke accumulated. Varencourt took a flask of vodka that he had bought in the ruins of Moscow after the French had left. He had never tasted it, keeping it instead for this very occasion. He poured himself a glass and drank a toast to the cannonballs destroying Paris. As the spirit slipped down his throat he felt as if he were swallowing the fire of Moscow.

Napoleon was still advancing. He was accompanied now only by those closest to him and about a hundred cavalry. All he wanted now was to reach Paris and take command of the defence of the city.

In the end the entire French front simply folded under the weight of the enemy. The heights were lost and the exterior defences overwhelmed, and still there was no sign of the Emperor. At four o’clock Marshal Marmont, who was wounded in the arm and had narrowly avoided capture, sent three officers to the enemy vanguards to ask for a suspension of hostilities.

The Allies had lost nine thousand men, either injured or killed, and the French, four thousand.

The silence was eerie. The soldiers’ ears still rang with the cacophony of combat, as if they could not believe that calm had returned. The silence spoke to Catherine de Saltonges, huddled in a torpor in the corner of her cell. It was murmuring something to her: the Allies had won. But she herself had lost everything. Almost everything. She still had her pride! In spite of the torment her ex-husband had put her through, in spite of the hardships of the Revolution, of her inability to keep her lover in her arms, the loss of her child, yes, in spite of all that, nothing would ever succeed in breaking her spirit.

She stood up, walked over to the door and began to beat on it with the flat of her hand and called out to her gaolers, This is it, Messieurs. It’s time for us to change places.’

CHAPTER 44

AFTER several hours of negotiation, the capitulation of Paris was signed.

The regular troops of the French army had been authorised to withdraw and they were to leave Paris by seven o’clock the next morning. The National Guard, on the other hand, was pronounced to be ‘in a totally different category from the troops of the line’. The text of the capitulation specified that ‘... it would be maintained, disarmed or discharged, according to the will of the Allies’. These orders circulated and Margont was alarmed when they reached him. Paris was going to be occupied and he was specifically forbidden to go with the retreating army. He was to wait for the Allies in the capital and report to them. He was worried that he would be thrown in gaol. On the other hand, if he disobeyed orders and followed the French army, he would be arrested anyway. ‘We’ll just have to discharge ourselves! I’d rather remove myself than wait to be forcibly removed by others,’ declared Lefine.

He took Margont and Piquebois round to his lady-friend’s house. It was dark. A woman opened the door. Margont was so exhausted and demoralised that he felt completely drained. The only things he took in about the woman were her striking face and the fact that her eyes were red from weeping. She burst into tears as she took Lefine in her arms. Margont stretched himself out on the floor and fell asleep instantly.

On the morning of 31 March, Margont, Lefine and Piquebois took the time to wash thoroughly to remove all traces of the gunpowder they were covered in. Lefine’s friend was a widow. They borrowed her husband’s clothes in order to pass themselves off as civilians. ‘We have to find Varencourt,’ Margont stated. ‘I’m sure he’s still in Paris.’

Lefine knew Margont much too well to be surprised by his proposal. He knew that his friend needed this investigation. But he was torn between his desire to help Margont and his desire to stay and protect his lady-friend, in case any enemy mercenaries should

show up. They finally agreed that Piquebois would stay with her and they would barricade themselves in. Piquebois was a formidable swordsman and woe betide anyone who provoked him to unleash his sabre!

Margont and Lefine left. They had stuffed their uniforms into two bags, which they abandoned a few streets away in the heart of the Marais, in a dark corner. They were unarmed, having given their weapons the day before to the retreating regular army. Piquebois, however, had kept his sabre, which he refused to be parted from, and a pistol.

Margont tried to work out what he would do if he were Varencourt. Would he wait in Paris? Would he try to profit from the general chaos to get close to Napoleon? Where would Napoleon be, and had he been warned about the proposed attempt on his life?

He followed Lefine without noticing where they were going. Other people seemed to be going in the same direction. They reached the Champs-Elysees and found it lined with an astonishing number of Parisians. Some were wearing white cockades or armbands;

others were simply waving white handkerchiefs and shouting, ‘Long live Louis XVI11!’ So this was the grand procession of the Allies. At the head came the Cossacks of the Guard, in scarlet. Next the Tsar, Generalissimo. Schwarzenberg, the King of Prussia and the Prince of Wurtemberg, all accompanied by their sumptously attired general staff. Two regiments of Austrian grenadiers followed them, all dressed in white and wearing bearskins, then Russian grenadiers with shakos topped by long black plumes, and thousands of soldiers of the Prussian Guard and the Russian Guard. Then there was a mass of Russian curassiers, and more and more and more of them. The Chevalier Guard brought up the rear in their white uniforms and black cuirasses. It was these elite cavalrymen who had wounded Piquebois at the Battle of Austerlitz. Lucky that he wasn’t here, because the sight of them always reduced him to wild rage.

Margont still couldn’t take in what he was seeing. He kept looking from the part-built Arc de Triomphe to the streams of Allied soldiers marching rhythmically past, and back again to the

monument.

Lefine muttered to himself, ‘So it really is all over...’

The Allies were each wearing a white armband or a white scarf, and the Parisians thought they were demonstrating their support for Louis XVIII. In reality, however, the white was merely meant to distinguish them from French soldiers, since the diversity of uniforms on both sides made it hard to distinguish one side from the other.

Margont tried to think about something else. In fact he had something else very important to consider. The Roman lady in the mosaic came back to him. He decided to go through all the clues he had, but starting with the two that did not fit his original hypothesis, namely that Count Kevlokine’s face had not been burnt, and that the murderer had left the emblem of the Swords of the King on his corpse.

The crowd was yelling, ‘Long live Louis XVI11! Long live the Bourbons!’ and some were even falling in behind the Allied procession in the footsteps of the last Chevalier Guards. But Margont neither saw nor heard them.

Varencourt had not been able to resist burning the second victim. But he had spared his victim’s face, contenting himself with burning his arms. What would have happened if he had mutilated his face in the same way as Colonel Berle’s? Count Kevlokine would not have been identified. Nevertheless, Joseph would probably still have sent Margont to the scene of the crime, because of the Swords of the King symbol. So the two elements came together to give the same result: that Margont would investigate the murder. Margont knew that Varencourt wanted to use Margont’s identity but why did he need to become ‘the man investigating Count Kevlokine’s murder’?

Margont finally worked it out. Yes, this time his hypothesis incorporated those two discordant elements that had previously made no sense. But now the pattern the clues made was not the same. Only a few tesserae had changed places but it was no longer Napoleon’s face that the mosaic spelt out. Margont grabbed Le-fine’s arm.

‘Varencourt is going to kill the Tsar. He led the Swords of the King to believe that his plan was to poison Napoleon, because he needed their help. But actually he manipulated them just like he manipulated me. He murdered Count Kevlokine in order to get near Alexander!’

‘But—’

The Tsar knew Count Kevlokine. He will want to know who killed and mutilated his friend so he would probably agree to see anyone who had information about the killing. If Alexander were to be killed by a “French officer”, “Lieutenant-Colonel Margont”, carrying an instruction from Joseph Bonaparte, the Russian soldiers would think that the Tsar had been executed on Napoleon’s orders. They would immediately vent their rage on Paris! They would put everything to fire and the sword! And that’s exactly what Charles de Varencourt wants. He wants the Emperor wandering through a Paris reduced to cinders, amidst the rubble of the monuments he’s had erected, and the incinerated remains of the people he loves. That’s what Varencourt’s vengeance is really about. He’d like Napoleon to go through exactly what he himself went through – an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Paris for Moscow.’

Lefine tried to find an objection, but Margont added: The Tsar would be dead and Paris razed to the ground, because the Russians would burn everything. That would be vengeance indeed against the two people responsible for the burning of Moscow. Because even if that’s not what Alexander wanted, he was the one who set in train the events that led to that catastrophe. Everything began in Moscow, everything was to finish in Paris. Ever since the disaster of the retreat from Moscow, Charles de Varencourt guessed that, sooner or later, the Empire would collapse. So he came here and worked out his plan while little by little the Tsar and the other crowned heads of Europe closed in on France, dreaming of their triumphal entry into Paris, just as we have paraded through Vienna, Berlin, Madrid, Moscow ... He progressively adapted his plan to events and opportunities ... Since his life had been destroyed he was obsessed with fire. Fire and gambling.

Gambling was the only thing that could distract him from fire. Thanks to gambling he was able to experience vivid emotions, he told me as much. Gambling temporarily filled the void in his life and kept fire at bay for a few hours ... Only Catherine de Saltonges might have been able to prevent all this. With her Varencourt almost succeeded in rebuilding his life one more time. One day she found the damaged button and eventually he told her the whole story. But unfortunately she did not succeed in laying the ghost of her lover’s past.’

Lefine was speechless.

‘Where is the Tsar?’ Margont asked him.

‘Well, he passed in front of us more than three hours ago ...’

‘If I’m right, Charles de Varencourt will try to put his plan into action now. It’s exactly the right moment. All the Allies will still be reeling from yesterday’s fighting ... We have to warn the Tsar!’

CHAPTER 45

VARENCOURT left his cramped living quarters. He had expected the streets to be empty but, on the contary, there were masses of people around. The Parisians wanted to see the Allied soldiers up close. People looked at him in alarm and civilians gave him a wide berth as though his face were ravaged by leprosy. It was because he was wearing the uniform of a lieutenant-colonel in the National Guard and that made him a target. He had obtained the uniform by brazenly bursting into a military outfitter’s and showing them the letter from Joseph. He had received what he needed in less than two hours.

He walked with the calm assurance of someone who has nothing left to lose since he would be dead in a short while. He was putting into action the last stage of the plan he had been hatching for months; he was showing his final hand.

He could hear the marching of many boots, and the pounding of hoofs. Obviously a large troop. The Allies were deploying all over Paris.

Varencourt drew attention to himself, raising his arms high, with Joseph’s letter in one hand and, in the other, a piece of white material. He was unarmed. In the avenue an impeccable column of Prussian and Russian infantry filed past, and also passing at that moment were some Russian riflemen in their black gaiters, dark-green coats and breeches and black-plumed shakos. The demonstration by the ‘French officer’ caused incredible confusion. Some of the infantry turned their heads but continued to march, as if they could not believe what they were seeing; others broke ranks to encircle Charles de Varencourt, their weapons trained on him; two captains came over with sabres drawn; their riflemen fanned out into the streets, causing passing Parisians to scatter like pigeons taking flight.

‘I’m a messenger! I’m unarmed!’ Varencourt explained composedly in Russian.

Had anyone fired, Varencourt would have been killed instantly. But he wasn’t worried about that. He was already a dead man – he had nothing to fear from death. Quite the reverse, deep inside he was jubilant, like a mathematician who is finally able to test the equation he has spent months formulating.

But no shot rang out. After all, the Frenchman was brandishing a white flag and did not appear hostile. Besides, he was obviously a high-ranking officer and anyone who shot him would have to answer to his superiors. And he spoke Russian – like a native!

A major from the infantry came to plant his standard in front of Varencourt, who said, still in Russian: ‘I am Lieutenant-Colonel Margont. The King of Spain, Joseph I, brother of our Emperor Napoleon I, has charged me with a mission. I must see the Tsar immediately.’

He held out the letter. The major nodded towards a captain, who rode over, plucked the document from Varencourt’s hands and proceeded to read it and then translate it for his superior.

‘You speak good Russian,’ remarked the captain.

‘I was part of the Russian campaign. I took advantage of that to learn the rudiments of your language.’

Those words alone, ‘the Russian campaign’, were enough to infuriate the Russians. And that was what Varencourt was aiming at. These soldiers did not know it, but they were the first little blades of grass that he was setting light to. It was too early for the blaze to take hold, but soon, very soon ...

‘Why do you want to see the Tsar?’ demanded the captain.

‘My mission is absolutely confidential. Joseph’s orders are for me to explain it to the Tsar in person.’

A colonel came over with his regimental chief of staff. What was all this? His entire column was being held up by a single Frenchman? He began to berate the major; the captain was still interrogating Varencourt whilst trying to answer the colonel’s questions ... The more the Russians tried to show that they were in control of the situation, the more obvious it became that they didn’t know what to do.

‘It doesn’t say anywhere in this letter from Joseph that you are to speak to the Tsar,’ objected the captain.

‘Of course not! How could it?’

The Russian officers frowned. Varencourt was giving them mixed messages and they were not sure if they should take him seriously. Since the Frenchman spoke Russian, the colonel addressed him directly.

‘Does your message come from Joseph Bonaparte or from Napoleon himself?’

Varencourt was overjoyed, but he did not let it show. Had they not asked him that question he would somehow have had to lead them to ask it.

‘My message comes from our Emperor who passed it on to Joseph, who in turn charged me with communicating it to the Tsar. But I can’t say any more! All that you need to know is that I am acting on the orders of Napoleon l! You can search me to make sure I am unarmed, then take me to the Tsar. I am acting on the written orders of someone who is much more senior than you are. None of you has the necessary authority to prevent me from speaking to His Imperial Majesty Alexander I. Only the Tsar can decide if he will refuse to see me.’

The few months he had served in the Russian army before deserting had educated him in how rigidly Russian soldiers interpreted matters of hierarchy. The colonel nodded and the infantry major gave the order for him.

‘Search him!’

Two riflemen did so, then a captain searched him again very carefully. Finally the colonel spoke quite slowly in Russian.

‘I’m giving you one last chance. If you admit that you have fooled us, I give you my word as an officer that I will let you go free. On condition that you return to wherever you sprang from.’

‘I am on a mission at the order of the Emperor and the King of Spain. I must speak to the Tsar.’

The colonel gave instructions to the major, who led a group of about fifty riflemen to escort Varencourt to Alexander I.

Margont was interrogating the passers-by. ‘Do you know where the Tsar is?’

People laughed at him or insulted him – no one knew anything.

He hesitated to ask the Allied soldiers, for fear of arousing their suspicions. For want of a better idea, he headed towards the Tuileries Palace. In Moscow, Napoleon had taken up residence in the Kremlin, so Margont hoped that Alexander would follow the same logic.

‘Where is the Tsar?’ he persisted.

He finally found someone who could tell him. ‘He’s just installed himself in a magnificent town house on Rue Saint-Florentin, at the home of the greatest traitor of all time, who, of course, welcomed him, bowing and scraping, with open arms: Monsieur de Talleyrand!’

This was so unexpected that Margont thought he had misheard. Even Lefine couldn’t believe his ears.

‘You’re making fun of us, Monsieur...’

‘No, it’s Talleyrand who’s made a fool of all of us. All the imperial dignitaries have left Paris – except for him! And has he been thrown in prison, or at least detained under armed guard? Not a bit of it. No, I can assure you, he is at home receiving the Tsar, as

we speak! I followed Alexander after his procession down the Champs-Elysees until his soldiers barred my way, and I can definitively tell you that he is at Talleyrand’s house. I saw him going in from afar.’

Rue Saint-Florentin crossed Rue de Rivoli. As it happened, it was near the Tuileries. Margont began to run, with Lefine hard on his heels.

Varencourt and his escort first headed towards the Elysee Palace. But on the way the major hailed one of the Tsar’s aides-de-camp just to confirm that the Tsar was actually there. ‘He’s not,’ the aide-de-camp replied. Before the fall of Paris, the Tsar had indeed planned to reside at the Elysee Palace. But as soon as they had entered Paris, the sovereign Allies had been greeted by Talleyrand. Talleyrand? Why didn’t he flee Paris? Isn’t he one of the highest dignitaries of the French Empire?’ queried the major in surprise. ‘Rats don’t leave a ship that’s afloat for one that’s about to sink!’ replied the aide-de-camp, laughing.

The Prince de Benevent had told Alexander that Napoleon had given the order that the capital must not fall into enemy hands intact. He had warned the Tsar to be extremely careful: it was possible that the sappers of the Imperial Guard had mined the Elysee and the Tsar wouldn’t want to take any unnecessary risks ... And the Tuileries Palace? Probably also mined, Talleyrand shouldn’t wonder. He had then added that there was only one place worthy of receiving a tsar, which could be declared categorically safe: his own house. That was how the Tsar ended up residing in Rue Saint-Florentin in the company of Talleyrand himself.

‘At Talleyrand’s house ...’ repeated the major to make sure he had correctly understood.

Varencourt was horrified: Talleyrand might know the real Margont! He made an effort to stay calm. He had spent months perfecting his plan but he could never have foreseen a problem like this. That Talleyrand! What a turncoat! The devil himself, the real one, would barely have acted with such brass neck. Well, too bad. His plan was a bit risky – like all games of cards ... At this very moment

Alexander must be completely taken up with savouring his victory. ‘Savour all you like, but your pleasure will be short-lived ...’ Although Varencourt was being closely watched by several riflemen, elite troops, none of them was aware of his agitation. His face remained impassive.

Exhausted and out of breath, Margont was having increasing difficulty running. His lungs and throat were burning. As soon as he noticed enemy soldiers he forced himself to walk – he did not want to draw attention to himself. He tried to catch his breath, watching a regiment of Austrians as they marched by, in their gleaming white, on their way to one of the strategic points in Paris. The Elysee Palace was surrounded by Allied troops, and they could be seen in even greater number in front of the Tuileries. It was clear to Margont that their most direct route was barred. He looped round towards the Madeleine Church. They were almost there! Almost!

‘Messieurs! Messieurs! Stop!' yelled a voice that Margont was

determined to ignore.

Lefine, noticing the Prussian soldiers aiming at them, grabbed Margont by the collar to bring him to a stop.

The major spoke to a captain; another captain came over; and then an aide-de-camp. Joseph’s letter was passed from hand to hand. The captain in charge of the guard post raised his arm to summon his interpreter because he didn’t believe the major’s explanations, which annoyed the major. Varencourt betrayed no emotion. He had imagined this scene maybe a thousand times and now, exhilaratingly, it was unfolding exactly as expected! He was being asked all the anticipated questions and giving all his prepared answers. From both sides of Rue de Rivoli, Russian chasseurs were watching the mysterious Frenchman who dared to flaunt his uniform. Exhausted by the fighting, they were sitting in the shade of the arcades, covering the area like a blanket of dark-green ivy. Suddenly those who were watching Varencourt rose and stood to attention, and all the others followed suit, standing up hastily and coming

into line, presenting arms. Officers barked orders to hurry them into position. A general from the Russian Guard came striding furiously over, followed closely by a posse of heavily decorated officers. His arrival sowed fear amongst the soldiers. Varencourt pretended to watch him with interest. But really he was looking beyond him to the Prince de Benevent’s house.

The Tsar’s life is in danger! I must speak to the Tsar at once!’ Margont was shouting at the top of his voice in German.

The Prussians stared at him contemptuously. A captain asked him, ‘And who are you to want to save the Tsar?’

Margont wasn’t sure what to say. Should he say he was a lieutenant-colonel? Or would that get him into trouble? He could claim that he also had a letter from Joseph, but they would laugh in his face ...

‘Listen, tell the men guarding the Tsar that someone is trying to assassinate Alexander—’

‘His Imperial Majesty Tsar Alexander l!’ corrected the officer witheringly.

The Tsar is about to be assassinated!’

The captain’s expression hardened. ‘Do you know how many men my battalion lost today? Eighteen. And we've as many injured. So I would advise you to worry about your own safety rather than the Tsar’s. We’ve received strict orders to treat the civilian population respectfully. But you and your friend are of an age to serve in the army. And you don’t get a scar of the kind you have on your left cheek by milking cows. I don’t think the order to respect civilians extends to soldiers in civilian clothes. So beat it or you might regret it.’

Margont and Lefine melted into the crowd and made their way through the streets to another guard post. This time, however, Margont had chosen a post guarded by Russian soldiers.

The general of the Russian Guard had had the situation explained to him. He read Joseph’s letter and immediately tried to get to the bottom of what Varencourt wanted.

The letter seems to be authentic. But I can’t let you pass unless you tell me more about it.’

His French was impeccable, but Charles de Varencourt replied in the guardsman’s own language so that as many Russians as possible could understand what he was saying. Every Russian who heard was a little piece of kindling that Varencourt was trying to ignite to become the sparks of his grand inferno. He was shouting angrily, although his anger was just pretence. This was all a game, a hand of cards, his last, his best! And the stake was Paris and every Parisian!