Текст книги "Memory of Flames"

Автор книги: Armand Cabasson

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

‘I’ve had enough of this! I’ve repeated myself over and over again! I’m Lieutenant-Colonel Margont and I’m acting on the orders of the Emperor! His Majesty Napoleon I asked his brother Joseph I of Spain to entrust a loyal man with a secret mission. I have the honour of having been chosen for that mission. I will not say any more to a mere general! My orders are to explain myself only to the Tsar himself!’

Russian generals were not used to being spoken to in that disrespectful way. And this one even less than most, to judge by the speed with which all the soldiers around them had jumped to attention and to present arms when he had appeared. Varencourt had noticed that and was making the most of it. He thought he would be more effective if he acted in an arrogant way rather than being servile, courteous and diplomatic. And he had achieved his first objective: the general was furious. He pointed at something off to the side with his white-gloved hand – Varencourt did not even deign to turn to see what it was – and threatened, ‘You see that hanging lantern there? I’m going to have it removed and have you strung up by its cord. You will dangle there, your tongue poking from your mouth, under one of the arcades of the beautiful Rue de Rivoli.’

‘When your Tsar hears of it, he’ll hang you from the next lamppost along.’

It took the general a few seconds to control his rage. Then he gave the order to the sentries: Take him to the Tsar!’

The riflemen were not allowed to go with them. Only soldiers of

the Russian or Prussian Guard and aides-de-camp were allowed beyond the guard post.

Margont was refusing to give up; he kept repeating himself to the captain in charge. Sometimes he spoke French, sometimes halting Russian. He wanted someone to go and warn the Tsar and to tell Monsieur Talleyrand that a certain Margont was asking to see him immediately. He raised his voice, he shouted. It was giving the captain a headache. Finally – finally! – after searching him, the officer reached a decision.

'I'm going to see what my major thinks.’

Soldiers and musicians of the Russian and Prussian Guards were lined up on either side of the entrance to Talleyrand’s house. This guard of honour pointedly ignored Varencourt as he entered the house. He was so close to achieving his aim ... He was parked in a waiting room. The captain ordered ten soldiers of the Guard to watch over him. He was searched one more time. He obediently

removed his boots and his coat.

An officer arrived and all the soldiers saluted.

‘I am Major Lyzki. I am the one who will decide whether your request will be submitted to the Tsar or not. You’re going to have to give me more information. And you’d better not threaten to have me hung from an arcade in Rue de Rivoli ...’

Although Lyzki had spoken in French, again Varencourt replied in Russian: ‘All right. But if you prefer we can speak Russian. I took part in the Russian campaign and I had time to learn a little of your language in Moscow ...’

Russian campaign. Moscow. Each word was a spark.

‘I was at Borodino,’ he added confidentially. And immediately he bit his tongue; he should have said ‘Moscow’, not ‘Borodino’! To the French it was ‘Moscow’, to the Russians, ‘Borodino’. Fie had indeed been at the battle, but as a doctor in the Moscow militia, which was why he was used to saying ‘Borodino’. To deflect Lyzk-i’s attention, he went on: ‘One of our greatest victories!’

The phrase had its effect. The Russian soldiers were ready to leap

on him – they considered it a Russian victory. Or it would have been their victory had they stayed on to fight and not retreated! In their view, and in accordance with Russian propaganda, it was a Russian victory that had been ‘spoilt’ by the impetuous order to retreat given by staff officers lacking sufficient determination. Lyz-ki, however, kept his cool.

‘So you lived through the retreat from Moscow. Also one of your greatest victories?’

That was a clever response. But in this game of chess, Lyzki had made the wrong move. He had taken a pawn without realising that he could have had checkmate had he not passed over the word ‘Borodino’.

Varencourt reiterated once again that he was acting on Napoleon’s orders. He then continued, but in French, as though to acknowledge that he felt more at ease in that language.

‘A few days ago His Majesty Joseph I charged me with investigating all the royalist organisations in the capital. I was also meant to be looking for Count Kevlokine, a close associate of your Tsar, in fact his principal agent here in Paris.’

Lyzki started to look concerned. ‘I know Count Kevlokine well. Continue.’

The count has been murdered. And what’s worse, he was tortured. His hands and arms were burnt.’

‘We know that.’

Varencourt had been banking on Alexander knowing this. The Tsar must either have been told about his friend’s death by Russian agents, or by informers at the heart of the French police. Or else he had asked people to find out about it, as soon as he had entered Paris.

‘Well, it so happens that after a complicated investigation I managed to identify the murderer.’

Major Lyzki had now completely abandoned his nonchalant demeanour.

‘What’s his name?’ he demanded.

‘His identity is somewhat problematic. That’s why I can speak only to the Tsar himself.’

‘I don’t understand. You say that you are on a mission for your Emperor, then you speak of an investigation

‘I’m not saying any more! I value my life! Before I reveal anything I want the Tsar’s personal assurance that he will protect me.’

Lyzki was very perplexed. What could the man mean? That Napoleon had ordered the murder and torture of Count Kevlokine? Or that Joseph had? Or did he mean, on the contrary, that it was someone close to Louis XVIII who had given the order, which was why the man was so scared and why Napoleon was demanding that the information be passed to the Tsar?

‘You certainly seem to be in possession of a good deal of knowledge. But there’s one thing I don’t understand, Lieutenant-Colonel Margont. Why are you taking all these risks? What’s your interest in all this?’

‘I value justice above everything else, even my life. It comes from my philanthropy, which is a quality that’s hard to bear, I can assure you. But that’s the way it is. The Revolution changed my life and gave me my love of liberty. And there can be no liberty without justice. It’s hard to explain. I find it difficult to express my determination in words, but I can assure you, it’s relentless. I will carry my investigation through to the bitter end, even if there is nothing in it for me and I lose everything because of it.’

That was the reply Margont had given Varencourt the day he asked him whether he would go on with his investigation if Paris fell to the Allies. Varencourt reproduced Margont’s sentiment almost word for word, trying to use the same gestures and expression. The card he played at that moment had been lifted directly from Margont’s hand ...

Til inform the Tsar of your request,’ announced Lyzki as he left the room, holding Joseph’s letter.

The major led Margont to his colonel, who was to be found in Place Vendome. The square was heaving with soldiers – white-clad Austrians, azure Prussian dragoons banded with white belts, blue Prussian infantry, scarlet Cossacks of the Guard ... A long cord had been attached to the statue of Napoleon dressed as a Roman

emperor, which stood atop the column at the centre of the square, and the infantry of ten countries were pulling and pulling to bring it down. Extraordinarily, the statue held firm on its base, a lone figure amidst a horde of adversaries.

The colonel in charge was most displeased to be interrupted. They were spoiling the spectacle! Instead of answering the major, he spoke to one of his captains.

‘Find an artillery regiment and tell them to put all the gunpowder they can lay their hands on at the foot of the column!’

The captain was aghast. He had no choice but to obey. But they had all been given orders to be respectful to the Parisians and here was his colonel wanting to blow up the Place Vendome. With so much gunpowder that the debris would rain down on the Louvre, the Tuileries, the head of the Tsar...

That column’s made out of our cannons!’ fumed the colonel. The cannons we lost at Austerlitz, which they melted down!’

Then he came to his senses and rescinded his order. What? What now? Someone wanted to kill the Tsar? They should go and discuss that with those in charge of protecting His Imperial Majesty. As Margont was rejoicing at this command, finally feeling that it would be possible to get to Rue de Rivoli, the colonel went off towards the column. He was jolly well going to pull on that cord himself, and make his staff officers do the same.

Varencourt was still in the waiting room. Were they keeping him waiting on purpose? Or was Lyzki afraid to disturb the Tsar while he was in the middle of discussing the future of France and Russia? That was life: you tried to plan what you would be doing in one, two, five or ten years, not knowing that actually you were living your last ten minutes ...

From Place Vendome, Margont and Lefine went down Rue de Castiglione and were stopped by some chasseurs of the Russian Guard at the entrance to Rue de Rivoli. Unfortunately this was not the way Varencourt had come, so these soldiers, who only dealt with their street and paid no attention to the continual comings

and goings on Rue de Rivoli, knew nothing about any Frenchman asking to see the Tsar.

Margont explained as best he could to a captain sporting a bloodstained bandage on his forehead. Several of his men had also been wounded in the taking of Buttes-Chaumont.

‘No one is going to kill the Tsar,’ the captain said decisively, once Margont had finished.

Napoleon had renamed the streets running off Rue de Rivoli after his victories, in a bid to make the area more popular. It was at Castiglione, near Mantoue, that Napoleon had beaten the Austrians under Wurmser. Three Russian chasseurs were engaged in using their bayonets to try to prise off the stone plaque engraved with the name Castiglione, and the captain was more interested in that activity than in the ramblings of this Frenchman.

Lefine was patting Margont on the back with one hand to calm him, whilst with the other he was restraining him by the sleeve. He knew his friend was perfectly capable of trying to storm through the Russian Guard!

Margont changed tactic. ‘Listen, ask Monsieur de Talleyrand to come here. He knows me and will confirm that you should take what I have to say seriously.’

The captain started to lose patience.

Margont added: ‘It was only two days ago that Monsieur de Talleyrand was obeying Napoleon and standing shoulder to shoulder with Joseph. He helped organise the defence of Paris. It’s partly his fault you’re wounded. So it’s fair enough to go and disturb him!’

That seemed to appeal to the captain. He had still not come to terms with the fact that Talleyrand, a dignitary of the Empire, had not been thrown in prison. Far from it – the Prince de Benevent was taking tea with the Tsar!

‘All right,’ he replied. ‘I’ll try. Not for you, for my own personal satisfaction. But if you’re lying to me I’ll have you executed on the spot – your friend too. I have the power to do that. Do you understand me?’

‘I understand.’

In the captain’s mind, disturbing Talleyrand was the equivalent of removing at one stroke all the street signs in Paris commemorating imperial victories. He gave the order to a lieutenant, who immediately ran off. Margont’s Russian was rudimentary. He thought he had grasped what the officer had said but ... no ... he must have misunderstood ... surely ...

‘Could you tell me in French what you just told the lieutenant?’ he asked.

The captain looked disgusted as he said, ‘I told the lieutenant, “Go and find Monsieur de Talleyrand and tell him that he is requested to present himself at our guard post to deal with a matter of extreme gravity concerning the Tsar. A certain Lieutenant-Colonel Margont is asking to see him. Do your utmost to ensure that the head of the Provisional French Government attends in person.’” The head of the Provisional French Government?’ repeated Margont.

‘Yes. Incredible, isn’t it?’

Major Lyzki finally reappeared and gave Varencourt back the letter signed by Joseph. He said respectfully, ‘Your letter is authentic, we’ve compared it with other documents we have from Joseph Bonaparte. Now, normally any imperial spokesman would have to be received by representatives of all the Allied countries—’

‘There isn’t time for that!’ exclaimed Varencourt. ‘My mission is extremely urgent!’

Lyzki raised his hand to interrupt. ‘But in this particular case, we are dealing with a matter personal to the Tsar because he was a close friend of Count Kevlokine. Our Imperial Majesty has therefore agreed to receive you on his own. If you would just follow me »

‘You’re so right when you say this is personal to the Tsar.’

Margont’s heart leapt: Talleyrand was on his way! But when the Prince de Benevent saw Margont, his face fell. The Russian officer had been most insistent that Talleyrand should go to Rue de Castiglione about ‘an extremely grave matter’ ... ‘the Tsar’ ... ‘a

lieutenant-colonel in civilian clothes’ wanted to see him ‘in person’. As the officer was merely passing on a message from another officer who had received it from an intermediary, Margont’s name and other snippets of information had been lost along the way. Talleyrand had not grasped who wanted to see him or why. He assumed it was some kind of misunderstanding or a madman come to make trouble at the guard post. But since the Russians had insisted that he come, he had agreed, since he felt it was important to maintain good relations with the Tsar’s guards.

The Prince de Benevent had accepted it as another little humiliation inflicted on him by the victors. There were many such indignities. Some of the Allied officers treated him with icy scorn; soldiers stared at him mockingly, as if he were a fairground monkey performing a clever trick; certain of the Tsar’s advisers had suggested that he drive Talleyrand from the house – his house! Oh, he had seen it all before. When you operated at his exalted level, it came with the territory. Napoleon had referred to him as ‘shit in silk stockings’, he had been nicknamed the ‘limping devil’, the great writer Chateaubriand had said, The only time Talleyrand is not conspiring is when he’s wheeling and dealing.’ It had not occurred to him that the lieutenant-colonel would be Margont. He was completely absorbed in trying to consolidate his highly precarious position and manoeuvring the Allies into reinstating the French monarchy with Louis XVIII as king instead of Bernadotte. He had managed to convince some of the Allies that he spoke for France, and had promised Alexander that tomorrow he would ensure that the Senate confirmed him as president of the Provisional French Government. The Tsar was now closeted in one of Talleyrand’s finest salons at the head of a new council of war and Talleyrand was anxious to use every spare moment to win over as many senators as possible to his cause. But now that damned Margont had appeared like a ghost from the past... Talleyrand wore the expression of a prostitute who sees her republican lover of the day before pop up just as she is about to marry the Tsar with great pomp and ceremony.

‘Monsieur de Talleyrand, it’s not Napoleon Charles de Varencourt

is planning to assassinate, it’s the Tsar! He wants—’

But the Prince de Benevent had turned towards the captain in charge of the guard post. ‘I’ve never seen this man before.’

The officer had really wanted to believe that Margont knew Talleyrand, even if he hadn’t believed the rest of his story. But Margont had dared to make a fool of him, and he would pay dearly for that! Talleyrand was already leaving.

‘You’re signing my death warrant!’ Margont shouted at him.

Two chasseurs grabbed him roughly and Lefine found himself similarly restrained.

‘The Tsar’s about to be assassinated!’ yelled Margont. ‘And he’ll be assassinated in your house! The Russians will think you’re an accomplice!’

Talleyrand turned round. ‘Wait a minute! Perhaps I will listen to this man. You never know ...’

Varencourt followed Major Lyzki across a corridor, through a little sitting room, down another corridor ... Two soldiers of the Guard came to attention as the major passed. Four infantrymen brought up the rear of the little convoy.

They came to a small room decorated in the imperial style, with many Greco-Roman touches that were more or less authentic. Two grenadiers of the Pavlovski regiment, in mitred caps, guarded double doors at the back of the room. Varencourt calculated his chances. If Talleyrand were with the Tsar, he would fling himself on Alexander, relying on speed and the element of surprise. If Talleyrand were not in the room, he would take time to get as near as possible before making his attack. And he was sure that Talleyrand would not be there! The Tsar believed he was Napoleon’s emissary so he would take care to receive him without Talleyrand.

The doors opened. Lyzki let him pass and withdrew.

Varencourt advanced into the room, bowed, then advanced further until a general indicated that he should stop. No sign of Talleyrand!

The Tsar was ensconced in the great hall, the hall of the Eagle, in the company of about twenty men. There was Barclay de Tolly, the

commander-in-chief of the Russian army, and generals of the infantry of the line and of the Guard, including the much-decorated Langeron and Raevski. Also present was General Prince Repnine-Volkonski, the Tsar’s chief of general staff, who had led the charge of the Chevalier Guard at the Battle of Austerlitz – a charge that even Napoleon had admired. The illustrious company was completed by two Cossack officers of the Guard in scarlet coats, a colonel of the dragoons and one from the cuirassiers, and a few aides-de-camp, one of whom was Colonel Prince Orlov who had negotiated the surrender of Paris.

Varencourt considered all these exalted Russians who were staring at him, and some of whom he knew by reputation. Certainly a tsar of all the Russias could not know each of his subjects individually. What did a tsar care about a certain Ksenia de Varencourt, who had died in September 1812, just before she should have given birth? No! Tsars spoke of colonising Siberia, of wanting to absorb Poland, of Norway, which the Allies had taken from the pro-French Danes to give to the Swedes in order to encourage them to cede

Finland to the Russians, of the problem posed by the Austrian Empire ... Just as astronomers observe planets and galaxies and don’t waste their time counting specks of dust ... And yet a speck of dust could kill a tsar and annihilate Paris and its six hundred thousand inhabitants. All these ‘great men’ were as straw for his joyous blaze! Yes, he was going to offer his darling wife the most gigantic funeral pyre!

In an armchair a mere ten feet away sat the Tsar, magnificent in his white Chevalier Guard uniform, his chest glittering with medals and decorated with the blue ribbon of the order of Saint-Andre. He had dressed up for his moment of triumph. In fifty years no one would remember his three predecessors, nor probably his three successors. But everyone would remember Alexander I, the Tsar who had vanquished Napoleon. Varencourt reflected that the most glorious day of the Tsar’s life would also be his last.

He began to speak. The Tsar frowned.

An aide-de-camp, who stood beside Alexander, declared: ‘Speak

up, Lieutenant-Colonel. We can hardly hear you!’

Varencourt took a step forward like someone doing his best to make himself understood. The four soldiers behind him similarly moved forward. He went on with what he was saying, deliberately obfuscating and embellishing his story. But much of what he said was nevertheless true, and his audience, although they were suspicious, did try to untangle the threads of his complicated account involving Joseph, Napoleon, Talleyrand, the Swords of the King, fire ...

‘We can barely make out what you are saying, Lieutenant-Colonel,’ said the Tsar irritably.

Varencourt brought his left hand up to his throat while with the right he took hold of the broken brooch he’d found in the ruins of his Muscovite home. It was a card sharp who’d taught him how to distract attention with one hand whilst taking out a card hidden in his sleeve with the other. The officers thought the Frenchman had a neck wound, or had inhaled burning smoke during the fighting, or else was suffering from a sore throat and that was why his voice was so hard to hear. No one saw the jewel, or if they did, they paid it no heed. Varencourt took another step forward.

The aide-de-camp on the Tsar’s right reacted sharply and was about to order him to step back, but Varencourt pre-empted him by saying quickly: ‘I know the murderer’s name but first I want my security guaranteed by Your Imperial Majesty!’

The Tsar frowned. What was going on here? Who was implicated? Was Napoleon the instigator of the crime or was this another of his tricks to divide the coalition by making it look as if one of the Allies were behind the murder of Count Kevlokine? The Frenchman was trying to explain something but he was so hard to follow ... Varencourt took another step forward, brandishing Joseph’s letter in his left hand. He looked worried as he begged the Tsar to promise on his honour, with his staff officers as witnesses, to guarantee his protection if he revealed ... It seemed to him as if the brooch were beating; he imagined it was his wife’s heart he held in his hand ...

Margont, Lefine and Talleyrand entered the house. Margont was like a madman. He interrogated the infantrymen, who stared at him angrily.

When Major Lyzki came over to deal with this new, noisy intruder, Margont yelled at him, ‘You have to warn the Tsar!’

‘Don’t shout, Monsieur. Who are you?’

‘I’m Lieutenant-Colonel Margont. Listen, a man—’

Lyzki gave a nervous laugh. ‘Lieutenant-Colonel Margont? But I’ve just shown him in to see His Imperial Majesty ...’

Talleyrand panicked. ‘I assure you that this is the real Lieutenant-Colonel Margont!’

Lyzki had already spun on his heel and was making for the stairs, shouting in Russian: ‘Protect the Tsar!’ Soldiers hurried to run after him. Talleyrand, who was not going as fast, was knocked against a wall by a passing grenadier. Upstairs, soldiers took up Lyzki’s rallying cry as they began to run. An infantryman grabbed his rifle and used it to bar Margont with all his force against a door to prevent him from going any further.

The din in the corridors reached the great hall. The officers in the hall heard shouts and could make out the odd word: ‘Tsar’, ‘danger’, but they assumed the danger was external – was Napoleon daring to attack Paris to dislodge them? Was there a popular uprising? A second Revolution? An attack by a few desperate imperial soldiers who’d remained in the capital? Only Varencourt understood that he had been found out. It was a little premature, it would have been better if he had been a couple of steps further forward, but too bad! The double doors flew open and he took advantage of the confusion to try to pounce on Alexander. The aide-de-camp’s eyes had never left Varencourt and he threw himself forward to bar his passage.

The Tsar didn’t understand what was happening. He saw Avilovich grab the Frenchman, who was trying to run towards him. But for some unexplained reason, his aide-de-camp suddenly shuddered and collapsed. A guard who had followed Varencourt managed to seize him by the arm, but was pushed back as the Frenchman toppled backwards as if he were losing consciousness. Some of the

generals reacted by unsheathing their sabres, but a quick-witted red-clad Cossack beat them to it and jumped on the assailant, holding him round the waist before he also let go and fell to the ground. Varencourt shouted ‘Ksenia!’ and flung himself on the Tsar, plunging the pin of the brooch into the monarch’s thigh. A bayonet sliced through Varencourt’s shoulder and a rifle butt rammed into his neck; guards began to rain kicks on his inert body.

The Tsar, dazed with shock and terror, contemplated the broken brooch, blackened by grime or rather soot, that was protruding from his thigh. He pulled it out angrily as if he were chasing away a wasp that had just stung him. Nothing happened. The needle had exhausted its poison.