Текст книги "Memory of Flames"

Автор книги: Armand Cabasson

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

‘Are there any other ways you want to put me off?’

Varencourt shook his head. He wore a strange expression, halfway between anger and interest. He seemed to consider their situation like a roll of the dice from which he could either gain an enormous amount or lose everything.

‘Our fates are linked but I know nothing about you, Monsieur Langes. Are you a policeman? No, you don’t look like one.

Policemen love order and discipline, which is not generally what journalists want. Are you a soldier?’

These days, everyone is a soldier.’

‘Are you an officer?’

‘Ah ... you’ll have to find out.’

‘At least tell me your real Christian name.’

‘Quentin. Quentin de Langes.’

‘You still don’t trust me and yet your life depends now on my talents as a liar.’

Margont was nervous. ‘And vice versa, Charles. Concentrate on convincing the Swords of the King to agree to meet me.’

He nodded towards the copy of Le Journal de Paris. ‘Keep it. I’ve hidden the address where I can be contacted and a few details about me. You’re supposed to know me, so learn the notes by heart and then destroy them. You’ll see that we’ve met several times at various gaming tables in Palais-Royal. I’ve lost against you, owe you money and have signed an acknowledgement of debt. We have a meeting to discuss this and that’s how we discover our common interest – the royalist cause. Happy reading I’ll wait for you to contact me so that you can introduce me to you friends. But don’t leave it too long ...’

CHAPTER 7

MARGONT left the cafe and wandered about the streets, hoping to throw off any spies that Varencourt, the Swords of the King or Joseph might have set on him. He couldn’t be too careful. But the more he complicated his route, the more he had the feeling he was being followed. He started to see figures in every dark recess. At this rate suspicion would soon drive him mad.

He finally made it to Pont d’lena. The bridge had been built by order of Napoleon, who named it after one of his stunning victories against the Prussians in 1806. Old Marshal Blucher, who had commanded the Prussians troops, told anyone who would listen that as soon as he had taken Paris he would blow it up.

Margont pulled his collar up against the cold and moved away from the oil lamps like a wary insect fleeing the light. He went over to the greyish green waters of the Seine. A few weeks ago enemy shakos had suddenly appeared in the water, carried along by the current. Passers-by would stop, incredulous at the sight of the

thousands of hats covering the surface and floating dreamily past. A few days after the appearance of the shakos, Parisians learnt that after Napoleon’s defeat of the Austrians, Hungarians and Wurtembergers at Montereau, he had ordered his soldiers to fling the shakos of the dead and the prisoners into the Yonne. He thought that when the people of Paris saw them floating in the Seine, they would understand that a great victory had been won. But it would take much more than that to save France, and Margont imagined the Seine disappearing abruptly under a ground swell of three hundred and fifty thousand shakos.

He jumped when Lefine joined him. ‘Were you there when I met him?’ Margont immediately asked.

‘Of course, as agreed.’

‘Where were you hiding?’

‘Here and there. I was mingling with the customers. I don’t like the look of that Varencourt. He was too much at ease. Here we are with the world collapsing around us and he seemed not to have a care in the world. I almost envy him ... In any case, he didn’t spot

me. And I didn’t see anyone watching you furtively. At one point you made him very angry, and that was definitely genuine!’

‘Joseph had “forgotten” to tell him that he would have to help me become a member of the Swords of the King. Where did he go after he left me?’

‘Rue Saint-Denis, his personal address, according to the file we have on him. But he’s very difficult to follow. He’s always on his guard. What are you going to do now?’

‘Co home. To my new home. And you’re going to go and meet Monsieur Natai to tell him two things. That you’re the man I’ve chosen to help me – you’ll have to tell him where you can be contacted. Secondly, tell him that I need access to a printing works by tomorrow evening! He’ll pass all that on to Joseph.’

Margont told Lefine how to find Monsieur Natai, explained his idea and hurried on, not giving his friend any chance to comment. ‘Next, get someone to spy on Charles de Varencourt. I’m sure you’ll be able to find someone. Don’t tell him anything, just pay him to watch our man. Joseph will reimburse you through

Monsieur Natai. Do the same for all the members of the committee – their addresses are in the police reports. I will spend my time fine-tuning my act while I wait for Varencourt to give me the sign. If you need me, you know where 111 be. Have you had time to find lodgings?’

‘Auberge Arcole, practically on your doorstep. The street doesn’t even have a name, but it’s on the banks of the Bievre, between two tanneries. Monsieur Fernand Lami. What am I to Chevalier Quentin de Langes?’

A soldier who served under me in the 84th. You support the King because you think that will earn you money and because you’ve had enough of the war.’

A role almost tailor-made for me! I’ll go and find Monsieur Natai tomorrow morning and see what reports he has for me. Then I’ll be able to tell you all about them in the evening.’

‘No. I don’t think you should do that. I’m not supposed to know the members of the organisation. If you tell me a lot about them now, I’m worried I’ll give myself away when I meet them.’

‘I don’t agree! The more you know about them, the better you’ll be able to adapt your conversation and tell them what they want to hear, if they’re going to accept you as one of theirs.’

The first meeting with them will be fraught with difficulty. The strain of it might make me reveal something written in the police reports ...’

‘You’ll just have to be careful! And if you do ever make a mistake, you can always say that Charles de Varencourt told you about them.’

‘No. That’s against their rules and you can’t assume they’re stupid. The Revolution tried to paint the aristocracy as imbeciles and degenerates. But it never does to underestimate your enemies. No, I’ve made my decision. My strategy is going to be to get into the skin of my character as much as possible, and Chevalier Quentin de Langes doesn’t know much about them. So it must be the same for Lieutenant-Colonel Margont. You mustn’t talk to me about them until after I’ve met them for the first time. That leaves you enough time to study as many police reports as possible.

Afterwards, in my other meetings with them, if I mention something I’m not supposed to know, then I’ll be able to say that I researched them after I had been admitted to the group. That’s exactly what Chevalier de Langes would do.’

‘Well ... all right, perhaps you’re right. You decide – it’s you who has to be Quentin de Langes ...’

Rue du Pique looked unprepossessing. It was dirty, and the smell! The emanations from the tanneries, hide-makers and dye works mingled with the stink of mounds of rubbish ... Number 9, which had been converted into an inn, was so dilapidated it looked as if it might crumble to the ground at any minute. Margont presented himself to the owner as Monsieur Langes and was given the key to a room under the eaves.

He studied the documents Joseph had given him. To help him memorise the events of his life, he imagined them unfolding before his eyes. When he was capable of reciting the life of Quentin de Langes, he burnt anything compromising and got rid of the

ashes.

The room had been suitably furnished before his arrival to suit his new persona. But he spent a little time rearranging things so that they better suited his own preferences. He chased away the cockroaches that scuttled under the floorboards at the approach of his candle, leafed through the books and scribbled notes in some of them, went to the window and hailed a water-carrier, who brought him up a bucket filled with water from the Seine. He ground his teeth when he opened the trunk. All the clothes were brand spanking new! He decided to throw them away and go to a second-hand clothes shop the next day. He would also buy a Bible. He thought about his situation, he was worried ... He felt like a ferret about to be released into an earth filled with foxes and expected to pass himself off as one of them.

CHAPTER 8

AFTER three days spent trying to perfect his royalist persona and avoid being observed, Margont was no longer quite himself. He was so successful in his new role that little by little he was starting to lose his bearings.

He went to ‘his’ printing works, Imperial Press (previously called Crown Press, but hastily renamed during the Revolution), just beside the Botanical Cardens. Joseph and Talleyrand had arranged everything very cleverly. Above the modest doorway, a metal sign with a representation of a newspaper indicated what the premises were. You went down a few steps to reach a large room furnished with a classic printing press with twin wooden frames, a ‘one movement’ Didot and Anisson press, a Nicholson cylinder press -the last word in printing, a dream! – and various broken presses, which were there merely to furnish parts for those that functioned. The manager, Mathurin Jelent, was the only one to know the truth about Margont. He had been secretly passing on information

about the printing press to the imperial authorities for years, denouncing customers who wanted to print illicit documents: anti-government pamphlets, unauthorised newspapers, unofficial proclamations ... He had also undertaken to act as a link between Joseph and Margont, who wouldn’t then have to rely solely on Lefine and Natai. Conveniently, the owner of the print works lived in Lyons and never visited, contenting himself with drinking the profits away. This allowed Jelent to introduce Margont as a new associate. Margont told the employees – two typesetters and two printers – that he had come in person because he hoped to make money out of the current situation.

Margont helped lay out the pages, handling the characters and getting his fingers covered in ink. He familiarised himself with printing and learnt about all the parts of the process: choosing the paper and the typography, setting the type by pushing the characters into the slots of the coffin, inking the formes, placing the virgin sheets between the frisket and the tympan, folding and feeding the whole thing under the plate of the press, turning the

handle to activate the screw ...

He felt like a matryoshka, one of those Russian dolls he had seen in Moscow. On the outside was Monsieur de Langes, a man interested only in turning a profit. Inside there was the royalist secretly preparing posters calling Parisians to sedition. And inside that was Quentin Margont, his true self, who had to be kept well hidden. Nevertheless he derived real pleasure from printing. He turned out invitations, the new menu for the Beauvilliers restaurant in the Palais-Royal arcades, and proclamations from the Imperial Government. He imagined he was working on the newspaper he had wanted to start for so many years. Instead of printing ‘eel pie’, ‘turbot stuffed with rose’ (new recipes and unusual flavours were all the rage) or ‘English green beans’, he imagined the letters spelling out headlines such as ‘What has become of Liberty?’ ‘Will the war ever be over?’ ... The words danced in front of his eyes and the lead characters relaid themselves in his mind, printing his dreams. When he was out and about he took care to throw possible spies off the scent. He forced himself to look with contempt at soldiers,

at the Colonne de la Grande Armée in Place Vendome and at the Arc de Triomphe, which was already very impressive, even though it was still only half its projected height of fifty metres. He ground his teeth when he had to go down Rue Saint-Honoré, turning away to avoid looking at the Eglise Saint-Roch, where on the orders of a certain General Bonaparte, royalist rioters had been felled on the steps by a hail of cannon fire. He trained himself to banish the name ‘Napoleon’ from his thoughts and to replace it with ‘Bonaparte’, ‘the tyrant’, ‘the ogre’, ‘the upstart’, ‘the usurper’ ...

Once a person starts to act contrary to their own instincts they end up losing sight of their true selves. Margont was astonished to notice how far the attitudes he adopted for appearances’ sake started to influence his thoughts. As a result of continually acting like a royalist, he started to wonder whether the restoration of the monarchy might not in fact have some merit. It would mean an end to war, which in turn would mean that many people who longed to do something else could finally leave the army. But to think like that was heresy for a republican like him! How could he even consider abandoning the ideals of the Revolution? He was like an actor who plays a role each evening with such success that he eventually becomes consumed by it.

His daily meetings with Lefine were all the more precious; they were his one link with reality.

Eventually, one evening, someone knocked at his door. It was Charles de Varencourt. He was very pale and drawn, and had lost his swagger.

They’ve sent me to fetch you. You haven’t changed your mind?’ ‘Not at all.’

‘What bothers me is that by gambling on your life, you’re gambling on mine as well!’

Margont did not reply. His decision was irrevocable. Joseph and Talleyrand were right: he had to meet the royalists himself. While Margont was struggling to conquer his fear, Varencourt shrugged, apparently accepting the situation with fatalistic resignation. ‘They’re waiting for us,’ he concluded.

As they were walking through the darkened streets, Margont again

had the impression that he was just a pawn on an enormous chessboard. A pawn about to embark upon an audacious bluff...

CHAPTER 9

THEY reached the heart of the Saint-Marcel district. Varencourt was walking briskly, obliging Margont to fall in behind him, and grabbing his arm at regular intervals to make sure he followed him down a little side street, before setting off in a different direction again. Margont was lost but did not dare ask any questions. A door opened on their right and they dived into a house. There was no light inside and Margont felt as if he had been swallowed by the dark maw of a Leviathan. His silhouette, however, seemed to have been left framed in the doorway, backlit by an oil lamp. Someone bounded up behind him and held a knife to his throat. With his left hand, his attacker seized Margont’s right wrist to stop him trying to free himself or reaching for a weapon. The door shut again.

‘You are a spy, Monsieur,’ said someone in front of him.

Margont was terrified and waited in vain for a candle to be lit.

‘Our friend Monsieur de Varencourt has told us about you, but as

he admits himself, he barely knows you,’ the stranger went on. ‘So we’re going to ask you some questions. Depending how you answer, we might be able to spare your life ...’

The voice belonged to a man accustomed to being in charge. The intonation, rhythm and phrases were designed to command, to destabilise and to let Margont know his lies would be flushed out. The words uttered by the voice pierced straight through him.

‘I can’t see anything ...’ stammered Margont.

‘You’ll be able to see even less when I’ve cut your throat,’ murmured the man holding him.

‘You say that you own a printing press ...’

‘It’s the truth!’

‘That’s just the problem. The Tyrant is cunning, and he controls everything that’s published. You claim to be one of us but you have a printing press? These places are watched by the Director of Printing and Bookselling, but also by the police. There are some policemen whose sole task is to control printing, books and newspapers! And yet you want us to believe you’ve deceived them all?

Absurd! We’ve had you followed. Admittedly it wasn’t easy. It’s true that you do have access to a printing press, Imperial Press, but all that proves is that you have the protection of the police.’ Margont wondered if Charles de Varencourt had sold him out. But it was too late to ask him. He could not retreat; he would just have to press on with his role. And with bravado! ‘If Napoleon takes so much care to—’

‘Bonaparte! The coronation of 1804 is not legitimate! Napoleon does not exist!’

All right ... If Bonaparte takes so much care to control the printed word, it’s because it’s his weak point. And that’s just where we should strike him! A friend of mine who’s a duellist taught me that way of fighting.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t doubt Bonaparte’s military talent. It would be difficult to defeat him on the battlefield. Unless he had no more army left! So we have to convince the French to abandon him.’

‘Interesting. But you didn’t answer my question.’

It was so dark that Margont could not even make out the outlines of anyone there, and he could not accommodate what he was saying to the expressions on people’s faces or to their demeanour. He had to rely on that over-confident, arrogant, domineering voice, with its ironic intonations. He was on the edge of a cliff and about to be thrown into the void. But his survival instinct had always been strong. Even with a knife at his throat, he refused to give up.

‘I served for several years in the Grande Armée. Like many other gentlemen. After I was wounded, I had to return to civilian life. I devoted all my efforts to obtaining authorisation to acquire a printing works. As I had distinguished myself during the Russian campaign, several officers were willing to vouch for me. I had to grease some palms as well but eventually my tenacity paid off. Oh, there are certainly one or two employees who spy on me for the police. But gradually the police have ceased to suspect me, so for a long time now I have felt quite safe. In the end they put my years of emigration in Edinburgh down to a youthful error. Do you know how the praying mantis captures its victims? It moves so slowly that its movements are imperceptible to the insects it preys on. It’s only when it is very close that it suddenly strikes the fatal blow.

I have overlooked nothing. I returned to France in 1802 and, for all those years since, I have inexorably, step by step, put my plan into action. I have found out all about printing and I have acquired a print shop. It took twelve years of effort! The imperial police don’t pursue things for that long, I can tell you.’

‘How long have you had the print shop?’

‘For a year. I must emphasise that I am only an associate, but my partner knows nothing about my real intentions. Until recently, I practically never went there. Had I showed up there too often, the police would have become suspicious. All I did was spend the meagre profits when we were lucky enough to have any. But I go there much more often now. The situation is more favourable to us. It’s time for us to take action!’

‘What is it that you want?’

Two things. The return of the King!’

He stopped talking. The man with the knife pressed harder with his blade. But paradoxically Margont drew strength from the gesture.

‘Well? What’s the second thing?’ insisted the leader.

The gratitude of the King ‘What insolence!’

“‘Audacity, more audacity, always audacity!”’ replied Margont, quoting Danton, one of the most hated revolutionaries. That might have seemed a suicidal tactic, but he was trying to lead the discussion in an unexpected direction and catch the men off guard. He would probably die if he were to try to beat them at their own game, so he was making up his own rules.

No one answered him so he went on: ‘Before the Revolution, my family lived peacefully on its lands. But I knew that life for only a few years. Then I had everything thrown at me. My family was massacred and our chateau burnt; I was forced to wander from place to place ... I was very young when I emigrated to Scotland. I planned to return to my homeland as an officer, with other royalist emigres and an English army. The English held out the prospect of that dream, but they never fulfilled it. It was too risky, too expensive ... And although they did want to see their old enemy brought to its knees, they never really trusted us. They were still annoyed with us for having resisted them so fiercely in Quebec and partly blamed us for the loss of their American colonies ... In Edinburgh,

I lived in terrible conditions. So because I was sick of never having enough to eat, and of being treated like an undesirable, I took advantage of the great amnesty of 1802. Like many others I returned to my country, swore an oath in front of a prefect and here I am. I was pardoned for having been an emigre, as if I had committed a crime! I enlisted in the Grande Armée because I had no other means of supporting myself. I even envisaged serving the Empire, I admit. I wanted to become a general. But that dream also went up in smoke. I have found my roots again and I want the King to be restored to the throne. However, 111 be frank, I would like to be rewarded for my services.’

‘You’re a mercenary!’

‘Yes, but a mercenary for the King! What is wrong with wanting to rebuild the ruins of my family chateau? I want to have the life I lived before; I want the life I had before the Revolution!’

Even in the inky darkness Margont could tell that his argument had struck home. His adversary had taken a blow, and Margont would have to follow up his counterattack before his opponent had time to regroup. ‘It would be wrong to think that Bonaparte can’t win again!’ he exclaimed. The fellow has more lives than a cat! He was said to be finished in 1805 but then there was Austerlitz, done for in 1806, but then there was Jena. He was crushed at Essling in 1809 ^and then went on to win at Wagram. The King needs help! Against Bonaparte, but also against the Allies! Bernadotte is not content just with Sweden, he wants to become King of France! And what if the Tsar or the Emperor of Austria accepts a compromise and proposes to leave Napoleon his throne? Or if they decide to organise a regency until the King of Rome is of an age to govern and become Napoleon II? No! If the Allies feel that the French are abandoning Bonaparte they will fight to the

bitter end. And, if we, the noblemen of France, are indisputably linked with the victory, we can ensure that Louis XVIII will prevail!'

‘I don’t like you, Monsieur, but you’re not lacking in courage/

And we need courage! We need to stir up the French! But for that, they have to be able to hear us. Let’s blanket Paris with posters!’ ‘Why do you need us?’

‘I can’t act on my own. When I print my proclamations, it will be at night, in secret. I’ll need accomplices to keep watch, then to put the posters up. Besides, we will need to do more than that to make an impression. I think you yourselves have some ideas for action. So in conclusion, I ... I ... um ...’

‘In conclusion?’

‘Well, I’m not sure how to put this without annoying you. I would like to do all I can for the King ... but I have never met him and I don’t want my services to go unnoticed.’

‘You want us to put in a good word for you with His Majesty?’ the stranger asked, stupefied.

‘Exactly. And where’s the harm in that? I’m not making any

comment on human nature, but if Louis XVIII accedes to the throne, which is his by divine right, people all over France will rush to court him. Those who betrayed the King or who did nothing will shamelessly take the credit along with the real heroes of the Restoration. Who will bear witness to what I have done? Why is it shocking to want to be rewarded? Can you swear on the Bible that neither you nor anyone else present doesn’t hope for compensation for your good and loyal service?’

‘That’s not what we are about. We aren’t acting just for our personal gain!’

‘Nor am I, but...’

‘Why don’t we light a candle?’

The blade moved away, liberating Margont. When the halo of flame appeared in a yellow ball of light, his eyes filled with tears.