Memory of Flames

by Isabel Reid (Translator) Armand Cabasson

  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 cafe 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 Chateau-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 ob
tained 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.

  ‘Lieutenant Dejal, have you not finished that letter to Marshal Moncey yet? Lieutenant Malsoux: letter to General Senator Comte Augustin de Lespinasse, commandant of the artillery and mastermind of the National Guard of Paris. “I still have not received the cannons which I am entitled to.” That’s the basic idea - make it a bit more formal and sign it with the absolute minimum of respect required by military hierarchy, which is much too generous to these charlatans. Lieutenant Dejal, still not finished with the marshal? My poor Dejal, don’t let yourself be intimidated by the word “marshal”. In fact you should get used to it, because you serve under me and ...’

  Margont and Lefine donned civilian clothes. Margont asked a soldier to take a letter to Medical Officer Jean-Quenin Brémond, who worked at the hospital Hotel-Dieu, where he treated the French and Allied injured that were flooding into Paris. As he was putting the note in the envelope and sealing it with candle-wax to protect it

  from prying eyes, he was imagining Jean-Quenin’s incredulous expression when he saw the request to join him at Colonel Berle’s house, his uniform hidden under a greatcoat, and to go in the back entrance without speaking to anyone but Mejun. However, Jean-Quenin was used to Margont’s apparently absurd requests: he would come if at all possible.

  Then, as they made rapidly for the scene of the crime, Margont explained the mission to Lefine.

  CHAPTER 4

  COLONEL Berle had known the golden age of the Empire, when competent men were rewarded handsomely. He therefore owned a large three-storey house that dominated the street. A sentry stood at the main entrance, relaxed and unaware of the turmoil that was about to break over him. The civilian police were on their way and then he would be caught up in a whirlwind of activity and questions. But at the moment it was the hour of the shadowy men who would be hidden by the time it was action stations, and who were about to enter by the concealed doors at the back.

  Margont and Lefine skirted round the house and, as agreed, Mejun let them in. There were tears in his eyes, but his face, red with fury, wore an expression of murderous determination. Had the killer been right there in front of him he would have wrung his neck, wearing the same expression.

  He led them with his uneven gait to a little sitting room. It was decorated in the Turkish style. There was a hookah, ottoman

  carpets, cushions, yataghans and other Oriental sabres. In the past Napoleon had wanted to ally himself to the Sublime Porte to alarm the Russians, Austrians and English. But the project of a F
ranco-Ottoman alliance had been abandoned for a treaty of friendship between France and Russia. In 1812, because of the Russian campaign, the Emperor had wanted to try to win over the Ottomans again. But the Turks, embittered by previous experiences of abandoned agreements, preferred not to involve themselves any longer in Napoleon’s complicated and ever-changing diplomatic manoeuvres. All that remained of the French Oriental dream - which involved conquering Egypt, forming an alliance with the great Ottoman Empire and pushing back the English in order to seize India - were the archaeological treasures brought back from Egypt, the handsome hookahs that adorned the salons of imperial dignitaries and, for the soldiers who had fought at the foot of the pyramids, the taste of sand in their mouths.

  A shutter had been forced open and a pane of glass shattered, so presumably that was how the murderer had entered.

  ‘Is this room much used?’ asked Margont.

  ‘No, because it looks over that little lane, and besides, there are three other drawing rooms. It was used only when there were big receptions and so many guests we didn’t know where to put them all:

  ‘And no one heard anything?’

  He could immediately see why. To reach this room you had to cross the large drawing room, which had been deserted on the night of the crime, and then take a little corridor closed in by two doors.

  Margont leant out of the window. He could not see the main road because of a dogleg in the lane.

  ‘Do the sentries check here?’

  ‘Yes. Every hour they walk round the building. The soldier on duty didn’t notice anything. I discovered the colonel at about ten o’clock.’

  ‘Take us to the study, by the route that the murderer must have taken.’

  Mejun took them back to the main corridor, and painfully climbed a large stately staircase. On the second floor he led them down a corridor as far as the last door on the left. Margont, who was not used to such vast spaces, felt quite giddy. Lefine, on the other hand, found it exhilarating - it was the kind of house he dreamt of living in.