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, se
veral 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.
CHAPTER 10
THE man who had interrogated Margont must have been about forty-five. He looked as commanding as he sounded. He held himself proudly, he was clearly impassioned and he seemed poised to fling himself into battle. There was an impressive energy about him. Had he chosen to serve the Empire he would certainly have been high up in the hierarchy, either civil or military. But he had decided to support the King, and his ‘Grande Armée’ was merely a group of perhaps thirty, and instead of gliding through the enemy palaces he had seized, he was hiding from cellar to cellar. He was a sort of fallen angel precipitated into limbo alongside royalty. Although he was an idealist, he must have suffered from not occupying a rank commensurate with his talents. Margont’s argument about the need to be recognised had shocked him because it had hit the nail on the head ... The emblem of the Swords of the King was pinned to his jacket over his heart. Margont looked at it briefly, as if he were seeing it for the first time, and noted that it corresponded in every particular with the one he had seen on Colonel Berle’s body.
'I'm Vicomte Louis de Leaume.’
‘Delighted to meet you!’ said Margont, massaging his throat. ‘Baron Honoré de Nolant.’
Nolant was overcome with embarrassment. It is not every day you are introduced to the person you almost murdered a few minutes earlier. He was a little younger than Louis de Leaume, and thin, but Margont was not taken in by his fragile appearance, knowing how easily he had been overpowered by him. Nolant did not look directly at Margont and appeared distracted, lost in his own thoughts.
Varencourt looked pale. He did not dare move, as if he had not yet realised that the ordeal was over.
He turned to Margont and said, ‘Incredib
le! You’re even more of a gambler than I am!’
He laughed, bringing colour to his cheeks, but the rest of his face was still as pale as porcelain.
A third man, who had been silent up until then, introduced himself: ‘Jean-Baptiste de Chatel.’ He was posted just inside the door, as if to intercept Margont should he try to flee. He was a little older, but not yet fifty, with a bony face and searching, narrowed eyes. He was so emaciated he looked ill, or as if he had endured many years of deprivation.
Margont realised he had been put in front of a sort of tribunal. Everyone had been listening to him and when Louis de Leaume had proposed lighting a candle, any one of them could have sentenced him to death by replying ‘no’. In the meantime Jean-Baptiste de Chatel did not look happy. He had contemplated refusing the light!
‘Monsieur de Langes, perhaps you would like to suggest a suitable quotation from the Holy Bible. What do you know of the word of God?’
‘Thou shalt not kill,’ replied Margont, looking at Honoré de Nolant.
‘That’s a bit short.’
Margont now felt trapped in the persona he had just projected. It would not do to appear merely as a pushy trouble-maker. He would have to temper the showy opportunism he had displayed with a demonstration of faith to win over the idealists present. Jean-Baptiste de Chatel looked as if he might be susceptible to this. So Margont pressed on.
“‘Seeing he despised the oath by breaking the covenant, when, lo, he had given his hand, and hath done all these things, he shall not escape. Therefore thus saith the Lord Cod; As I live, surely mine oath that he hath despised, and my covenant that he hath broken, even it will I recompense upon his own head.” Ezekiel, Chapter 17, verses 18 and 19. He who breaks a covenant offends God and breaks away from him.’
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