He led Margont off to the side, all the while talking in low tones, although there were few people about. ‘The Allies are marching on
Paris! So there’s no knowing to what lengths the royalists will go. They’re all going to be outdoing each other in daring. They’re like caged animals about to burst out of their prisons/
Margont looked at him. He spoke sarcastically: The situation has been critical for a while now. So there must be another reason for your panic.’
Varencourt paled further. He looked like a snowman melting in the sun.
‘It’s a good thing after all that you’re not a card player. Because you don’t know when you’re beaten. When I have a bad hand I withdraw from the game. At the moment I’m drawing worse and worse cards and you’re forcing me to up the betting. When I approached the police with information, I thought the Emperor would crush the Allies as he’d always done before. I never for a moment thought they would reach here. I bet on spades but what turned up was an avalanche of diamonds and hearts. If the Allies win, they will go through the millions of documents the Empire has accumulated: dossiers, reports, accounts ... There has never in the whole of our history been such a monstrous, meddling bureaucracy. They will study everything and we will be unmasked. Instead of talking to you, I should be trying to get myself onto the first ship.’
‘A great player like you would never let yourself become flustered like this. You’re hiding something from me/
‘How do you know that I like playing with these odds?’
‘You’re avoiding my question.’
‘The committee is meeting tonight. I don’t know where. They will probably come and get you. Don’t go. Disappear - that’s the best advice I can give you.’
‘Well, the best advice I can give you is not to disappear. Because if you do, the police will soon make you reappear. Did you know that the Swords of the King were in contact with Count Kevlokine?’ ‘With who?’ Varencourt frowned. Margont would have liked to grab him by the collar and shake him vigorously.
‘Stop treating me like an imbecile! You know very well who I’m referring to.’
‘You still don’t get it, do you? We bet on the losing side!’
Margont was not even talking the same language as Varencourt. What was worse, their minds did not work in the same way at all: his was abstract, intangible, made up of ideas, whereas Charles de Varencourt’s, all cogs and wheels, was more like Pascal’s calculating machine.
‘Let me rephrase the question,’ Margont said. ‘Why did you not tell me about Kevlokine?’
‘Because some subjects are off limits!’
Varencourt’s face had changed. He now looked less fearful and more resolute.
‘That was a very important subject with the group. They were always talking about the necessity of getting in touch with the Tsar’s agent. They talked about it so much because they did not know how to go about it. Then suddenly, a few weeks before you were admitted, they stopped talking about it at all!’
He clapped his hands like a fairground clown. ‘But at the same time Vicomte de Leaume also acquired what I can only describe as an air of invincibility. Our group were “spearheading the fight against the tyrant”, we were going to “take the enemy in a pincer movement” ... I thought that he had probably succeeded in contacting Kevlokine. It felt as if an important milestone had been reached and I realised bitterly that they were concealing the good news from me. I might be a traitor but I still have feelings. So one evening - about ten days before we met - I said, casually, “I know that we’re being of great service to the Restoration. What a pity our efforts will never come to the attention of His Majesty!”’
He clenched his teeth. ‘You should have seen the looks they gave each other! They still told me nothing, though. They’ll pay for that! There are days when being a traitor and stabbing people in the back brings you more than just financial satisfaction. I think everyone knew except me! It was Baron de Nolant who was caught out by me. He hadn’t noticed the looks the others were giving and launched in gaily with, “The Tsar will tell His Majesty.” Jean-Baptiste de Chatel cut him off: “Where are we with finding more people to help us?” and afterwards the conversation turned to that
subject. A bit too speedily and in a rather haphazard manner.’
‘Why did you not tell me any of this?’
‘Because it was too dangerous a subject! They must have been planning something with Kevlokine!’
Margont forced himself to stay calm. Listening to Varencourt was like reading Le Moniteur or Le Journal de Paris: truth and lies were intertwined. It was quite hard to work out what to dismiss and what might be partly true. But by listening carefully, Margont managed to pick out the contradictions and ignore what was palpably untrue. He was able to gather little snippets, and start to put them together.
‘So,’ he told Varencourt, ‘you told us about everything except the most important things.’
Varencourt raised a finger, advocate for his own lost cause. ‘Not exactly. I would say that everything is linked. The posters, Count Kevlokine, the rebellion, the assassination of Colonel Berle ... I have no idea who killed the Tsar’s agent. What I can tell you is that since his murder, they’ve changed—’
Varencourt broke off abruptly, aware that he had said too much.
‘So you did know! How did the group find out that Kevlokine had been murdered?’ Margont pressed him.
‘Honoré de Nolant knows people. He has informers ... I don’t know who ... But Leaume told me this morning that the count had been murdered. He didn’t tell me any more than that.’
‘Did he come to your house?’
‘No. I was playing cards at an inn I’m fond of. Vicomte de Leaume arrived out of the blue and invited me for a “walk”. He was asking me all about you. He asked me again where we met, and when, who we met through, and why. Luckily I was well prepared for his questions. And he does seem to have begun to accept you recently. Then he announced that Kevlokine was dead. That’s what’s changed my hand. That and the arrival of the Allies.’
They had walked a little further along and stopped by the Tuileries Cardens, which were separated from Rue de Rivoli by elegant railings. Joyful chatter could be heard from the gardens, where soldiers and beautiful girls were strolling in couples, laughing and
swearing undying love to each other; luxurious little carriages were passing, drawn at the trot. The Spanish dragoons, newly arrived in Paris, were the heroes of the hour. These elite soldiers were feared even by the Spanish guerrillas who nicknamed them ‘cabezas de oro’ - gold heads - because of their gold-coloured copper helmets. People who still believed Napoleon could win were milling about under the windows of the Tuileries Palace, or were besieging the imperial palace, sneering at the ‘cowards’ and flaunting their convictions. It was a strange spectacle, as if time had stopped. It was the end of March 1814 everywhere else but here in the Tuileries, where the sunny days of Austerlitz still shone. Margont said nothing. He did not know if Louis de Leaume was aware that they had found the emblem of the Swords of the King on Count Kevlokine’s body. And he did not want to give anything away by asking Varencourt.
‘Co on!’ he said instead.
‘There isn’t anything else! Really, I swear!’
‘Does he suspect one of the members of the group?’
‘What makes you say that? It would make no sense ... one doesn’t fire on one’s own side!’
‘Well, you do!’
Varencourt bristled at that. ‘I really think you should disappear,’ he advised Margont. ‘But not till after tonight’s meeting! If you flee now, by the end of the afternoon they’ll realise you’re gone. And all their suspicions will ricochet onto me, because I’m the one who introduced you. But if you go after the meeting - and I’ll go too -they’ll take longer to notice and we’ll be able to put some distance between them and us. Yes, now I think about it properly, that’s what we should do ...’
He almost took Margont by the a
rm, but thought better of it. ‘Do as you like, you obstinate blighter. I only ask one thing: that when you do decide to disappear, you’ll let me know! Or else you’ll have my death on your conscience. And I know you have a conscience, very much so. Just swear that you will let me know when you’re withdrawing from the game!’
‘If such a thing were to happen, I’d do my best to let you know.’
Varencourt did not look very reassured. Something had happened to make him nervous. He was an experienced and talented manipulator. The explanations he had given did not seem enough to justify the state he was in. And there was something slightly theatrical about his fear: the way he had almost taken Margont’s arm, and sometimes mumbled his answers, his entreaties. Was he really as afraid as he was making out? Or was he acting fearful to mask his real state of mind? The more Margont had opened up to him, the more Varencourt had seemed to respond with lies.
‘Where were you the night Chatel, Leaume and Nolant turned up unannounced at my lodgings to force me to use my printing press?’
‘I don’t know anything about that.’
‘Someone searched my room the same day that I met the committee.’
‘That’s hardly surprising. Although it’s a pretty useless precaution to take. Who would be stupid enough to leave anything compromising at home? We’re all searched, followed, watched ... By
others and by other members of the group! You learn to live with it >
‘Who is Catherine de Saltonges’s lover?’
Varencourt reddened. He opened his mouth but found himself incapable of replying. He seemed to be suffocating, like a fish yanked out of the water by a hook and dropped on the riverbank. ‘I don’t... involve myself in such things ...’
He looked very uncomfortable indeed. Was he in love with the woman?
‘Let’s leave her out of this,’ he finally managed. ‘She’s already lived through enough crises, don’t you think?’
He pulled himself together and looked Margont straight in the eye. ‘As we’re taking the gloves off, let’s take them all the way off. You must already know that Jean-Baptiste de Chatel was summoned to appear before the tribunal of the Spanish Inquisition. Well, it wasn’t only because of his heresy and violations of Roman Catholic dogma. He was also accused of acts of sodomy. I learnt that from Louis de Leaume one day when Chatel had yet again
contradicted him and acted as if he were the leader of the group. Leaume exclaimed, “You’re supposed to love me. Although not too much, of course. Didn’t the Inquisition succeed in putting you off such things?” Later, when I asked him about it, Vicomte de Leaume told me that Chatel had had an affair with one of the monks at the Abbey d’Aljanfe. In December 1812, Chatel tried to join the Knights of the Faith. But one of their committee members had emigrated to Madrid in the past and had heard about Chatel. The man revealed what he knew and Chatel was turned down. When Chatel wanted to join the Swords of the King, the Knights of the Faith informed Vicomte de Leaume. But he accepted Chatel nevertheless. And in the beginning they got on extremely well, even though today you would find that hard to believe. Flowever, since the Vicomte’s allusion to Chatel’s habits, they’ve hated each other. Now you know all that, is your investigation any further advanced?’
Oh, yes! thought Margont. He had already suspected that there was something else between Leaume and Chatel besides a mere power struggle. The assured, arrogant stare Jean-Baptiste de Chatel gave Louis de Leaume ... Perhaps Leaume was right and Chatel was attracted to him. His fury with Leaume might be the result of unrequited love. Margont also noted how Charles de Varencourt had eluded his question about Catherine de Saltonges. Varencourt had brandished the new information just as Margont had him in a tight corner. Like the Mongols in the Middle Ages, Varencourt took care never to empty his quiver. So when he was threatened, he always had some arrows to fire off. Margont decided to move in still closer.
‘So you don’t know who is the father of the baby Mademoiselle de Saltonges was carrying?’
A baby? And why was carrying?’
He turned his head away; he had obviously guessed the answer to the second question. When he spoke again, he was on the verge of tears.
‘You are a very skilled investigator. I had counted on always being one step ahead of you. But you have outstripped me without me
even being aware of it.’
He was again trying to steer the conversation away from Mademoiselle de Saltonges - the only subject that rendered him speechless. He was silent and looked off into the distance. He must be in love with her. Margont repeated his questions. In vain. When he took Varencourt’s sleeve to pull him out of his torpor, Varencourt looked at him in surprise, as if it was a stranger who had tugged at him.
‘Do whatever you want,’ he murmured.
‘Armed rebellion, a campaign of murders ... Now tell me about the third plan.’
Varencourt again looked him in the eye. He had dropped his mask of fear and now his eyes were full of suffering. ‘Ah, yes, the third plan. You have guessed that as well. Joseph wasn’t so stupid after all when he took you on as investigator. Yes, the third plan ... They do have one. But I don’t know what it is and, frankly, now I don’t care! No doubt you will find out what it is eventually. You discover everything whilst I’m just a poor blind man!’
His eyes were swimming with tears. But underneath the salty lakes, an angry, desperate light continued to blaze. Margont was seeing another side to Charles de Varencourt, who said, ‘I think we’ve talked enough today.’
All the same, as Margont turned to leave, Varencourt called him back. ‘I’d like to ask you a question. You owe me that. Suppose the Allies win, and Paris falls into their hands. Then imagine that you finally unmask Colonel Berle’s killer. Will you take the risk of going to the royal police to reveal what you’ve discovered?’
‘Of course!’
Varencourt had expected Margont to say that, but he still didn’t understand.
‘But why? Why not keep a low profile? Why risk going to prison?’ Perhaps Margont would not have replied in other circumstances. But he felt sorry for Varencourt.
‘You can’t understand, because we’re so different. I value justice more than my own 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 you can’t have liberty without justice. It’s difficult to explain. I can’t really find the words to explain my determination, but I do beg you to believe that it is unfailing. So yes, I will go on to the end of my investigation, even though I have personally nothing to gain from it and even if the sky falls in before then.’
Varencourt thought about his words. Thank you for the sincerity of your reply.’
‘Since we are sharing confidences, and I have never understood card players, I also have a question. Why do you enjoy it so much? What does it bring you?’
‘It makes me feel alive! Goodbye, “Chevalier”.’
They separated. As he walked Margont reflected that he had upset Varencourt so badly that he might try to exact his revenge by denouncing him. When you push someone to the brink, all he has to do is grab you and spin around and you will be the one tumbling into the abyss in his place ...
CHAPTER 32
EVERYTHING was ready! At least that was what Mathurin Jelent had assured Margont, who was hard at work in the printing shop. Outside, Joseph’s agents were keeping watch. He had never met them, and did not try to spot them. He hadn’t noticed them when he had gone out that morning to meet Varencourt in Rue de Rivoli - his life now depended on people he had never met. And he felt that it was absurd that at a time when two hundred thousand invaders were marching towards Paris, and when he might well lose his life in a shoot-out that very evening, he was engaged in printing fripperies! He brandished a proof, the ink still wet and shining. ‘What on earth is the point of this? “Madame la Baronne de Bijonsert has the pleasure of inviting y
ou to her Spring Ball to be held at her house on 29 March.” And she wants five hundred invitations! She might as well have asked for two hundred thousand, because with all the Allies on the way, she could have a fine Spring Ball!’ ‘She’s imperial nobility ...’ explained Mathurin Jelent.
‘And so?’
‘And so she’s squandering her money, throwing it out of the window. She’s doing everything she can to spend a million in a week. Because if Louis XVIII comes to the throne, Baronne de Bijonsert will have to hand her large house over to Baron something or other - Baron Ancien Regime, that is - who lived there before the Revolution, and perhaps he’ll take some of her worldly goods as well. When you are about to lose everything, or almost everything, you might as well treat yourself to a lovely last evening of fun. No one can make you hand over your memories.’
Margont was furious but pretended to be delighted. He told himself if he continued to live with these double thoughts he would really start to lose his mind. He noticed that he had absent-mindedly screwed up the invitation card into a ball.
‘Spoilt proof. It’ll have to be redone.’
Lefine was also there, installed in front of an empty workbench, inert in the midst of all the activity, like the queen bee, dozing in the midst of the worker bees. After Margont had revealed what
Varencourt had said, Lefine decided he’d better stay with his friend at all times. He had that catlike quality of being able to swing instantly from activity to complete rest and vice versa. Whilst every evening Margont needed an hour of reading to calm his thoughts - if his thoughts were ever really calm - Lefine would plunge effortlessly into a state of beatific repose, enjoying the present without thinking about the dark clouds on the horizon. At the moment he was thinking what a fine thing it would be to be a printer. Baronne de Bijonsert wanted five hundred invitations? You’d just print five hundred and one and then you would be off to the ball! A free banquet, dancing with pretty girls. You’d just have to arrive late, when the Baronne had stopped greeting people at the door, and mingle with the crowd. His fingers slid over another proof that had fallen - quite by chance! - into his pocket.
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