going to advise Joseph to try to arrest everyone or not. He’s forced to give me accurate information about the main committee members because if he feeds me nonsense Joseph’s agents will notice that his information does not tally with what they already know. And the aim of all that was just to get their hands on the letter Joseph had given me! It’s not easy to get close to Napoleon. But if someone passes themselves off as one of Joseph’s secret police, if he obviously has detailed knowledge of the investigation he is talking about and if he presents a letter signed by Joseph I, the Emperor’s own brother, then he would be allowed to speak to Napoleon after being searched. And what guard would notice a needle slipped into a pocket? Jean-Quenin assures me that one simple injection of curare is fatal in a few seconds.’
Lefine was gradually grasping the idea.
‘So one of them really was going to try to assassinate the Emperor »
‘No! I was going to try to assassinate the Emperor! It’s my name written on that letter: Lieutenant-Colonel Quentin Margont!’
He was so furious he seemed on the point of tearing up everything around him, since he could not tear up the damned letter. Lefine was not yet convinced, like a St Thomas demanding further proof. ‘But why the burns? Why kill the Tsar’s envoy?’
Margont brandished the damaged button.
‘The answers are all here! Come with me. I’m going to question Catherine de Saltonges. I’m going to force her to tell me who her lover is. And that, my friend, is our killer.'
CHAPTER 38
PALENIER appeared, with one of his men. They were both scarlet with rage.
'The whore! She’s given us nothing!’ Palenier fumed.
‘Do I have to go on interrogating her, Monsieur?’ asked his subordinate.
Margont noted that the man had not said ‘inspector’ or ‘superintendent’. In the civilian police there were many subdivisions, and there was sometimes rivalry between them. There was the general police division, then each of the Foreign, Business, Finance and War Ministries had their own police; Fouche had run his own police force, as Savary and Joseph did now, and Napoleon himself had several police forces that reported only to him. Almost all the great figures of the Empire had set up their own police, so as not to have to depend on the informers of their rivals and to ensure their rapid rise through the imperial hierarchy by trying to be the best informed. And of course there were countless double and triple agents and it was impossible to tell who was obeying whom and why.
‘I will go and interrogate her,’ announced Margont.
He fully expected Palenier to refuse, but the latter merely gestured graciously for him to go ahead. ‘By all means ... We will wait outside. But no violence! Some interrogators employ violence, but we do not subscribe to such practices.’
‘Nor do I.’
Margont set off down a different corridor, barred by an iron door, which the warder opened for him. Lefine, Palenier and his subordinate followed him. They stopped in front of a heavy door with a spyhole. Margont drew back the bolts and went into the cell alone. Catherine de Saltonges gave a shriek when she saw him come in. She put her fist in her mouth and bit down on it to calm herself. She had thought he was dead.
‘Good evening, Mademoiselle,’ said Margont ironically. ‘Are you being well treated?’
She pulled herself together, took a breath and replied acidly, ‘Of course! Who would be foolish enough to mistreat a royalist three days before the return of the King?’
Margont was hurt by that remark. He saw the interview as a duel. He had barely saluted her with his blade, and she had already delivered a blow and scored a direct hit!
‘Yes, I have even been served chicken,’ she added. ‘It was delicious!’
‘I’m not here to discuss chicken. We have more important things to talk about.’
‘I won’t tell you anything!’
‘But, Mademoiselle, you don’t have to tell me anything; I know all there is to know.’
Catherine de Saltonges frowned at that. She did not believe him, of course. Nevertheless, having just endured almost an hour of questions from Palenier and his subaltern, she was thrown by Margont’s appearance.
‘So what was it you thought you might be able to tell me, Mademoiselle?’ asked Margont, smiling. ‘That you planned to assassinate the Emperor? By poisoning him with a needle soaked in curare? That the murderer is going to pass himself off as me -Lieutenant-Colonel Quentin Margont, to give you my real name -thanks to the intrepid Charles de Varencourt, the fake traitor?’ Catherine de Saltonges was finding it hard to breathe. The ‘secrets’ she had been prepared to defend unto death - that she had easily hidden from that halfwit Palenier - were now being thrown in her face by Margont like so many empty oyster shells.
Margont burst out laughing. ‘Do you think there is a single thing you know that I don’t, Mademoiselle? In fact you’re the one who should be asking me questions!’
‘How long have you known?’
‘That’s not important. Several of your committee members have been arrested.’
He was marching to and fro in the cell. She followed him with her eyes. ‘Several’, so some were still free ...
‘You’re wondering which we have in custody and which are free, aren’t you?’
She almost asked a question, but held herself back, and smiled in her turn.
‘No. And you can’t know everything. There must be something missing, or you wouldn’t be going to all this trouble.'
It must have required astonishing self-control to continue to reason clearly when her world had just collapsed around her ears. She counterattacked immediately.
‘You speak with a great deal of assurance, Monsieur. But beware! I am less a prisoner than you are! In three days, at the very latest, the Allies will free me from this cell, but they will lock you up for thirty years!’
The idea of being locked up was unbearable to Margont. And the fear of it was enough to blow his thoughts off course, like a gust of wind blowing through a game of patience about to be brilliantly completed.
‘If I were you, Monsieur, I would be exerting all my energy in wiping clean some of my debts. You have harmed us. But there’s still time to convince me to speak in your favour when you appear before the King’s court.’
Margont was saying furiously to himself, she’s the one in prison, I should have the upper hand here.
Catherine de Saltonges went on with her attack. ‘It would still be possible to say that you were forced into accepting the mission!’ ‘Which is actually the case ...’ Margont could not prevent himself from saying.
‘It doesn’t matter whether it’s true or not; it just has to be believable! I will testify for you, and I’ll say that you treated me well. In victory, one can afford to be lenient. But no more of your questions now. If you go on tormenting me, you will be treated like an imperialist! And you will pay dearly for that!’
Questions! Margont seized on the word. ‘My questions? But I have no questions. I know everything. It’s the other way round. I’m amazed that you don’t want to know what happened to your friend? I’m talking, of course, about the friend you’re so close to. You know what I mean, don’t you?’
She reddened. ‘No, I don’t know what you mean ...’
‘I mean your lover, the father of that child you were not able to keep ...’
Catherine de Saltonges’s eyes filled with tears and she could not look at Margont so did not see how disgusted he was with himself for having stirred up her grief and intruded into her private life. But this investigation had become personal for him. He had almost been murdered, and because of him, so had Lefine. The royalists had tried to steal his name. And a murderer was preparing to kill using his identity - when he, Quentin Margont, had so often struggled to prevent crimes.
‘I do understand why you decided it was better that the child should not be born ... What sort of life could it have had? With a father consumed by fire ...’
She looked at him as if
he were a supernatural, an angel who could read her thoughts. And since he could not be an angel of Cod, he must be an angel of the devil, a fallen angel, evil ... Margont continued. ‘Yes, the fire that burns in him day and night, which eats him from the inside; the inferno that was ignited by the Russian campaign and was never extinguished. Even your love is not enough to put out the flames.’
Had it really been a duel she would have laid down her sword at that point. But Margont had to follow through the sequence he had started. He had not completed his moves, and the killer blow would come at the end.
She murmured: ‘How do you know this? He spoke to you about Moscow? How is that possible? I took a year to find out, but you know already?’ Her voice was barely audible.
‘Of course, it’s all completely understandable,’ continued Margont. ‘He’s already lost so many of his family ...’
Margont was replaying Catherine de Saltonges’s own words to her. She could hardly tell the difference now between her own thoughts and what Margont was saying.
She sat down on the floor for fear of falling. She started hitting the ground with her fist as hard as she could and the pain blotted out her thoughts. She was taking refuge in physical suffering. Margont caught her fist to force her to stop.
'The assassination plan is suicidal, and you know that full well. Whether it succeeds or fails, the perpetrator is bound to be killed by one of the Emperor’s guards or captured, tried and sentenced to death. And since the plan is common knowledge now, it has almost no chance of succeeding. But you know him even better than I do. If he’s free, he will still try, against all odds and even though it’s pure madness. On the other hand, if we have arrested him, he’ll be safe. Ask me the question and I’ll tell you which it is.’
'Is...?'
She was seeing his face again. Even in their most intimate moments, even as she was dressing again, still feeling the warmth of his body against hers, he was pensive, mentally checking for the nth time whether his plan was properly thought through.
'Is Charles still alive? Have you arrested him?’ she whispered.
‘He’s at liberty. He’s going to try to carry through his plan.’
CHAPTER 39
AS soon as he left the cell, Margont called a guard over. ‘Keep the spyhole open at all times. She may well try to take her life, but she won’t be able to if you keep an eye on her. If anything happens to her, you will have me to reckon with. She’ll be all right in a little while. At least, that’s what I’m assuming. She’s certainly a woman of great strength of character.’
He moved off with Lefine. Palenier followed, complimenting him, whilst at the same time resolving that he would write in his report for Joseph that it had been he who had conducted the successful interview, and that Margont had done not a bad job of assisting him.
‘I still don’t quite follow,’ said Lefine.
‘I think Mademoiselle de Saltonges told the truth. For a start, she wasn’t in a state to be able to come up with a defensive strategy, and secondly, why would she have lied when she thought I already knew? So Charles de Varencourt is the culprit. This is what must have happened. Varencourt was born in 1773. He lived happily in the France of Louis XVI but the Revolution brought his comfortable life to an abrupt end. Even though we don’t know the exact details, we have a rough idea of what he went through. The insurgents arrived, he was subjected to violence and all sorts of extortion, then his wordly goods were officially confiscated. Members of his family must have perished. Catherine de Saltonges said about him, “He has already lost so many of his family.” He decided to escape by emigrating. In 1792 he went to England. But later he moved to Russia, to Moscow - Catherine has just confirmed that!’
He looked serious. Even though he detested Charles de Varencourt, he could not help being moved by the tragedies he had suffered.
‘Most French aristocrats who emigrated chose cities that were close - if not geographically then culturally. London, Berlin, Hamburg, Vienna or Madrid. I think Charles de Varencourt really suffered from the horrors of the Revolution. I may be a republican, but I don’t forget the blood and dark times of the Revolution. That’s why he went to the other side of the world. He must have said to himself: “At least there, I won’t have to hear about revolutionary France!” What a horrid trick history played on him. At first, of course, Charles must have congratulated himself on his choice. Our armies were in Vienna, Berlin, Madrid. Even after Trafalgar, when the Royal Navy destroyed most of our fleet, people were still focused on invading England. Through a tunnel under the Channel. There was an engineer called Albert Mathieu-Favier, who had drawings for the project and who recommended using aeration chimneys that would just be long enough to reach up out of the sea. No one thought Napoleon would try to reach Moscow ... Varencourt needed to have a profession to support himself. I’m pretty certain he studied medicine. I can’t prove it, but there are three arguments that support my theory.’
Margont spoke with authority, emphasising his arguments with gestures.
‘First, Colonel Berle was killed by a knife blow that was struck with
precision, indicating that the murderer is either a hardened combatant, a butcher or a doctor. Secondly, curare is a little-known poison. The only people who’ve heard of it are doctors, explorers interested in the Amazon and, perhaps, some Portuguese who’ve taken refuge in Brazil. Thirdly, the button! I’ll come to that in a moment.’
‘Medical studies in Russian?’ said Palenier incredulously.
‘No, in Latin and French. Many medical texts are in Latin, which Charles de Varencourt would certainly have learnt. In France, some medical courses are still in Latin and it’s the same in other countries, and probably in Russia. It’s an old European idiosyncrasy. I even had the option of taking my theological studies in Latin, but that’s another story ... And you know that the Russian aristocracy speak our language fluently. Before the Revolution, and the Russian campaign, our culture was revered. French was considered a noble language, and Russian the common people’s language. Refined people spoke French during meals, went to Marivaux plays and read Voltaire and Rousseau in the original.
Varencourt would have been able to ask questions of his teachers in his native language and he would quite easily have been able to get hold of medical treatises in French.’
‘I can confirm that the Russian nobility speak French,’ said Lefine. ‘We, Monsieur, took part in the Russian campaign!’
Palenier did not believe him. Survivors of the Russian campaign? Of course they were! Everyone knew that, apart from the Emperor and his marshals, everyone died out there.
‘Where would he have found the money?’
‘He must have managed to save some of his things and take them with him. He made a new life for himself there. He made friends, married. I would guess his family-in-law were nobility or rich bourgeoisie who helped finance his studies, then establish his practice.’
‘How can you ...?’
‘I’m coming to that! So Varencourt managed somehow to establish himself. His first life had been smashed to bits, but he had had the strength to make another one. And then in 1812, when the
Grande Armée launched its attack on Russia, his world was overturned once again. It’s not hard to imagine Charles de Varencourt’s state of mind. The Revolution that had destroyed his first life was now threatening him again, this time under the guise of the “Republican Empire”! The Russian campaign was like no other. As my friend said, we were there.’
The 84th of the Line!’ added Lefine. And we were there in the Great Redoubt of Moscow! Yes, Monsieur!’
‘When we arrived in Moscow, the city was not entirely empty. Almost all the Russian inhabitants had fled and some of the foreigners had been expelled beforehand by Count Rostopchin, the Governor-General, but there were still, amongst others, Italians, Russians of French origin, some French ... They told us that the Russians were suspicious of them and considered they were all spies and traitors. Several had received
threats or insults or had been attacked. That’s what must have happened to Varencourt. He would have felt more Russian than French, since he hated imperial France. But that would not have prevented him from being mistreated. His friends would have stopped talking to him, people would have stopped coming for consultations ... The more our armies advanced the more virulent the anti-French demonstrations became. So what would you have done to prove your Russian patriotism? What steps would you have taken to calm the populace before it broke down your door to destroy your house, brutalise your family and yourself, or worse?’
To Palenier the answer was obvious. ‘I would have joined the army and gone in uniform to see all my friends and neighbours.’
Margont displayed the button. ‘And that’s exactly what he did. This is a Russian uniform button with the emblem of the Moscow militia on it.’
Lefine took the button out of his hand, beating Palenier to it. Yes, now he knew, it was obvious what it was.
‘How can you be sure it’s the Moscow militia?’ queried Palenier. ‘Because we would recognise that symbol anywhere - we were fired on by the militia continually!’ retorted Lefine. ‘All through the retreat and at the Battle of Berezina. That emblem was on the
militia’s toques, their felt hats, their helmets and their shakos. We told you, we took part in the Russian campaign!’
‘It’s this button that proves that Charles de Varencourt is indeed a doctor,’ explained Margont. ‘It’s not regulation. The uniform it’s from was certainly magnificent and so inevitably belonged to an officer. The lower ranks of the militia wore civilian clothes - pelisses or grey, green or beige greatcoats. The only sign that they were soldiers was the emblem on their headgear, their haversacks and their weapons — when they had any. The officers, on the other hand, did wear uniform. Varencourt had a sumptuous nonregulation uniform made for himself. That was tolerated in all armies, who were always happy to see their soldiers clothed at their own expense, especially militiamen, the outcasts of the military system. He wanted his uniform to be flashy - “Look at me! Now I’m an officer in the Moscow Opolchenie! So you see, I am loyal to Russia.” In Austria and in France it’s exactly the same -the militiamen who equip themselves are better regarded. No one really has any confidence in the French National Guard, although they do their best, but everyone reveres the guards of honour. The only difference between the two is that the latter are very well equipped, from their own pocket, and they wear showy uniforms like the hussars. So they have the right to all the honours and the Emperor has even included them in the Imperial Guard. I do accept that they have shown themselves to be full of courage.’ Palenier shook his head.
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