Memory of Flames

by Isabel Reid (Translator) Armand Cabasson

  ‘In view of what you’ve told us, it’s impossible that a Frenchman, established in Moscow for only a few years, would be promoted to officer rank, even for the purposes of fighting the French. A soldier, yes, but an officer...’

  ‘Only an officer has the right to a stylish uniform. No army would put up with their simple soldiers being better dressed than their superiors. There’s a reason that when Charles de Varencourt enrolled in the militia, the Russians would have been obliged to make him an officer. And the reason is, he’s a doctor! All European armies give doctors officer rank. There are no regulations that envisage ‘doctor soldiers’. And armies have terrible need of

  doctors. They would have been glad to have him, especially as he would have been a non-combatant.’

  Margont paused. He reflected that he had something in common with Varencourt. He was combative! Once more Varencourt had not given up in the face of adversity; he had not lamented his fate. He had confronted it head-on.

  ‘Varencourt thought he had found the perfect solution. Imagine him walking about Moscow, in his fabulous uniform, Russian solders coming to attention and saluting him as he passed ... It put him beyond reproach! I agree with you, Monsieur Palenier, I would also have gone to the neighbours who had insulted me and spat in their faces. And as I was enjoying the look on their pale features, I would have asked them when they were going to join the militia! Varencourt had become more Russian than the Russians! You have to remember the prevailing mood at that time. The Russians were convinced they were going to crush the Grande Armée and that the French would never succeed in reaching Moscow. We were already weakened by the long march, by fighting and by the constant harassment of the Cossacks, whilst our enemies had been strengthened by drawing together all the troops from all over their enormous country, as big as a continent. Varencourt went with the army, as he was obliged to do from then on. He would certainly have been present at the Battle of Borodino, since Moscow sent a good number of militiamen to swell the ranks of the Russian army just before that important encounter.’

  Margont again paused. So Charles de Varencourt had already crossed his path. On j September 1812, in the thick of the battle, they might have been only yards apart, and those yards would have been strewn with corpses.

  ‘We won and the Russian army received the order to retreat. Later, the prisoners told us that when they heard the order, the Russian soldiers almost mutinied. They wanted to continue fighting; they were refusing to abandon Moscow. Varencourt would assuredly have agreed with that view. But the withdrawal was imposed on them. The Russian army withdrew back through Moscow. When the population saw what they were doing, people understood that

  the city was being abandoned to its fate. Rostopchin ordered an evacuation of the city, and all those who had not already done so hastily fled. The soldiers were given very strict instructions: anyone leaving the ranks faced the death penalty. A short truce had been concluded, on condition that the Russian army crossed Moscow “without stopping for an instant”, to use the Emperor’s exact words. And in any case, Kutusov, the commander-in-chief of the Russian army, did not want half his soldiers disappearing in Moscow to find their families. Perhaps that’s what Varencourt would have wanted to do. But he followed the army. He didn’t know that Moscow was going to be burnt, and that his wife could not leave the city because she was pregnant.’

  ‘How do you know she was?’ demanded Lefine.

  ‘When I spoke to the abortionist, she repeated what Catherine de Saltonges had told her. Apparently she had said, just before her abortion, “Fate is conspiring to kill his children before they are born.” Charles de Varencourt’s wife must have been close to giving birth, so would not have been able to walk or to be transported for several days in a cart. Either Varencourt was unaware of his wife’s condition, or he wanted to desert but didn’t succeed and escaped the firing squad because doctors were so much in demand.’ Palenier knew that he was missing some pieces of the puzzle, but he wanted to interrupt Margont as little as possible. For once he had stumbled on an investigator who did not persist in keeping all his discoveries to himself. If Margont continued to divulge information at this rate, they would both receive a nice promotion! When someone is climbing, hold tight to their coattails; when someone is falling, let go of them as quickly as possible. That was Palenier’s philosophy.

  Margont went on with his explanations. The tragedies of Charles de Varencourt’s life seemed to cast a shadow over his own face. ‘Moscow burnt, and his wife and unborn child died in the fire. That’s the wife that Varencourt has never left, to quote Catherine de Saltonges. It’s also possible that other members of his family-in-law stayed with his wife - her parents, for example - and so also perished. Now we can begin to understand Varencourt a little

  better. We can see how he would think constantly about fire. Moscow tipped him over the edge. For the second time his universe was wiped out, pulverised, literally reduced to cinders. Except this time he didn’t try to make a third life. He decided to seek vengeance. He came back to France and got himself admitted to the Swords of the King. He proposed a ridiculously daring and immoderate plan: to assassinate Napoleon. Just that. The Swords of the King must have laughed at him, taken him for a madman. But he developed his idea. Precisely and methodically. Fernand, you know the rest. The plan convinced the group’s committee who were, for the most part, fanatics. They were so enthusiastic, in fact, that they admitted Varencourt to their circle. The Swords of the King were following several courses of action and it made sense to have Charles de Varencourt take charge of the assassination plan. He played the role of the traitor who was willing to sell out his friends. That was how he would get to know the investigator assigned by Joseph, whose identity he planned to steal. It was also he who assassinated Colonel Berle. The burns give him away. The committee had agreed that he should kill Berle, but he could not resist mutilating the body with fire. That proves he was alone when he committed the crime. An accomplice would never have let him do such a thing and would have told Vicomte de Leaume about his behaviour. The group knew that Charles de Varencourt killed Berle and that he had left their symbol as agreed. But the Swords of the King most certainly did not know about the mutilations.’

  ‘So that’s why he killed Count Kevlokine!’ exclaimed Palenier. ‘How could he avenge the Moscow fire unless he found a way of harming the Russians? After all, the Russians were to blame for the whole thing!’

  What was striking about Palenier was his ability to sustain a lie with such conviction that it was almost believable. The Russians blamed the French totally for the destruction of Moscow, but the French - Palenier, for example - blamed the Russians. In fact they were both equally to blame. Obviously if the French had not attacked Russia, the ancient capital would not have been destroyed.

  But Napoleon would certainly never have given an order to burn the city because he wanted to make peace with the Tsar, and also because he needed the city intact so that the Grande Armée could rest and recuperate there.

  Margont had been in Moscow when the fire broke out. In common with other soldiers he had seen the arsonists at work: Russian police in civilian clothes and prisoners and enemy aliens freed specially to help. But fire engines? All taken away by order of Rostopchin, the Governor-General of Moscow. And fire barges? Sabotaged and burnt. Rostopchin seemed to have acted on his own initiative, not on the orders of Alexander I, who adored the city and never stopped lamenting its destruction. Rostopchin had decided to pursue the scorched-earth policy that had worked so well for the Russians up until then, but he pushed it to the extreme. The fire of Moscow caused such a hue and cry that Rostopchin denied what he had done. He swore that the French and some Russian thieves and other criminals were responsible, that the soldiers of the Grande Armée had pillaged the houses and set them alight, either from drunken high spirits or by accidentally knocking over candles. Such things had happened, but he refused to admit that hundreds of fires had been started by Russians and that the
water pumps had been deliberately suppressed. Only he had the necessary authority to give those orders and make sure they were carried out effectively. Margont knew a great deal about it. He had almost been burnt alive in Moscow, along with Lefine, Saber, Piquebois and Jean-Quenin! So he had taken care to find out everything after the event.

  The causes of the fire of Moscow were the talk of the salons throughout Europe. Everyone had an opinion, according to whether they supported the French or the Russians. Ironically, Margont found himself in the same boat as Charles de Varencourt; they were both surviving victims. Of course, Margont hadn’t lost nearly as much as the man he was after. But he could appreciate the profound effect the fire had had on him. Russians, French, allies of the French (most of whom were now allies of Russia): they were all to blame.

  To avenge the fire of Moscow he would have to find a way of harming the French and the Russians,’ corrected Margont, giving Palenier a furious look. Varencourt had made common cause with the royalists. But Varencourt was acting for personal, not political reasons. To such an extent that he was quite prepared to betray his allies by using them to find out where Count Kevlokine lived so that he could murder him. Count Kevlokine had been murdered for the sins of Count Rostopchin - they were both friends of the Tsar, close friends. Now Napoleon was going to pay for the sins of... Napoleon.

  He pictured the Moscow fire. Burning for four days. And then the aftermath. Four-fifths of the city destroyed, twenty thousand dead. Those thousands and thousands of flames had left behind a spark that still burnt today, eighteen months later, fanned by Charles de Varencourt. It had travelled across one thousand five hundred miles to reach Paris with one sole ambition: to burn up Napoleon. The flames’ return ...

  It might seem hopeless: one man against an emperor and the thousands of people who guard him. But the flame from a single candle can burn down an entire forest ...

  Margont turned to leave, then thought better of it and went to see Catherine de Saltonges. She was sitting despondently on her bed, staring unseeingly in front of her. He put the button down beside her.

  'That belongs to you,’ he murmured.

  She looked at the object, picked it up and gently closed her hands round it, as if she were cradling the last star to shine in her universe.

  CHAPTER 40

  MARGONT, Lefine, Palenier and his subordinate went to Varencourt’s house. The surrounding streets, muddy and malodorous, evoked a swamp in which rows of run-down houses were planted. The address Charles had given the police was just a garret, ‘a pigeon house’, as Lefine had called it. Under other circumstances it would have been comical to see the men crammed into the small space, bumping into each other and knocking their heads on the ceiling as they searched. Four policemen were already there when they arrived and declared they had found nothing of interest.

  ‘What do you think about that?’ Palenier asked Margont casually.

  ‘I must admit I’m vexed. The group had confidently expected to do away with my friend and me. Happily, they had counted without your being on hand to save us!’

  Palenier coloured, but continued to look at Margont, not wanting to lose face in front of his men.

  'True, we’ve arrested only Catherine de Saltonges and a lookout,’ Margont went on, ‘but Charles de Varencourt would not have had time to come back here. And it would have been too risky. I had hoped that we would have found some clues ... He must have at least two places he stays. This one - where the “Varencourt who sells his secrets to the Empire” lives - and another where he must be now. And that’s also where he stored the poison and everything he needed to carry out his plan. Here, there would always have been the risk that the police would lose confidence in him and storm in to search everything from top to bottom.’

  ‘His mistress would surely know the other address.’

  ‘I very much doubt it. Look at Colonel Berle’s murder, the complexity of their plan, the double game he’s playing. Charles de Varencourt is careful; he’s meticulous. I don’t think he would have made an error like that. Especially as, thanks to Louis de Leaume, he must have access to many different houses. And then, the other address is probably a little hovel like this. Can you imagine making love amidst the flasks of poison you are going to use to murder someone? Perhaps they would meet at her house, but I don’t think so, because Catherine de Saltonges has servants: it wouldn’t have been safe. I expect they met in hotels, passing themselves off as a couple on their travels. In any case, there’s no point in deluding ourselves, she’s not going to tell us anything more.’

  He went over to the mattress where the police had lined up the objects they had found. A meagre haul. He picked up a Bible and opened it where there was a bookmark. Although the Bible was obviously fairly new - the binding was in good condition and the edges of the pages were still white — the two pages marked were dirty, crumpled and worn. Sentences had been crossed out, angrily, with a pen, sometimes tearing the paper, leaving only one verse, as if to signify that Cod did not exist, that one should not love one’s neighbour, and that all the words in the Bible were worthless except these remaining lines. Margont was disappointed, because the verse was not one of the passages he had thought of.

  He read: ‘Deuteronomy, chapter 19, verse 21: “And thine eye shall not pity; but life shall go for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot,' '

  'The law of retaliation ...’ commented Palenier. ‘We know exactly what he wanted to retaliate for...’

  Margont turned his attention to the bookmark, gave a start and dropped the Bible, which crashed onto the floor.

  ‘Don’t touch anything!’ shouted Palenier, who was worried by the story of the deadly poison and thought that perhaps Varencourt had booby-trapped his apartment with needles soaked in curare. Margont retrieved the Bible, then the bookmark, which was actually a little paper pocket. Inside there was a lock of very light blonde hair. It had not come from Catherine de Saltonges. Charles de Varencourt’s Muscovite wife must have given it to him before he joined the Russian army. That was presumably all that remained of the woman now.

  The other objects were all everyday items: a comb, a ewer, clothes ... Nothing that had anything to do with Charles de Varencourt’s Russian past or with his current plans.

  They did not discover anything interesting either in Catherine de Saltonges’s house in Faubourg Saint-Germain. The police had read the letters they found in her writing desk, but none of them had been written by Charles de Varencourt; the books on the shelves were not noteworthy; the servants confirmed that Varencourt had never visited.

  When Margont took his leave, Palenier shook his hand, saying, ‘Let us know if you find out anything new!’

  ‘I tell you everything, but I never receive any information in return!'

  ‘That’s not true!’

  ‘I counted six policemen at Mademoiselle de Saltonges’s house, four at Varencourt’s. Including the policemen who came with you, and you yourself, that makes twelve people. A whole army of you! And I imagine that’s just the visible part of a much larger operation.'

  ‘But the Emperor’s security is at stake! It turns out that unfortunately it’s going to be impossible to warn the Emperor about the danger to his life, with all our enemies between us and the army.’

  Margont left, staggering with exhaustion, accompanied by Lefine. Day was breaking timidly. A few golden rays of sunshine ventured between the clouds. It was already 29 March. Margont mounted his horse, but Lefine did not follow suit.

  ‘I have a request,’ he said. ‘Our inquiry isn’t making any progress. We'll just have to await developments ... I’d like to be excused from returning to the barracks immediately. Don’t worry, I’ll be back in time for the great battle. But bearing in mind that we might both be killed tomorrow, I don’t want to spend my last hours practising manoeuvres and being sworn at by our colonel and onetime friend. I’d much rather spend them with someone charming and dear to my heart.’

  Margont t
ook a piece of paper and wrote out a free pass. He signed it and added his rank and number and the fact that he and Lefine were taking part in a mission under the personal orders of Joseph I. ‘You have until midnight. I can’t let you have longer.’ Lefine grabbed his safe-conduct joyously, bounded into his saddle and trotted off. Margont had been thinking that he would go back to his legion. But his friend was right. How should he spend what might be his second-last day alive? Alas, he did not have someone dear to his heart. All right then! He would give himself until midday. Midday! Afterwards he would sleep for a while, then go and join his soldiers. Just a few hours for himself. He had earned it. He felt invigorated as he pointed his horse in the direction of the Louvre.

  CHAPTER 41

  THE former palace of the kings of France had been transformed into a place of such unimaginable wonder that it appeared unreal, mythical. It had been turned into ‘the perfect museum’. Hundreds of masterpieces from all countries had been gathered together in one grandiose place accessible to the public.