The Allies had lost nine thousand men, either injured or killed, and the French, four thousand.
The silence was eerie. The soldiers’ ears still rang with the cacophony of combat, as if they could not believe that calm had returned. The silence spoke to Catherine de Saltonges, huddled in a torpor in the corner of her cell. It was murmuring something to her: the Allies had won. But she herself had lost everything. Almost everything. She still had her pride! In spite of the torment her ex-husband had put her through, in spite of the hardships of the Revolution, of her inability to keep her lover in her arms, the loss of her child, yes, in spite of all that, nothing would ever succeed in breaking her spirit.
She stood up, walked over to the door and began to beat on it with the flat of her hand and called out to her gaolers, This is it, Messieurs. It’s time for us to change places.’
CHAPTER 44
AFTER several hours of negotiation, the capitulation of Paris was signed.
The regular troops of the French army had been authorised to withdraw and they were to leave Paris by seven o’clock the next morning. The National Guard, on the other hand, was pronounced to be ‘in a totally different category from the troops of the line’. The text of the capitulation specified that ‘... it would be maintained, disarmed or discharged, according to the will of the Allies’. These orders circulated and Margont was alarmed when they reached him. Paris was going to be occupied and he was specifically forbidden to go with the retreating army. He was to wait for the Allies in the capital and report to them. He was worried that he would be thrown in gaol. On the other hand, if he disobeyed orders and followed the French army, he would be arrested anyway. ‘We’ll just have to discharge ourselves! I’d rather remove myself than wait to be forcibly removed by others,’ declared Lefine.
He took Margont and Piquebois round to his lady-friend’s house. It was dark. A woman opened the door. Margont was so exhausted and demoralised that he felt completely drained. The only things he took in about the woman were her striking face and the fact that her eyes were red from weeping. She burst into tears as she took Lefine in her arms. Margont stretched himself out on the floor and fell asleep instantly.
On the morning of 31 March, Margont, Lefine and Piquebois took the time to wash thoroughly to remove all traces of the gunpowder they were covered in. Lefine’s friend was a widow. They borrowed her husband’s clothes in order to pass themselves off as civilians. ‘We have to find Varencourt,’ Margont stated. ‘I’m sure he’s still in Paris.’
Lefine knew Margont much too well to be surprised by his proposal. He knew that his friend needed this investigation. But he was torn between his desire to help Margont and his desire to stay and protect his lady-friend, in case any enemy mercenaries should
show up. They finally agreed that Piquebois would stay with her and they would barricade themselves in. Piquebois was a formidable swordsman and woe betide anyone who provoked him to unleash his sabre!
Margont and Lefine left. They had stuffed their uniforms into two bags, which they abandoned a few streets away in the heart of the Marais, in a dark corner. They were unarmed, having given their weapons the day before to the retreating regular army. Piquebois, however, had kept his sabre, which he refused to be parted from, and a pistol.
Margont tried to work out what he would do if he were Varencourt. Would he wait in Paris? Would he try to profit from the general chaos to get close to Napoleon? Where would Napoleon be, and had he been warned about the proposed attempt on his life?
He followed Lefine without noticing where they were going. Other people seemed to be going in the same direction. They reached the Champs-Elysees and found it lined with an astonishing number of Parisians. Some were wearing white cockades or armbands;
others were simply waving white handkerchiefs and shouting, ‘Long live Louis XVI11!’ So this was the grand procession of the Allies. At the head came the Cossacks of the Guard, in scarlet. Next the Tsar, Generalissimo. Schwarzenberg, the King of Prussia and the Prince of Wurtemberg, all accompanied by their sumptously attired general staff. Two regiments of Austrian grenadiers followed them, all dressed in white and wearing bearskins, then Russian grenadiers with shakos topped by long black plumes, and thousands of soldiers of the Prussian Guard and the Russian Guard. Then there was a mass of Russian curassiers, and more and more and more of them. The Chevalier Guard brought up the rear in their white uniforms and black cuirasses. It was these elite cavalrymen who had wounded Piquebois at the Battle of Austerlitz. Lucky that he wasn’t here, because the sight of them always reduced him to wild rage.
Margont still couldn’t take in what he was seeing. He kept looking from the part-built Arc de Triomphe to the streams of Allied soldiers marching rhythmically past, and back again to the
monument.
Lefine muttered to himself, ‘So it really is all over...’
The Allies were each wearing a white armband or a white scarf, and the Parisians thought they were demonstrating their support for Louis XVIII. In reality, however, the white was merely meant to distinguish them from French soldiers, since the diversity of uniforms on both sides made it hard to distinguish one side from the other.
Margont tried to think about something else. In fact he had something else very important to consider. The Roman lady in the mosaic came back to him. He decided to go through all the clues he had, but starting with the two that did not fit his original hypothesis, namely that Count Kevlokine’s face had not been burnt, and that the murderer had left the emblem of the Swords of the King on his corpse.
The crowd was yelling, ‘Long live Louis XVI11! Long live the Bourbons!’ and some were even falling in behind the Allied procession in the footsteps of the last Chevalier Guards. But Margont neither saw nor heard them.
Varencourt had not been able to resist burning the second victim. But he had spared his victim’s face, contenting himself with burning his arms. What would have happened if he had mutilated his face in the same way as Colonel Berle’s? Count Kevlokine would not have been identified. Nevertheless, Joseph would probably still have sent Margont to the scene of the crime, because of the Swords of the King symbol. So the two elements came together to give the same result: that Margont would investigate the murder. Margont knew that Varencourt wanted to use Margont’s identity but why did he need to become ‘the man investigating Count Kevlokine’s murder’?
Margont finally worked it out. Yes, this time his hypothesis incorporated those two discordant elements that had previously made no sense. But now the pattern the clues made was not the same. Only a few tesserae had changed places but it was no longer Napoleon’s face that the mosaic spelt out. Margont grabbed Le-fine’s arm.
‘Varencourt is going to kill the Tsar. He led the Swords of the King to believe that his plan was to poison Napoleon, because he needed their help. But actually he manipulated them just like he manipulated me. He murdered Count Kevlokine in order to get near Alexander!’
‘But—’
The Tsar knew Count Kevlokine. He will want to know who killed and mutilated his friend so he would probably agree to see anyone who had information about the killing. If Alexander were to be killed by a “French officer”, “Lieutenant-Colonel Margont”, carrying an instruction from Joseph Bonaparte, the Russian soldiers would think that the Tsar had been executed on Napoleon’s orders. They would immediately vent their rage on Paris! They would put everything to fire and the sword! And that’s exactly what Charles de Varencourt wants. He wants the Emperor wandering through a Paris reduced to cinders, amidst the rubble of the monuments he’s had erected, and the incinerated remains of the people he loves. That’s what Varencourt’s vengeance is really about. He’d like Napoleon to go through exactly what he himself went through - an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Paris for Moscow.’
Lefine tried to find an objection, but Margont added: The Tsar would be dead and Paris razed to the ground, because the Russians would burn everything. That would be vengeance indeed agai
nst the two people responsible for the burning of Moscow. Because even if that’s not what Alexander wanted, he was the one who set in train the events that led to that catastrophe. Everything began in Moscow, everything was to finish in Paris. Ever since the disaster of the retreat from Moscow, Charles de Varencourt guessed that, sooner or later, the Empire would collapse. So he came here and worked out his plan while little by little the Tsar and the other crowned heads of Europe closed in on France, dreaming of their triumphal entry into Paris, just as we have paraded through Vienna, Berlin, Madrid, Moscow ... He progressively adapted his plan to events and opportunities ... Since his life had been destroyed he was obsessed with fire. Fire and gambling.
Gambling was the only thing that could distract him from fire. Thanks to gambling he was able to experience vivid emotions, he told me as much. Gambling temporarily filled the void in his life and kept fire at bay for a few hours ... Only Catherine de Saltonges might have been able to prevent all this. With her Varencourt almost succeeded in rebuilding his life one more time. One day she found the damaged button and eventually he told her the whole story. But unfortunately she did not succeed in laying the ghost of her lover’s past.’
Lefine was speechless.
‘Where is the Tsar?’ Margont asked him.
‘Well, he passed in front of us more than three hours ago ...’
‘If I’m right, Charles de Varencourt will try to put his plan into action now. It’s exactly the right moment. All the Allies will still be reeling from yesterday’s fighting ... We have to warn the Tsar!’
CHAPTER 45
VARENCOURT left his cramped living quarters. He had expected the streets to be empty but, on the contary, there were masses of people around. The Parisians wanted to see the Allied soldiers up close. People looked at him in alarm and civilians gave him a wide berth as though his face were ravaged by leprosy. It was because he was wearing the uniform of a lieutenant-colonel in the National Guard and that made him a target. He had obtained the uniform by brazenly bursting into a military outfitter’s and showing them the letter from Joseph. He had received what he needed in less than two hours.
He walked with the calm assurance of someone who has nothing left to lose since he would be dead in a short while. He was putting into action the last stage of the plan he had been hatching for months; he was showing his final hand.
He could hear the marching of many boots, and the pounding of hoofs. Obviously a large troop. The Allies were deploying all over Paris.
Varencourt drew attention to himself, raising his arms high, with Joseph’s letter in one hand and, in the other, a piece of white material. He was unarmed. In the avenue an impeccable column of Prussian and Russian infantry filed past, and also passing at that moment were some Russian riflemen in their black gaiters, dark-green coats and breeches and black-plumed shakos. The demonstration by the ‘French officer’ caused incredible confusion. Some of the infantry turned their heads but continued to march, as if they could not believe what they were seeing; others broke ranks to encircle Charles de Varencourt, their weapons trained on him; two captains came over with sabres drawn; their riflemen fanned out into the streets, causing passing Parisians to scatter like pigeons taking flight.
‘I’m a messenger! I’m unarmed!’ Varencourt explained composedly in Russian.
Had anyone fired, Varencourt would have been killed instantly. But he wasn’t worried about that. He was already a dead man - he had nothing to fear from death. Quite the reverse, deep inside he was jubilant, like a mathematician who is finally able to test the equation he has spent months formulating.
But no shot rang out. After all, the Frenchman was brandishing a white flag and did not appear hostile. Besides, he was obviously a high-ranking officer and anyone who shot him would have to answer to his superiors. And he spoke Russian - like a native!
A major from the infantry came to plant his standard in front of Varencourt, who said, still in Russian: ‘I am Lieutenant-Colonel Margont. The King of Spain, Joseph I, brother of our Emperor Napoleon I, has charged me with a mission. I must see the Tsar immediately.’
He held out the letter. The major nodded towards a captain, who rode over, plucked the document from Varencourt’s hands and proceeded to read it and then translate it for his superior.
‘You speak good Russian,’ remarked the captain.
‘I was part of the Russian campaign. I took advantage of that to learn the rudiments of your language.’
Those words alone, ‘the Russian campaign’, were enough to infuriate the Russians. And that was what Varencourt was aiming at. These soldiers did not know it, but they were the first little blades of grass that he was setting light to. It was too early for the blaze to take hold, but soon, very soon ...
‘Why do you want to see the Tsar?’ demanded the captain.
‘My mission is absolutely confidential. Joseph’s orders are for me to explain it to the Tsar in person.’
A colonel came over with his regimental chief of staff. What was all this? His entire column was being held up by a single Frenchman? He began to berate the major; the captain was still interrogating Varencourt whilst trying to answer the colonel’s questions ... The more the Russians tried to show that they were in control of the situation, the more obvious it became that they didn’t know what to do.
‘It doesn’t say anywhere in this letter from Joseph that you are to speak to the Tsar,’ objected the captain.
‘Of course not! How could it?’
The Russian officers frowned. Varencourt was giving them mixed messages and they were not sure if they should take him seriously. Since the Frenchman spoke Russian, the colonel addressed him directly.
‘Does your message come from Joseph Bonaparte or from Napoleon himself?’
Varencourt was overjoyed, but he did not let it show. Had they not asked him that question he would somehow have had to lead them to ask it.
‘My message comes from our Emperor who passed it on to Joseph, who in turn charged me with communicating it to the Tsar. But I can’t say any more! All that you need to know is that I am acting on the orders of Napoleon l! You can search me to make sure I am unarmed, then take me to the Tsar. I am acting on the written orders of someone who is much more senior than you are. None of you has the necessary authority to prevent me from speaking to His Imperial Majesty Alexander I. Only the Tsar can decide if he will refuse to see me.’
The few months he had served in the Russian army before deserting had educated him in how rigidly Russian soldiers interpreted matters of hierarchy. The colonel nodded and the infantry major gave the order for him.
‘Search him!’
Two riflemen did so, then a captain searched him again very carefully. Finally the colonel spoke quite slowly in Russian.
‘I’m giving you one last chance. If you admit that you have fooled us, I give you my word as an officer that I will let you go free. On condition that you return to wherever you sprang from.’
‘I am on a mission at the order of the Emperor and the King of Spain. I must speak to the Tsar.’
The colonel gave instructions to the major, who led a group of about fifty riflemen to escort Varencourt to Alexander I.
Margont was interrogating the passers-by. ‘Do you know where the Tsar is?’
People laughed at him or insulted him - no one knew anything.
He hesitated to ask the Allied soldiers, for fear of arousing their suspicions. For want of a better idea, he headed towards the Tuileries Palace. In Moscow, Napoleon had taken up residence in the Kremlin, so Margont hoped that Alexander would follow the same logic.
‘Where is the Tsar?’ he persisted.
He finally found someone who could tell him. ‘He’s just installed himself in a magnificent town house on Rue Saint-Florentin, at the home of the greatest traitor of all time, who, of course, welcomed him, bowing and scraping, with open arms: Monsieur de Talleyrand!’
This was so unexpected that Margont thought he had misheard
. Even Lefine couldn’t believe his ears.
‘You’re making fun of us, Monsieur...’
‘No, it’s Talleyrand who’s made a fool of all of us. All the imperial dignitaries have left Paris - except for him! And has he been thrown in prison, or at least detained under armed guard? Not a bit of it. No, I can assure you, he is at home receiving the Tsar, as
we speak! I followed Alexander after his procession down the Champs-Elysees until his soldiers barred my way, and I can definitively tell you that he is at Talleyrand’s house. I saw him going in from afar.’
Rue Saint-Florentin crossed Rue de Rivoli. As it happened, it was near the Tuileries. Margont began to run, with Lefine hard on his heels.
Varencourt and his escort first headed towards the Elysee Palace. But on the way the major hailed one of the Tsar’s aides-de-camp just to confirm that the Tsar was actually there. ‘He’s not,’ the aide-de-camp replied. Before the fall of Paris, the Tsar had indeed planned to reside at the Elysee Palace. But as soon as they had entered Paris, the sovereign Allies had been greeted by Talleyrand. Talleyrand? Why didn’t he flee Paris? Isn’t he one of the highest dignitaries of the French Empire?’ queried the major in surprise. ‘Rats don’t leave a ship that’s afloat for one that’s about to sink!’ replied the aide-de-camp, laughing.
The Prince de Benevent had told Alexander that Napoleon had given the order that the capital must not fall into enemy hands intact. He had warned the Tsar to be extremely careful: it was possible that the sappers of the Imperial Guard had mined the Elysee and the Tsar wouldn’t want to take any unnecessary risks ... And the Tuileries Palace? Probably also mined, Talleyrand shouldn’t wonder. He had then added that there was only one place worthy of receiving a tsar, which could be declared categorically safe: his own house. That was how the Tsar ended up residing in Rue Saint-Florentin in the company of Talleyrand himself.
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