Memory of Flames

by Isabel Reid (Translator) Armand Cabasson

  ‘At Talleyrand’s house ...’ repeated the major to make sure he had correctly understood.

  Varencourt was horrified: Talleyrand might know the real Margont! He made an effort to stay calm. He had spent months perfecting his plan but he could never have foreseen a problem like this. That Talleyrand! What a turncoat! The devil himself, the real one, would barely have acted with such brass neck. Well, too bad. His plan was a bit risky - like all games of cards ... At this very moment

  Alexander must be completely taken up with savouring his victory. ‘Savour all you like, but your pleasure will be short-lived ...’ Although Varencourt was being closely watched by several riflemen, elite troops, none of them was aware of his agitation. His face remained impassive.

  Exhausted and out of breath, Margont was having increasing difficulty running. His lungs and throat were burning. As soon as he noticed enemy soldiers he forced himself to walk - he did not want to draw attention to himself. He tried to catch his breath, watching a regiment of Austrians as they marched by, in their gleaming white, on their way to one of the strategic points in Paris. The Elysee Palace was surrounded by Allied troops, and they could be seen in even greater number in front of the Tuileries. It was clear to Margont that their most direct route was barred. He looped round towards the Madeleine Church. They were almost there! Almost!

  ‘Messieurs! Messieurs! Stop!' yelled a voice that Margont was

  determined to ignore.

  Lefine, noticing the Prussian soldiers aiming at them, grabbed Margont by the collar to bring him to a stop.

  The major spoke to a captain; another captain came over; and then an aide-de-camp. Joseph’s letter was passed from hand to hand. The captain in charge of the guard post raised his arm to summon his interpreter because he didn’t believe the major’s explanations, which annoyed the major. Varencourt betrayed no emotion. He had imagined this scene maybe a thousand times and now, exhilaratingly, it was unfolding exactly as expected! He was being asked all the anticipated questions and giving all his prepared answers. From both sides of Rue de Rivoli, Russian chasseurs were watching the mysterious Frenchman who dared to flaunt his uniform. Exhausted by the fighting, they were sitting in the shade of the arcades, covering the area like a blanket of dark-green ivy. Suddenly those who were watching Varencourt rose and stood to attention, and all the others followed suit, standing up hastily and coming

  into line, presenting arms. Officers barked orders to hurry them into position. A general from the Russian Guard came striding furiously over, followed closely by a posse of heavily decorated officers. His arrival sowed fear amongst the soldiers. Varencourt pretended to watch him with interest. But really he was looking beyond him to the Prince de Benevent’s house.

  The Tsar’s life is in danger! I must speak to the Tsar at once!’ Margont was shouting at the top of his voice in German.

  The Prussians stared at him contemptuously. A captain asked him, ‘And who are you to want to save the Tsar?’

  Margont wasn’t sure what to say. Should he say he was a lieutenant-colonel? Or would that get him into trouble? He could claim that he also had a letter from Joseph, but they would laugh in his face ...

  ‘Listen, tell the men guarding the Tsar that someone is trying to assassinate Alexander—’

  ‘His Imperial Majesty Tsar Alexander l!’ corrected the officer witheringly.

  The Tsar is about to be assassinated!’

  The captain’s expression hardened. ‘Do you know how many men my battalion lost today? Eighteen. And we've as many injured. So I would advise you to worry about your own safety rather than the Tsar’s. We’ve received strict orders to treat the civilian population respectfully. But you and your friend are of an age to serve in the army. And you don’t get a scar of the kind you have on your left cheek by milking cows. I don’t think the order to respect civilians extends to soldiers in civilian clothes. So beat it or you might regret it.’

  Margont and Lefine melted into the crowd and made their way through the streets to another guard post. This time, however, Margont had chosen a post guarded by Russian soldiers.

  The general of the Russian Guard had had the situation explained to him. He read Joseph’s letter and immediately tried to get to the bottom of what Varencourt wanted.

  The letter seems to be authentic. But I can’t let you pass unless you tell me more about it.’

  His French was impeccable, but Charles de Varencourt replied in the guardsman’s own language so that as many Russians as possible could understand what he was saying. Every Russian who heard was a little piece of kindling that Varencourt was trying to ignite to become the sparks of his grand inferno. He was shouting angrily, although his anger was just pretence. This was all a game, a hand of cards, his last, his best! And the stake was Paris and every Parisian!

  ‘I’ve had enough of this! I’ve repeated myself over and over again! I’m Lieutenant-Colonel Margont and I’m acting on the orders of the Emperor! His Majesty Napoleon I asked his brother Joseph I of Spain to entrust a loyal man with a secret mission. I have the honour of having been chosen for that mission. I will not say any more to a mere general! My orders are to explain myself only to the Tsar himself!’

  Russian generals were not used to being spoken to in that disrespectful way. And this one even less than most, to judge by the speed with which all the soldiers around them had jumped to attention and to present arms when he had appeared. Varencourt had noticed that and was making the most of it. He thought he would be more effective if he acted in an arrogant way rather than being servile, courteous and diplomatic. And he had achieved his first objective: the general was furious. He pointed at something off to the side with his white-gloved hand - Varencourt did not even deign to turn to see what it was - and threatened, ‘You see that hanging lantern there? I’m going to have it removed and have you strung up by its cord. You will dangle there, your tongue poking from your mouth, under one of the arcades of the beautiful Rue de Rivoli.’

  ‘When your Tsar hears of it, he’ll hang you from the next lamppost along.’

  It took the general a few seconds to control his rage. Then he gave the order to the sentries: Take him to the Tsar!’

  The riflemen were not allowed to go with them. Only soldiers of

  the Russian or Prussian Guard and aides-de-camp were allowed beyond the guard post.

  Margont was refusing to give up; he kept repeating himself to the captain in charge. Sometimes he spoke French, sometimes halting Russian. He wanted someone to go and warn the Tsar and to tell Monsieur Talleyrand that a certain Margont was asking to see him immediately. He raised his voice, he shouted. It was giving the captain a headache. Finally - finally! - after searching him, the officer reached a decision.

  'I'm going to see what my major thinks.’

  Soldiers and musicians of the Russian and Prussian Guards were lined up on either side of the entrance to Talleyrand’s house. This guard of honour pointedly ignored Varencourt as he entered the house. He was so close to achieving his aim ... He was parked in a waiting room. The captain ordered ten soldiers of the Guard to watch over him. He was searched one more time. He obediently

  removed his boots and his coat.

  An officer arrived and all the soldiers saluted.

  ‘I am Major Lyzki. I am the one who will decide whether your request will be submitted to the Tsar or not. You’re going to have to give me more information. And you’d better not threaten to have me hung from an arcade in Rue de Rivoli ...’

  Although Lyzki had spoken in French, again Varencourt replied in Russian: ‘All right. But if you prefer we can speak Russian. I took part in the Russian campaign and I had time to learn a little of your language in Moscow ...’

  Russian campaign. Moscow. Each word was a spark.

  ‘I was at Borodino,’ he added confidentially. And immediately he bit his tongue; he should have said ‘Moscow’, not ‘Borodino’! To the French it was ‘Moscow’, to the Russians, ‘Borodino’. Fie had inde
ed been at the battle, but as a doctor in the Moscow militia, which was why he was used to saying ‘Borodino’. To deflect Lyzk-i’s attention, he went on: ‘One of our greatest victories!’

  The phrase had its effect. The Russian soldiers were ready to leap

  on him - they considered it a Russian victory. Or it would have been their victory had they stayed on to fight and not retreated! In their view, and in accordance with Russian propaganda, it was a Russian victory that had been ‘spoilt’ by the impetuous order to retreat given by staff officers lacking sufficient determination. Lyz-ki, however, kept his cool.

  ‘So you lived through the retreat from Moscow. Also one of your greatest victories?’

  That was a clever response. But in this game of chess, Lyzki had made the wrong move. He had taken a pawn without realising that he could have had checkmate had he not passed over the word ‘Borodino’.

  Varencourt reiterated once again that he was acting on Napoleon’s orders. He then continued, but in French, as though to acknowledge that he felt more at ease in that language.

  ‘A few days ago His Majesty Joseph I charged me with investigating all the royalist organisations in the capital. I was also meant to be looking for Count Kevlokine, a close associate of your Tsar, in fact his principal agent here in Paris.’

  Lyzki started to look concerned. ‘I know Count Kevlokine well. Continue.’

  The count has been murdered. And what’s worse, he was tortured. His hands and arms were burnt.’

  ‘We know that.’

  Varencourt had been banking on Alexander knowing this. The Tsar must either have been told about his friend’s death by Russian agents, or by informers at the heart of the French police. Or else he had asked people to find out about it, as soon as he had entered Paris.

  ‘Well, it so happens that after a complicated investigation I managed to identify the murderer.’

  Major Lyzki had now completely abandoned his nonchalant demeanour.

  ‘What’s his name?’ he demanded.

  ‘His identity is somewhat problematic. That’s why I can speak only to the Tsar himself.’

  ‘I don’t understand. You say that you are on a mission for your Emperor, then you speak of an investigation

  ‘I’m not saying any more! I value my life! Before I reveal anything I want the Tsar’s personal assurance that he will protect me.’

  Lyzki was very perplexed. What could the man mean? That Napoleon had ordered the murder and torture of Count Kevlokine? Or that Joseph had? Or did he mean, on the contrary, that it was someone close to Louis XVIII who had given the order, which was why the man was so scared and why Napoleon was demanding that the information be passed to the Tsar?

  ‘You certainly seem to be in possession of a good deal of knowledge. But there’s one thing I don’t understand, Lieutenant-Colonel Margont. Why are you taking all these risks? What’s your interest in all this?’

  ‘I value justice above everything else, even my 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 there can be no liberty without justice. It’s hard to explain. I find it difficult to express my determination in words, but I can assure you, it’s relentless. I will carry my investigation through to the bitter end, even if there is nothing in it for me and I lose everything because of it.’

  That was the reply Margont had given Varencourt the day he asked him whether he would go on with his investigation if Paris fell to the Allies. Varencourt reproduced Margont’s sentiment almost word for word, trying to use the same gestures and expression. The card he played at that moment had been lifted directly from Margont’s hand ...

  Til inform the Tsar of your request,’ announced Lyzki as he left the room, holding Joseph’s letter.

  The major led Margont to his colonel, who was to be found in Place Vendome. The square was heaving with soldiers - white-clad Austrians, azure Prussian dragoons banded with white belts, blue Prussian infantry, scarlet Cossacks of the Guard ... A long cord had been attached to the statue of Napoleon dressed as a Roman

  emperor, which stood atop the column at the centre of the square, and the infantry of ten countries were pulling and pulling to bring it down. Extraordinarily, the statue held firm on its base, a lone figure amidst a horde of adversaries.

  The colonel in charge was most displeased to be interrupted. They were spoiling the spectacle! Instead of answering the major, he spoke to one of his captains.

  ‘Find an artillery regiment and tell them to put all the gunpowder they can lay their hands on at the foot of the column!’

  The captain was aghast. He had no choice but to obey. But they had all been given orders to be respectful to the Parisians and here was his colonel wanting to blow up the Place Vendome. With so much gunpowder that the debris would rain down on the Louvre, the Tuileries, the head of the Tsar...

  That column’s made out of our cannons!’ fumed the colonel. The cannons we lost at Austerlitz, which they melted down!’

  Then he came to his senses and rescinded his order. What? What now? Someone wanted to kill the Tsar? They should go and discuss that with those in charge of protecting His Imperial Majesty. As Margont was rejoicing at this command, finally feeling that it would be possible to get to Rue de Rivoli, the colonel went off towards the column. He was jolly well going to pull on that cord himself, and make his staff officers do the same.

  Varencourt was still in the waiting room. Were they keeping him waiting on purpose? Or was Lyzki afraid to disturb the Tsar while he was in the middle of discussing the future of France and Russia? That was life: you tried to plan what you would be doing in one, two, five or ten years, not knowing that actually you were living your last ten minutes ...

  From Place Vendome, Margont and Lefine went down Rue de Castiglione and were stopped by some chasseurs of the Russian Guard at the entrance to Rue de Rivoli. Unfortunately this was not the way Varencourt had come, so these soldiers, who only dealt with their street and paid no attention to the continual comings

  and goings on Rue de Rivoli, knew nothing about any Frenchman asking to see the Tsar.

  Margont explained as best he could to a captain sporting a bloodstained bandage on his forehead. Several of his men had also been wounded in the taking of Buttes-Chaumont.

  ‘No one is going to kill the Tsar,’ the captain said decisively, once Margont had finished.

  Napoleon had renamed the streets running off Rue de Rivoli after his victories, in a bid to make the area more popular. It was at Castiglione, near Mantoue, that Napoleon had beaten the Austrians under Wurmser. Three Russian chasseurs were engaged in using their bayonets to try to prise off the stone plaque engraved with the name Castiglione, and the captain was more interested in that activity than in the ramblings of this Frenchman.

  Lefine was patting Margont on the back with one hand to calm him, whilst with the other he was restraining him by the sleeve. He knew his friend was perfectly capable of trying to storm through the Russian Guard!

  Margont changed tactic. ‘Listen, ask Monsieur de Talleyrand to come here. He knows me and will confirm that you should take what I have to say seriously.’

  The captain started to lose patience.

  Margont added: ‘It was only two days ago that Monsieur de Talleyrand was obeying Napoleon and standing shoulder to shoulder with Joseph. He helped organise the defence of Paris. It’s partly his fault you’re wounded. So it’s fair enough to go and disturb him!’

  That seemed to appeal to the captain. He had still not come to terms with the fact that Talleyrand, a dignitary of the Empire, had not been thrown in prison. Far from it - the Prince de Benevent was taking tea with the Tsar!

  ‘All right,’ he replied. ‘I’ll try. Not for you, for my own personal satisfaction. But if you’re lying to me I’ll have you executed on the spot - your friend too. I have the power to do that. Do you understand me?’

  �
��I understand.’

  In the captain’s mind, disturbing Talleyrand was the equivalent of removing at one stroke all the street signs in Paris commemorating imperial victories. He gave the order to a lieutenant, who immediately ran off. Margont’s Russian was rudimentary. He thought he had grasped what the officer had said but ... no ... he must have misunderstood ... surely ...

  ‘Could you tell me in French what you just told the lieutenant?’ he asked.

  The captain looked disgusted as he said, ‘I told the lieutenant, “Go and find Monsieur de Talleyrand and tell him that he is requested to present himself at our guard post to deal with a matter of extreme gravity concerning the Tsar. A certain Lieutenant-Colonel Margont is asking to see him. Do your utmost to ensure that the head of the Provisional French Government attends in person.’” The head of the Provisional French Government?’ repeated Margont.

  ‘Yes. Incredible, isn’t it?’

  Major Lyzki finally reappeared and gave Varencourt back the letter signed by Joseph. He said respectfully, ‘Your letter is authentic, we’ve compared it with other documents we have from Joseph Bonaparte. Now, normally any imperial spokesman would have to be received by representatives of all the Allied countries—’

  ‘There isn’t time for that!’ exclaimed Varencourt. ‘My mission is extremely urgent!’

  Lyzki raised his hand to interrupt. ‘But in this particular case, we are dealing with a matter personal to the Tsar because he was a close friend of Count Kevlokine. Our Imperial Majesty has therefore agreed to receive you on his own. If you would just follow me »

  ‘You’re so right when you say this is personal to the Tsar.’