Memory of Flames

CHAPTER 15

MARGONT was radiant, his fingers ink-stained and his hands full of paper. Around him typesetters and printers bustled about, brushing purposefully past him. The print shop was a hive of productivity pouring out ink like honey. They had received several orders that they had to fulfil as quickly as possible. Restaurants were changing their menus. In 1800 on the eve of the Battle of Marengo, Napoleon - then merely Bonaparte - had eaten a delicious dish: chicken with a tomato sauce flavoured with little onions, garlic and crayfish. After the battle, the recipe had been renamed ‘chicken Marengo’ and was to this day very popular. It was as if the flavour of the sauce was enhanced by the glory of the victory. Inevitably today innkeepers were offering ‘beef Olssufiev’, reflecting Napoleon’s resounding defeat of General Olssufiev’s small elite army at the Battle of Champaubert, which had set off an astonishing series of victories. But Margont knew that there were dozens of other Olssufievs waiting in the wings.

Margont had suggested an unusual typeface for a ball invitation and was reading the proofs. He was yet again imagining he was printing his newspaper. His fingers manipulated the lead letters with the ease of a master. As he was checking the phrases, his imagination was creating others, all with the word ‘liberty’ in them. This double personality was mixed with a third, that of a royalist. Margont was trying to find the most convincing posters supporting a restoration. The more he succeeded in that the more he would gain the confidence of the Swords of the King. But it would be a double-edged victory. What if the Swords of the King, in their enthusiasm, teamed up with other royalist groups? What if Paris found itself blanketed with posters? How ironic if Margont’s success in his mission should bring about the thing he most dreaded. Mathurin Jelent knew that Margont was playing a role, but although he passed Margont orders and went through the accounts with him, his face never betrayed what he knew. He was completely at ease.

A street urchin burst into the print shop. He was scrawny, but

arrogant and aggressive, like a cockerel ruling the roost. One of the employees picked up an iron bar, which had been part of a now useless press, and put it over his shoulder. Bands of marauding children were plaguing the capital, terrorising passers-by ... ‘M’sieur de Langes, your friend Fernand wants to see you; he needs money urgently. Otherwise, he’s in danger of being chucked in the Seine ...’

Margont followed him out, seizing his hat and coat on the way. The lad led him to a small street in Faubourg Saint-Germain where they found Lefine, who rewarded the boy with a coin.

‘What’s happened?’ demanded Margont.

The debt story was their code for an emergency. Lefine told him that they were very near Catherine de Saltonges’s house. Actually the house belonged to her parents, who had withdrawn to the country to flee the scandal surrounding their daughter’s divorce. Saint-Germain had once been a favoured address of the nobility, but that had all changed after 1789. Many of the landlords had emigrated to escape the Revolution, abandoning their houses,

which had been seized, declared national property and resold. Now diverse social groups co-existed: aristocrats, republicans grown rich from the whirlwind of events of the last few years, dignitaries of the Empire - Marshal Davout, Prince Eugene de Beauharnais, Cambaceres - and armies of functionaries who worked for the Ministries of War, the Interior, Culture, Foreign Relations ... It all made an astonishing mosaic of royalist white, republican blue and imperial gold.

Lefine gestured towards the child and said, ‘Let me introduce Michel. He and his brother have been keeping a watch on Catherine de Saltonges for me.’

Margont could not believe his ears. ‘He’s one of the trusted men you’re relying on?’

‘Yes, he is! When you’re worried about being followed, you turn round all the time trying to see if anyone looks suspicious. But who would notice a brat, and a beggar at that? Michel, tell Quentin what you saw.’

‘That woman, she’s acting very strangely ... She hasn’t stopped

crying since yesterday. This morning she went out twice, alone. She took a few steps along the street and then started crying, changed her mind and went back inside again.’

In the print works, the child had spoken the language of the street urchin, now he expressed himself more clearly. He delighted in deceiving everyone. Just like Lefine!

The third time, she went to Rue de la Carance. That’s in Faubourg Saint-Antoine. She tried to make sure no one followed her but I was always right there. It was easy! A woman let her in. I’d say your woman stayed about an hour. Then she came out again, crying and very pale! You would have thought she was about to mount the scaffold. She went home four or five hours ago. I wasn’t sure if I should, but I alerted Fernand ...’

‘You were right. What did she go to do in Saint-Antoine? Right, Fernand, you stay here in case she comes out again. And, Michel, you take me to the person she went to see.’

‘That’s dangerous,’ Lefine declared.

He dared not say any more in front of Michel, who seemed to be looking off distractedly into the distance, a sure sign that he was listening for all he was worth. Margont had already weighed up the pros and cons. It was true that the woman he was going to meet might inform Catherine de Saltonges of his visit. But he could always claim he was trying to find out about the other members of the committee, as surely they were trying to find out about him. His investigation was not progressing as quickly as the military situation. He was running out of time and he was obliged to act and ready to lower his guard a little.

‘Let’s go, Michel,’ he ordered.