Memory of Flames

CHAPTER 17

ONCE he had sent Michel away, Margont relayed everything to Lefine. As he was talking, a bitter taste filled his mouth as if he had bitten into a plum without checking whether it was ripe. He was upset that he had been drawn into the private life of Catherine de Saltonges. He had barely finished his account before he launched into his hypotheses.

‘In leaving her lover in ignorance of her pregnancy, she lied to him - by omission. And she did that even though she has a horror of lying!’

‘Well, you’re playing at espionage and you’re cheating and manipulating even though, ordinarily, you vaunt the merits of sincerity, honesty and loyalty ...’

‘The world has become a giant fools’ playground where everything is topsy-turvy. Do you think the father is a member of the Swords of the King?’

‘I think it’s very likely, since they’re the only people she keeps

company with. According to the police, since her divorce she doesn’t see her old friends any more. Michel and his brother have been watching her since the beginning of our investigation: she often walks in the public gardens or in Faubourg Saint-Germain, but she never goes to visit anyone, nor does anyone visit her.’

‘She’s been pregnant for more than two months. The child must have been conceived around the beginning of January. She hesitated a while before deciding to get rid of it. If the father really is one of our suspects, it’s possible that he was the murderer. If that’s the case, does she know? Was she his accomplice? She told the abortionist that the father had business to attend to. She also mentioned that he had already lost many close relations. That could be Louis de Leaume or Jean-Baptiste de Chatel ... But the others must also have seen family members disappear during the Revolution. We don’t know enough about the pasts of our suspects, I’ve already told you that.’

‘I’m doing my best to find out! They don’t know anything about your past either, otherwise—’ Lefine stopped short, looking embarrassed.

Margont was reminded once again of the risks he was having to run for this affair. He had fought all over Europe, against the Austrians, Hungarians, Russians, Prussians, English and Spanish ... and yet he could easily be killed right here in Paris by a Frenchman. Apparently Fate had a sense of humour; how it must laugh seated with Death in that tavern at the end of the street, drinking to his demise as it watched him through the window. These sombre reflections were chased away by a flash of inspiration.

The father will go and visit her! Even if he hasn’t guessed what’s wrong he must have noticed that something is. She can’t be her normal self! If he loves her, he must be worried about her. Or else she will go and visit him. She almost died and she’s lost a child she wanted to keep! She needs the man’s support. I’m going to stay here. Call Michel back so that he can help me.¹ ‘And I suppose I’m going to have to try again to find out more about our suspects ...’

Margont was not very good at surveillance. Waiting exasperated him. He tried to make use of the lost hours by thinking about his investigation, especially about the evening he had met the committee of the Swords of the King. Perhaps an important detail had escaped him. In light of what he now knew, the memory of that meeting took on a different hue. Who could be the tormented lover of Catherine de Saltonges? It was Louis de Leaume who had addressed her to introduce Margont as the new recruit. Was that a sign of connivance between them? Or had he merely been the one to speak because he was the head of the committee? It was probably not Honoré de Nolant ... Catherine de Saltonges seemed to have a horror of murder; she would not have allowed her lover to be the hangman of the group. Although ...

Michel was amused to see how Margont, who was obviously a soldier - he had a scar on his left cheek and his assured manner spoke of success in dealing with dangerous situations - could not bear the enforced inactivity. Michel, on the other hand, was enjoying it. He was being paid to do nothing - what could be better?

‘You’re going to give us away, Boss,’ he told Margont with his most ironic smile.

‘Don’t call me “Boss”.’

The boss is the person who pays, Boss. If you don’t stop walking about and turning in circles, someone is going to notice us. You need to melt into the crowd - but you hate crowds.’

‘Because they don’t move fast enough. You’re right, though, I’ll try to calm down.’

Half an hour later he was less calm than ever. He was on the point of returning to the printer’s when the door opened. He hurriedly hid out of sight. Michel was aghast. ‘It’s a good thing your woman is still crying and can’t see anything much, otherwise she would be wondering who that man was, pressing himself against the wall and dirtying his overcoat just as she was coming out.’

‘You stay here, Michel.’

‘Happy to.’

Margont followed Catherine de Saltonges. He had not taken offence at the brat’s comments. He knew the child was right, and

tried to behave like someone out for a stroll like everyone else. He raised his collar and crammed his hat down on his head to make himself unrecognisable at first glance, hoping it would be assumed that he was feeling the cold. The crowd also helped to make him less noticeable.

Catherine de Saltonges was making her way along Boulevard Saint-Germain in a strange fashion. Sometimes she would walk quickly, at other times she was almost stationary. She was riven with indecision. She branched off towards the Seine, reached the embankment and went over to the river, moved closer to the river, then closer still ...

She’s going to throw herself in, thought Margont. What should he do? Save her and ruin all his efforts to be accepted by the Swords of the King? Call for help? Catherine de Saltonges leant over the green, glacial water. An invisible thread seemed to pull her backwards. Nevertheless she continued to walk along the embankment. It was as if she was walking along beside Death and finding it surprisingly soothing. Finally she turned back and went across the old Saint-Michel bridge, which now resembled a plucked peacock. In 1809, the sixty houses that had been built on the bridge two centuries before were all destroyed.

When she reached Tie de la Cite, she crossed the cathedral square and went into Notre-Dame. Margont went in as well and kept to one side so that he could slide discreetly from pillar to pillar. Although thousands of churches and abbeys had been devastated, pillaged, transformed into stables or stone quarries with readymade stones, or even into the Stock Exchange (the Paris Stock Exchange had been installed in the church of Petits-Peres from 1796 to 1807), Notre-Dame had been left relatively unscathed. It was in fact where Napoleon had been crowned emperor of the French on 2 December 1804.

Catherine de Saltonges’s steps resounded with surprising force, as if the burden she was carrying was weighing her down. She looked tiny amidst the vertiginously tall columns. In the gloom, the multicoloured windows gleamed, transmitting the light of God to man through their images.

She went into a chapel and knelt down - or rather fell to her knees - and joined her hands. She was motionless, so wrapped up in prayer that it seemed as if she had been changed into a pillar of salt. Christ looked down at her from his Cross with such compassion that he might have been about to rip his hands free from the nails to hold her in his arms.

Moments passed. When she eventually moved again it was to bow, as if she were about to prostrate herself. Then she rose and returned shakily through the cathedral. She stopped at the intersection of the nave and transept and looked up at the dome where there was a painted medallion representing the Virgin holding the baby Jesus in her arms, against a starry night background. Catherine de Saltonges repressed a sob.

But when she reached the light of the entrance, she began to walk firmly. She must not reveal her wounds and hurt to the world. Ever.

Margont hesitated. Instead of following her, he went back to the chapel. At the foot of the cross, in the middle of the lighted tapers, were three little objects, nestling next to each other. A folded woman’s handkerchief, a button, and a golden bracelet just big enough to fit the wrist of a baby ...

Margont stretched out his hand, feeling as if it were being devoured by imaginary insects born of his guilt. The button was gold-coloured metal, like the button from a uniform. But it had been beaten with a flat object. Not with a hammer, in which case it would have been cracked and crushed. The heel of a shoe? Unfortunately the motif was unrecognisable: perhaps a number or a letter, an emblem, or two symbols intertwined.

Margont decided to leave the two other items since they did not tell him anything he did not already know. The bracelet would soon be stolen. Catherine de Saltonges had not wanted to keep the jewel she had intended for the newborn. But she had not been able to bring herself to give it to someone else, or to have it melted down or to throw it away. Instead she had offered it up to Christ in the hope that he would authorise a mother come to pray to him to take it for the wrist of her child.

Margont knelt on one knee and scraped the edge of the button on the ground leaving a light tracing of gold dust. Then he slipped it into his pocket.

He went out and caught up with Catherine de Saltonges, who was walking slowly home. He reflected on the strangeness of the little family: a woman who had almost thrown herself into the Seine, a child dead before it was born and a man of whom nothing was known but this damaged button.