Memory of Flames

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 took 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.