Once again Armand Cabasson marries his phenomenal knowledge of the Napoleonic period with his psychiatric expertise to create a gripping and totally convincing narrative.

CHAPTER 1

As he advanced along the corridor an image rose before him. It was as if each of his steps was the ratchet of a cog setting in train other movements. He had prepared his plan with the precision of a watchmaker. That night he was finally starting up the complex mechanism. He heard a noise on the stairs. Someone was coming up. He had orientated himself in the dark by feeling along the wall and had already counted four doors. Now he went back, opened the third door and hid in the bedroom that had previously belonged to the colonel’s only daughter. The room had been unoccupied since she had married. The yellowish-orange light of a candle filtered under the door before moving away. A heavy footstep, slow and uneven: Mejun, the oldest of the colonel’s servants, a retired sergeant whose leg had been shattered by an Austrian cannonball at the Battle of Marengo. He was on his way to light the fire in the study as he did every evening; but he was half an hour early. The colonel must have hurried through his supper. Leaning against the door, the intruder steadied his nerves – he knew the layout and habits of the house inside out. Mejun went back along the corridor with no inkling that anything was amiss.

The intruder slipped out of the bedroom and finally reached the study, where he hid behind the long velvet curtains. All he had to do now was wait.

But almost immediately he was drawn out of his hiding place. The hearth. The fire. The flames, like golden tongues licking the air, seemed to call to him. It was as if they recognised him and wanted to show him something. The way they bent and leapt, weaving themselves together and then separating, the dark interstices they created . . . Faces with flaming skin and sooty eyes appeared in the dancing tapestry. Pain contorted their features; their mouths opened wide in silent screams. They disappeared, to be replaced by others, coming towards him. In vain they shouted for help, until their unbearable suffering robbed them of consciousness. The presences were so real . . . the logs crackled and one of them split and burst into a shower of sparks. The frenzy of the victims increased. He saw nothing but the fire. It filled his thoughts; he was reduced to a human husk burning inside. The door creaked, bringing him back to reality, leaving him barely time to hide again.

Footsteps. The exhausted trudge of someone determined to work for a little longer before strength failed. The wood of the desk chair groaned. Only the colonel was allowed to sit there. A pen began to scratch hastily across the paper. The old officer did not notice the intruder coming up behind him.

CHAPTER 2

Lieutenant-Colonel Quentin Margont stood to attention. He was wearing his uniform of the infantry of the line. Although he had been promoted two months ago to field officer of the National Guard of Paris, he had not yet received his new uniform. He had been summoned to the magnificent office in the Tuileries Palace where he now confronted two of the most celebrated figures of the Empire. Unfortunately he disliked the first and was suspicious of the second.

Joseph Bonaparte, elder brother of Napoleon, had accumulated a dizzying array of titles: King of Spain (or, even more impressively King of Spain and the Indies), Lieutenant-General of the Empire, Commander of the Army and the National Guard of Paris. The Emperor had entrusted him with the defence of the capital whilst he himself fought in the north-east of France. The astonishing thing was that Joseph – whom Margont judged, perhaps a little harshly, to be incompetent – resembled the Emperor, with his round puffy face, brown eyes, high forehead and sparse black hair. He considered himself very intelligent, but he was like a mediocre copy of a painting pretending to be the original.

Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord, Prince de Bénévent, known as ‘The Limping Devil’ was in every way, whether considering his qualities or his faults, the polar opposite. Brilliant, far-sighted, witty, manipulative, charming, affable, obsequious, deceitful and unpredictable, he had the gift of the gab. It was rumoured that he had dared to say, after the cataclysmic outcome of the Russian campaign, ‘It’s the beginning of the end.’ The Emperor suspected him of having betrayed him on several occasions and of now plotting for the return of the Bourbons. Relations between them were so confrontational that Napoleon had referred to him to his face as ‘shit in silk stockings’.

But Talleyrand knew how to make himself indispensable. As a dignitary he was always involved in diplomatic manoeuvring, either officially or unofficially. Margont considered him an astute weathervane, adept at anticipating the changes in the wind. But it was not impossible that this devious man did, in his own way, love his country. Perhaps he was sincerely trying to help France and not just working for his own advancement, but he was doing it with the arrogance of someone who believes that only his way will work.

The sixty-year-old, in his powdered wig, was observing Margont with an intensity that belied his relaxed posture and his world-weary air.

‘At ease,’ barked Joseph. ‘Lieutenant-Colonel Margont, we have summoned you because we need you for a secret mission.’

He was studying papers spread out on the desk as he spoke and did not look at Margont, who felt certain that he knew what those papers said about him and longed to seize them and hurl them into the fire that was inadequately heating the vast room.

‘His Highness Prince Eugène charged you with a confidential mission during the Russian campaign. That you know. What you perhaps don’t know is how he characterised you afterwards. Eulogies and encomiums!’

He brandished a sheet of paper and read from it.

‘You are, and I quote, “an admirable man”—’

He had to break off as Talleyrand snorted with laughter.

The Prince de Bénévent had long ceased believing that men could be admirable . . .

‘You succeeded brilliantly in your mission, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. In view of all this praise and of your experience, Monsieur de Talleyrand and I consider that you are the man we need.’

Margont was a confirmed republican. At a time when Paris was threatened, he wanted to play his part in protecting the capital, not to be ‘the man we need’, whatever mission Joseph was about to reveal.

The latter settled back in his chair and stared at Margont.

‘Yesterday evening, Colonel Berle was assassinated at home, here in Paris. We have reason to believe that the crime was committed by one or more royalists—’

‘But perhaps we’re barking up the wrong tree,’ Talleyrand suddenly interrupted.

‘Berle was a military genius, and although now sixty, he had agreed to be pressed back into service because of the situation we are facing. He was one of the officers I had asked to consider

the best ways of defending Paris. We are preparing for the worst, as a precaution, even though, of course, the enemy will never succeed in reaching Paris!’

‘But they already have, Your Excellency—’ objected Margont.

‘What insolence! Yet another revolutionary who believes in freedom of expression! And he dares to call me “Your Excellency” instead of “Your Majesty”! I am King of Spain!’

Imperial Spain barely existed any more; it was reduced to Barcelona and part of Catalonia. Joseph was the only one to think his crown still meant anything. Margont made an effort to rein himself in. His candour and his love of the witty retort had already got him into trouble in the past. But the terms ‘Your Highness’ or ‘Your Majesty’ stuck in his throat. His expression was impassive but inside he was boiling. They should have started reinforcing the capital’s defences months ago! But not a single entrenchment had been built and not a single ditch dug! No one had drawn up instructions in case of an attack! Such inaction was criminal. Was Joseph afraid of worrying people? Did he think that ostrich tactics would work? The lieutenant-general paused a moment, hesitating to entrust Margont with the inquiry. Then he launched in.

‘The file we have on you, Lieutenant-Colonel, dwells at length on your revolutionary ardour. But so much the better. Nothing like a republican to hunt down a royalist. The victim

was tortured. No doubt his tormentor was trying to force information from him. I don’t know whether poor Berle talked . . . He was writing a proposal for me to transform the mound at Montmartre into an impregnable redoubt guarded by large- calibre cannons to protect the approaches to Paris . . . He was

also working on plans for entrenchments to guard the residential areas of the city and on what to do about the bridges: how to fortify them, and equip them with landing stages . . .’

Margont was shaken. Montmartre, the bridges . . . Of course it was necessary to do all that to protect Parisians. But he found it disturbing to think of the places he loved covered with retrenchments and artillery.

‘The murderer left behind a royalist emblem. A white rosette with a medallion in the middle decorated with a fleur-de-lis in the shape of an arrowhead crossed with a sword. It was pinned

to the colonel’s shirt. The murderer also stole some documents. Fortunately, most of them were coded, as I had instructed. Our theory is that a small group of royalists is planning to try to disrupt the defence of Paris.’

Royalist plotters! Everyone was talking about them as if there were tens of thousands of them, when in fact there could have been only a few thousand scattered amongst several different organisations. Since the catastrophic imperial defeats in 1812 and 1813 they had regained credibility and energy. They were stirring up as much trouble as possible, fearing that Napoleon would come to a compromise with the Allies and hold on to his imperial crown. They advocated all-out war against the Emperor and some of them favoured extreme methods: murder and uprising.

‘We think the murderer left the emblem to create a climate of fear. Our enemies within are only a handful – they want to appear more numerous and dangerous than they really are.

We won’t play their game! I demand that every detail of the crime remain secret. Neither you nor the servant who discovered the colonel’s body must divulge that aspect of the affair. As for the police, they won’t even know about it. It so happens that we have an advantage and you are going to exploit it for us.’

Joseph let the last few words sink in.

‘The murderer thinks he can hide in the anonymity of the myriad monarchist organisations: the Knights of the Faith, the Congregation, the Aa, the Societies of the Sacred Heart . . . But he underestimates the reach of our police services. We have an informer in one of their groups, the Swords of the King. Charles de Varencourt is the son of a noble Norman family. A committed royalist, but with an Achilles heel: he’s an inveterate gambler, and so he’s always short of money. A few weeks ago he began to sell us information.’

Margont, who was an idealist, had no time for that kind of person. ‘I see . . .’ he said. ‘When he runs out of money he betrays his companions.’

‘Exactly. We haven’t arrested them yet for three reasons. First, in this kind of operation we must avoid haste. The longer we wait the more information we’ll gather, and the more members of the group we’ll be able to identify. We haven’t yet managed to find out where the members live. Secondly, the plotters can’t agree on what action to take, so they don’t represent any immediate danger. And thirdly, thanks to them, we will be able to hook a much larger fish, Count Boris Kevlokine. But more about him later. In the meantime Charles de Varencourt has been providing us with information. Some of the plotters plan to wage a murderous campaign against the key members of the team charged with defending Paris.’

Although Joseph tried to hide it, his voice trembled. He was afraid. Did he think that he might be targeted? Margont abstained from assuring him that he was perfectly safe since his enemies would have no interest in eliminating such a hopeless incompetent. In any case, the security of the top brass was assured. Joseph cleared his throat and tried once more to master himself, which only served to make his anxiety more obvious.

‘Colonel Berle was on the list of people they plan to assassinate. I had taken steps to protect the people on the list, discreetly so as not to make it obvious to our enemies that we knew what they were up to. But I have to admit we hadn’t seen this coming. Even in the Swords of the King there aren’t many royalists willing to commit to murder in this way. Murder as a tactic is under discussion but hasn’t been agreed. Some members would like to foment a popular uprising by printing posters; others want to raise arms; and some are just planning to wait until everything is sorted out whilst looking as if they’re taking action . . . The group had gathered information about potential victims – names, addresses, places of work, regular routes, interests, friends and family, the number of armed guards each had. Colonel Berle’s murderer would have known all these things. At the time of the murder there were fifteen people in the house! There were sentries, his private secretary, two valets, three household servants, the cook, the kitchen maid, the coachman . . . So the man must have got in through a window and made his way through the house, in spite of all the comings and goings, to the study on the second floor. That proves he knew the habits of his victim. And the symbol he left behind is the secret emblem of the Swords of the King.’

Margont thought of Paris. Could a few crimes like that really put the defence of the capital in jeopardy? Unfortunately, yes. And what about Talleyrand? The Prince de Bénévent had not said a word, although he was paying close attention to what Margont and Joseph were saying, and to their demeanour. Margont was curious to hear what he would have to say.

‘So, Lieutenant-Colonel, what do you conclude from what I have just told you?’ demanded Joseph.

‘Nothing, Your Excellency.’

The lieutenant-general raised his eyes to the ceiling, then let his head fall back. He studied the ceiling with its elegant oval stucco and enormous chandelier whose candles barely illuminated the wintry gloom. But his attitude was unconvincing. Joseph seemed to have struck a pose, like an actor trying to intimidate an audience that was not delivering the correct response. He was a bit-part player who had been made a king because he was the Emperor’s brother. But instead of becoming a Henry V he was nothing but a mediocre King Lear, responsible in part for his own difficulties. He rose.

‘I demand a response, Lieutenant-Colonel.’

‘Perhaps one of the members of the group decided unilaterally to put into operation the plan to destabilise the Empire by committing murder. By leaving the emblem, apart from making it clear that the Empire’s enemies are here in the heart of Paris, he hoped to draw the other conspirators into the plan whether they liked it or not. He was setting in train a process: the crime would force you to step up your efforts against the Swords of the King, which would alarm them and push them to commit increasingly violent acts.’

Joseph was delighted and the smile he gave Margont was supposed to be a reward.

‘That’s what we think too.’

‘Or else . . .’

The lieutenant-general raised his eyebrows. He had not anticipated an ‘or else’.

‘We also have to entertain the frightening possibility that our informant is the perpetrator,’ continued Margont. ‘The crime increases the value of what he has to sell. I’m sure you will have increased his pay after this.’

Talleyrand tapped his cane on the ground – his way of applauding. He began to speak and his voice was full of warmth, making Margont feel he was someone important.

‘Monsieur Lieutenant-Colonel Margont, do your utmost to arrest the murderer. Help Paris and defend your ideals!’

Talleyrand’s wily reputation was well merited. While Joseph persisted in believing that Margont would obey him simply because he was Joseph I, Talleyrand had immediately hit the nail on the head. His few words were like a finger pointing at the wound in Margont’s soul. The coming days would be crucial. If Napoleon were defeated, France would have to endure an occupation by the powers allied against it. And they all had either monarchs or emperors. The gains of the Revolution, the Republic and the Empire would all be crushed like cockroaches under the boots of the incoming monarchs.

‘There is a third possibility: that the perpetrator is someone close to the colonel,’ Margont stated, ‘and he’s trying to throw the investigators off the scent.’

Joseph shook his head. ‘Our informant was categorical: the Swords of the King have an obsessive fear of spies. They distrust everyone and everything. They protect their secrets. So only the members of their committee know what their emblem is – and Savary, the Minister of Civilian Police, and I. No, it’s clear that one or several of them were responsible for the crime.’

Margont was interested in the way that Joseph disposed the pieces on the chessboard – Napoleon, the Grande Armée much reduced yet still redoubtable, Louis XVIII, the royalists, the numerous pawns formed by the Allied armies, an assassinated colonel, one or more murderers, an untrustworthy spy, Paris . . . But where did he hope to place Margont?

‘It seems to me that the civilian police would be more than capable of conducting this inquiry,’ he commented circumspectly.

‘And they will do, Lieutenant-Colonel. Whilst you – you will become a member of the Swords of the King.’

‘What?’ yelled Margont. ‘You want me dead? I refuse to—’

‘You will refuse nothing! The decision is already taken.’

‘But I would never succeed! I could never pass myself off as an aristocrat, and as soon as I slipped up, I would be—’

‘On the contrary! You are precisely the man for this mission. You spent several years of your childhood in the Abbey of Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert, because your uncle, against your will, wanted you to become a monk. Draw on that experience! The same thing happened to many of the younger sons of the aristocracy, whose fathers wished to leave all their inheritance to their oldest sons. You read and write well, you know Latin . . . You are going to pass yourself off as Chevalier Quentin de

Langès. The Langès family did actually exist – we haven’t chosen a name at random. They were part of the nobility of Languedoc and were all massacred during the Revolution. You can read their story in the documents we will furnish you with. So if the Swords of the King send someone to investigate your past, they will find evidence of the family: a name here or there, a castle burnt down with no remains . . . And by the time they’ve travelled the three hundred leagues there and back . . . You’re an officer, are you not? Tens of thousands of aristocrats who emigrated have come back to France to take advantage of the amnesties generously accorded by the Emperor. And a good many of them have chosen military careers. So you won’t have many lies to add to your own history to make yourself into a believable royalist, and the less you lie, the more credible you will be.’

‘I’ll be unmasked and you’ll find my body floating in the Seine. You already have an informer . . .’

‘We have no faith in Varencourt. We need someone loyal. The affair is of the utmost importance, we can’t leave it to a mercenary.’

‘When he’s lost all your money at the gaming tables, it’s my life he’ll gamble on! He’s already sold his friends; he’ll be able to redeem himself with them by denouncing me, then he’ll sell you the names of the men who have stabbed me to death!’

Joseph raised his voice, gesticulating and red in the face. He looked like a glass of red wine, shaken and spilt by an angry hand.

‘Be quiet! Those are my orders! Do you think anyone here gives a damn what you think? If you say any more I shall have you sent to be trampled by the Cossacks. Silence!’

There was a jumble of paper, books and other objects on the desk, and Joseph pushed it all towards Margont with both hands.

‘Here is everything you need: Chevalier Quentin de Langès’s biography, an up-to-date passport stating that you returned to France in 1802 to take advantage of the amnesty of 6 Floréal, year 10, a signet ring with the Langès coat of arms – don’t wear it, keep it at home – the key to your lodgings, a little money, fake letters from your former mistress, who lives in Scotland, some works describing Edinburgh, where you lived in destitution, which is what forced you to return, some details of the regiments you served in – the 18th and 84th, which you know well – a list of favourite royalist sayings, a summary of the information supplied to us by Varencourt . . . Learn it all by heart, then destroy anything that would give you away.’

‘Your Excellency, why don’t you use our own agents? They are accustomed to these kinds of exploits.’

‘It’s too risky. Paris has become the meeting point for plotters and traitors. I am under no illusions: because of our difficulties, there are imperial officials and soldiers and dignitaries willing to betray us. I am certain that the names of many of our agents have been divulged to our enemies. We need new blood!’

‘New blood that you are prepared to spill—’

‘That’s enough!’

Talleyrand, on the other hand, seemed to approve. He said jovially, ‘Good! Repartee! I advise you to behave like that with the Swords of the King. Be proud and arrogant. Adopt an aristocratic superciliousness and you will fit right in!’ …..

Joseph took a sheet of paper from his drawer and signed it. He applied his seal and held it out to Margont.

‘When one acts a part it is important to be able to prove who one really is . . .’

The letter confirmed Margont’s real identity, his rank and the fact that Joseph had given him a confidential mission.

‘Lieutenant-Colonel, this document may save your life, or it may get you killed. It’s up to you to hide it and to make good use of it. Now you must hurry. I have arranged it so that the civilian police will not be notified until midday. You will just have time to return to your barracks, change into civilian clothes and then go to 10 Rue de Provence – not far from the Madeleine Church – to see the victim’s home with your own eyes.’

‘Colonel Berle is expecting you . . .’ added Talleyrand without any hint of irony.

‘Go to the back door, the servants’ entrance,’ Joseph went on. ‘One of the servants, Mejun, will let you in. He’s waiting for you. You’ll recognise him by his limp. Don’t speak to anyone but him. And don’t give anything away to the other servants!’

‘I’ll do my best, Your Excellency. But if the murderer was so well informed it must be because he had spoken to the servants . . .’

‘But not Mejun, who has been in the colonel’s service for twenty years, first as a soldier, then as his valet. I order you to remove the emblem of the Swords of the King and give it to Mejun. Agents from my personal police force will then collect it from him. And they will be responsible for seeing if it can give us any clues.’

‘With all due respect, Your Excellency, I would prefer to keep—’

‘The only thing you should prefer is to obey me! My police will deal with the emblem. They are accustomed to that sort of task. If they discover anything at all about it you will be informed via the intermediary you choose to help you in your investigation. The less you are in possession of anything that could compromise you, the safer you will be.’

He paused to enjoy the sight of Margont biting his tongue to stop himself from voicing another objection, then went on:

‘That symbol must remain secret. If it was one of the murderer’s aims to make sure that the civilian police discovered the emblem, then we must ensure that we don’t give him what he wants. Your next task will be to go and meet Charles de Varencourt at the Chez Camille café at Palais-Royal, arcade 54, this evening at nine o’clock. He will be the one to recognise you – we told him you had a scar on your left cheek, as mentioned in your file. We also told him you would be reading Le Moniteur and Le Journal de Paris both at the same time. He will give you various pieces of information and you will organise with him how you are to be admitted to the Swords of the King.’

‘Good luck, Lieutenant-Colonel Margont . . .’ said Talleyrand, concluding the audience.

His words had the ring of an epitaph.

---

Armand Cabasson, a psychiatrist working in the north of France, is the author of several novels and short stories, including the Quentin Margont series of thrillers set in the Napoleonic Wars. Memory of Flames is the third in the series. Armand has also written the introduction to Napoleon Bonaparte’s only novella, Clisson and Eugénie, also published by Gallic Books.

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