His daily meetings with Lefine were all the more precious; they were his one link with reality.
Eventually, one evening, someone knocked at his door. It was Charles de Varencourt. He was very pale and drawn, and had lost his swagger.
They’ve sent me to fetch you. You haven’t changed your mind?’ ‘Not at all.’
‘What bothers me is that by gambling on your life, you’re gambling on mine as well!’
Margont did not reply. His decision was irrevocable. Joseph and Talleyrand were right: he had to meet the royalists himself. While Margont was struggling to conquer his fear, Varencourt shrugged, apparently accepting the situation with fatalistic resignation. ‘They’re waiting for us,’ he concluded.
As they were walking through the darkened streets, Margont again
had the impression that he was just a pawn on an enormous chessboard. A pawn about to embark upon an audacious bluff...
CHAPTER 9
THEY reached the heart of the Saint-Marcel district. Varencourt was walking briskly, obliging Margont to fall in behind him, and grabbing his arm at regular intervals to make sure he followed him down a little side street, before setting off in a different direction again. Margont was lost but did not dare ask any questions. A door opened on their right and they dived into a house. There was no light inside and Margont felt as if he had been swallowed by the dark maw of a Leviathan. His silhouette, however, seemed to have been left framed in the doorway, backlit by an oil lamp. Someone bounded up behind him and held a knife to his throat. With his left hand, his attacker seized Margont’s right wrist to stop him trying to free himself or reaching for a weapon. The door shut again.
‘You are a spy, Monsieur,’ said someone in front of him.
Margont was terrified and waited in vain for a candle to be lit.
‘Our friend Monsieur de Varencourt has told us about you, but as
he admits himself, he barely knows you,’ the stranger went on. ‘So we’re going to ask you some questions. Depending how you answer, we might be able to spare your life ...’
The voice belonged to a man accustomed to being in charge. The intonation, rhythm and phrases were designed to command, to destabilise and to let Margont know his lies would be flushed out. The words uttered by the voice pierced straight through him.
‘I can’t see anything ...’ stammered Margont.
‘You’ll be able to see even less when I’ve cut your throat,’ murmured the man holding him.
‘You say that you own a printing press ...’
‘It’s the truth!’
‘That’s just the problem. The Tyrant is cunning, and he controls everything that’s published. You claim to be one of us but you have a printing press? These places are watched by the Director of Printing and Bookselling, but also by the police. There are some policemen whose sole task is to control printing, books and newspapers! And yet you want us to believe you’ve deceived them all?
Absurd! We’ve had you followed. Admittedly it wasn’t easy. It’s true that you do have access to a printing press, Imperial Press, but all that proves is that you have the protection of the police.’ Margont wondered if Charles de Varencourt had sold him out. But it was too late to ask him. He could not retreat; he would just have to press on with his role. And with bravado! ‘If Napoleon takes so much care to—’
‘Bonaparte! The coronation of 1804 is not legitimate! Napoleon does not exist!’
All right ... If Bonaparte takes so much care to control the printed word, it’s because it’s his weak point. And that’s just where we should strike him! A friend of mine who’s a duellist taught me that way of fighting.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t doubt Bonaparte’s military talent. It would be difficult to defeat him on the battlefield. Unless he had no more army left! So we have to convince the French to abandon him.’
‘Interesting. But you didn’t answer my question.’
It was so dark that Margont could not even make out the outlines of anyone there, and he could not accommodate what he was saying to the expressions on people’s faces or to their demeanour. He had to rely on that over-confident, arrogant, domineering voice, with its ironic intonations. He was on the edge of a cliff and about to be thrown into the void. But his survival instinct had always been strong. Even with a knife at his throat, he refused to give up.
‘I served for several years in the Grande Armée. Like many other gentlemen. After I was wounded, I had to return to civilian life. I devoted all my efforts to obtaining authorisation to acquire a printing works. As I had distinguished myself during the Russian campaign, several officers were willing to vouch for me. I had to grease some palms as well but eventually my tenacity paid off. Oh, there are certainly one or two employees who spy on me for the police. But gradually the police have ceased to suspect me, so for a long time now I have felt quite safe. In the end they put my years of emigration in Edinburgh down to a youthful error. Do you know how the praying mantis captures its victims? It moves so slowly that its movements are imperceptible to the insects it preys on. It’s only when it is very close that it suddenly strikes the fatal blow.
I have overlooked nothing. I returned to France in 1802 and, for all those years since, I have inexorably, step by step, put my plan into action. I have found out all about printing and I have acquired a print shop. It took twelve years of effort! The imperial police don’t pursue things for that long, I can tell you.’
‘How long have you had the print shop?’
‘For a year. I must emphasise that I am only an associate, but my partner knows nothing about my real intentions. Until recently, I practically never went there. Had I showed up there too often, the police would have become suspicious. All I did was spend the meagre profits when we were lucky enough to have any. But I go there much more often now. The situation is more favourable to us. It’s time for us to take action!’
‘What is it that you want?’
Two things. The return of the King!’
He stopped talking. The man with the knife pressed harder with his blade. But paradoxically Margont drew strength from the gesture.
‘Well? What’s the second thing?’ insisted the leader.
The gratitude of the King ‘What insolence!’
“‘Audacity, more audacity, always audacity!”’ replied Margont, quoting Danton, one of the most hated revolutionaries. That might have seemed a suicidal tactic, but he was trying to lead the discussion in an unexpected direction and catch the men off guard. He would probably die if he were to try to beat them at their own game, so he was making up his own rules.
No one answered him so he went on: ‘Before the Revolution, my family lived peacefully on its lands. But I knew that life for only a few years. Then I had everything thrown at me. My family was massacred and our chateau burnt; I was forced to wander from place to place ... I was very young when I emigrated to Scotland. I planned to return to my homeland as an officer, with other royalist emigres and an English army. The English held out the prospect of that dream, but they never fulfilled it. It was too risky, too expensive ... And although they did want to see their old enemy brought to its knees, they never really trusted us. They were still annoyed with us for having resisted them so fiercely in Quebec and partly blamed us for the loss of their American colonies ... In Edinburgh,