Jean-Baptiste de Chatel was jubilant. ‘Magnificent! A real believer! So, Quentin — I may call you that? - as you know the Holy Scriptures so well, do you not agree that Napoleon is the Antichrist?’ Margont was dumbfounded and wondered if Jean-Baptiste was making fun of him. His reaction caused Jean-Baptiste’s joyous demeanour to falter somewhat.
‘But it goes without saying, Monsieur de Langes!’
Margont was taken aback by such an extreme theory. Jean-Baptiste
de Chatel took immediate offence and did not address another word to him. Their alliance had lasted all of the time it took to recite a couple of verses of the Bible, and Margont’s clever tactic had been turned against him: far from making a friend of Jean-Baptiste, he had turned him into an enemy.
‘Has our zealot finished his sermon?’ demanded Louis de Leaume with such irony that his words were like a slap.
Clearly it was not permitted for a mere member of the group to monopolise the conversation at the expense of the leader. The Vicomte’s words had been designed to reassert his authority. But far from being called to order, Jean-Baptiste de Chatel gave Leaume a sardonic smile, provoking him even further. He was openly delighted at having roused Leaume’s temper, and his attitude made everyone else ill at ease. Leaume chose to ignore him. Margont wondered if the cause of the animosity between the two men was just rivalry, or if there was not more to it. Jean-Baptiste had a strange way of staring at the Vicomte in an insistent manner. Leaume turned to Margont.
‘What do you want in exchange for your help?’
‘I want everything. I want to be on the committee of the Swords of the King.’
‘To be on the committee, you have to have been a member for more than two months, and have done something to prove your loyalty.’
‘Nearly getting my throat cut in order to meet you - doesn’t that prove my loyalty! As for your two months, I don’t have the patience to wait, and in any case, we don’t have two months. The outcome of the war will be decided in the next few weeks. If my offer doesn’t interest you, no matter. There are many other royalist organisations: the Congregation, the Knights of the Faith, the Friends of Order ... The King will reward the men who help him the most and I’m going to become one of those men, with you or without you.’
‘We have our regulations, Monsieur.’
‘I’m sure you do. But you’re not the kind of man to let regulations stand in your way.’
Louis de Leaume looked at him with a new eye. ‘How perceptive you are ... Perceptive people are dangerous, because they won’t be appeased by the lies that would satisfy others. Why do you wish to become part of our group? The Knights of the Faith, for example, are better known; why not go to them first?’
There are too many of them. I would be lost in the mass. I would scarcely be heard and I would be nothing but a second-rate pawn, and I absolutely won’t have that! If you admit me to the top of your organisation, to your committee, my printing press can be heavily influential in your success. It’s up to you. Now it’s time to see if you really are the man of action you claim to be.’
‘I accept you as one of us, in effect as a member of our committee. I take full responsibility for the decision.’
Leaume had not asked the opinion of any of the others before deciding, thus demonstrating that he was in charge. Varencourt and Honoré de Nolant were delighted and shook Margont’s hand in a show of brotherhood. Jean-Baptiste de Chatel merely nodded coldly at him, keeping his distance.
‘Now that you are one of us, there is one more person you should meet,’ said Louis de Leaume. ‘All the members of the committee should know one another. Well have to go upstairs.’
Margont almost stumbled on the stairs. He was pale as he regained his balance. He had just guessed why the other conspirator had waited upstairs while they interrogated him. It was because that person had not wanted to be present at his execution.
CHAPTER 11
THERE was no furniture in the room upstairs and it was freezing and soulless. This nocturnal meeting was its only moment of life. It would be abandoned immediately afterwards; it was just a stage in the exhausting game of hide-and-seek around Paris.
A woman welcomed Margont in, relieved at the way things had turned out. She was about forty, possibly older. She was beautiful but her long hair was pulled back in an old-fashioned chignon, her face was unadorned by make-up and she wore no jewels; her dress was drab. It appeared to Margont that she was hiding her beauty -had it brought her misfortune in the past?
She looked at him with a strange intensity; her blue eyes seemed to pierce his soul. It was as if she were probing his character, trying to see the real Margont. He felt scorched by her gaze, as if his lies were burning up in his soul.
‘Chevalier Quentin de Langes,’ he said, bowing to escape her inquisitorial gaze.
‘Mademoiselle Catherine de Saltonges. So here you are, one of us. We thought you were a spy.’
The irony in her voice let him know that she did not trust him. ‘Monsieur de Langes used to be a soldier and he owns a printing press!’ said Vicomte de Leaume.
‘So I heard.’
‘If opinion had been divided, would you have voted for my life or my death?’ Margont asked her.
She lowered her eyes, as if she found him desirable.
‘How can you say that? I wouldn’t have ... I ... Not l! But I don’t like you, Monsieur. What you say is a mixture of truth and falsehood. That sickens me.’
Her face expressed disgust, as if Margont’s lies had released a rotten odour.
‘Have we finished discussing my admission?’ he asked. ‘Let’s move to action! And with Cod’s help we will win the battle! I propose we—’
‘Well decide nothing now!’ Catherine de Saltonges cut him off.
‘You’re going rather quickly, Chevalier.’
‘Not as quickly as the situation is going!’
Leaume intervened. ‘We’ll contact you. Members of our group are strictly forbidden to see each other outside official meetings for any reason at all. Everyone adheres to that rule on pain of death. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, but what if I need to get hold of you? I must be able—’
‘That won’t be possible,’ put in Jean-Baptiste de Chatel. ‘We’ll leave first.’
Catherine de Saltonges and Honoré de Nolant left, followed by Jean-Baptiste. The Vicomte hung back. He unknotted his scarf, looking at Margont.
‘Monsieur de Langes, don’t understimate our determination.’
He then revealed a mark. In the Pacific Islands the great explorers like Cook had discovered a method of indelibly marking the skin, and had brought it back to Europe. The prestige of these adventurers and the French taste for exoticism had made tattoos popular. In the past, Count Tolstoy, on his return from Oceania, had shown off his tattoos in the salons of St Petersburg, after which the Russian nobility had also embraced the practice. Legend had it that Catherine the Great had had herself tattooed in a very special place ... Old Marshal Bernadotte had ‘Death to kings’ tattooed on his chest during his revolutionary years. Yet now he had become the hereditary prince of Sweden and dreamt of beating Napoleon and becoming king of France ...
Louis de Leaume had chosen a strange motif. It was - Margont drew closer, frowning - yes, it definitely was a dotted line like the ones tailors and dressmakers draw on their material before they cut it. But this line stretched round Leaume’s throat, indicating where it should be cut...
‘I will fight to the end, Chevalier. I have learnt to live permanently with the blade of the guillotine round my neck!’