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 Eugene 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 heeclass="underline" 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 well 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.