The faces, lit by the pale trembling light of the candles, looked eerie. To Margont’s amusement, Jean-Baptiste de Chatel resembled a ghost.
‘So Monsieur de Langes: where have you hidden the posters you promised us?’
‘Where no one can find them.’
Honoré de Nolant had already begun moving piles of paper about and searching behind the presses.
‘Show us where,’ commanded Louis de Leaume.
‘Here,’ replied Margont, tapping his forehead.
‘Are you pulling my leg?’
‘In here, neither the police nor the printer’s employees can stumble across them ... Let me demonstrate/
Margont launched into a sort of dance. He had to give the impression that he was working quickly, whilst actually moving as slowly as possible. He prepared the press, installed the paper, started the ink flowing, aligned the lead characters ... The Swords of the King tried to follow what he was doing, but printing was more complicated than it looked. Besides, Margont was making it more complex than necessary. He was like a bee flitting from flower to flower. Honoré de Nolant tried to help him by picking up a line of characters. Inevitably, he was instantly stained with ink. He looked at his hands in consternation. In the gloom, the ink looked like blood. It was as if he had just stabbed someone. Was he thinking of a crime he had committed? His appalled expression said a great deal ... He began to wipe his hands on his coat, his fingers pressing the material so tightly that his knuckles were white.
Margont seized the crank with both hands and pushed it vigorously. He loved that moment. The words did not yet exist, at least
not visibly. It was the press that made them appear. He waited longer than was necessary. Finally he freed the sheet and presented it triumphantly to the others. He had printed in enormous characters:
THE KING, PEACE!
‘That’s it?’ queried Jean-Baptiste de Chatel in astonishment.
‘Yes. Short and sweet - it’s perfect!’
‘What about God? And the legitimacy of the King? And the loyalty of the people to their sovereign?’
‘Too long, too heavy, too complicated ... The French want peace.’ Vicomte de Leaume took the little poster. He beamed. One of his plans was coming to life in front of his eyes! ‘It’s magnificent! Anyway, we’re going to have several different types of poster...’
Then suddenly he took Margont in his arms. It was an unusual gesture for an aristocrat. It was more like the embrace of brothers in arms. ‘Chevalier, excuse us for doubting you! You are an extraordinary man!’
His face was transformed. His vigour, which had struck Margont the first time he had met him, was more obvious than ever. He seemed capable of overcoming any obstacle. Yes, he had definitely kept the passion that had saved his life. He must have worn the same expression as he clawed his way through the putrefying corpses to drag himself out of the communal grave. How could such a man serve Louis XVIII? He should have been a general for the likes of Alexander the Great, but instead he was under the orders of little Louis ...
‘More!’ he exclaimed.
Margont set to work. Lefine, Honoré de Nolant and Louis de Leaume came to lend a hand. Chatel, meanwhile, strolled slowly around, looking about him scornfully. The idea of covering Paris with posters did not interest him. Margont spent far too long brushing the characters with ink on the pretext of distributing it properly, using several different types of typography to make the same poster, taking care to centre a sheet badly so that he had to
redo it ... In spite of his efforts, the pile of posters grew little by little. Louis de Leaume picked up a pen and frenetically scribbled a draft. ‘What do you think of this?’
Parisians!
Take up arms and overthrow the tyrant!
Down with Napoleon! Long live Louis XVI11!
‘It’s good,’ Margont complimented him.
Louis de Leaume’s choice of words said plenty about what he was planning. Honoré de Nolant also suggested some wording.
Throw off the imperial yoke! Spray the Eagle with bullets! Long live the King!
Even Jean-Baptiste de Chatel eventually took a pen and wrote
his own poster. He did not need to think about what he wanted to say, it was obvious to him.
People of France Support the return of your King!
It is the will of God!
How hateful, thought Margont. That expression, ‘It is the will of God!’ had been used by Pope Urban II in 1095, during his famous speech calling for a campaign to free the Holy Land. His harangue had played a major part in sparking the First Crusade. And that familiar way of addressing himself directly to the French people -what breathtaking arrogance! As for the words ‘your King’: as if it was obligatory to have a king at all ...
A piercing whistle sounded from the street. Baron de Nolant and Jean-Baptiste de Chatel blew out the candles, plunging the room into darkness.
‘What’s happening?’ whispered Lefine.
‘Silence!’
They heard footsteps coming towards them. Margont waited anxiously for his eyes to become accustomed to the dark. But still he could not see anything. He began to worry. What if someone attacked him here, taking him by surprise? Perhaps one of these men was the murderer they were looking for. Had Margont been unmasked? Was the murderer going to come over and stab him to death? Margont stretched his arms out in front of him, hoping to detect an assailant who might be creeping towards him. He started to move silently forward, but at the same time he was annoyed with himself - he had become prey to his own fears.
A long moment later, there was another whistle, shorter and sharper. Honoré de Nolant lit a candle again. ‘We’re off now,’ he announced. ‘Chevalier, we’ll need more posters. You can print them when the printing press is open again.’
‘No, that would be too risky. Every printer has a police informer on the staff and I don’t know who ours is. Besides, the censors and the police often drop in to check up on us. It’s better if I print
them on my own. I’ll be able to do a few at a time. I should be able to do hundreds eventually ...’
‘Very good,’ Louis de Leaume agreed. ‘In any case, it’s best if we don’t come here again.’
They left, abandoning Margont and Lefine, who had to put everything back in place so as not to arouse the suspicions of the employees. They would, of course, take the posters with them. Once they were on their own, Lefine said to Margont: ‘I would love to see Joseph’s face when you tell him how you used the print works he put at your disposal ...’
CHAPTER 22
ON 24 March 1814, the Allies held a military council not far from Vitry. Confusion reigned once more. What should they do? No one could agree, but they had to stick together because Napoleon would certainly exploit any disunity. The day before, some Cossacks had captured a cavalryman on his way to deliver a letter to the Emperor. The note was from Savary, the Minister of Civilian Police, and was full of anguish.
We are at the very end of our resources, the population is restive and wants peace at any price. The enemies of the Imperial Government are everywhere, fomenting unrest, which is still only latent, but which will be impossible to repress if the Emperor does not succeed in keeping the Allies well away from Paris by drawing them after him away from the gates of the capital ...
That was all very well, but what if it was a trap? What if the Allies turned their back on Napoleon to march on Paris, and then found their communications threatened or cut off. They would have to be sure they could seize the capital quickly.