Jean-Quenin put his hands on Margont’s shoulders, though he was not normally demonstrative. Not only did curare cause paralysis, it also drove researchers mad ...
‘Quentin, you often ask me to help you, and I’ve never asked for anything in exchange. But today, I’m asking for something! I’m asking you, if you ever lay your hands on this curare, to give it to me.’
‘Well, I actually want to lay my hands on whoever made use of the curare. I agree though. If I succeed—’
Jean-Quenin shook his hand vigorously. Thank you, Quentin!’
‘Wait... How did the curare get to Paris?’
I’m not sure. Apparently it doesn’t last more than a few months. The problem is that Brazil is a viceroyalty of Portugal, and we’ve been at war with them for several years. With all these conflicts, exotic substances are hard to come by. English researchers are ahead of the French in this respect because they’re allied to Portugal, which allows them to get hold of curare more easily than we can.’
What a simplistic way of representing the war! Jean-Quenin, although normally so philanthropic, was displaying breathtaking egotism.
Margont wondered out loud whether members of a Parisian royalist group would have been able to get hold of curare through the Allies. If they had the right contacts and enough money, it was quite possible.
He added: ‘It must have taken them months to get it! They would have had to contact an Allied agent, get him to agree to undertake to find it, then convince the Portuguese to send one of their ships to Brazil - although that is happening all the time: in 1807, Portugal’s prince regent fled from the French armies and installed his court in Rio de Janeiro - to bring back curare, which would have to be obtained from an Amazonian tribe ...’
If Jean-Quenin was right, the Swords of the King had been preparing their action for much longer than Margont had imagined. And it was also unlikely that the murderer was operating on his own. It would take the support of an organisation to mount such an operation.
‘Hang on, the murderer must be a doctor!’ exclaimed Margont. Jean-Quenin took a moment to react, then he reddened. That had not crossed his mind. ‘Very probably. A doctor or a traveller who’s been to South America.’
‘Or else a French aristocrat who fled to Portugal, then followed the court to Rio. Have you told me everything?’
‘Yes.’
Margont thanked him and left his friend. Jean-Quenin wandered around Paris for a while, trying to calm himself down. But he could not stop thinking about his plans for greatness and his imagination ran riot. Margont had not understood at all ... He didn’t want to make a great discovery for reasons of selfaggrandisement! All his life he had had the feeling that he had not done enough for his patients. Today he had felt that it really would be possible for him to take a giant leap forward for medicine. There were so many people he had not been able to save and their ghosts accompanied him everywhere - yes, everywhere! - forming a monstrous cohort that was growing with the years. If he succeeded in discovering the secret of curare, then he would be able to appease those tormented souls. Like every doctor he dreamt of being able to say one day, ‘Yes, I have done more good than harm in my life.’
CHAPTER 27
ON 27 March, Paris was in turmoil. Until then Napoleon and his army had formed a barrier between the Parisians and the bad news, shielding them from the worst of it. But now that the Emperor had moved away to threaten the rear of the Allied armies, the citizens were exposed to the flow of bad tidings that accompanied the haggard streams of refugees, wounded, deserters, and soldiers that were converging on Paris from all over the country.
Margont had difficulty making his way through the crowds, skirting round chaotic groups only to find himself enmeshed in further rabble. Wagons were piling up, heaps of furniture and trunks stuffed to overflowing were falling over, adding to the uproar, and the guards of honour were getting impatient with the crowds. Those who wanted to leave were no more able to move than those who were arriving; the columns of soldiers were collecting new conscripts, known as Marie-Louises, in their wake (in 1813 the Empress Marie-Louise had signed the decrees, in the absence of her husband). All this humanity formed a sort of glue that stuck to the passers-by, forcing them to elbow their way through.
Somewhere near his printing works, Margont went into a packed cabaret. He had asked Lefine to meet him there and found him seated in a corner, drinking beer. He was savouring the drink as if it might be his last.
‘It’s the end of the world, our world anyway,’ he declared, putting his glass down on the table.
‘Don’t be so defeatist!’
‘No, of course not. You’re going to set me right.’
Margont drew closer and spoke into his ear. ‘Now people are beginning to realise what’s happening, their reactions are going to be unpredictable. Who knows how a panicked crowd will react if a group of determined royalists promises them the sun, the moon and the stars? Paris is becoming a powder keg and our friends are about to throw torches into its midst.’
He indicated that he and Lefine should leave. He needed air, although he was not sure he would be able to breathe any more easily outside.
‘I’ve had an idea. Follow me, you’ll understand in a minute where we’re going. But first, we’ll get our bearings.’
Margont was not normally mysterious like this, at least not with his close friends. But Lefine was not put out. He went with Margont in all confidence, without wasting time wondering where he was being taken.
Lefine gave Margont back the button found in Notre-Dame. Unfortunately the friend who worked in the commissariat had not been able to identify it and had reached the conclusion that it was not a French army button. Despite his best efforts, Lefine had been unable to find out anything new about their suspects either. Catherine de Saltonges had not left her house, and she had not received any visitors.
Margont told Lefine about his second meeting with Joseph and Talleyrand, and how he had been given a new objective, about his examination of Count Kevlokine’s body and what Jean-Quenin had discovered. He had also obtained copies of two reports from
Mathurin Jelent, which he had read and then immediately destroyed. Lefine reproached him for not observing the security precautions they had agreed on, but again Margont objected that time was pressing.
The first report had been written by Inspector Sausson for his superiors. He was making no progress with his investigation, which he found incomprehensible. Not being a man to mince his words, he had written: ‘I am almost coming to suspect that someone (why and under whose orders I cannot yet say) is hiding clues from the official and only legitimate investigators, in order to conduct a parallel investigation.’ No doubt those words had sent Joseph into a rage.
The second had been produced by the section of Joseph’s secret police that had arrested the people visiting the Gunans. It was an incomplete, censored copy. And it didn’t say who the author of the report was. All names had been omitted; some paragraphs simply fizzled out, since their endings had been scored through. Certain sentences were limping because parts of them had been amputated. This half-report revealed that so far twenty visitors had been interrogated, but that it had not been possible to tell which were genuine royalist agitators.