He went over to the mattress where the police had lined up the objects they had found. A meagre haul. He picked up a Bible and opened it where there was a bookmark. Although the Bible was obviously fairly new - the binding was in good condition and the edges of the pages were still white — the two pages marked were dirty, crumpled and worn. Sentences had been crossed out, angrily, with a pen, sometimes tearing the paper, leaving only one verse, as if to signify that Cod did not exist, that one should not love one’s neighbour, and that all the words in the Bible were worthless except these remaining lines. Margont was disappointed, because the verse was not one of the passages he had thought of.
He read: ‘Deuteronomy, chapter 19, verse 21: “And thine eye shall not pity; but life shall go for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot,' '
'The law of retaliation ...’ commented Palenier. ‘We know exactly what he wanted to retaliate for...’
Margont turned his attention to the bookmark, gave a start and dropped the Bible, which crashed onto the floor.
‘Don’t touch anything!’ shouted Palenier, who was worried by the story of the deadly poison and thought that perhaps Varencourt had booby-trapped his apartment with needles soaked in curare. Margont retrieved the Bible, then the bookmark, which was actually a little paper pocket. Inside there was a lock of very light blonde hair. It had not come from Catherine de Saltonges. Charles de Varencourt’s Muscovite wife must have given it to him before he joined the Russian army. That was presumably all that remained of the woman now.
The other objects were all everyday items: a comb, a ewer, clothes ... Nothing that had anything to do with Charles de Varencourt’s Russian past or with his current plans.
They did not discover anything interesting either in Catherine de Saltonges’s house in Faubourg Saint-Germain. The police had read the letters they found in her writing desk, but none of them had been written by Charles de Varencourt; the books on the shelves were not noteworthy; the servants confirmed that Varencourt had never visited.
When Margont took his leave, Palenier shook his hand, saying, ‘Let us know if you find out anything new!’
‘I tell you everything, but I never receive any information in return!'
‘That’s not true!’
‘I counted six policemen at Mademoiselle de Saltonges’s house, four at Varencourt’s. Including the policemen who came with you, and you yourself, that makes twelve people. A whole army of you! And I imagine that’s just the visible part of a much larger operation.'
‘But the Emperor’s security is at stake! It turns out that unfortunately it’s going to be impossible to warn the Emperor about the danger to his life, with all our enemies between us and the army.’
Margont left, staggering with exhaustion, accompanied by Lefine. Day was breaking timidly. A few golden rays of sunshine ventured between the clouds. It was already 29 March. Margont mounted his horse, but Lefine did not follow suit.
‘I have a request,’ he said. ‘Our inquiry isn’t making any progress. We'll just have to await developments ... I’d like to be excused from returning to the barracks immediately. Don’t worry, I’ll be back in time for the great battle. But bearing in mind that we might both be killed tomorrow, I don’t want to spend my last hours practising manoeuvres and being sworn at by our colonel and onetime friend. I’d much rather spend them with someone charming and dear to my heart.’
Margont took a piece of paper and wrote out a free pass. He signed it and added his rank and number and the fact that he and Lefine were taking part in a mission under the personal orders of Joseph I. ‘You have until midnight. I can’t let you have longer.’ Lefine grabbed his safe-conduct joyously, bounded into his saddle and trotted off. Margont had been thinking that he would go back to his legion. But his friend was right. How should he spend what might be his second-last day alive? Alas, he did not have someone dear to his heart. All right then! He would give himself until midday. Midday! Afterwards he would sleep for a while, then go and join his soldiers. Just a few hours for himself. He had earned it. He felt invigorated as he pointed his horse in the direction of the Louvre.
CHAPTER 41
THE former palace of the kings of France had been transformed into a place of such unimaginable wonder that it appeared unreal, mythical. It had been turned into ‘the perfect museum’. Hundreds of masterpieces from all countries had been gathered together in one grandiose place accessible to the public.
The museum was born of the scandalous pillaging of artworks from the countries vanquished by the republican and imperial armies, but nevertheless the result was fabulous. It was based on two principles. The first was the republican idea that art must be available for the public to see. The message was that the possessions of the aristocracy were being redistributed to the people, not physically, for that would have been to cause further inequalities, but visually, in public museums. In 1801 the Directory had created them all over the country and others had appeared later. The second principle was that art should be used as propaganda. Napoleon was adept at this - he liked to exhibit ‘trophies’ taken
from the enemy. And he had renamed the French Museum or Central Museum of the Republic, the Napoleon Museum.
It made Margont smile to think that Napoleon’s religious marriage to Marie-Louise of Austria had taken place not in Notre-Dame but in the Louvre, in the large square hall, which had been transformed for the occasion into a chapel. In republican and imperial France, museums were the new cathedrals.
Fie went past the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel, which adorned the square between the Tuileries Palace and the Louvre. It had been erected to commemorate the signing of the peace treaty between France and England at Amiens in 1802. Alas, in the years following the treaty the English and French fought more often than ever. They confronted each other all over the world: in Europe, in the colonies, on the seas ... They would even have fought under the seas, had someone succeeded in realising the crazy plan of the tunnel under the Channel. The only real product of the treaty of Amiens, as it turned out, was the impressive Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel.
The museum was not open, but Margont slipped one of the attendants a good tip to open it for him. Again, Margont was stupefied to see that Paris continued to live almost normally.
He began to walk through galleries of indescribable opulence. He wandered slowly, sometimes hurrying towards a work, then turning back to see another one. He was immersing himself in the labyrinth of art, freeing his mind of rigorous classifications and didactic organisation and allowing his subjectivity to direct him like Ariadne’s thread. Around him satyrs chased nymphs; he was disconcerted by the beauty of a Venus, aroused by the erotic pose of another; Eros sat astride a centaur; Diana received the allegiance of stags and does in a clearing; gladiators slaughtered each other; the draping of togas and robes was so realistic he fully expected to see their stone folds stirring in the breeze; a marble Cupid gently gathered up a butterfly; the paintings were exuberant with here an azure sky filled with cherubs, there a ferocious evocation of a medieval battle; there were the subtle contrasts of chiaroscuros and the seductive charms of Mademoiselle Caroline
Riviere painted by Ingres; the flamboyant depictions of Ancient Rome, bright with colour and movement, contrasted with the calm intimacy of the Three Graces, naked and taken by surprise by the unwelcome spectator. Margont was surrounded by Raphael, Rembrandt, Michelangelo, Rubens, Correggio, Veronese, Poussin, David, the Van Eyck brothers. He was drunk on beauty. Then he arrived in front of the Mona Lisa. Yes, if the world were about to be destroyed, he would be quite content to die contemplating that smile.