Memory of Flames (31 page)

He walked with the calm assurance of someone who has nothing left to lose since he would be dead in a short while. He was putting into action the last stage of the plan he had been hatching for months; he was showing his final hand.

He could hear the marching of many boots, and the pounding of hoofs. Obviously a large troop. The Allies were deploying all over 
Paris.

Varencourt drew attention to himself, raising his arms high, with Joseph’s letter in one hand and, in the other, a piece of white material. He was unarmed. In the avenue an impeccable column of Prussian and Russian infantry filed past, and also passing at that moment were some Russian riflemen in their black gaiters, dark-green coats and breeches and black-plumed shakos. The demonstration by the ‘French officer’ caused incredible confusion. Some of the infantry turned their heads but continued to march, as if they could not believe what they were seeing; others broke ranks to encircle Charles de Varencourt, their weapons trained on him; two captains came over with sabres drawn; their riflemen fanned out into the streets, causing passing Parisians to scatter like pigeons taking flight.

‘I’m a messenger! I’m unarmed!’ Varencourt explained composedly in Russian.

Had anyone fired, Varencourt would have been killed instantly. But he wasn’t worried about that. He was already a dead man - he had nothing to fear from death. Quite the reverse, deep inside he was jubilant, like a mathematician who is finally able to test the equation he has spent months formulating.

But no shot rang out. After all, the Frenchman was brandishing a white flag and did not appear hostile. Besides, he was obviously a high-ranking officer and anyone who shot him would have to answer to his superiors. And he spoke Russian - like a native!

A major from the infantry came to plant his standard in front of Varencourt, who said, still in Russian: ‘I am Lieutenant-Colonel Margont. The King of Spain, Joseph I, brother of our Emperor Napoleon I, has charged me with a mission. I must see the Tsar immediately.’

He held out the letter. The major nodded towards a captain, who rode over, plucked the document from Varencourt’s hands and proceeded to read it and then translate it for his superior.

‘You speak good Russian,’ remarked the captain.

‘I was part of the Russian campaign. I took advantage of that to learn the rudiments of your language.’

Those words alone, ‘the Russian campaign’, were enough to infuriate the Russians. And that was what Varencourt was aiming at. These soldiers did not know it, but they were the first little blades of grass that he was setting light to. It was too early for the blaze to take hold, but soon, very soon ...

‘Why do you want to see the Tsar?’ demanded the captain.

‘My mission is absolutely confidential. Joseph’s orders are for me to explain it to the Tsar in person.’

A colonel came over with his regimental chief of staff. What was all this? His entire column was being held up by a single Frenchman? He began to berate the major; the captain was still interrogating Varencourt whilst trying to answer the colonel’s questions ... The more the Russians tried to show that they were in control of the situation, the more obvious it became that they didn’t know what to do.

‘It doesn’t say anywhere in this letter from Joseph that you are to speak to the Tsar,’ objected the captain.

‘Of course not! How could it?’

The Russian officers frowned. Varencourt was giving them mixed messages and they were not sure if they should take him seriously. Since the Frenchman spoke Russian, the colonel addressed him directly.

‘Does your message come from Joseph Bonaparte or from Napoleon himself?’

Varencourt was overjoyed, but he did not let it show. Had they not asked him that question he would somehow have had to lead them to ask it.

‘My message comes from our Emperor who passed it on to Joseph, who in turn charged me with communicating it to the Tsar. But I can’t say any more! All that you need to know is that I am acting on the orders of Napoleon l! You can search me to make sure I am unarmed, then take me to the Tsar. I am acting on the written orders of someone who is much more senior than you are. None of you has the necessary authority to prevent me from speaking to His Imperial Majesty Alexander I. Only the Tsar can decide if he will refuse to see me.’

The few months he had served in the Russian army before deserting had educated him in how rigidly Russian soldiers interpreted matters of hierarchy. The colonel nodded and the infantry major gave the order for him.

‘Search him!’

Two riflemen did so, then a captain searched him again very carefully. Finally the colonel spoke quite slowly in Russian.

‘I’m giving you one last chance. If you admit that you have fooled us, I give you my word as an officer that I will let you go free. On condition that you return to wherever you sprang from.’

‘I am on a mission at the order of the Emperor and the King of Spain. I must speak to the Tsar.’

The colonel gave instructions to the major, who led a group of about fifty riflemen to escort Varencourt to Alexander I.

Margont was interrogating the passers-by. ‘Do you know where the Tsar is?’

People laughed at him or insulted him - no one knew anything.

He hesitated to ask the Allied soldiers, for fear of arousing their suspicions. For want of a better idea, he headed towards the Tuileries Palace. In Moscow, Napoleon had taken up residence in the Kremlin, so Margont hoped that Alexander would follow the same logic.

‘Where is the Tsar?’ he persisted.

He finally found someone who could tell him. ‘He’s just installed himself in a magnificent town house on Rue Saint-Florentin, at the home of the greatest traitor of all time, who, of course, welcomed him, bowing and scraping, with open arms: Monsieur de Talleyrand!’

This was so unexpected that Margont thought he had misheard. Even Lefine couldn’t believe his ears.

‘You’re making fun of us, Monsieur...’

‘No, it’s Talleyrand who’s made a fool of all of us. All the imperial dignitaries have left Paris - except for him! And has he been thrown in prison, or at least detained under armed guard? Not a bit of it. No, I can assure you, he is at home receiving the Tsar, as

we speak! I followed Alexander after his procession down the Champs-Elysees until his soldiers barred my way, and I can definitively tell you that he is at Talleyrand’s house. I saw him going in from afar.’

Rue Saint-Florentin crossed Rue de Rivoli. As it happened, it was near the Tuileries. Margont began to run, with Lefine hard on his heels.

Varencourt and his escort first headed towards the Elysee Palace. But on the way the major hailed one of the Tsar’s aides-de-camp just to confirm that the Tsar was actually there. ‘He’s not,’ the aide-de-camp replied. Before the fall of Paris, the Tsar had indeed planned to reside at the Elysee Palace. But as soon as they had entered Paris, the sovereign Allies had been greeted by Talleyrand. Talleyrand? Why didn’t he flee Paris? Isn’t he one of the highest dignitaries of the French Empire?’ queried the major in surprise. ‘Rats don’t leave a ship that’s afloat for one that’s about to sink!’ replied the aide-de-camp, laughing.

The Prince de Benevent had told Alexander that Napoleon had given the order that the capital must not fall into enemy hands intact. He had warned the Tsar to be extremely careful: it was possible that the sappers of the Imperial Guard had mined the Elysee and the Tsar wouldn’t want to take any unnecessary risks ... And the Tuileries Palace? Probably also mined, Talleyrand shouldn’t wonder. He had then added that there was only one place worthy of receiving a tsar, which could be declared categorically safe: his own house. That was how the Tsar ended up residing in Rue Saint-Florentin in the company of Talleyrand himself.

‘At Talleyrand’s house ...’ repeated the major to make sure he had correctly understood.

Varencourt was horrified: Talleyrand might know the real Margont! He made an effort to stay calm. He had spent months perfecting his plan but he could never have foreseen a problem like this. That Talleyrand! What a turncoat! The devil himself, the real one, would barely have acted with such brass neck. Well, too bad. His plan was a bit risky - like all games of cards ... At this very moment

Alexander must be completely taken up with savouring his victory. ‘Savour all you like, but your pleasure will be short-lived ...’ Although Varencourt was being closely watched by several riflemen, elite troops, none of them was aware of his agitation. His face remained impassive.

Exhausted and out of breath, Margont was having increasing difficulty running. His lungs and throat were burning. As soon as he noticed enemy soldiers he forced himself to walk - he did not want to draw attention to himself. He tried to catch his breath, watching a regiment of Austrians as they marched by, in their gleaming white, on their way to one of the strategic points in Paris. The Elysee Palace was surrounded by Allied troops, and they could be seen in even greater number in front of the Tuileries. It was clear to Margont that their most direct route was barred. He looped round towards the Madeleine Church. They were almost there! Almost!

‘Messieurs! Messieurs! Stop!' yelled a voice that Margont was

determined to ignore.

Lefine, noticing the Prussian soldiers aiming at them, grabbed Margont by the collar to bring him to a stop.

The major spoke to a captain; another captain came over; and then an aide-de-camp. Joseph’s letter was passed from hand to hand. The captain in charge of the guard post raised his arm to summon his interpreter because he didn’t believe the major’s explanations, which annoyed the major. Varencourt betrayed no emotion. He had imagined this scene maybe a thousand times and now, exhilaratingly, it was unfolding exactly as expected! He was being asked all the anticipated questions and giving all his prepared answers. From both sides of Rue de Rivoli, Russian chasseurs were watching the mysterious Frenchman who dared to flaunt his uniform. Exhausted by the fighting, they were sitting in the shade of the arcades, covering the area like a blanket of dark-green ivy. Suddenly those who were watching Varencourt rose and stood to attention, and all the others followed suit, standing up hastily and coming

into line, presenting arms. Officers barked orders to hurry them into position. A general from the Russian Guard came striding furiously over, followed closely by a posse of heavily decorated officers. His arrival sowed fear amongst the soldiers. Varencourt pretended to watch him with interest. But really he was looking beyond him to the Prince de Benevent’s house.

The Tsar’s life is in danger! I must speak to the Tsar at once!’ Margont was shouting at the top of his voice in German.

The Prussians stared at him contemptuously. A captain asked him, ‘And who are you to want to save the Tsar?’

Margont wasn’t sure what to say. Should he say he was a lieutenant-colonel? Or would that get him into trouble? He could claim that he also had a letter from Joseph, but they would laugh in his face ...

‘Listen, tell the men guarding the Tsar that someone is trying to assassinate Alexander—’

‘His Imperial Majesty Tsar Alexander l!’ corrected the officer witheringly.

The Tsar is about to be assassinated!’

The captain’s expression hardened. ‘Do you know how many men my battalion lost today? Eighteen. And we've as many injured. So I would advise you to worry about your own safety rather than the Tsar’s. We’ve received strict orders to treat the civilian population respectfully. But you and your friend are of an age to serve in the army. And you don’t get a scar of the kind you have on your left cheek by milking cows. I don’t think the order to respect civilians extends to soldiers in civilian clothes. So beat it or you might regret it.’

Margont and Lefine melted into the crowd and made their way through the streets to another guard post. This time, however, Margont had chosen a post guarded by Russian soldiers.

The general of the Russian Guard had had the situation explained to him. He read Joseph’s letter and immediately tried to get to the bottom of what Varencourt wanted.

The letter seems to be authentic. But I can’t let you pass unless you tell me more about it.’

His French was impeccable, but Charles de Varencourt replied in the guardsman’s own language so that as many Russians as possible could understand what he was saying. Every Russian who heard was a little piece of kindling that Varencourt was trying to ignite to become the sparks of his grand inferno. He was shouting angrily, although his anger was just pretence. This was all a game, a hand of cards, his last, his best! And the stake was Paris and every Parisian!

‘I’ve had enough of this! I’ve repeated myself over and over again! I’m Lieutenant-Colonel Margont and I’m acting on the orders of the Emperor! His Majesty Napoleon I asked his brother Joseph I of Spain to entrust a loyal man with a secret mission. I have the honour of having been chosen for that mission. I will not say any more to a mere general! My orders are to explain myself only to the Tsar himself!’

Russian generals were not used to being spoken to in that disrespectful way. And this one even less than most, to judge by the speed with which all the soldiers around them had jumped to attention and to present arms when he had appeared. Varencourt had noticed that and was making the most of it. He thought he would be more effective if he acted in an arrogant way rather than being servile, courteous and diplomatic. And he had achieved his first objective: the general was furious. He pointed at something off to the side with his white-gloved hand - Varencourt did not even deign to turn to see what it was - and threatened, ‘You see that hanging lantern there? I’m going to have it removed and have you strung up by its cord. You will dangle there, your tongue poking from your mouth, under one of the arcades of the beautiful Rue de Rivoli.’