‘How do you know that I like playing with these odds?’
‘You’re avoiding my question.’
‘The committee is meeting tonight. I don’t know where. They will probably come and get you. Don’t go. Disappear - that’s the best advice I can give you.’
‘Well, the best advice I can give you is not to disappear. Because if you do, the police will soon make you reappear. Did you know that the Swords of the King were in contact with Count Kevlokine?’ ‘With who?’ Varencourt frowned. Margont would have liked to grab him by the collar and shake him vigorously.
‘Stop treating me like an imbecile! You know very well who I’m referring to.’
‘You still don’t get it, do you? We bet on the losing side!’
Margont was not even talking the same language as Varencourt. What was worse, their minds did not work in the same way at alclass="underline" his was abstract, intangible, made up of ideas, whereas Charles de Varencourt’s, all cogs and wheels, was more like Pascal’s calculating machine.
‘Let me rephrase the question,’ Margont said. ‘Why did you not tell me about Kevlokine?’
‘Because some subjects are off limits!’
Varencourt’s face had changed. He now looked less fearful and more resolute.
‘That was a very important subject with the group. They were always talking about the necessity of getting in touch with the Tsar’s agent. They talked about it so much because they did not know how to go about it. Then suddenly, a few weeks before you were admitted, they stopped talking about it at all!’
He clapped his hands like a fairground clown. ‘But at the same time Vicomte de Leaume also acquired what I can only describe as an air of invincibility. Our group were “spearheading the fight against the tyrant”, we were going to “take the enemy in a pincer movement” ... I thought that he had probably succeeded in contacting Kevlokine. It felt as if an important milestone had been reached and I realised bitterly that they were concealing the good news from me. I might be a traitor but I still have feelings. So one evening - about ten days before we met - I said, casually, “I know that we’re being of great service to the Restoration. What a pity our efforts will never come to the attention of His Majesty!”’
He clenched his teeth. ‘You should have seen the looks they gave each other! They still told me nothing, though. They’ll pay for that! There are days when being a traitor and stabbing people in the back brings you more than just financial satisfaction. I think everyone knew except me! It was Baron de Nolant who was caught out by me. He hadn’t noticed the looks the others were giving and launched in gaily with, “The Tsar will tell His Majesty.” Jean-Baptiste de Chatel cut him off: “Where are we with finding more people to help us?” and afterwards the conversation turned to that
subject. A bit too speedily and in a rather haphazard manner.’
‘Why did you not tell me any of this?’
‘Because it was too dangerous a subject! They must have been planning something with Kevlokine!’
Margont forced himself to stay calm. Listening to Varencourt was like reading Le Moniteur or Le Journal de Paris: truth and lies were intertwined. It was quite hard to work out what to dismiss and what might be partly true. But by listening carefully, Margont managed to pick out the contradictions and ignore what was palpably untrue. He was able to gather little snippets, and start to put them together.
‘So,’ he told Varencourt, ‘you told us about everything except the most important things.’
Varencourt raised a finger, advocate for his own lost cause. ‘Not exactly. I would say that everything is linked. The posters, Count Kevlokine, the rebellion, the assassination of Colonel Berle ... I have no idea who killed the Tsar’s agent. What I can tell you is that since his murder, they’ve changed—’
Varencourt broke off abruptly, aware that he had said too much.
‘So you did know! How did the group find out that Kevlokine had been murdered?’ Margont pressed him.
‘Honoré de Nolant knows people. He has informers ... I don’t know who ... But Leaume told me this morning that the count had been murdered. He didn’t tell me any more than that.’
‘Did he come to your house?’
‘No. I was playing cards at an inn I’m fond of. Vicomte de Leaume arrived out of the blue and invited me for a “walk”. He was asking me all about you. He asked me again where we met, and when, who we met through, and why. Luckily I was well prepared for his questions. And he does seem to have begun to accept you recently. Then he announced that Kevlokine was dead. That’s what’s changed my hand. That and the arrival of the Allies.’
They had walked a little further along and stopped by the Tuileries Cardens, which were separated from Rue de Rivoli by elegant railings. Joyful chatter could be heard from the gardens, where soldiers and beautiful girls were strolling in couples, laughing and
swearing undying love to each other; luxurious little carriages were passing, drawn at the trot. The Spanish dragoons, newly arrived in Paris, were the heroes of the hour. These elite soldiers were feared even by the Spanish guerrillas who nicknamed them ‘cabezas de oro’ - gold heads - because of their gold-coloured copper helmets. People who still believed Napoleon could win were milling about under the windows of the Tuileries Palace, or were besieging the imperial palace, sneering at the ‘cowards’ and flaunting their convictions. It was a strange spectacle, as if time had stopped. It was the end of March 1814 everywhere else but here in the Tuileries, where the sunny days of Austerlitz still shone. Margont said nothing. He did not know if Louis de Leaume was aware that they had found the emblem of the Swords of the King on Count Kevlokine’s body. And he did not want to give anything away by asking Varencourt.
‘Co on!’ he said instead.
‘There isn’t anything else! Really, I swear!’
‘Does he suspect one of the members of the group?’
‘What makes you say that? It would make no sense ... one doesn’t fire on one’s own side!’
‘Well, you do!’
Varencourt bristled at that. ‘I really think you should disappear,’ he advised Margont. ‘But not till after tonight’s meeting! If you flee now, by the end of the afternoon they’ll realise you’re gone. And all their suspicions will ricochet onto me, because I’m the one who introduced you. But if you go after the meeting - and I’ll go too -they’ll take longer to notice and we’ll be able to put some distance between them and us. Yes, now I think about it properly, that’s what we should do ...’
He almost took Margont by the arm, but thought better of it. ‘Do as you like, you obstinate blighter. I only ask one thing: that when you do decide to disappear, you’ll let me know! Or else you’ll have my death on your conscience. And I know you have a conscience, very much so. Just swear that you will let me know when you’re withdrawing from the game!’
‘If such a thing were to happen, I’d do my best to let you know.’
Varencourt did not look very reassured. Something had happened to make him nervous. He was an experienced and talented manipulator. The explanations he had given did not seem enough to justify the state he was in. And there was something slightly theatrical about his fear: the way he had almost taken Margont’s arm, and sometimes mumbled his answers, his entreaties. Was he really as afraid as he was making out? Or was he acting fearful to mask his real state of mind? The more Margont had opened up to him, the more Varencourt had seemed to respond with lies.
‘Where were you the night Chatel, Leaume and Nolant turned up unannounced at my lodgings to force me to use my printing press?’