‘So that’s why he killed Count Kevlokine!’ exclaimed Palenier. ‘How could he avenge the Moscow fire unless he found a way of harming the Russians? After all, the Russians were to blame for the whole thing!’
What was striking about Palenier was his ability to sustain a lie with such conviction that it was almost believable. The Russians blamed the French totally for the destruction of Moscow, but the French - Palenier, for example - blamed the Russians. In fact they were both equally to blame. Obviously if the French had not attacked Russia, the ancient capital would not have been destroyed.
But Napoleon would certainly never have given an order to burn the city because he wanted to make peace with the Tsar, and also because he needed the city intact so that the Grande Armée could rest and recuperate there.
Margont had been in Moscow when the fire broke out. In common with other soldiers he had seen the arsonists at work: Russian police in civilian clothes and prisoners and enemy aliens freed specially to help. But fire engines? All taken away by order of Rostopchin, the Governor-General of Moscow. And fire barges? Sabotaged and burnt. Rostopchin seemed to have acted on his own initiative, not on the orders of Alexander I, who adored the city and never stopped lamenting its destruction. Rostopchin had decided to pursue the scorched-earth policy that had worked so well for the Russians up until then, but he pushed it to the extreme. The fire of Moscow caused such a hue and cry that Rostopchin denied what he had done. He swore that the French and some Russian thieves and other criminals were responsible, that the soldiers of the Grande Armée had pillaged the houses and set them alight, either from drunken high spirits or by accidentally knocking over candles. Such things had happened, but he refused to admit that hundreds of fires had been started by Russians and that the water pumps had been deliberately suppressed. Only he had the necessary authority to give those orders and make sure they were carried out effectively. Margont knew a great deal about it. He had almost been burnt alive in Moscow, along with Lefine, Saber, Piquebois and Jean-Quenin! So he had taken care to find out everything after the event.
The causes of the fire of Moscow were the talk of the salons throughout Europe. Everyone had an opinion, according to whether they supported the French or the Russians. Ironically, Margont found himself in the same boat as Charles de Varencourt; they were both surviving victims. Of course, Margont hadn’t lost nearly as much as the man he was after. But he could appreciate the profound effect the fire had had on him. Russians, French, allies of the French (most of whom were now allies of Russia): they were all to blame.
To avenge the fire of Moscow he would have to find a way of harming the French and the Russians,’ corrected Margont, giving Palenier a furious look. Varencourt had made common cause with the royalists. But Varencourt was acting for personal, not political reasons. To such an extent that he was quite prepared to betray his allies by using them to find out where Count Kevlokine lived so that he could murder him. Count Kevlokine had been murdered for the sins of Count Rostopchin - they were both friends of the Tsar, close friends. Now Napoleon was going to pay for the sins of... Napoleon.
He pictured the Moscow fire. Burning for four days. And then the aftermath. Four-fifths of the city destroyed, twenty thousand dead. Those thousands and thousands of flames had left behind a spark that still burnt today, eighteen months later, fanned by Charles de Varencourt. It had travelled across one thousand five hundred miles to reach Paris with one sole ambition: to burn up Napoleon. The flames’ return ...
It might seem hopeless: one man against an emperor and the thousands of people who guard him. But the flame from a single candle can burn down an entire forest ...
Margont turned to leave, then thought better of it and went to see Catherine de Saltonges. She was sitting despondently on her bed, staring unseeingly in front of her. He put the button down beside her.
'That belongs to you,’ he murmured.
She looked at the object, picked it up and gently closed her hands round it, as if she were cradling the last star to shine in her universe.
CHAPTER 40
MARGONT, Lefine, Palenier and his subordinate went to Varencourt’s house. The surrounding streets, muddy and malodorous, evoked a swamp in which rows of run-down houses were planted. The address Charles had given the police was just a garret, ‘a pigeon house’, as Lefine had called it. Under other circumstances it would have been comical to see the men crammed into the small space, bumping into each other and knocking their heads on the ceiling as they searched. Four policemen were already there when they arrived and declared they had found nothing of interest.
‘What do you think about that?’ Palenier asked Margont casually.
‘I must admit I’m vexed. The group had confidently expected to do away with my friend and me. Happily, they had counted without your being on hand to save us!’
Palenier coloured, but continued to look at Margont, not wanting to lose face in front of his men.
'True, we’ve arrested only Catherine de Saltonges and a lookout,’ Margont went on, ‘but Charles de Varencourt would not have had time to come back here. And it would have been too risky. I had hoped that we would have found some clues ... He must have at least two places he stays. This one - where the “Varencourt who sells his secrets to the Empire” lives - and another where he must be now. And that’s also where he stored the poison and everything he needed to carry out his plan. Here, there would always have been the risk that the police would lose confidence in him and storm in to search everything from top to bottom.’
‘His mistress would surely know the other address.’
‘I very much doubt it. Look at Colonel Berle’s murder, the complexity of their plan, the double game he’s playing. Charles de Varencourt is careful; he’s meticulous. I don’t think he would have made an error like that. Especially as, thanks to Louis de Leaume, he must have access to many different houses. And then, the other address is probably a little hovel like this. Can you imagine making love amidst the flasks of poison you are going to use to murder someone? Perhaps they would meet at her house, but I don’t think so, because Catherine de Saltonges has servants: it wouldn’t have been safe. I expect they met in hotels, passing themselves off as a couple on their travels. In any case, there’s no point in deluding ourselves, she’s not going to tell us anything more.’