Memory of Flames

The young conscripts brandished their weapons in all directions. Some wanted to protect the poor frightened blighter ru

‘I’m delighted to see you safe! I’m Monsieur Palenier. As arranged, we were following you, but we lost you on the bridge because of that damned haycart! Where are the men we need to arrest?’ ‘Imbeciles! Incompetent imbeciles!’ was all that Margont could manage to splutter in response.

CHAPTER 35

MARGONT recounted the happenings to Palenier, who in turn relayed them to Joseph. When the latter heard that the Swords of the King had been pla

His personal police burst into various houses where they thought members of the Swords of the King were hiding and arrested some suspects. They went back to the ‘treasure-trove’ and picked up the man Margont had wounded. But as Leaume, with his mania for secrecy, had not told him anything, he could provide no new information. The man Lefine had shot had escaped with the others. There were drops of blood on the stairs, but the telltale trail ended abruptly in the courtyard - he must have taken care to stem the bleeding with a handkerchief. Lefine thought they would find him not far from Charles de Varencourt’s body, but that was not the case. Margont voiced the theory that it had taken so long for Joseph’s agents to surround the house - because Lefine had had trouble finding the building again - that Charles de Varencout had been able to prove his i

The only committee member they arrested was Catherine de Saltonges, and that was perfectly straightforward. She had gone home, thinking she had several hours before Margont and Lefine’s bosses realised they were missing, and was gathering her belongings, preparing to leave Paris, when Joseph’s police burst in. So it was the least culpable member, the one who had not wanted to be present at a double murder, that was arrested. She had been taken to Temple prison where Palenier interrogated her, but did not mistreat her, Margont having made him swear on his honour not to. Margont was also going to question her. But first, exhausted by the events of the past few days, he returned with Lefine to their barracks, to calm his rage and fears, and work out a tactic to make Catherine de Saltonges talk. For he was absolutely certain that she would give nothing away to Joseph’s agents.

CHAPTER 36

THE companies of the 2nd Legion were training in the courtyard, sullying the night with the din of their orders and discordant rhythmical steps. The voice of Colonel Saber could be heard at regular intervals bellowing a command, ‘In column formation!’ Then there would be the clatter of ru

Margont was recuperating his strength, stretched out on his bed -a real bed, not a louse-ridden palliasse. He was turning the button in his fingers and it gleamed in the moonlight. The distortions and the patterns caught the light in various ways, creating a changing mosaic of shadows and golden points. He felt as if he were handling a box of secrets that he would only be able to open once he had worked out the subtle mechanism. He applied his usual method of approaching the problem from several different angles, hoping that inspiration would strike, allowing him to see the button in a new way. And it did! To such an extent that he wondered if it was the same button ... Those symbols ... There was a sort of A, or a sort of 'A, or n ... An A with a strange accent, horizontal, and attached to the letter and rolled back on itself... A bizarre A’ surmounted by something ... Margont sat up suddenly. So suddenly that the button dropped from his fingers and fell on the floor. He could not quite take in the implications of what he had realised. His heart was thumping as if he were in danger; his muscles tensed - he was ready to attack; cold sweat trickled down his back ... His body seemed to have understood before his mind ... Margont wondered why he had not leapt up already to retrieve the button and examine it again. He rose and picked it up cautiously, as if it were one of those old hand grenades, which no army ever used any more because of their tendency to explode in the hands of the grenadiers supposed to toss them at the enemy. He held it in front of his eyes, closer and closer, to try to see it more clearly.

The strange consecutive marks he had mistaken for damage to the button were in fact the astonishing outline of symbols. It was not that the letter was very badly worn away, it was actually only a little damaged. What had misled him was that it was represented in a very unusual way. An A’ styled in the Cyrillic way and topped by a cross with triangular arms: the monogram of Tsar Alexander and the cross of the Opolchenie, the Russian militia. The button came from a Russian army uniform. Margont’s mind was immediately filled with unwelcome memories. How vivid they were! An expanse of grass spread itself rapidly across the floor: the immense Moscow plain unfurled in front of him, pushing back the walls of the bedroom as if they were mere straw. Lines and lines of French soldiers advanced elbow to elbow; Margont was marching with them, Lefine at his side. Ca