Memory of Flames

‘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 pla

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 u

‘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 ru