Memory of Flames Read online

  Table of Contents

  MEMORY OF FLAMES

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  More historical fiction from Gallic

  Praise for Armand Cabasson

  ‘A vivid portrayal of the Grande Armée ... worth reading’

  Literary Review

  ‘With vivid scenes of battle and military life ... Cabasson’s atmospheric novel makes a splendid war epic ...’

  Sunday Telegraph

  ‘Cabasson skilfully weaves an intriguing mystery into a rich historical background.’

  Mail on Sunday

  MEMORY OF FLAMES

  ARMAND CABASSON

  Translated from the French by Isabel Reid

  CHAPTER 1

  AS he advanced along the corridor an image rose before him. It was as if each of his steps was the ratchet of a cog setting in train other movements. He had prepared his plan with the precision of a watchmaker. That night he was finally starting up the complex mechanism. He heard a noise on the stairs. Someone was coming up. He had orientated himself in the dark by feeling along the wall and had already counted four doors. Now he went back, opened the third door and hid in the bedroom that had previously belonged to the colonel’s only daughter. The room had been unoccupied since she had married. The yellowish-orange light of a candle filtered under the door before moving away. A heavy footstep, slow and uneven: Mejun, the oldest of the colonel’s servants, a retired sergeant whose leg had been shattered by an Austrian cannonball at the Battle of Marengo. He was on his way to light the fire in the study as he did every evening; but he was half an hour early. The colonel must have hurried through his supper.

  Leaning against the door, the intruder steadied his nerves - he knew the layout and habits of the house inside out. Mejun went back along the corridor with no inkling that anything was amiss. The intruder slipped out of the bedroom and finally reached the study, where he hid behind the long velvet curtains. All he had to do now was wait.

  But almost immediately he was drawn out of his hiding place. The hearth. The fire. The flames, like golden tongues licking the air, seemed to call to him. It was as if they recognised him and wanted to show him something. The way they bent and leapt, weaving themselves together and then separating, the dark interstices they created ... Faces with flaming skin and sooty eyes appeared in the dancing tapestry. Pain contorted their features; their mouths opened wide in silent screams. They disappeared, to be replaced by others, coming towards him. In vain they shouted for help, until their unbearable suffering robbed them of consciousness. The presences were so real ... the logs crackled and one of them split and burst into a shower of sparks. The frenzy of the victims increased. He saw nothing but the fire. It filled his thoughts; he was reduced to a human husk burning inside. The door creaked, bringing him back to reality, leaving him barely time to hide again. Footsteps. The exhausted trudge of someone determined to work for a little longer before strength failed. The wood of the desk chair groaned. Only the colonel was allowed to sit there. A pen began to scratch hastily across the paper. The old officer did not notice the intruder coming up behind him.

  CHAPTER 2

  LIEUTENANT-COLONEL Quentin Margont stood to attention. He was wearing his uniform of the infantry of the line. Although he had been promoted two months ago to field officer of the National Guard of Paris, he had not yet received his new uniform. He had been summoned to the magnificent office in the Tuileries Palace where he now confronted two of the most celebrated figures of the Empire. Unfortunately he disliked the first and was suspicious of the second.

  Joseph Bonaparte, elder brother of Napoleon, had accumulated a dizzying array of titles: King of Spain (or, even more impressively King of Spain and the Indies), Lieutenant-General of the Empire, Commander of the Army and the National Guard of Paris. The Emperor had entrusted him with the defence of the capital whilst he himself fought in the north-east of France. It was astonishing to think that in 1812, just before Napoleon had launched his Russian campaign at the head of an army of four hundred thousand men, the Empire had been at its zenith. Yet today, 16 March 1814, less than two years later, he was fighting in France with only seventy thousand soldiers, trying to halt the invasion of three hundred and fifty million Austrians, Hungarians, Russians, Prussians, Swedes, Hanoverians and Bavarians, split into the Army of Bohemia, the Army of Silesia, the Army of the North (part of which operated in Holland, the other part in Belgium). To say nothing of the sixty-five thousand English, Spanish and Portuguese under the Marquess of Wellington, who had just seized Bordeaux and whom Marshal Soult was trying to contain. Or of the Austrians based in Italy, who were fighting Prince Eugene de Beauharnais. How the mighty were fallen! The thought of it made Margont quite dizzy. Would it still be possible to save the ideals embodied by the Revolution? Perhaps Napoleon would be victorious against all odds. After all he had just pulled off some stupefying victories: against the Russians under Olssufiev at Champaubert on 10 February, and under Sacken at Montmirail on the nth. On the 12th he had defeated Yorck’s Prussians at Chateau-Thierry, on the 14th the

  Prussians and the Russians under the indefatigable Blücher at Vauchamps, on the 17th both Wittgenstein’s Russians at Mormant and then an Austro-Bavarian force under Wrede at Nangis. And the Allies had been even more astounded when Napoleon routed the Austrians, Hungarians and Wurtembergers under the wily generalissimo Schwarzenberg.

  The astonishing thing was that Joseph - whom Margont judged, perhaps a little harshly, to be incompetent - resembled the Emperor, with his round puffy face, brown eyes, high forehead and sparse black hair. He considered himself very intelligent, but he was like a mediocre copy of a painting pretending to be the original.

  Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord, Prince de Bénévent, known as The Limping Devil’ was in every way, whether considering his qualities or his faults, the polar opposite. Brilliant, farsighted, witty, manipulative, charming, affable, obsequious, deceitful and unpredictable, he had the gift of the gab. It was rumoured that he had dared to say, after the cataclysmic outcome of the Russian campaign, ‘It’s the beginning of the end.’ The Emperor suspected him of having betrayed him on several occasions and of now plotting for the return of the Bourbons. Relations between them were so confrontational that Napoleon had referred to him to his face as ‘shit in silk stockings’.

  But Talleyrand knew how to make himself indispensable. As a dignitary he was always involved in diplomatic manoeuvring, either officially or unofficiall
y. Margont considered him an astute weathervane, adept at anticipating the changes in the wind. But it was not impossible that this devious man did, in his own way, love his country. Perhaps he was sincerely trying to help France and not just working for his own advancement, but he was doing it with the arrogance of someone who believes that only his way will work.

  The sixty-year-old, in his powdered wig, was observing Margont with an intensity that belied his relaxed posture and his world-weary air.

  ‘At ease,’ barked Joseph. ‘Lieutenant-Colonel Margont, we have

  summoned you because we need you for a secret mission.’

  He was studying papers spread out on the desk as he spoke and did not look at Margont, who felt certain that he knew what those papers said about him and longed to seize them and hurl them into the fire that was inadequately heating the vast room.

  ‘His Highness Prince Eugene charged you with a confidential mission during the Russian campaign. That you know. What you perhaps don’t know is how he characterised you afterwards. Eulogies and encomiums!’

  He brandished a sheet of paper and read from it.

  ‘You are, and I quote, “an admirable man”—’

  He had to break off as Talleyrand snorted with laughter. The Prince de Bénévent had long ceased believing that men could be admirable ...

  ‘You succeeded brilliantly in your mission, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. In view of all this praise and of your experience, Monsieur de Talleyrand and I consider that you are the man we need.’ Margont was a confirmed republican. At a time when Paris was

  threatened, he wanted to play his part in protecting the capital, not to be ‘the man we need’, whatever mission Joseph was about to reveal.

  The latter settled back in his chair and stared at Margont.

  ‘Yesterday evening, Colonel Berle was assassinated at home, here in Paris. We have reason to believe that the crime was committed by one or more royalists—’

  ‘But perhaps we’re barking up the wrong tree,’ Talleyrand suddenly interrupted.

  ‘Berle was a military genius, and although now sixty, he had agreed to be pressed back into service because of the situation we are facing. He was one of the officers I had asked to consider the best ways of defending Paris. We are preparing for the worst, as a precaution, even though, of course, the enemy will never succeed in reaching Paris!’

  ‘But they already have, Your Excellency—’ objected Margont.

  ‘What insolence! Yet another revolutionary who believes in freedom of expression! And he dares to call me “Your Excellency”

  instead of “Your Majesty”! I am King of Spain!’

  Imperial Spain barely existed any more; it was reduced to Barcelona and part of Catalonia. Joseph was the only one to think his crown still meant anything. Margont made an effort to rein himself in. His candour and his love of the witty retort had already got him into trouble in the past. But the terms ‘Your Highness’ or ‘Your Majesty’ stuck in his throat. His expression was impassive but inside he was boiling. They should have started reinforcing the capital’s defences months ago! But not a single entrenchment had been built and not a single ditch dug! No one had drawn up instructions in case of an attack! Such inaction was criminal. Was Joseph afraid of worrying people? Did he think that ostrich tactics would work? The lieutenant-general paused a moment, hesitating to entrust Margont with the inquiry. Then he launched in.

  ‘The file we have on you, Lieutenant-Colonel, dwells at length on your revolutionary ardour. But so much the better. Nothing like a republican to hunt down a royalist. The victim was tortured. No doubt his tormentor was trying to force information from him. I don’t know whether poor Berle talked ... He was writing a proposal for me to transform the mound at Montmartre into an impregnable redoubt guarded by large-calibre cannons to protect the approaches to Paris ... He was also working on plans for entrenchments to guard the residential areas of the city and on what to do about the bridges: how to fortify them, and equip them with landing stages ...’

  Margont was shaken. Montmartre, the bridges ... Of course it was necessary to do all that to protect Parisians. But he found it disturbing to think of the places he loved covered with retrenchments and artillery.

  The murderer left behind a royalist emblem. A white rosette with a medallion in the middle decorated with a fleur-de-lis in the shape of an arrowhead crossed with a sword. It was pinned to the colonel’s shirt. The murderer also stole some documents. Fortunately, most of them were coded, as I had instructed. Our theory is that a small group of royalists is planning to try to disrupt the defence of Paris.’

  Royalist plotters! Everyone was talking about them as if there were tens of thousands of them, when in fact there could have been only a few thousand scattered amongst several different organisations. Since the catastrophic imperial defeats in 1812 and 1813 they had regained credibility and energy. They were stirring up as much trouble as possible, fearing that Napoleon would come to a compromise with the Allies and hold on to his imperial crown. They advocated all-out war against the Emperor and some of them favoured extreme methods: murder and uprising.

  ‘We think the murderer left the emblem to create a climate of fear. Our enemies within are only a handful - they want to appear more numerous and dangerous than they really are. We won’t play their game! I demand that every detail of the crime remain secret. Neither you nor the servant who discovered the colonel’s body must divulge that aspect of the affair. As for the police, they won’t even know about it. It so happens that we have an advantage and you are going to exploit it for us.’

  Joseph let the last few words sink in.

  The murderer thinks he can hide in the anonymity of the myriad monarchist organisations: the Knights of the Faith, the Congregation, the Aa, the Societies of the Sacred Heart... But he underestimates the reach of our police services. We have an informer in one of their groups, the Swords of the King. Charles de Varencourt is the son of a noble Norman family. A committed royalist, but with an Achilles heel: he’s an inveterate gambler, and so he’s always short of money. A few weeks ago he began to sell us information.’

  Margont, who was an idealist, had no time for that kind of person. ‘I see ...’ he said. ‘When he runs out of money he betrays his companions.’

  ‘Exactly. We haven’t arrested them yet for three reasons. First, in this kind of operation we must avoid haste. The longer we wait the more information we’ll gather, and the more members of the group well be able to identify. We haven’t yet managed to find out where the members live. Secondly, the plotters can’t agree on what action to take, so they don’t represent any immediate danger.

  And thirdly, thanks to them, we will be able to hook a much larger fish, Count Boris Kevlokine. But more about him later. In the meantime Charles de Varencourt has been providing us with information. Some of the plotters plan to wage a murderous campaign against the key members of the team charged with defending Paris.’

  Although Joseph tried to hide it, his voice trembled. He was afraid. Did he think that he might be targeted? Margont abstained from assuring him that he was perfectly safe since his enemies would have no interest in eliminating such a hopeless incompetent. In any case, the security of the top brass was assured. Joseph cleared his throat and tried once more to master himself, which only served to make his anxiety more obvious.

  ‘Colonel Berle was on the list of people they plan to assassinate. I had taken steps to protect the people on the list, discreetly so as not to make it obvious to our enemies that we knew what they were up to. But I have to admit we hadn’t seen this coming. Even in the Swords of the King there aren’t many royalists willing to commit to murder in this way. Murder as a tactic is under discussion but hasn’t been agreed. Some members would like to foment a popular uprising by printing posters; others want to raise arms; and some are just planning to wait until everything is sorted out whilst looking as if they’re taking action ... The group had gathered information about potential victims
— names, addresses, places of work, regular routes, interests, friends and family, the number of armed guards each had. Colonel Berle’s murderer would have known all these things. At the time of the murder there were fifteen people in the house! There were sentries, his private secretary, two valets, three household servants, the cook, the kitchen maid, the coachman ... So the man must have got in through a window and made his way through the house, in spite of all the comings and goings, to the study on the second floor. That proves he knew the habits of his victim. And the symbol he left behind is the secret emblem of the Swords of the King.’

  Margont thought of Paris. Could a few crimes like that really put the defence of the capital in jeopardy? Unfortunately, yes. And

  what about Talleyrand? The Prince de Bénévent had not said a word, although he was paying close attention to what Margont and Joseph were saying, and to their demeanour. Margont was curious to hear what he would have to say.

  ‘So, Lieutenant-Colonel, what do you conclude from what I have just told you?’ demanded Joseph.

  ‘Nothing, Your Excellency.’

  The lieutenant-general raised his eyes to the ceiling, then let his head fall back. He studied the ceiling with its elegant oval stucco and enormous chandelier whose candles barely illuminated the wintry gloom. But his attitude was unconvincing. Joseph seemed to have struck a pose, like an actor trying to intimidate an audience that was not delivering the correct response. He was a bit-part player who had been made a king because he was the Emperor’s brother. But instead of becoming a Henry V he was nothing but a mediocre King Lear, responsible in part for his own difficulties. He rose.

  ‘I demand a response, Lieutenant-Colonel.’ ‘Perhaps one of the members of the group decided unilaterally to put into operation the plan to destabilise the Empire by committing murder. By leaving the emblem, apart from making it clear that the Empire’s enemies are here in the heart of Paris, he hoped to draw the other conspirators into the plan whether they liked it or not. He was setting in train a process: the crime would force you to step up your efforts against the Swords of the King, which would alarm them and push them to commit increasingly violent acts.’