‘What makes you think they might?’

‘Louis de Leaume and Jean-Baptiste de Chatel are both men of action and prone to violence, albeit for different reasons. They’re ultras, and the two plans I’ve just mentioned are probably not extreme enough for them.’

‘Isn’t killing people enough proof of the group’s intransigence?’ ‘No. Not for fanatics like them.’ Margont added, ‘I feel I understand those two, you know, because I share one of their defining characteristics - idealism! Of course, our ideals are not the same. Which means I feel both close to them and repelled by them. Nothing is more beautiful than idealism. But there is nothing worse either. If you consider history, idealism has resulted in great progress, in leaps forward and improvements ... but it has also brought untold carnage and other abominations. For these two men the two plans are not enough to quench their thirst for action.’

Lefine tried to gather his thoughts. Half an hour ago he had had a clear picture of the situation. Now he was confused. His mind was like a calm pond into which Margont had just thrown his hypotheses, stirring up mud and silt.

‘But Charles de Varencourt keeps us informed, and he likes his money, that fellow.’

‘Maybe he doesn’t know about it. Or maybe he’s frightened to speak, or else he’s waiting for the best moment to exact the highest price ... Or perhaps he’s playing both sides to make sure he doesn’t lose out, whoever wins.’

‘I don’t always understand what it is that you want me to do ...’ ‘When things aren’t moving fast enough, sometimes you have to administer a kick to the ant hill.’

‘And I suppose I’m the kick.’

‘The group is like a liquid bubbling on the fire of events. If we wait until the flame is big enough to show itself, it will be too late. So I propose to add an ingredient - that’s you! - to create an instability that will force them to lower their guard.’

‘Oh, I see, you want to play the alchemist! But do you know how many of those, by playing with sulphur in the hope of turning lead to gold, blew themselves up with their concotions?’

‘You’re not obliged to accept. If you agree, all you have to do is stay with me. I know that I’m regularly watched, so eventually they will spot you. If you don’t agree, you are free to leave now.’

Lefine was more torn than ever. His instinct for survival was shouting at him to make for the door. But there was another part of him ... He always worried that if confronted with a difficult situation, Margont would not escape without his help. And he did not want to lose his best friend. Because once the Napoleonic dream had been comprehensively shattered, once everything had collapsed and the Revolution was nothing but a distant memory that no one dare evoke, what would be left for him apart from Margont, Saber, Brémond and Piquebois? Whilst Margont thought in the abstract terms of universal ideals, Lefine thought in concrete terms of his own wellbeing. Margont was trying to look as if he were thinking through his hypotheses, but Lefine could see that all he was thinking about was whether or not his friend was going to accept. Although Margont had tried to produce elaborate justification, sometimes he was easy to read, even though he was unaware of it.

‘All right, I agree. But it’s going to cost Joseph dear! They’re going to have to pay my wages for the end of 1812, for 1813 and for the beginning of 1814, with interest on top!’

‘Thank you, Fernand! But then who will have access to the police reports?’

‘That will still be me. I’ll just make sure that it is impossible to follow me when I go to see Natai.’

‘Very good. All you have to do is to be seen with me from time to time and the Swords of the King will soon notice you. Let’s take stock. How far, in fact, have the police got?’

‘I read a copy of the report from the inspectors of the civilian police in charge of investigating Berle’s death. Their inquiry - interrogations of the servants, friends and relatives, verification of his fortune, and reading his correspondence - has revealed nothing. No liaison, debts, no enemies so annoyed with him that they would mutilate him and assassinate him ...’

‘Why do you put it in that order when we know he was burnt after

death? Haven’t the inspectors of the general police discovered that?’

‘No.’

‘Have they finally heard that there was a royalist emblem pinned to the victim?’

‘Not that either.’

‘Joseph has divided the investigation in two, and only we know both parts.’

‘It’s us he’s counting on,’ said Lefine. ‘As we thought, nothing of value was taken. The only things that disappeared were the colonel’s notes on the defence of Paris. The civilian police have ruled out the possibility of a privately motivated crime and have reached the conclusion that the murderer or murderers were royalist partisans. The inspectors have reached the point where we started.’

Margont told him what he had discovered that day. Then he tossed the button to Lefine with a challenging look. Lefine caught it, clapping his hands. He examined it carefully, turning it over slowly close to his eyes.

‘It’s a military button ... There’s a number or a letter, or several ... It’s too worn to see ...’

He looked disappointed. The button hid the solution to an enigma, but was like a nut they were unable to crack.

‘So you also think it’s the button from a uniform,’ said Margont. ‘But hundreds of soldiers wear uniforms with decorated gold buttons. The foot artillery of the Imperial Guard have buttons that are decorated with two crossed cannon barrels surmounted by the imperial eagle. The grenadiers of the Old Guard also have the imperial eagle on theirs. Our friend Jean-Quenin still has his button from 1798, even though it’s no longer regulation, and it has the words “Military hospitals” and then “Humanity” with a Phrygian cap above it. His other buttons have a staff entwined with a serpent surmounted by the mirror of prudence and surrounded by an oak branch and a laurel branch. Customs-house officers are similarly decorated, but I don’t know the exact details. The light infantry have the number of their regiment inscribed inside a

hunting horn. Normally they’re silver, but I can’t be certain that there aren’t any light regiments who have gold buttons. Just as the infantry of the line is supposed to have gold buttons but several regiments have silver ones. And I have no idea about other buttons - the navy, for example, or the engineers ...’

‘We don’t get paid but we all have these expensive uniforms. Why can’t all soldiers have the same buttons? And anyway, the regulations for uniforms are not always respected. Each regiment has its own foibles and traditions and variations according to what comes to hand. If Saber suddenly says, “I want all my soldiers to have uniform buttons with the number of our legion in roman numerals preceded by an ‘S’ for Saber,” we’d all have to pay for them from the little money we have left...’

‘Perhaps we’re barking up the wrong tree. Perhaps it’s the button from an expensive civilian suit. I don’t know what a count or a baron would have worn under the ancien regime ... You’ve got so many contacts, do you know anyone who could help us?’

‘I know the perfect person. I have a friend who works in the

commissariat. If anyone knows about military buttons, he does.’ ‘I’m relying on you. Then there’s the fire - what clues can we draw from that?’

Margont brandished a Bible. Lefine remembered being dragged, in tears - of rage! - to church by his father who hoped that God would put the little miscreant back on the straight and narrow. Ever since, he had given the Holy Scriptures as wide a berth as possible. Margont, on the other hand, was turning the pages with the practised ease of a preacher. ‘Job, chapter l, verse 16: “While he was yet speaking, there came also another, and said, ‘The fire of God is fallen from heaven, and hath burned up the sheep and the servants, and consumed them; and I only am escaped alone to tell thee.””