‘They’re other members of our group—’ began Louis de Leaume. ‘We haven’t time for that!’ interrupted Jean-Baptiste de Chatel. Margont felt that Chatel was playing a tactical game. He continually provoked Vicomte de Leaume. If the latter should lose his temper he would discredit himself - who would want a leader incapable of controlling himself? But if he did not react, he would gradually lose his authority because it would look as if he were

unable to oppose Chatel. The Swords of the King were not a homogenous group, but a fragile coalition, perpetually on the verge of splitting apart.

Honoré de Nolant searched Lefine. He found a knife and a pistol, which he placed on the floor. As he patted Lefine down, he felt something in a pocket. He pulled out the gold button and looked at it, but put it back without comment. Margont was searched by Chatel, who then said to him, ‘Chevalier, you won’t mind if we go straight away to your print works?’

They set off, leaving behind the two members Margont did not know, to continue their search. Margont was not worried, though: apart from fleas and cockroaches, there was nothing to find ... But Joseph had been right to forbid him to have the police reports himself. As for Joseph’s letter, they would have to be very clever to flush that out...

When they got outside, five more people surged out of the shadows of the adjacent streets - determined-looking men in the prime of life. Two of them returned to the shadows to keep watch to protect their accomplices inside the inn. The three others fell in behind the group, but at some distance, forming a rearguard, ready to close in, in case of danger.

Margont watched and memorised everything. He was witnessing a display of force on the part of his adversaries. They were better organised than he had previously thought. They were apparently capable of leading a little troop into combat. Were they aiming for some spectacular show offeree? In October 1812, during the retreat from Russia, while the Grande Armée was in complete disarray, General Malet, a republican officer imprisoned for his hostility to the Emperor, had launched a mad attempt to overthrow him. Wanting to restore the republic, he had escaped from the madhouse where he was being held, and embarked on an audacious series of escapades. He pretended to be General Lamotte and had gone to a barracks and announced that the Emperor had been killed in Russia. His aplomb and assurance had convinced the loth cohort of the National Guard. Then he had liberated two other republican generals and arrested Pasquier, the Prefect of

Police, and Savary, the Minister of Civilian Police. But the Governor of Paris, General Hulin, had refused to support Malet, who responded by shooting him in the jaw. Eventually Malet had been arrested, then shot after a brief trial, but he had well and truly shaken the imperial throne. If Louis de Leaume were as daring as Malet, he would have a much greater chance of success, since he had more resources and the Emperor’s situation was much worse than in October 1812. It all depended what plans he was pursuing. On the other hand, the fact that the Swords of the King had sought to intimidate Margont was also a good sign. They would not have bothered had they not needed him and perhaps feared him.

The streets, cold enough to make their teeth chatter, were lit by the moon, which resembled a block of ice floating in black water. But Margont was burning inside, heated by the passion of his thoughts. Varencourt was notable by his absence. Was that proof that the group did not trust him? Or was he off leading another operation?

The little printing press came into sight. How Margont loved it!

But he was seized by a sudden fear. What if Joseph had asked his police to keep watch on the place? If a guard spotted them and told his superiors that several of the people they were searching for had just appeared, the place would soon be alive with the sound of gunfire ... Margont was annoyed with himself for dragging Lefine into danger with him.

In a little lane nearby a man stepped out from under a porch. He nodded to Vicomte de Leaume, who had stopped, but now went on again.

CHAPTER 21

THEY swarmed into the room. The cold air intensified the smell of ink. Honoré de Nolant lit as few candles as necessary. The unaccustomed nocturnal activity might attract the attention of the police, especially since printing presses were kept under close watch.

The faces, lit by the pale trembling light of the candles, looked eerie. To Margont’s amusement, Jean-Baptiste de Chatel resembled a ghost.

‘So Monsieur de Langes: where have you hidden the posters you promised us?’

‘Where no one can find them.’

Honoré de Nolant had already begun moving piles of paper about and searching behind the presses.

‘Show us where,’ commanded Louis de Leaume.

‘Here,’ replied Margont, tapping his forehead.

‘Are you pulling my leg?’

‘In here, neither the police nor the printer’s employees can stumble across them ... Let me demonstrate/

Margont launched into a sort of dance. He had to give the impression that he was working quickly, whilst actually moving as slowly as possible. He prepared the press, installed the paper, started the ink flowing, aligned the lead characters ... The Swords of the King tried to follow what he was doing, but printing was more complicated than it looked. Besides, Margont was making it more complex than necessary. He was like a bee flitting from flower to flower. Honoré de Nolant tried to help him by picking up a line of characters. Inevitably, he was instantly stained with ink. He looked at his hands in consternation. In the gloom, the ink looked like blood. It was as if he had just stabbed someone. Was he thinking of a crime he had committed? His appalled expression said a great deal ... He began to wipe his hands on his coat, his fingers pressing the material so tightly that his knuckles were white.

Margont seized the crank with both hands and pushed it vigorously. He loved that moment. The words did not yet exist, at least

not visibly. It was the press that made them appear. He waited longer than was necessary. Finally he freed the sheet and presented it triumphantly to the others. He had printed in enormous characters:

THE KING, PEACE!

‘That’s it?’ queried Jean-Baptiste de Chatel in astonishment.

‘Yes. Short and sweet - it’s perfect!’

‘What about God? And the legitimacy of the King? And the loyalty of the people to their sovereign?’

‘Too long, too heavy, too complicated ... The French want peace.’ Vicomte de Leaume took the little poster. He beamed. One of his plans was coming to life in front of his eyes! ‘It’s magnificent! Anyway, we’re going to have several different types of poster...’

Then suddenly he took Margont in his arms. It was an unusual gesture for an aristocrat. It was more like the embrace of brothers in arms. ‘Chevalier, excuse us for doubting you! You are an extraordinary man!’

His face was transformed. His vigour, which had struck Margont the first time he had met him, was more obvious than ever. He seemed capable of overcoming any obstacle. Yes, he had definitely kept the passion that had saved his life. He must have worn the same expression as he clawed his way through the putrefying corpses to drag himself out of the communal grave. How could such a man serve Louis XVIII? He should have been a general for the likes of Alexander the Great, but instead he was under the orders of little Louis ...

‘More!’ he exclaimed.

Margont set to work. Lefine, Honoré de Nolant and Louis de Leaume came to lend a hand. Chatel, meanwhile, strolled slowly around, looking about him scornfully. The idea of covering Paris with posters did not interest him. Margont spent far too long brushing the characters with ink on the pretext of distributing it properly, using several different types of typography to make the same poster, taking care to centre a sheet badly so that he had to