Jean-Baptiste de Chatel added, ‘The Angel of Death held him in its arms and even though he escaped, the Angel had time to consume his soul ...’

To protect Lefine, Margont replied, ‘It’s in the buckle of my belt.’ Leaume extracted the hidden paper and moved back with his find. He unfolded the letter, his gun still trained on Margont.

‘This is it!’ He was triumphant. ‘So you’re not a spy, you’re a

soldier. A lieutenant-colonel, no less! That’s why your informants couldn’t identify him, Honoré. Lieutenant-Colonel Quentin Margont. It’s signed by Joseph I, King of Spain!’

Margont was trying to work out when would be the best moment to fling himself at them - they would be two against four. It was useless to wait for them to make a mistake. He would have to provoke an error and rush into the breach. Who was the weak link in the group? Varencourt! He was the one who had carried out the trickiest part of their plan and was in the most delicate situation. That afternoon, he had been on edge because he was worried that Margont would not come to the meeting, or would discover that he was being manipulated. So Varencourt had tried to persuade him to come, with the argument that afterwards he could more completely disappear. Nevertheless he had not been sure that his scheme would work. Had the other members of the group noticed his tension? There it was! That was the chink Margont was looking for! He would play on their suspicion and fears.

‘We’re going to tie you up and gag you. We have everything we

need now,’ concluded Louis de Leaume.

‘So do I. I have succeeded in my mission!’ announced Margont. ‘Oh, really?’ Jean-Baptiste de Chatel challenged him, his index finger caressing the trigger of his pistol.

‘The posters and the assassination of Colonel Berle were just diversions. You needed me for your third plan, the most spectacular one, the one that would have the most impact, your masterstroke!’

Louis de Leaume’s face creased in surprise. ‘How did you hear about that?’

‘He’s cunning,’ warned Varencourt. ‘But he doesn’t know anything more.’

Margont threw his last card on the table: it was just an idea, speculation, an ill-formed hypothesis. But if he said nothing, they would kill him and Lefine, so what did he have to lose?

‘On the contrary, I know everything. You’re going to assassinate Napoleon.’

The group froze in consternation. It was strange to see them still

pointing their weapons but looking worried. Louis de Leaume was dismayed. No, he really had not imagined things turning out like th is. He was experiencing the disappointment of the player who announces with a smirk: ‘Checkmate’ only to have his opponent reply: ‘If you will allow me ...’ and move one of his pieces to continue the game! His error of judgement had tarnished his joy like a spot of grease come to stain the glittering costume of his triumph. Varencourt was worried by their leader’s anxiety. ‘He’s just saying whatever comes into his head, making it up as he goes along. It’s just coincidence that he’s hit on the right thing!’

Margont looked supremely calm. It was just an act but he was putting his soul into it. Noticing this, Lefine followed suit, his serenity echoing his friend’s magnificently. They both acted as if everything was going exactly as they had hoped.

‘Charles de Varencourt told me everything,’ announced Margont. ‘That’s not true!’ Varencourt fumed.

‘I don’t believe you,’ said Vicomte de Leaume. But it was precisely because he was wondering if it could be true that he rejected it out loud.

‘Do you want more proof?’ asked Margont. ‘Charles explained that you wanted to kill the Emperor with a needle soaked in a rare poison with astonishing properties. It acts through the bloodstream and a single drop is enough to finish a man off. It’s called curare and is used by the Indian tribes of the Amazon. It paralyses the muscles and the victim dies of suff—’

‘But I didn’t tell him anything!’ Charles de Varencourt insisted. He wondered who could have revealed these things to Margont.

The latter was triumphant. His enemies were giving each other worried glances, not sure how to react to this unforeseen development.

Margont spoke to Varencourt: ‘Come on, don’t worry, Charles, you can stop pretending now. The police are surrounding the house. We’ve won! You’re going to be able to realise your dream of spending the rest of your life losing the twenty thousand francs Joseph promised you, playing cards.’

Varencourt lost his temper. He was about to fire at Margont, but

Louis de Leaume grabbed his arm, obliging him to lower his weapon.

‘Now!’ yelled Margont, lunging at Honoré de Nolant, who had turned to look at Leaume and Varencourt.

Lefine, accustomed to hand-to-hand conflict, pounced on Jean-Baptiste de Chatel with the speed of a cat. Chatel fired, but too late: Lefine had already pushed the gun out of the way and the bullet sped off to murder a chest of drawers. Louis de Leaume would have been able to finish off Margont, who had turned his back on him to beat up Honoré de Nolant. But as he believed Charles de Varencourt was guilty of giving their plan away, it was him he floored first with a pistol-whip to the jaw. Varencourt subsided groaning, dropping his pistol, and in the time it took Leaume to pick it up, Margont and Lefine had already reached the door. During their tussle Margont had forced Honoré de Nolant to drop his weapon, but had not managed to get hold of it. Nolant recovered it and, in concert with the Vicomte and Chatel, who took a small-calibre pistol from his pocket, went in hot pursuit of the two fugitives. Margont was taking the stairs several at a time. He could see the man who had guided them here waiting at the bottom holding a pistol. As Margont was unarmed he transformed himself into a projectile, launching himself at the man from the fifth step up. He struck the man at full speed, hurling him against the door. The door handle slammed violently into the man’s back and he collapsed howling. Lefine grabbed the man’s dropped gun and whirled round, pointing it at the top of the stairs, while Margont undid the bolts of the door. The other man who had stayed downstairs was nowhere to be seen - perhaps he had accompanied Catherine de Saltonges, or else he was stationed outside. Lefine took aim at a silhouette. All he could see of his pursuer was his outline against the light, but he guessed that the man was aiming at him too. He did not allow anything to disturb his concentration. He did not let fear or pity muddy his intention. He was not thinking about his own situation, was not worrying about what would happen to him if he were to miss his target. No, all he saw was an imaginary line, a straight line running from the barrel of his gun to

his adversary, who had had more time to adjust his aim but who had manifestly failed to conquer his fears. He delayed and Lefine fired. The silhouette collapsed and instinctively the two men behind fell back to take cover.

Margont and Lefine ran outside and charged across the courtyard. The man charged with blocking the narrow passage appeared, pistol at the ready. He was barring their way.

Lefine prepared to attack him but Margont shouted: ‘Police! Police!’

And their opponent fled, melting into the surrounding alleys. The obsession with secrecy that was second nature to the Swords of the King, and had served them so well until now, was being turned against them. Vicomte de Leaume had not warned the man that Margont and Lefine were spies, for fear of spreading alarm. Shutters creaked open and a shot rang out. The bullet shattered against a wall just as the two fugitives disappeared in their turn into the streets. Lefine led the way and, after several detours, eventually succeeded in finding Pont d’Austerlitz.

‘Help!’ yelled Margont to a line of Marie-Louises.