Questions! Margont seized on the word. ‘My questions? But I have no questions. I know everything. It’s the other way round. I’m amazed that you don’t want to know what happened to your friend? I’m talking, of course, about the friend you’re so close to. You know what I mean, don’t you?’

She reddened. ‘No, I don’t know what you mean ...’

‘I mean your lover, the father of that child you were not able to keep ...’

Catherine de Saltonges’s eyes filled with tears and she could not look at Margont so did not see how disgusted he was with himself for having stirred up her grief and intruded into her private life. But this investigation had become personal for him. He had almost been murdered, and because of him, so had Lefine. The royalists had tried to steal his name. And a murderer was preparing to kill using his identity - when he, Quentin Margont, had so often struggled to prevent crimes.

‘I do understand why you decided it was better that the child should not be born ... What sort of life could it have had? With a father consumed by fire ...’

She looked at him as if he were a supernatural, an angel who could read her thoughts. And since he could not be an angel of Cod, he must be an angel of the devil, a fallen angel, evil ... Margont continued. ‘Yes, the fire that burns in him day and night, which eats him from the inside; the inferno that was ignited by the Russian campaign and was never extinguished. Even your love is not enough to put out the flames.’

Had it really been a duel she would have laid down her sword at that point. But Margont had to follow through the sequence he had started. He had not completed his moves, and the killer blow would come at the end.

She murmured: ‘How do you know this? He spoke to you about Moscow? How is that possible? I took a year to find out, but you know already?’ Her voice was barely audible.

‘Of course, it’s all completely understandable,’ continued Margont. ‘He’s already lost so many of his family ...’

Margont was replaying Catherine de Saltonges’s own words to her. She could hardly tell the difference now between her own thoughts and what Margont was saying.

She sat down on the floor for fear of falling. She started hitting the ground with her fist as hard as she could and the pain blotted out her thoughts. She was taking refuge in physical suffering. Margont caught her fist to force her to stop.

'The assassination plan is suicidal, and you know that full well. Whether it succeeds or fails, the perpetrator is bound to be killed by one of the Emperor’s guards or captured, tried and sentenced to death. And since the plan is common knowledge now, it has almost no chance of succeeding. But you know him even better than I do. If he’s free, he will still try, against all odds and even though it’s pure madness. On the other hand, if we have arrested him, he’ll be safe. Ask me the question and I’ll tell you which it is.’

'Is...?'

She was seeing his face again. Even in their most intimate moments, even as she was dressing again, still feeling the warmth of his body against hers, he was pensive, mentally checking for the nth time whether his plan was properly thought through.

'Is Charles still alive? Have you arrested him?’ she whispered.

‘He’s at liberty. He’s going to try to carry through his plan.’

CHAPTER 39

AS soon as he left the cell, Margont called a guard over. ‘Keep the spyhole open at all times. She may well try to take her life, but she won’t be able to if you keep an eye on her. If anything happens to her, you will have me to reckon with. She’ll be all right in a little while. At least, that’s what I’m assuming. She’s certainly a woman of great strength of character.’

He moved off with Lefine. Palenier followed, complimenting him, whilst at the same time resolving that he would write in his report for Joseph that it had been he who had conducted the successful interview, and that Margont had done not a bad job of assisting him.

‘I still don’t quite follow,’ said Lefine.

‘I think Mademoiselle de Saltonges told the truth. For a start, she wasn’t in a state to be able to come up with a defensive strategy, and secondly, why would she have lied when she thought I already knew? So Charles de Varencourt is the culprit. This is what must have happened. Varencourt was born in 1773. He lived happily in the France of Louis XVI but the Revolution brought his comfortable life to an abrupt end. Even though we don’t know the exact details, we have a rough idea of what he went through. The insurgents arrived, he was subjected to violence and all sorts of extortion, then his wordly goods were officially confiscated. Members of his family must have perished. Catherine de Saltonges said about him, “He has already lost so many of his family.” He decided to escape by emigrating. In 1792 he went to England. But later he moved to Russia, to Moscow - Catherine has just confirmed that!’

He looked serious. Even though he detested Charles de Varencourt, he could not help being moved by the tragedies he had suffered.

‘Most French aristocrats who emigrated chose cities that were close - if not geographically then culturally. London, Berlin, Hamburg, Vienna or Madrid. I think Charles de Varencourt really suffered from the horrors of the Revolution. I may be a republican, but I don’t forget the blood and dark times of the Revolution. That’s why he went to the other side of the world. He must have said to himself: “At least there, I won’t have to hear about revolutionary France!” What a horrid trick history played on him. At first, of course, Charles must have congratulated himself on his choice. Our armies were in Vienna, Berlin, Madrid. Even after Trafalgar, when the Royal Navy destroyed most of our fleet, people were still focused on invading England. Through a tunnel under the Channel. There was an engineer called Albert Mathieu-Favier, who had drawings for the project and who recommended using aeration chimneys that would just be long enough to reach up out of the sea. No one thought Napoleon would try to reach Moscow ... Varencourt needed to have a profession to support himself. I’m pretty certain he studied medicine. I can’t prove it, but there are three arguments that support my theory.’

Margont spoke with authority, emphasising his arguments with gestures.

‘First, Colonel Berle was killed by a knife blow that was struck with

precision, indicating that the murderer is either a hardened combatant, a butcher or a doctor. Secondly, curare is a little-known poison. The only people who’ve heard of it are doctors, explorers interested in the Amazon and, perhaps, some Portuguese who’ve taken refuge in Brazil. Thirdly, the button! I’ll come to that in a moment.’

‘Medical studies in Russian?’ said Palenier incredulously.

‘No, in Latin and French. Many medical texts are in Latin, which Charles de Varencourt would certainly have learnt. In France, some medical courses are still in Latin and it’s the same in other countries, and probably in Russia. It’s an old European idiosyncrasy. I even had the option of taking my theological studies in Latin, but that’s another story ... And you know that the Russian aristocracy speak our language fluently. Before the Revolution, and the Russian campaign, our culture was revered. French was considered a noble language, and Russian the common people’s language. Refined people spoke French during meals, went to Marivaux plays and read Voltaire and Rousseau in the original.

Varencourt would have been able to ask questions of his teachers in his native language and he would quite easily have been able to get hold of medical treatises in French.’

‘I can confirm that the Russian nobility speak French,’ said Lefine. ‘We, Monsieur, took part in the Russian campaign!’

Palenier did not believe him. Survivors of the Russian campaign? Of course they were! Everyone knew that, apart from the Emperor and his marshals, everyone died out there.