‘Messieurs! Messieurs! Stop!' yelled a voice that Margont was

determined to ignore.

Lefine, noticing the Prussian soldiers aiming at them, grabbed Margont by the collar to bring him to a stop.

The major spoke to a captain; another captain came over; and then an aide-de-camp. Joseph’s letter was passed from hand to hand. The captain in charge of the guard post raised his arm to summon his interpreter because he didn’t believe the major’s explanations, which annoyed the major. Varencourt betrayed no emotion. He had imagined this scene maybe a thousand times and now, exhilaratingly, it was unfolding exactly as expected! He was being asked all the anticipated questions and giving all his prepared answers. From both sides of Rue de Rivoli, Russian chasseurs were watching the mysterious Frenchman who dared to flaunt his uniform. Exhausted by the fighting, they were sitting in the shade of the arcades, covering the area like a blanket of dark-green ivy. Suddenly those who were watching Varencourt rose and stood to attention, and all the others followed suit, standing up hastily and coming

into line, presenting arms. Officers barked orders to hurry them into position. A general from the Russian Guard came striding furiously over, followed closely by a posse of heavily decorated officers. His arrival sowed fear amongst the soldiers. Varencourt pretended to watch him with interest. But really he was looking beyond him to the Prince de Benevent’s house.

The Tsar’s life is in danger! I must speak to the Tsar at once!’ Margont was shouting at the top of his voice in German.

The Prussians stared at him contemptuously. A captain asked him, ‘And who are you to want to save the Tsar?’

Margont wasn’t sure what to say. Should he say he was a lieutenant-colonel? Or would that get him into trouble? He could claim that he also had a letter from Joseph, but they would laugh in his face ...

‘Listen, tell the men guarding the Tsar that someone is trying to assassinate Alexander—’

‘His Imperial Majesty Tsar Alexander l!’ corrected the officer witheringly.

The Tsar is about to be assassinated!’

The captain’s expression hardened. ‘Do you know how many men my battalion lost today? Eighteen. And we've as many injured. So I would advise you to worry about your own safety rather than the Tsar’s. We’ve received strict orders to treat the civilian population respectfully. But you and your friend are of an age to serve in the army. And you don’t get a scar of the kind you have on your left cheek by milking cows. I don’t think the order to respect civilians extends to soldiers in civilian clothes. So beat it or you might regret it.’

Margont and Lefine melted into the crowd and made their way through the streets to another guard post. This time, however, Margont had chosen a post guarded by Russian soldiers.

The general of the Russian Guard had had the situation explained to him. He read Joseph’s letter and immediately tried to get to the bottom of what Varencourt wanted.

The letter seems to be authentic. But I can’t let you pass unless you tell me more about it.’

His French was impeccable, but Charles de Varencourt replied in the guardsman’s own language so that as many Russians as possible could understand what he was saying. Every Russian who heard was a little piece of kindling that Varencourt was trying to ignite to become the sparks of his grand inferno. He was shouting angrily, although his anger was just pretence. This was all a game, a hand of cards, his last, his best! And the stake was Paris and every Parisian!

‘I’ve had enough of this! I’ve repeated myself over and over again! I’m Lieutenant-Colonel Margont and I’m acting on the orders of the Emperor! His Majesty Napoleon I asked his brother Joseph I of Spain to entrust a loyal man with a secret mission. I have the honour of having been chosen for that mission. I will not say any more to a mere general! My orders are to explain myself only to the Tsar himself!’

Russian generals were not used to being spoken to in that disrespectful way. And this one even less than most, to judge by the speed with which all the soldiers around them had jumped to attention and to present arms when he had appeared. Varencourt had noticed that and was making the most of it. He thought he would be more effective if he acted in an arrogant way rather than being servile, courteous and diplomatic. And he had achieved his first objective: the general was furious. He pointed at something off to the side with his white-gloved hand - Varencourt did not even deign to turn to see what it was - and threatened, ‘You see that hanging lantern there? I’m going to have it removed and have you strung up by its cord. You will dangle there, your tongue poking from your mouth, under one of the arcades of the beautiful Rue de Rivoli.’

‘When your Tsar hears of it, he’ll hang you from the next lamppost along.’

It took the general a few seconds to control his rage. Then he gave the order to the sentries: Take him to the Tsar!’

The riflemen were not allowed to go with them. Only soldiers of

the Russian or Prussian Guard and aides-de-camp were allowed beyond the guard post.

Margont was refusing to give up; he kept repeating himself to the captain in charge. Sometimes he spoke French, sometimes halting Russian. He wanted someone to go and warn the Tsar and to tell Monsieur Talleyrand that a certain Margont was asking to see him immediately. He raised his voice, he shouted. It was giving the captain a headache. Finally - finally! - after searching him, the officer reached a decision.

'I'm going to see what my major thinks.’

Soldiers and musicians of the Russian and Prussian Guards were lined up on either side of the entrance to Talleyrand’s house. This guard of honour pointedly ignored Varencourt as he entered the house. He was so close to achieving his aim ... He was parked in a waiting room. The captain ordered ten soldiers of the Guard to watch over him. He was searched one more time. He obediently

removed his boots and his coat.

An officer arrived and all the soldiers saluted.

‘I am Major Lyzki. I am the one who will decide whether your request will be submitted to the Tsar or not. You’re going to have to give me more information. And you’d better not threaten to have me hung from an arcade in Rue de Rivoli ...’

Although Lyzki had spoken in French, again Varencourt replied in Russian: ‘All right. But if you prefer we can speak Russian. I took part in the Russian campaign and I had time to learn a little of your language in Moscow ...’

Russian campaign. Moscow. Each word was a spark.

‘I was at Borodino,’ he added confidentially. And immediately he bit his tongue; he should have said ‘Moscow’, not ‘Borodino’! To the French it was ‘Moscow’, to the Russians, ‘Borodino’. Fie had indeed been at the battle, but as a doctor in the Moscow militia, which was why he was used to saying ‘Borodino’. To deflect Lyzk-i’s attention, he went on: ‘One of our greatest victories!’

The phrase had its effect. The Russian soldiers were ready to leap

on him - they considered it a Russian victory. Or it would have been their victory had they stayed on to fight and not retreated! In their view, and in accordance with Russian propaganda, it was a Russian victory that had been ‘spoilt’ by the impetuous order to retreat given by staff officers lacking sufficient determination. Lyz-ki, however, kept his cool.

‘So you lived through the retreat from Moscow. Also one of your greatest victories?’

That was a clever response. But in this game of chess, Lyzki had made the wrong move. He had taken a pawn without realising that he could have had checkmate had he not passed over the word ‘Borodino’.