Saber thrust the paper at one of his officers.
‘Add the usual greetings!’
He wouldn’t do it himself because he was so furious with the marshal for not following any of his suggestions for the defence of Paris. Lieutenant Dejal conscientiously tried to imitate Saber’s writing. He murmured, ‘I remain your most trusted and humble servant ...’ Saber yanked the paper from Dejal’s hand: his pen involuntarily traced a slanting line and, as if in rage, spat out a blob of black ink onto the light-coloured wood of the desk.
‘Have you lost your mind? Are you also going to add that I will come and polish his boots? Make the formula less obsequious! Rewrite the whole letter! Something like “Yours faithfully” - since I am obliged to be loyal. But dress it up a bit; he’s so sensitive!’
He pretended to go back to dictating to his other factotum, before finally glancing at Margont and Lefine, who were waiting patiently to attention.
‘At ease. What’s the bad news?’
Margont managed to get the two adjutant officers to leave. Then
he explained, without going into detail, that he had been given a confidential mission and that he would like to use Lefine to help him. Saber was dismayed by Joseph’s letter. He wondered why the commander of the army and of the National Guard of Paris had not included him in the secret. How did that august leader hope to succeed in anything important to do with Paris without the help of Colonel Saber? He concluded that Joseph was an incompetent, exactly like Moncey, General Duhesme and all the others, and he felt more alone than ever.
‘Very well. I shall obey orders. Since Joseph is for once taking some decisive action, I shall not stand in his way! Lieutenant-Colonel Margont, Captain Piquebois will replace you in your duties. I will notify him. You may take Sergeant Lefine with you. I hope your mission will be speedily completed. You may go now.’
He then called back his adjutant officers. Margont and Lefine were about to depart when Saber said, ‘A secret mission ... I don’t like the sound of that. Look after yourselves.’
For a brief moment it was as if the old Saber had reappeared.
Margont and Lefine went off as Saber’s voice rang out, seeming to pursue them down the corridor.
‘Lieutenant Dejal, have you not finished that letter to Marshal Moncey yet? Lieutenant Malsoux: letter to General Senator Comte Augustin de Lespinasse, commandant of the artillery and mastermind of the National Guard of Paris. “I still have not received the cannons which I am entitled to.” That’s the basic idea - make it a bit more formal and sign it with the absolute minimum of respect required by military hierarchy, which is much too generous to these charlatans. Lieutenant Dejal, still not finished with the marshal? My poor Dejal, don’t let yourself be intimidated by the word “marshal”. In fact you should get used to it, because you serve under me and ...’
Margont and Lefine donned civilian clothes. Margont asked a soldier to take a letter to Medical Officer Jean-Quenin Brémond, who worked at the hospital Hotel-Dieu, where he treated the French and Allied injured that were flooding into Paris. As he was putting the note in the envelope and sealing it with candle-wax to protect it
from prying eyes, he was imagining Jean-Quenin’s incredulous expression when he saw the request to join him at Colonel Berle’s house, his uniform hidden under a greatcoat, and to go in the back entrance without speaking to anyone but Mejun. However, Jean-Quenin was used to Margont’s apparently absurd requests: he would come if at all possible.
Then, as they made rapidly for the scene of the crime, Margont explained the mission to Lefine.
CHAPTER 4
COLONEL Berle had known the golden age of the Empire, when competent men were rewarded handsomely. He therefore owned a large three-storey house that dominated the street. A sentry stood at the main entrance, relaxed and unaware of the turmoil that was about to break over him. The civilian police were on their way and then he would be caught up in a whirlwind of activity and questions. But at the moment it was the hour of the shadowy men who would be hidden by the time it was action stations, and who were about to enter by the concealed doors at the back.
Margont and Lefine skirted round the house and, as agreed, Mejun let them in. There were tears in his eyes, but his face, red with fury, wore an expression of murderous determination. Had the killer been right there in front of him he would have wrung his neck, wearing the same expression.
He led them with his uneven gait to a little sitting room. It was decorated in the Turkish style. There was a hookah, ottoman
carpets, cushions, yataghans and other Oriental sabres. In the past Napoleon had wanted to ally himself to the Sublime Porte to alarm the Russians, Austrians and English. But the project of a Franco-Ottoman alliance had been abandoned for a treaty of friendship between France and Russia. In 1812, because of the Russian campaign, the Emperor had wanted to try to win over the Ottomans again. But the Turks, embittered by previous experiences of abandoned agreements, preferred not to involve themselves any longer in Napoleon’s complicated and ever-changing diplomatic manoeuvres. All that remained of the French Oriental dream - which involved conquering Egypt, forming an alliance with the great Ottoman Empire and pushing back the English in order to seize India - were the archaeological treasures brought back from Egypt, the handsome hookahs that adorned the salons of imperial dignitaries and, for the soldiers who had fought at the foot of the pyramids, the taste of sand in their mouths.
A shutter had been forced open and a pane of glass shattered, so presumably that was how the murderer had entered.
‘Is this room much used?’ asked Margont.
‘No, because it looks over that little lane, and besides, there are three other drawing rooms. It was used only when there were big receptions and so many guests we didn’t know where to put them all:
‘And no one heard anything?’
He could immediately see why. To reach this room you had to cross the large drawing room, which had been deserted on the night of the crime, and then take a little corridor closed in by two doors.
Margont leant out of the window. He could not see the main road because of a dogleg in the lane.
‘Do the sentries check here?’
‘Yes. Every hour they walk round the building. The soldier on duty didn’t notice anything. I discovered the colonel at about ten o’clock.’
‘Take us to the study, by the route that the murderer must have taken.’
Mejun took them back to the main corridor, and painfully climbed a large stately staircase. On the second floor he led them down a corridor as far as the last door on the left. Margont, who was not used to such vast spaces, felt quite giddy. Lefine, on the other hand, found it exhilarating - it was the kind of house he dreamt of living in.
They had both prepared themselves for the sight of a murdered man. But nothing could have prepared them for what they actually saw. Berle had been mutilated with fire. His features had been burnt off, leaving a smooth, indefinable plane, red in places and black in others. The remains of a gag were still protruding from the mouth. The man’s hands were bound behind his back, with rope.
‘Are you certain this is Colonel Berle?’ asked Margont.
Mejun’s face lit up and Margont was annoyed with himself for having accidentally given the man false hope. He could see the servant’s excitement at the thought that it was a plot: the colonel had been kidnapped and this unrecognisable body had been left here to cover up the kidnapping. Yet the old man did not really believe that. He freed a shirt-tail from the victim’s trousers, his fingers moving slowly as if numbed by frost, and revealed a scar across the victim’s left thigh. His answer stuck in his throat and he merely nodded.