‘I thought my priority was to investigate Colonel Berle’s murder?’ Margont fumed.

Joseph closed his eyes briefly. He was truly becoming irritated by this man’s refusal to lie down like a doormat in front of him. He would have liked to choose someone else of the ‘Yes, Your Majesty’ variety. But there wasn’t such a person - all he had was Margont.

‘Lieutenant-Colonel, you will have to manage both tasks at the same time! All our bloodhounds are looking for Kevlokine, whilst you will concentrate on your inquiry. However, if you come across the Tsar’s agent, you must not let him get away! Monsieur le Prince de Bénévent ...'

Talleyrand nodded. ‘I’ve already met Kevlokine during the period when I was Minister for External Relations and when we were on better terms with the Russians ... He's forty-five, very stout, with a fleshy face and red lips. His hair is silver and he has pale blue eyes

with perpetual circles under them. He’s usually pale in contrast to his rosy cheeks - a sign of his fondness for drink - he gesticulates when he speaks ... He knows how to make himself charming. He speaks with a slight accent, which is particularly noticeable when he rolls his “r”s. He’s a brilliant mind. All that should be enough for you to recognise him should you happen to cross his path. Monsieur de Varencourt has never mentioned the name Kevlokine and you mustn’t ask him about him. We don’t want to run the risk of drawing his attention to Count Kevlokine. Where Monsieur de Varencourt is concerned, we prefer to let him come to us rather than to reveal our exact intentions by asking blundering questions.’

The interview was drawing to its close. Joseph told himself that Margont had had enough stick and now it was time to throw him a carrot.

‘What reward will you ask us for when you have successfully fulfilled your mission?’

Margont was surprised by the question but immediately rose to the occasion.

‘I would like permission to launch a newspaper, Your Excellency.’

A rebellion! Joseph looked like a parish priest whose penitent had just invoked the devil right there in the church.

Even Talleyrand could not hide his astonishment, but he recovered himself and said, Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer money, like everyone else? So much less dangerous ...’

‘No, permit me to insist. I would like to become a journalist. I have always loved words, ideas, debate, art and culture ... The—’ Joseph cut him off. ‘It’s impossible!’

The Prince de Bénévent added: ‘The best newspapers are those with blank pages. That way they don’t hurt anyone. Must I remind you of the principles of journalism under the Empire? The Emperor says something, that something becomes fact, and the journalists report it. Now you clearly lack the ability to repeat things like an echo, whilst passing them off as your own thoughts ...’ Joseph returned to safe territory. ‘You will receive five thousand francs! Double, if you enable us to lay our hands on Count

Kevlokine.’

That will allow you to finance your newspaper, Lieutenant-Colonel. In Louisiana or Siam ... Freedom of expression is a beautiful thing as long as you express what you are told to, or you do it a long way away.’

They were haggling over his reward. Undoubtedly these people spoke a different language from Margont. Joseph took a sheet of paper from his drawer and signed it. He applied his seal and held it out to Margont.

‘When one acts a part it is important to be able to prove who one really is ...’

The letter confirmed Margont’s real identity, his rank and the fact that Joseph had given him a confidential mission. ‘Lieutenant-Colonel, this document may save your life, or it may get you killed. It’s up to you to hide it and to make good use of it. Now you must hurry. I have arranged it so that the civilian police will not be notified until midday. You will just have time to return to your barracks, change into civilian clothes and then go to 10

Rue de Provence - not far from the Madeleine Church - to see the victim’s home with your own eyes.’

‘Colonel Berle is expecting you added Talleyrand without any hint of irony.

‘Go to the back door, the servants’ entrance,’ Joseph went on. ‘One of the servants, Mejun, will let you in. He’s waiting for you. You’ll recognise him by his limp. Don’t speak to anyone but him. And don’t give anything away to the other servants!’

‘I’ll do my best, Your Excellency. But if the murderer was so well informed it must be because he had spoken to the servants ...’

‘But not Mejun, who has been in the colonel’s service for twenty years, first as a soldier, then as his valet. I order you to remove the emblem of the Swords of the King and give it to Mejun. Agents from my personal police force will then collect it from him. And they will be responsible for seeing if it can give us any clues.’

‘With all due respect, Your Excellency, I would prefer to keep—’

‘The only thing you should prefer is to obey me! My police will deal with the emblem. They are accustomed to that sort of task. If

they discover anything at all about it you will be informed via the intermediary you choose to help you in your investigation. The less you are in possession of anything that could compromise you, the safer you will be.’

He paused to enjoy the sight of Margont biting his tongue to stop himself from voicing another objection, then went on: That symbol must remain secret. If it was one of the murderer’s aims to make sure that the civilian police discovered the emblem, then we must ensure that we don’t give him what he wants. Your next task will be to go and meet Charles de Varencourt at the Chez Camille cafe at Palais-Royal, arcade 54, this evening at nine o’clock. He will be the one to recognise you - we told him you had a scar on your left cheek, as mentioned in your file. We also told him you would be reading Le Moniteur and Le Journal de Paris both at the same time. He will give you various pieces of information and you will organise with him how you are to be admitted to the Swords of the King.'

‘Good luck, Lieutenant-Colonel Margont said Talleyrand,

concluding the audience.

His words had the ring of an epitaph.

CHAPTER 3

ON the streets of Paris people expressed all sorts of different views. Some were so confident of Napoleon’s military genius that they were going about their business without a care in the world, amused that others were worried. These people reacted to the rumours with cheerful optimism. The Prussians were on the way? Let them come! The two victories of 14 October 1806, the Emperor’s at Jena, and Davout’s at Auerstadt, had consigned the sparkling Prussian army to oblivion. Napoleon would be able to annihilate them in a few hours, with the ease of a magician performing a practised trick. The English? Far too few of them! And they were only interested in their own survival. At the first defeat they would leave their Spanish and Portuguese allies to be killed, and run off to their ships bound for the Indies, Canada or Africa! And the Austrians? Name one battle won by the Austrians against us these last fifteen years! What about the Russians? Well, it was true that the Russians were ... tougher. Invincible in Russia with their partisans and Cossacks behind them. But in battle formation faced with the Grande Armée - that was different! They had been beaten at Austerlitz, Eylau, Friedland and in Moscow. As for the Swedish, well they were just quasi-Russians.

These facile words did not reassure the floods of refugees pouring into Paris from the north-east.

The streets were often clogged with long columns of prisoners. Parisians crowded round to reassure themselves. And they found that the Cossacks on foot, the limping dragoons, the starving Austrians and the Prussians in their tattered uniforms were indeed less frightening than had been imagined. The people offering the prisoners hunks of bread had to withdraw their hands quickly for fear of losing a finger, such was the avidity with which the soldiers fell on the food.