Memory of Flames by Isabel Reid (Translator) Armand Cabasson Read Free Book Online Page A

succeeded had it not been interrupted. Inadvertently, Saber had the last word by being transferred against his will to the National Guard and taking his friends with him. Lefine was the only one to dance with joy on hearing the news. However, the affair robbed him of the rank of sergeant-major and raised the prospect of him remaining sergeant   ad vitam aeternum.
    ‘I was the victim of a regrettable judicial error—’ he began.
    ‘All right! Don’t bring up that business again. I promise you that if
    I succeed, I will not forget to ask Joseph personally for a promotion for you.’
    Thank you! So what do we do now?’
    ‘We go and look together at the documents Joseph gave me. Then I will keep the ones I need and you will take the ones from the police and go and find an inn where you will live during this investigation. You’re supposed to be poor, like me, so don’t go and set yourself up in one of the best addresses in Paris at Joseph’s expense. The lodgings they’ve found me are in Faubourg Saint-Marcel at 9 Rue du Pique. I would like you to be nearby. This evening I’ll go and meet Charles de Varencourt, whom I mentioned to you. I’m very suspicious of him. I’ll tell you where and when I’m meeting him. You will also be there and you will spy on us from a distance without getting yourself noticed. You won’t be able to overhear our conversation, but you should observe his expressions and gestures. Tell me later what you think of him. Also, try to spot if anyone is watching us. Maybe the Swords of the King suspect something and are having him followed, or maybe
    Varencourt will have had the same idea as I and will come with an accomplice ... Afterwards you should follow him and then meet me at Pont d’lena, where you can report back to me.’
    ‘Now that you’re mingling with people who see plots everywhere, suddenly you’ve begun to think the same way!’  

CHAPTER 6
    MARGONT went to Palais-Royal, a district full of restaurants, cafes, sweet shops, gambling houses, moneylenders, theatres and perfumeries. Prostitutes propositioned passers-by under the arcades, trying to drag them up to the lofts above.
    In Chez Camille, wine, beer, cider, tea, coffee and waffles were served. You could also ask an errand boy to fetch you a   bavaroise   from the famous Cafe Corraza; that way you could enjoy it at ease, since it was always packed over there. Margont, ensconced at a table, simultaneously skimmed   Le Moniteur and   Le Journal de Paris.   He hoped to flush out fragments of truth by comparing the two papers. Alas, the first lied because it was the mouthpiece of the Empire, whilst the latter dared not say anything because it was not. Every time irritation gripped Margont, he gulped a mouthful of coffee. How did they dare to print such things? He imagined the progression of the words, which started out revealing the truth, then submitted to the censorship of the editor, the cuts and
    rewritings imposed by the owner of the newspaper, and those demanded by the censors and the Ministry of Civilian Police. He imagined lines being crossed out, hands tearing up entire pages, phrases being reworked to produce a text that was a shadow of its original self, with no subtlety, a Manichaean narrative. More passages crossed out. French losses melting away on the paper; Russians and Prussians perishing by the thousand under the pen blows of propaganda. Everything was fine! Better and better, in fact!
    ‘Yet I’m not allowed to launch my newspaper!’ muttered Margont. But, of course, his determination to tell the truth would never get past the censors, and what sort of paper would that have made?
    A man sat down at his table.
    ‘Monsieur Langes!’ he declared amiably. Since they were in public he had not used Langes’s aristocratic title.
    ‘Citizen Varencourt!’
    Varencourt was enjoying the fake reunion with this friend who was not actually a friend and who was using an assumed name.
    Margont, on the other