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

hand, was ill at ease. But the role he was playing, the dungeon in which he was trapped, was also his protection. So he immersed himself in his assumed character and smiled to encourage his new accomplice.
    ‘It’s a pleasure to see you, Charles!’
    Varencourt served himself a glass of wine. He was dressed shabbily in ill-cut, drab clothes. But his self-assurance gave him presence; he seemed to have nothing to fear. He was a few years older than Margont, so about forty, with attentive blue eyes.
    Margont took a look around the room. In spite of the fact that the cafe was crowded he had been able to sit a little apart. They would not be overheard so long as they spoke in low voices. He could not see Lefine but he was sure to be somewhere about. Margont never ceased to be amazed at his friend’s talents.
    Varencourt examined his glass by the light of the candle. The wine was improbably dark. He sniffed it curiously.
    ‘I would say they’ve cut it with extract of logwood, bilberries and eau-de-vie. And perhaps even ink ...’
    He drank and grimaced as if an unseen hand was strangling him. ‘Dreadful. So, you’re the new investigator. I was worried they would send me another stooge. Monsieur Natai, the person I give my information to, who pays me, is obviously just a second-rate little official, an intermediary. He came to my lodgings this afternoon - which he promised he would never do! - and explained that I was to continue to pass on what I learnt to him, but that I would also have to meet someone else today, Chevalier Langes. To be honest, until now the authorities have not taken the Swords of the King seriously and have been concentrating their efforts on the Knights of the Faith and the mysterious Congregation. How wrong they were. Now that Colonel Berle has been assassinated, they send you. It’s funny - you’re not what I imagined at all. You don’t look like one of those devious investigators from the imperial secret police.’
    Margont said nothing.
    ‘I’ve already given the police a huge amount of information,’ Varencourt went on. ‘So what else do you want to know?’ ‘Why didn’t you warn them that Colonel Berle was about to be murdered?’
    ‘I didn’t know! It was Monsieur Natai who told me about his death.’
    ‘Do you take me for an idiot?’
    ‘If you were an idiot, they wouldn’t have sent you. There are roughly thirty people in our organisation, perhaps more, and it is run by a committee with five members: Louis de Leaume, Honoré de Nolant, Jean-Baptiste de Chatel, Catherine de Saltonges and me. Although we have a leader, Vicomte de Leaume, all plans must be approved by a majority of the committee. Then they’re explained to the other members, who have to carry them out. It was Baron de Nolant who proposed assassinating the people responsible for the defence of Paris. His plan was debated at length, then we voted and it was blackballed.’
    ‘What does that mean, “blackballed”?’
    Varencourt was astonished at that.
    ‘You’re not very up to date, are you? Did they not pass on all the
    information I gave Monsieur Natai? Louis de Leaume fled to London during the revolutionary years. Over there it’s common practice for gentlemen to belong to several clubs. What kind of clubs? Well, they all have their own themes: philosophy, astronomy, insects, tobacco, the exploration of Africa, or the Indies ... Actually, a nobleman has to be a member of a club to avoid ridicule. Because if you don’t belong to a club, you become the laughing stock of the London nobility. So you put forward your application and the members vote on it. Each member puts a ball in a bag. If there is a majority of white balls:   welcome to the club ; if there are more black, you’re blackballed, bye-bye.   It’s the last word in chic for a French aristocrat to blackball. It signifies that you are pure, an ultra, that you would rather flee to England than accept revolutionary France. So when our committee