Memory of Flames by Isabel Reid (Translator) Armand Cabasson Page A

said Louis de Leaume. ‘All the members of the committee should know one another. Well have to go upstairs.’
    Margont almost stumbled on the stairs. He was pale as he regained his balance. He had just guessed why the other conspirator had waited upstairs while they interrogated him. It was because that person had not wanted to be present at his execution.  

CHAPTER 11
THERE was no furniture in the room upstairs and it was freezing and soulless. This nocturnal meeting was its only moment of life. It would be abandoned immediately afterwards; it was just a stage in the exhausting game of hide-and-seek around Paris.
    A woman welcomed Margont in, relieved at the way things had turned out. She was about forty, possibly older. She was beautiful but her long hair was pulled back in an old-fashioned chignon, her face was unadorned by make-up and she wore no jewels; her dress was drab. It appeared to Margont that she was hiding her beauty -had it brought her misfortune in the past?
    She looked at him with a strange intensity; her blue eyes seemed to pierce his soul. It was as if she were probing his character, trying to see the real Margont. He felt scorched by her gaze, as if his lies were burning up in his soul.
    ‘Chevalier Quentin de Langes,’ he said, bowing to escape her inquisitorial gaze.
    ‘Mademoiselle Catherine de Saltonges. So here you are, one of us. We thought you were a spy.’
    The irony in her voice let him know that she did not trust him. ‘Monsieur de Langes used to be a soldier and he owns a printing press!’ said Vicomte de Leaume.
    ‘So I heard.’
    ‘If opinion had been divided, would you have voted for my life or my death?’ Margont asked her.
    She lowered her eyes, as if she found him desirable.
    ‘How can you say that? I wouldn’t have ... I ... Not l! But I don’t like you, Monsieur. What you say is a mixture of truth and falsehood. That sickens me.’
    Her face expressed disgust, as if Margont’s lies had released a rotten odour.
    ‘Have we finished discussing my admission?’ he asked. ‘Let’s move to action! And with Cod’s help we will win the battle! I propose we—’
    ‘Well decide nothing now!’ Catherine de Saltonges cut him off.
    ‘You’re going rather quickly, Chevalier.’
    ‘Not as quickly as the situation is going!’
    Leaume intervened. ‘We’ll contact you. Members of our group are strictly forbidden to see each other outside official meetings for any reason at all. Everyone adheres to that rule on pain of death. Do you understand?’
    ‘Yes, but what if I need to get hold of you? I must be able—’
    ‘That won’t be possible,’ put in Jean-Baptiste de Chatel. ‘We’ll leave first.’
    Catherine de Saltonges and Honoré de Nolant left, followed by Jean-Baptiste. The Vicomte hung back. He unknotted his scarf, looking at Margont.
    ‘Monsieur de Langes, don’t understimate our determination.’
    He then revealed a mark. In the Pacific Islands the great explorers like Cook had discovered a method of indelibly marking the skin, and had brought it back to Europe. The prestige of these adventurers and the French taste for exoticism had made tattoos popular. In the past, Count Tolstoy, on his return from Oceania, had shown off his tattoos in the salons of St Petersburg, after which the Russian nobility had also embraced the practice. Legend had it that Catherine the Great had had herself tattooed in a very special place ... Old Marshal Bernadotte had ‘Death to kings’ tattooed on his chest during his revolutionary years. Yet now he had become the hereditary prince of Sweden and dreamt of beating Napoleon and becoming king of France ...
    Louis de Leaume had chosen a strange motif. It was - Margont drew closer, frowning - yes, it definitely was a dotted line like the ones tailors and dressmakers draw on their material before they cut it. But this line stretched round Leaume’s throat, indicating where it should be cut...
    ‘I will fight to the end, Chevalier.