The Phantom of Rue Royale

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  ‘What on earth is the provost for, anyway?’

  ‘Not very much. Ever since His Majesty’s grandfather created the post of Lieutenant of Police, he has lost most of his prerogatives. He has a few trifles left, above all managing city property and taking out loans. He also cuts a decorative figure at ceremonies, with his red satin robe, his split gown – half red, half tan – and matching hat.’

  ‘I see!’ Semacgus said. ‘He’s like one of those pins or nails that are considered absolutely essential for holding together the parts of a building, but which in themselves are probably worth precisely nothing.’

  Nicolas laughed heartily at this jibe. A long silence ensued, during which the noise of the carriages, the cries of the coachmen and the shuffling of the advancing crowd filled the carriage like the sound of rising waves in a storm at sea.

  ‘You haven’t said anything about the past two weeks, Nicolas. Nor have you told me what impression our future queen made on you.’

  ‘I accompanied His Majesty to Pont de Berne, in the forest of Compiègne, to greet the Dauphine.’ He lifted his head somewhat boastfully. ‘I rode beside the royal coach, and even received an amused smile from the princess when my horse reared and I almost fell. The King cried, “Steady, Ranreuil, steady!” as if we were out hunting.’

  Semacgus smiled at his friend’s youthful enthusiasm. ‘Hard to find anyone more in favour than you!’

  ‘On the evening of the wedding, there was gambling in the King’s apartments, and the firework display was postponed until the following Saturday because of the storm. It was a great success, a dazzling sight. Two thousand giant rockets and an equal number of bombs. The whole park was lit up, all the way to the Grand Canal. There, a structure a hundred feet high representing the Temple of the Sun, exploded into a thousand extravaganzas. There was an enormous number of spectators, and the official responsible for the ambassadors had to settle endless quarrels of precedence among the notable guests on the balconies of the palace.’

  ‘And what of the Dauphine?’

  ‘She’s still a child. Beautiful, yes, but unformed. A graceful gait. Lovely blonde hair. Rather a long face with blue eyes and a magnificent porcelain complexion. I’m less fond of her mouth: her lower lip is too thick and droops. Monsieur de la Borde claims she is quite slovenly and that the Dauphin is rather uncomfortable with that …’

  ‘All very courtly of you, Nicolas!’ Semacgus laughed. ‘I sense the policeman in you rather than the private man. And the Dauphin?’

  ‘Berry is a very tall, gangly young man, quite abrupt in his manner. He sways as he walks and gives the impression that he hears and sees nothing, or that everything is strange to him. On the wedding night, the King strongly advised him to … well, to think of the succession …’

  ‘First Minister Choiseul does not spare our future king,’ Semacgus observed. ‘According to him he’s incompetent. And they say the Dauphin won’t even speak to Choiseul because of an offensive remark he once made to his late father.’

  ‘A remark amounting almost to lese-majesty: Choiseul begged heaven to spare him from having to obey the future king!’

  The carriage stopped suddenly, pitching them forward. Straightening up, Nicolas opened the door and jumped out. A traffic jam, he thought. What had happened, in fact, was that a berlin emerging from Rue de Bellechasse had tried to join the long line of vehicles in Rue de Bourbon. With some difficulty, Nicolas made his way through the gathered onlookers. If only he had listened to the wise counsel offered by Semacgus, who had suggested crossing Pont de Sèvres and reaching Place Louis XV via the right bank of the Seine. He had insisted on taking a more direct route via the left bank and Pont Royal. He finally broke through a circle of onlookers who were looking down at a distressing sight on the ground.

  An old man, who must have been knocked down by the berlin, was lying in his own blood, his face white and his eyes rolled upwards. His wig and hat had slipped off to reveal a smooth skull the colour of ivory. An old woman in bourgeois clothes was kneeling by the body, her cape in disarray, weeping silently and trying to lift the wounded man’s head. Unable to do so, she began gently stroking his cheek. The crowd stood motionless, contemplating the scene. Before long, voices rose in anger, followed immediately by threats and insults to the coachman who had tried to enter Rue de Bourbon. From inside the carriage, an arrogant voice gave the order to push the rabble aside and carry on regardless. The coachman was already urging the horses forward when Nicolas seized one of them by the bit to stop its progress and said something in its ear, a method he often used with his own mounts. With his finger, he massaged the animal’s gum, and the horse quivered and moved back. Turning his head, he saw Semacgus leaning over the wounded man, feeling his neck and holding a small pocket mirror in front of his lips. The surgeon helped the old lady to her feet and looked around for help. Two men appeared, carrying a table on which they carefully laid the victim. A man dressed all in black brought up the rear. Semacgus said something in his ear, and he took charge of the old woman.

  Nicolas felt a blow on his shoulder. The horse shied in fright and almost fell backwards. He turned to discover a glittering mass of bright gold stripes, and recognised the blue and red uniform of an officer of the City Guards. A broad, crimson face with cold little eyes, the very image of rage. It was the passenger from the carriage, who had got out and angrily struck Nicolas with the flat of his sword.

  ‘At the King’s service, Monsieur,’ Nicolas said. ‘You have just struck a magistrate, a commissioner of police at the Châtelet.’

  The crowd had moved closer and was following the scene with noticeable annoyance.

  ‘At the city’s service,’ the officer replied. ‘Move aside. My name is Major Langlumé, of the City Guards. I am on my way to the Place Louis XV to make sure that the festivities organised by the provost are proceeding in an orderly fashion. In accordance with the King’s decision, Monsieur Sartine’s people are not involved.’

  The regulations were categorical: it was out of the question for Nicolas to cross swords with this brute, even though he was itching to do so. He suddenly saw the onlookers closest to them, including some with especially sinister faces, gathering stones. What followed happened so quickly that nothing and nobody could have prevented it. A hail of stones, even a piece of rubble from a house under construction, fell on the carriage and horses. The major was hit on the temple, resulting in a gash. Shouting and swearing, he quickly got back into the carriage and resigned himself to having it move back into Rue de Bellechasse. Through the broken window, he waved a vengeful fist at Nicolas.

  ‘I admire your capacity for making friends,’ said Semacgus, who had approached. ‘Our victim will be fine with a plaster. He’d only fainted from a cut to the head, but he lost a lot of blood, which is always dramatic! I handed him and his wife over to an apothecary, who will do what’s necessary. What were they thinking of, at their age, running around the streets like youngsters, with all this upheaval going on? I’ve seen some pretty dubious-looking characters here, and my watch nearly ended up in someone else’s hands.’

  ‘I’d have got it back for you!’ Nicolas said. ‘The day before yesterday, at a grand supper given by the Emperor’s ambassador at Petit Luxembourg, I unmasked a criminal who had somehow wormed his way into the party and was trying to steal a watch from the Graf von Starhenberg, Maria Theresa’s former ambassador in Paris. The Graf was kind enough to write to Monsieur de Sartine and compliment him on the excellence of his police force, “the finest in Europe”, as you called it just now. I’ve also seen some doubtful behaviour here. It makes me worry about what’s going to happen next. What a coincidence – the person responsible for security at the festivities is that same jumped-up individual who was just now trying to pick a quarrel with me.’

  ‘Bah! Those people aren’t professionals. They’re a bourgeois guard who can buy their way in.’

  ‘And there’s a great deal of competition between them and the men of the watch.
One day we’ll have to do something about it. The divisions between these various forces have rendered them powerless, and they’re more interested in scoring points off each other than in serving the public. But I’m wandering from the point. Think of it – the man in charge isn’t even in position yet to keep order in this great throng of people!’

  Nicolas sank back into his thoughts. Their carriage finally managed to get onto Pont Royal, where a motley mixture of pedestrians and a tangle of vehicles gave the impression of an army in flight. The Quai des Tuileries was no easier to negotiate than the rest of the route. Two turbulent streams – one coming from the left bank and another, just as large and just as disorderly, emerging from the Quai des Galeries du Louvre – came together and tried, with a great deal of pushing and shoving, to share the roadway.

  ‘The road seems to be blocked at Pont Saint-Nicolas.’

  That was enough to set Semacgus off again. ‘There’s not even a vessel of the line to delight the Parisians. When I was a child – the Duc d’Orléans was still regent – my father took me to see a Dutch ship with eight cannon moored there.’

  Nicolas was becoming impatient, tapping with his fingers on the window. It was almost completely dark by now, and the coachmen were stopping to light lanterns, which merely added to the chaos and slowness of the convoy. When they reached Terrasse des Feuillants, Nicolas gestured to his friend that they should abandon their carriage. He ordered the coachman to go back to the Châtelet: they would find their own way back after the festivities, and, besides, they were supposed to be having supper at the Dauphin Couronné in Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré, the house run by their old acquaintance La Paulet. Their progress through the crowd, which was getting denser all the time, was something of a miracle. Several times, Semacgus drew Nicolas’s attention to a number of threatening-looking characters mingling with the throng in little groups. Nicolas shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of powerlessness. They found themselves sucked into an eddy of people. Jostled, crushed, half-carried, they somehow managed to reach Place Louis XV. Here, too, two swollen streams of people and carriages met, one coming from the Quai des Tuileries and the other from the Cours-la-Reine promenade. Standing on tiptoe, Nicolas noticed that more and more carriages had parked on the quai, unchecked by any representative of authority.

  Pushed as they were in opposing directions, they found it a real struggle to get to the ambassadors’ mansion. What made Nicolas especially anxious was the realisation that there were no guards to be seen anywhere. Fortunately, he thought, no member of the royal family was due to be present at the display. They made their way, not without difficulty, past the structure that had been built in front of the statue of Louis XV: a Temple of Hymen with a magnificent colonnade. A kind of parapet ran all the way round it, at the four corners of which were dolphins ready to spew forth whirls of fire. The four sides of the temple were covered with symbols of rivers, also destined to spurt fire in sheets and cascades. The whole structure was surmounted by a pyramid with a globe on top. Semacgus criticised the proportions, finding them deeply flawed. Nicolas noted that most of the initial elements of the display had been placed around this structure, while behind the statue, on the side closest to the river, was a bastion from which the grand finale would be launched.

  At the ambassadors’ mansion, they were greeted by Monsieur de La Briche, secretary to Monsieur de Séqueville, and the man responsible for presenting the ambassadors to the king. He seemed to be beside himself and was finding it hard to catch his breath.

  ‘Ah, Monsieur Le Floch, you see me under constant attack by harpies … I mean, by the ministers accredited to His Majesty. Despite my pleas, the city authorities have distributed more reserved places than actually exist. The ambassadors’ bench is overflowing. As for the chargés d’affaires, I’m going to have to seat them on each other’s knees. Monsieur de Séqueville had the same problem at Versailles during the wedding celebrations …’

  He paused to scold two pages who were banging a newly painted wall with the bench they were carrying.

  ‘I keep adding more benches. How can I be of help to you, Monsieur Le Floch – where is my head? – Monsieur le Marquis?’

  ‘Le Floch will suffice,’ Nicolas said with a smile.

  ‘Madame Adélaïde2 calls you nothing else, Monsieur, and you are her favourite hunting companion. I don’t know where I’m going to put you and Monsieur, Monsieur …?’

  ‘Dr Guillaume Semacgus.’

  ‘Dr Semacgus. Your humble servant, Monsieur. Any privilege sets these people off. The least little minister or hospodar from the Ottoman court would prefer to be chopped to pieces on the spot rather than give up the place he thinks is due his rank. And Monsieur Bignon has thoughtlessly scattered invitations to every last alderman, official, monk, professor and God knows who else!’

  A fat man in a grey and gold coat suddenly interrupted them and began speaking very loudly to Monsieur de La Briche, who responded with an abundance of promises. The man strutted off.

  ‘Can you imagine? That plenipotentiary, who represents the Palatine Elector, keeps yelling at me that he can’t accept this insult to his sovereign and that he will be in trouble back in his court when it becomes known. I ask you, is it my custom to insult a sovereign?’ He shook his head. ‘They simply won’t listen to reason.’

  ‘I don’t want to overburden you,’ Nicolas said, ‘but if it were at all possible to have a general view of the square …’

  ‘Say no more. Monsieur de Sartine would never forgive me if I did not make every attempt to satisfy you.’

  ‘If it came to that, I would plead your case; you can count on it.’

  ‘You’re most kind. Would it be convenient for you to go up on the roof? It looks like being a fine evening, you’d have a perfect view from up there and … you would get me out of a spot, for I really don’t know where else I could fit you in.’

  He called a footman, and handed him a large key.

  ‘Take these friends of mine up to the roof by the small staircase. Leave the door open and the key in it, in case I have to put anyone else there. Oh, Lord, I must go, here comes the Conde de Fuentes, the Spanish ambassador. I can’t deal with his arrogance any longer – he can find his own seat!’

  La Briche did an about-turn and skipped off. Nicolas and Semacgus followed the footman through a series of crowded drawing rooms. Major Langlumé, a piece of taffeta on his temple, was holding forth in the midst of an admiring circle of women. He looked daggers at the commissioner as he passed. After climbing several staircases, they at last reached the attic and then the roof.

  The sky had grown darker and the first stars were out. The spectacle unfolding before their eyes left them speechless. In the distance, towards Suresnes, the last rays of the setting sun bathed the horizon in purple, the outlines of the hills around the capital drawn against the sky as if on a length of Chinese silk. The city lights glittered on the waters of the Seine. They were struck by the number of spectators gathered in Place Louis XV. A space had been cleared around the central monument, but it was overrun every time the crowd pushed forward. The gaps that appeared here and there corresponded to trenches that had not yet been filled with stones. Nicolas, always alert to the revealing detail, noted anxiously that the number of carriages and horses on the Quai des Tuileries and in the immediate surroundings was still increasing.

  Semacgus was the first to speak. ‘It’s going to be a long and difficult process, dispersing all these people after the display. They all came at different times, but they’ll want to leave together. There’s bound to be congestion.’

  ‘Guillaume, I admire your sagacity and I’m grateful for the unofficial zeal that makes you aware of the dangers. I pray to heaven that Monsieur Bignon has thought of all this and has a specific evacuation plan in mind. I think our friend Monsieur de La Briche will have a few problems with all Their Excellencies in a hurry to get home.’

  Nicolas walked over to the right-hand corner of the roof, stepped acr
oss the balustrade, much to Semacgus’s consternation, climbed onto the ledge and, supporting himself with one hand, leant over to look down at Rue Royale, which was so crowded that no one seemed able to advance.

  ‘Don’t stay there,’ Semacgus said. ‘One false move and there’s nothing to stop you falling. My legs are shaking just to see you.’

  He held out his hand. Nicolas grasped it and jumped nimbly over the low columns.

  ‘When I was a child, I loved to scare myself by playing on the ochre cliff of Pénestin in a high wind. That was much more dangerous than this.’

  ‘You Bretons will never cease to amaze me.’

  They fell silent again, captivated once more by the grandeur of the spectacle, which, as darkness fell, was concentrated on Place Louis XV.

  ‘Have you seen the Dauphine’s coaches? All of Paris is talking about them. It’s said that they do credit to the taste of Monsieur de Choiseul, who ordered them and took a close interest in their manufacture.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen them. Their splendour is somewhat calculated for my taste, but the present is at least as good as the future.’3

  ‘Ah!’ Semacgus said. ‘I shall remember that one.’

  ‘They’re four-seater berlins, one covered in crimson velvet with the four seasons embroidered in gold, the other in blue velvet with the four elements, also in gold. All extremely fine and exquisite, and topped off with gold flowers painted in different colours, which sway at the slightest movement.’

  ‘They must have been expensive.’

  ‘You know what the comptroller replied when the King asked him anxiously how much the celebrations would cost.’

  ‘Not a bit. What did the Abbé Terray reply?’

  ‘“Priceless, Sire.”’

  They were laughing at that when a muffled explosion announced the beginning of the display, followed by a joyous cry. The King’s statue in the centre of the square was surrounded by girandoles, and further explosions startled the sleeping pigeons, making them rise in a great mass from the Tuileries and the Garde-Meuble. But these were not followed by the dazzling sights that were expected, and when the failure was repeated several times, the crowd gradually passed from cries of admiration to murmurs of disappointment. Some of the rockets rose into the air without exploding: with faltering trajectories they fell back to earth or else fizzled out with a dry crackle. There was a moment’s silence, during which Ruggieri’s pyrotechnicians could be heard with unusual clarity, shouting orders, then their cries were smothered by the sharp whistle of a rocket, which also came to nothing. This unfortunate attempt was forgotten when a fan shaped like a peacock’s tail, studded with gold and silver, hung over the vast assembly and seemed to restore some impetus to the spectacle. The crowd applauded wildly. Semacgus, though, was grumbling: Nicolas knew that, like many elderly Parisians, he was easy to please, but equally quick to criticise.