The Phantom of Rue Royale

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  With this confidence, Sartine turned away and did not break the silence again until they reached Versailles. It struck Nicolas that he would never know all there was to know about this man.

  No sooner had their coach entered the first courtyard than a page rushed forward to hand a sealed envelope to the Lieutenant General. It was a summons to see Monsieur de Saint Florentin, Minister of the King’s Household, without delay. He enjoined Nicolas to wait for him at the entrance to the apartments and hurried off towards the ministers’ wing. Nicolas was pacing up and down, idly studying the curious architectural features of the façade, when he felt a tug on the tail of his coat. He was surprised to see his spy Rabouine, a sword at his side, his thin face contorted in a grimace to attract attention.

  ‘What are you doing here, Rabouine? And carrying a sword, what’s more!’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about that – I had to hire one. They wouldn’t let me in without a sword. Apparently around here it makes you look noble. I was furious at having to argue with them, because I didn’t want to miss you when I saw you pass with Monsieur de Sartine. Monsieur Bourdeau has sent me with an urgent message. I galloped here as fast as I could on a nag that almost threw me off twenty times!’

  Nicolas opened his deputy’s note. All it said was: Rabouine will tell you everything. He cast a questioning look at the party concerned.

  ‘Strange things have been happening at the Deux Castors, the place you’re investigating at the moment,’ Rabouine began. ‘At the stroke of three this morning, the household was woken by terrible noises – not just the household, the whole neighbourhood. People gathered outside the Galaine house. They even rang the alarm bell in a nearby chapel. The door of the shop was forced, and those who went in found the family on their knees praying, and the maid, stark naked, dancing a jig and jumping up to the ceiling, with strange lights around her body. The onlookers all fled in terror. Finally, the priest came and calmed the family down, and everyone hailed it as a miracle. It was like the Jansenists of Saint-Médard all over again. The watch dispersed the crowd, and your colleague in the district posted French Guards outside the shop. And that’s the story!’

  Nicolas thought for a moment, then sat down on a boundary stone and wrote a short note, which he sealed with his signet ring bearing the Ranreuil arms, topped with a marquis’s crown.

  ‘Rabouine, go back to Bourdeau and give him this. But have something to eat first.’ He tossed him a coin, which the other caught in mid-air. ‘I’m staying here with Monsieur de Sartine. I should be back some time this evening. If not, I’ll be with Monsieur de La Borde, First Groom of the King’s Bedchamber.’

  He had barely finished writing down the surprising development in his little black notebook when he was drawn by a crimson-faced Sartine towards ‘the Louvre’ and the entrance to the apartments. He opened his mouth to speak, but his chief silenced him with a look. He gave up and followed him into the maze of the palace. They climbed a half-spiral staircase and came to a large hall. Sartine, always eager to show off his knowledge of places, from which he drew some pride, but also conscious of his responsibilities as mentor, commented volubly, ‘We’re going up to the King’s private rooms, which used to be Madame Adélaïde’s apartments.’5 He lowered his voice. ‘When Madame du Barry established herself, the King transferred his daughter to the ground floor and took this apartment for himself.’

  They walked along narrow corridors, from which windows occasionally allowed vertiginous views of large drawing rooms and small shaded courtyards. They came to a bare room with window seats, which the Lieutenant General indicated as the bathers’ room, without going into any further details. On their left, a few steps led to another room, from which came the sounds of swirling water and conversation. They stopped and waited in silence. A page came out, looked at them with a mocking air and disappeared again, without seeing a discreet signal from Sartine. A few moments later Monsieur de La Borde appeared, smiling. He put a finger to his mouth and nodded at them to follow him. They climbed the steps and found themselves enveloped in scented steam. They were in a rectangular room, rounded at one end, which contained two parallel metal bathtubs. Servants in white piqué were bustling around one of the tubs, in which a man, his head wrapped in a knotted madras, was being washed. One of the aides approached with huge towels.6

  Assuming a solemn air, Monsieur de La Borde cried, ‘Gentlemen, the King is leaving his bath!’

  Sartine and Nicolas lowered their heads. Louis XV was quickly wrapped in the towels and almost dragged to the second tub.

  In a low voice, La Borde explained that His Majesty was to be rinsed in clean water. The King, who had so far not taken any notice of his visitors, now looked up and saw Sartine.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sartine, to have summoned you so early in the morning, but I couldn’t wait to see you. Did you follow my instructions? I don’t see young Ranreuil.’

  ‘Sire, he’s here, behind me. At Your Majesty’s orders.’

  The King’s black eyes peered at Nicolas through the steam. ‘Good, good. La Borde, take them where I told you.’

  Nicolas always felt the same emotion when he found himself in the King’s presence. The strangeness of the place, the rapidity of the scene and the monarch’s unusual attire did not allow for lengthy examination. The King was said to have aged: Nicolas promised himself to take a closer look at him. They followed Monsieur de La Borde down a long corridor, then turned right and entered a gilded room, named as Madame Adélaïde’s former music room. They then passed a staircase and entered a narrow room lit by a single window. Beyond it was a tiny corridor leading to a wardrobe. Nicolas was immediately struck by the intimacy of the small room. Its lack of light was compensated for by the white, gold-embellished woodwork, the painted pier glasses and a large mirror. The furniture consisted of a writing desk, a bergère, some chairs and stools, and a display cabinet filled with chinoiseries. There were layettes7 on shelves and in cupboards discreetly built into the walls. They waited in silence. A concealed door opposite them opened and the King appeared to emerge from the wall, wearing a light grey coat and a wig. Nicolas thought he looked very stooped. He had lost that haughty bearing which made him recognisable at a hundred paces: with his stooped back, he now resembled prints of his old adversary, Frederick of Prussia. His features, although still regular, had been encroached upon by the ravages of old age, and there were harsh rings beneath his eyes. He collapsed into the bergère. After a moment, he addressed La Borde.

  ‘Make sure no one disturbs us. And I mean no one, not even …’

  He left the sentence hanging. Who could possibly disturb the King? The Dauphin, so timid and petrified in his grandfather’s presence? The mischievous Marie-Antoinette, still such a child? His daughters? They were much too respectful of their father to allow themselves such unseemly behaviour. There remained Madame du Barry, and if this hypothesis was correct, it was a significant piece of information. In spite of her influence over the ageing King, she was not party to certain affairs. Although he could not have said why, Nicolas found this reassuring. To his amazement, the King next addressed him.

  ‘Ranreuil, do you know how to break a rabbit’s legs without a knife?’

  Nicolas bowed. ‘Yes, Sire, by tearing off only the small bones.’

  ‘Sartine, he’s as good as Lasmatartes, my first whipper-in.’ The King reflected for a moment. ‘One day, when I was a child, I wanted to visit the Infanta, but they couldn’t find the key to the great gallery. I made representations to the marshal,8 who had the door broken down. There was much muttering about it. What do you think of that?’

  ‘That we are all under Your Majesty’s orders.’

  The King seemed to retreat into himself, his head sunk onto his chest. With his right hand, he twisted a button on his left sleeve.

  ‘Let them take my silences for orders! How goes the city, my Lieutenant General of Police?’

  His voice still a little hoarse, the King had insisted on the possessive. />
  ‘The city,’ said Sartine, ‘is still coming to terms with its misfortune. It has wept a great deal. It has somewhat shouted down your servant and …’

  ‘The wind has turned, as it always does.’

  ‘Yes, Sire, and more quickly than might have been expected. The presence of Monsieur Bignon in his box at the Opéra last night caused a scandal. He was hissed at, and his words condemned him in the eyes of the public.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘That the reason there were so many victims was because there were many spectators, which meant that the festivities were a success.’

  ‘He’ll never be any different; his uncle was right! But as far as the causes of the disaster go, I’d like to hear young Ranreuil.’

  In the cramped dimensions of the room, Sartine had to move aside to leave Nicolas face to face with the King.

  He started speaking without any particular emotion. He had begun his career at court by telling a story, and he felt bound to the King, who had always displayed great benevolence towards him. There had been winks from the monarch at court ceremonies, showing that he had recognized him, regular invitations to the hunt, where his experience of hunting and his skills on horseback were admired, and now access to the King’s secret affairs, the symbol of which was his admittance to this remote room. There was also the solicitous friendship of Monsieur de La Borde. Everything combined to make him feel that he was appreciated by a man who, in his private life, liked nothing better than discretion, loyalty, a pleasant manner and the ability to amuse. Without exaggerating, he put the necessary vigour and pace into his narration of the tragic event. He went into detail, but did not insist on apportioning blame. The King, at once fascinated and horrified by the description of the disaster, nevertheless wanted to know more about the real causes. To know more, thought Nicolas, or to confirm what he already suspected about the part that he himself, by his decision to leave the provost free to do as he pleased, might have played in the causes of the catastrophe.

  ‘Sire,’ he replied, ‘it appears to me, in all good faith, and notwithstanding my position, that the negligence must be attributed to Monsieur Bignon and the aldermen, who claimed that they alone had the right to police the areas adjacent to the centre of the festivities.’

  ‘And why would they make such a claim?’

  Sartine threw him an anxious glance, but Nicolas avoided the trap.

  ‘Their argument was that the festivities were being paid for by the city.’

  This explanation seemed to satisfy the King.

  ‘Now,’ Nicolas went on, ‘apart from the fire and the congestion in Rue Royale, the City Guards should have been there in greater numbers and under stronger command. Their leaders were playing pontoon in a neighbouring tavern rather than doing their duty and protecting the public. One thousand five hundred livres to the colonel of French Guards to deploy one thousand two hundred men accustomed to this kind of gathering would have made all the difference. Finally, the greatest mistake was to let the guests from the ambassadors’ mansion drive their carriages into Rue Royale.’

  ‘All that is clear, Monsieur. What is the death toll from that sad day?’

  The King had turned to Sartine, who made a sign to Nicolas to continue.

  ‘As Monsieur de Sartine ordered, I tried to establish a precise count of the victims. Officially, a hundred and thirty-two deaths. The Procurator General did the same, and we compared our figures, taking care to collect the death certificates of all those who died as a result of these terrible events. The total is one thousand two hundred.’

  ‘As many as that?’ said the King, overcome with emotion.

  ‘We’ve been able to break it down as follows: five monks, two priests, twenty-two persons of distinction, a hundred and fifty-five bourgeois, four hundred and fifty-four of the common people, and eighty who drowned, plus those who were taken home or to hospital.’

  The King, always drawn to macabre details, wanted to know the state of the bodies that had been recovered. Nicolas replied briefly, and Sartine, anxious like him not to plunge the monarch into gloom, hastened to change the subject. He recalled the plan put forward by his office to ensure that, in future, hard stones would be cut and worked on only in quarries, to avoid dangerously cluttering the streets and squares of Paris. ‘As the King no doubt knows,’ he went on, ‘Monseigneur the Dauphin has entrusted to me six thousand livres from the sum which Your Majesty allows him for his little pleasures and has asked me to use it for the benefit of the most unfortunate.’

  ‘I’m pleased that he feels such compassion for the fate of my subjects. I know that he has great respect for you – and he’s usually extremely sparing of his respect.’

  Nicolas had the impression that Sartine was blushing.

  ‘Do you have anything less sad to tell me, Sartine?’

  ‘Sire, the Bishop of Traves managed to get hold of a cab in which there was already a female passenger. Gallant young prelate that he is, he apologised a thousand times on the way to her residence. It was impossible subsequently to conceal from him the fact that the lady in question was La Gourdain, Paris’s leading madam.’

  The King laughed. ‘Ah! I wager some of his colleagues would have recognised the lady! Is that all, Sartine?’

  ‘Nothing else that could interest or amuse Your Majesty.’

  The King stretched his legs and rubbed his hands in glee. ‘Is that so, Sartine? There is something else happening in your good city. I hear there is agitation abroad, that people are gathering, that emotions are running high. First there was Saint-Médard, now there is Rue Saint-Honoré.’

  He was looking intently at Sartine. Nicolas, who was once again behind his chief, took out his little black notebook, opened it and delicately placed it in the Lieutenant General’s hand. This gesture did not escape the King’s notice.

  ‘Have you forgotten something?’

  ‘No, Sire,’ said Sartine coolly. ‘I was just checking my notes in case any event that might interest Your Majesty had slipped my mind.’

  Nicolas did not quite grasp what was happening.

  ‘Ha, ha!’ said the King. ‘I’ve caught you. It seems I have to inform you that there have been some strange manifestations within a family of shopkeepers near the Opéra. People are saying it’s a repeat of the scandalous events that occurred over the grave of Deacon Pâris. You know how these things start … I can already see the archbishop sticking his nose into the administration and policing of the city, just as he did some time ago when he managed to extract from me a lettre de cachet, which you quite rightly considered an extraordinary and unacceptable encroachment on your jurisdiction. Here are my orders. Young Ranreuil, who has again proved his worth and his cool head, will take up temporary residence in the house and investigate the supposed possession. Once he has penetrated its mystery, he will give me a detailed report. He must go at once.’

  ‘Your Majesty’s orders will be carried out.’

  The King rose. He seemed rejuvenated. ‘This interview shall remain between the three of us. You, Sartine, will come to your audience tomorrow, the day of Pentecost, and then you will do me the pleasure of staying to dine with me in my private apartments. As for you, Ranreuil, to horse, tally-ho, tally-ho! Good hunting!’

  They bowed. The King bade them farewell with a charming gesture and disappeared in the direction of his apartments. Monsieur de La Borde walked them to the ambassadors’ staircase, one floor below. The sunlight in the main courtyard was dazzling. Nicolas opened his mouth to speak, but Sartine forestalled his question.

  ‘I know what you’re going to say, Nicolas. Thank you for trying to get me out of a sticky situation. But the King was so pleased to tell me something he thought I didn’t know that I had no desire to spoil his pleasure.’

  Having delivered this lesson on how to be a courtier and a loyal servant, Sartine, beaming all over his face, left Nicolas and set off to find his crony Saint-Florentin and tell him that his disgrace would not be happening
yet awhile.

  NOTES – CHAPTER V

  1. The Comtesse du Barry.

  2. The month in which he died was in fact November.

  3. A fashionable mixture of tea and orgeat.

  4. The captain’s quarters on a galley.

  5. The King’s eldest surviving daughter in 1770.

  6. Contrary to received opinion, it was not Marie-Antoinette who introduced hygiene to Versailles. Quite the contrary, in fact.

  7. Leather caskets for dispatches and files.

  8. The Maréchal de Villeroy.

  VI

  FEAR

  The truth may not always be likely.

  BOILEAU

  From Monsieur de La Borde, who wanted to invite him to supper, Nicolas learnt that the King could not stop singing the praises of his visitors, both Sartine and ‘young Ranreuil’ who ‘was a first-class hunter in every field, and a good servant’, in his own words. He declined the invitation, informed his friend of the turn of events and the orders he had received, and asked him for help to get back to the capital as quickly as possible. Monsieur de La Borde immediately took him to the Place d’Armes, and from there to the great stable where, after some discussion, a dappled grey horse was brought out. Nicolas would entrust it to police headquarters when he got to Paris, and a messenger would bring it back to Versailles.

  It was almost midday. By carriage, it took at least two hours to reach Paris. Going at a decent speed on a good horse, the length of the journey could be reduced. The gelding set off at a fast trot. Nicolas thought about the scene he had just lived through. He was always touched by his encounters with the King. The anecdote of the door to the great gallery being forced open was a transparent apologia for the regrets he must feeling over another decision he now knew to have been unwise. To express such regrets openly was not his custom, but he had suggested enough to dispel any doubts on the subject. The King was not easily fooled, except when he wanted to be. He had his own channels through which to discover things, and this information helped him to reach a balanced judgement. That observation filled Nicolas with joy and reinforced his loyalty to the man whose profile he remembered seeing on coins when he was a child. The King could come down off his pedestal without seeming in any way diminished, quite the contrary. The events of Rue Saint-Honoré, Nicolas thought, could only have been brought to Louis’s attention by someone close to him. The Opéra was not far from the Galaines’ shop, almost opposite in fact, and there had been a ball that evening. Lost in thought, he almost ran over a little girl who stood at the side of the road, offering bunches of wild flowers she had gathered in the surrounding woods. It was the horse that saved the child by rearing, which almost unseated Nicolas, even though he was a good rider. To gain forgiveness and to calm the terrified girl, he bought her entire stock at ten times the correct price, which was why, when he rode through Porte de la Conférence and entered Paris just before two o’clock, he was laden with flowers.