The Baker's Blood

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  From time to time, he lost sight of his guide as the latter weaved his way from one group to another. His short stature did not make it any easier to keep an eye on him. At a certain moment, Nicolas thought he glimpsed an exchange of words between the abbé and a valet bearing a tray of barley syrup. Georgel had half turned and inclined his ear to listen to the man, who was talking to him with his head bowed. However, there was nothing to indicate that they were discussing anything important. His observation was interrupted by the noise of a cane hitting the flagstones. A double door opened, and the crowd, in a flurry of silk and satin, rose to greet the prince.

  As Kaunitz looked around the room, everyone bowed. Nicolas discovered, framed by an extravagant wig, the thin, spiritual face of a man on the verge of old age. The prince offered his arm to one of the ladies, and the guests walked in procession to the room where a huge table had been laid. Georgel, drawing Nicolas with him, had unhesitatingly slipped in behind Kaunitz. They all took their seats and Nicolas, sitting almost opposite the chancellor, was able to observe at his leisure that cold, stern countenance, occasionally animated by a penetrating glance. He first addressed the ladies who surrounded him, clearly knowing how to give the greatest value to even the slightest word. The food was more abundant than choice, and a valet stood behind each guest to serve the dishes that were required. Behind the master of the house stood a small sideboard, on which were vegetables, chicken breasts and fruits for his personal use. He stared for a long time at Nicolas, before finally addressing him in his slightly nasal voice.

  ‘I’m glad, Marquis, that our friend has given us the satisfaction of your presence at this table.’

  Nicolas bowed.

  ‘I know, Monsieur,’ Kaunitz went on, ‘that you are close to Monsieur de Sartine. Not long ago, I submitted a mystery to him. We were interested in discovering the whereabouts of a man with whom we were having trouble and who, unless he was restrained, might well have caused us great embarrassment. He was said to have gone to ground in Paris, where he was living under a false name. His description was supplied to the Lieutenant General of Police with a request to spare no effort in finding him.’

  The whole table had fallen silent, spellbound by the prince’s words.

  ‘After three months, only a very fleeting trace of him had been discovered.’

  ‘Thanks to testimony from his landlady in La Courtille, Monseigneur,’ said Nicolas.

  ‘I think, Monsieur, that we owe you a great deal,’ remarked the prince, his face betraying not a flicker of surprise. ‘I was also informed that the person in question had embarked for Egypt. But we were not convinced. In fact, we were sure that the man was still hiding in Paris. I did not conceal from your chargé d’affaires …’

  Georgel bowed to all and sundry.

  ‘… my opinion that, despite its reputation, the Paris police force was no better than any other.’

  ‘Monsieur de Sartine, as I can testify, was greatly upset at this judgement by one of the greatest ministers in Europe.’

  Georgel was blissfully nodding approval of the commissioner’s words.

  Kaunitz smiled. ‘But eventually he was able to meet our demands. He informed me soon afterwards that the man was in a suburb of Vienna called Leopoldstadt, at a Turkish merchant’s, disguised as an Oriental with a black patch over his left eye. All of which proved accurate: the man was found and arrested. I sent Sartine the Empress’s thanks. As for me, I was left in justified admiration at the workings of such a wonderful machine. The men who set it in motion could only be geniuses!’

  He raised his glass, which was filled with water, then turned to another guest. One by one he paid each of those present the tribute of his exquisite politeness. Finally, he began to hold forth. Broadly speaking, his words were more concerned with past events than with the present. After a few reflections on the misfortune of inexperience and the passion of youth, he bemoaned the all too real situation in which a man mature in both years and experience was unable to contribute his wisdom and force of character.

  ‘I think we can decipher these words,’ Georgel said to Nicolas in a low voice. ‘Is there a more tactful way of intimating that Joseph II does not pay him sufficient attention?’

  As the prince was disinclined to linger, the meal was soon over. Before he rose, he laid out before him on the table a little pocket mirror, a box of toothpicks, a small silver-gilt basin and a tumbler filled with an emerald-green liquid. He cleaned his teeth at some length, rinsed his mouth, spat twice, and carefully wiped himself.

  ‘Even when he visits the Empress,’ said Georgel, with a chuckle, ‘he doesn’t stand on ceremony. Flouting the propriety customary before his monarch, he shamelessly observes this unsavoury practice. And when she invites him to dinner and he’s late, she indulges him, waiting for him to arrive before she begins.’

  Once the prince had gone up to his apartments, the crowd of guests dispersed. Nicolas and the abbé had to wait for some time for their carriage, surrounded by grooms turning in all directions and unconcernedly dripping wax from their torches. As Nicolas climbed into the carriage, he felt someone brush against him: it was a woman, her face covered with a black mantilla. She slipped a small square sheet of paper into his hand and moved away before he could make a gesture to detain her. Without saying a word to Georgel, he slipped the note inside his glove. He assumed it was an invitation to an amorous rendezvous with one of the women present at the reception, seduced by his looks and the fact that he was a foreign aristocrat. During the journey, the abbé prattled on, congratulating him on his success with Kaunitz. On reaching the Golden Bull, they bade each other a ceremonious farewell and Georgel went back to his room.

  Nicolas moved a candle closer, made sure that he was alone, and unfolded the paper. It bore, in capital letters, the enigmatic sentence: TIMOR METUS MALI APPROPINQUANTIS. He was about to call on his Latin when he noticed that there was another sentence, written diagonally across the page: MAXIMAS IN CASTRIS EFFECISSE TURBAS DICITUR. At that moment, Semacgus and Rabouine appeared, looking like good-natured conspirators, and he put the translation off until later. Their demeanour was one that Nicolas knew well, that of people bursting to reveal something. When he tried to speak to them, they put their fingers to their lips.

  ‘We have discovered a pleasant tavern,’ Semacgus said, ‘where I’ve ordered a little dinner of local dishes. We’ll be at ease there. You may just have to sit and watch us, of course, since I assume you’ve already eaten. We have things to tell you …’ His large nose creased with irony.

  ‘You’re quite mistaken,’ replied Nicolas. ‘I’m dying of hunger. The gathering from which I’ve come was the kind where talking prevails over eating. That said, you seem to have forgotten about the abbé. The fact that he’s returned doesn’t mean he might not go out again!’

  ‘Pah!’ cried Semacgus. ‘Your argument doesn’t hold water. Rabouine here has thought of everything. We have our spies and informers, all in the right places. A plentiful supply of florins opens mouths. Don’t worry about a thing.’

  They soon found themselves in a narrow room with polished wooden walls on the first floor of a dark little tavern. Nicolas looked around the room, which seemed to hang out over the poorly lit street visible through the naive designs of the stained-glass windows. Rabouine had all the food brought in at once, and arranged it on a sideboard, together with bottles of white wine. That way, they would not be disturbed. Like an inspired priest, Semacgus joyfully chanted the praises of the dinner.

  ‘Egg soup enhanced with caraway and accompanied by quenelles of calves’ liver–’ he pointed to a bulbous earthenware pot – ‘pâté of grouse en croûte, a little pan containing saffron sauce which needs to be moistened as soon as the lid is lifted … roast goose with potatoes and nudlen …’

  ‘What are nudlen?’ asked Nicolas.

  ‘Something similar to Italian pasta, much used in this part of Europe, coated in sauce which transmits its aromas to them.’

  T
hey immediately sat down at the table, surprised by the savoury odour of the soup and the softness of the quenelles.

  ‘If soup,’ said Semacgus, ‘is, as they claim, to lunch what a portico is to a building, this can only serve as a peristyle to a dinner of tall trees!’

  ‘I’d prefer a salted capon in Paris,’ said Rabouine, ‘to these grim morsels where brown sugar prevails and the seeds have a strange stench. Even the mustard here doesn’t taste like mustard – it’s sweet!’

  ‘Those seeds, as you put it, Rabouine, are the divine caraway, philistine!’

  For the moment, Semacgus refrained from explaining to Rabouine that grouse was what capercaillie was called here and that it was a difficult bird to hunt, although the mating season made things easier, as it then threw caution to the wind. Once they had appeased their initial craving, and before they tackled the goose, Nicolas asked them what it was they wanted to tell him.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, suddenly serious, ‘I’m listening.’

  Rabouine bowed his head like a guilty child.

  ‘I foresee the worst,’ Nicolas went on. ‘When Rabouine gets that look on his face, disasters are never far away. He’s like a cat spitting on coals, as Catherine puts it.’

  ‘She puts it a little more crudely,’ Semacgus said.

  ‘But we’re in decent company here.’

  Rabouine looked beseechingly at Semacgus, who took a swig of wine and plunged in.

  ‘All right then, Commissioner. Left to our own devices, we decided to enjoy ourselves. As Rabouine wanted to keep his hand in, he made the bird sing.’

  ‘What am I to make of that? What bird are we talking about here?’

  ‘Not the grouse. We said to each other: Well, the coast is clear. Nicolas has taken Georgel away. They won’t be back soon. Let’s take advantage.’

  ‘I see. And what did you do?’

  ‘I shall evoke a bird whose organ, when well greased, creeps and releases, I speak of the picklock otherwise known as the “nightingale”, which opens the most recalcitrant locks and makes them sing if skilfully manipulated.’

  Nicolas laughed. ‘I give up.’

  ‘Then I shall confess. We paid a visit to Abbé Georgel’s room.’ And as if to distract Nicolas, he pulled towards him a wing of the goose along with a crisp strip of the breast.

  ‘Master Semacgus,’ said Nicolas, a twinkle in his eye, ‘I wonder, I really wonder. Did I do the right thing fourteen years ago, saving you from the Bastille? Well, what’s done is done. Let’s not beat about the bush. What did you find?’

  Rabouine sighed happily and drew from his jerkin a sheet of paper on which the blackened fragments of a document seemed to be glued. He handed it to Nicolas.

  ‘That,’ said Rabouine, ‘is a reconstruction of fragments found in the fireplace of the abbé’s room. We can define the nature of the document: without doubt a letter from France, read then destroyed. But our man was too trusting of the fire: the wood was green and the amount of smoke deceived him as to how destructive it was.’

  Nicolas was surprised and impressed to hear such a speech from Rabouine’s mouth. ‘This is all very imprudent, but, I must admit, very useful. What do you deduce from it?’

  ‘Rabouine and I,’ replied Semacgus, ‘have tried to elucidate its mystery. At first sight, it doesn’t appear to be a coded message. There are words that are easy to reconstruct: Choiseul, Reims, followers, Turgot, light a spark, disorder, castle, mob, horrible acts, corporations, merchants, grain trade, d’Aiguillon, Parlement. The rest is difficult to guess at. Does it refer to some kind of plot? If so, what is Georgel’s role?’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Nicolas, taking out the note he had been given by the mystery woman outside the chancellery, ‘look at this. Here’s something else that might arouse your natural curiosity. Guillaume, would you like to translate these sentences?’

  Semacgus put on his spectacles and carefully examined the paper. ‘The writer of this note is well read. I think I recognise Cicero. TIMOR METUS MALI APPROPINQUANTIS. You go first!’

  ‘I would say,’ ventured Nicolas, ‘something like “If we feel fear, it is because misfortune is coming.” I’ve always translated off the top of my head. The fathers at Vannes often reprimanded me for that. By using my imagination, I was able to guess a great deal. Of course, I was often wrong …’

  ‘Your arrow has fallen not far short of the target. I would refine your effort in this way: “Fear is the apprehension of approaching misfortune.” There remains the other sentence, which is difficult to render. MAXIMAS IN CASTRIS EFFECISSE TURBAS DICITUR. I suggest: “It is reported that he brings about the greatest troubles in the camp.”’

  ‘I think I can improve on that,’ cried Nicolas. ‘“They say he caused the gravest disorders to break out in the camp.”’

  ‘Disorder again,’ said Rabouine, ‘just like in that burnt paper.’

  ‘“Castris” could also be castle,’ observed Semacgus. ‘Another word that appears in that other text.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Nicolas, ‘both are possible. I was clearly wrong in my first supposition. This note was not from a woman seeking an amorous intrigue. Do these enigmatic sentences give an extra resonance to the limited information on the Georgel document? Especially as only the whims of fate and your initiative have made it possible to bring together two things that would seem to have nothing to do with one another.’

  ‘This strikes me,’ continued Semacgus, ‘as a curious coincidence. The unknown woman’s note announces a present or future danger, in Vienna presumably, but also “in the castle”.’

  ‘Could that mean Versailles?’ ventured Rabouine.

  ‘As for the other text, which was never intended for our eyes, it suggests the same danger in France. The two sources confirm one another even though we were not supposed to see both of them.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Semacgus. ‘And why did your mysterious correspondent not choose a more direct formulation than these ambiguous phrases in Latin?’

  ‘This person,’ suggested Rabouine, becoming increasingly animated, ‘knows Monsieur Nicolas. Firstly, he assumes that he knows Latin. Secondly, sentences in Latin don’t arouse suspicion, whereas a more common style would not have failed to do so.’

  The dinner continued, and the roast goose was soon reduced to a heap of bones picked perfectly clean. It was very late by the time they got back to their rooms, leaving only Rabouine to preside over their plan of attack. Nicolas found it hard to get to sleep. It was never good to think too much in bed, and in addition, the dinner lay on his stomach: in the excitement of the conversation he had eaten too much too quickly.

  Sunday 5 March 1775

  The door had opened with a creak then, after a pause, slammed shut. He struck a light, lit a candle, and walked to the door in his nightshirt. Carefully opening the heavy leaf, he discovered, to his astonishment, instead of the landing, a huge stone staircase descending towards extensive grounds. He saw gardeners pulling stumps or large roots from the ground and striking them as if trying to crush them. Further on, two men were attempting to force open a coffin with crowbars. The dull sounds of their hammering echoed painfully in Nicolas’s head. He put his hands over his ears, the blood beating in his temples. Everything tipped over, and he found himself back in the comfort and tranquillity of his room: someone was knocking at his door. Rising unsteadily, and vowing to avoid treacherous foreign wines in future, he asked in a hoarse voice who was there.

  ‘Monsieur Nicolas! It’s Rabouine! A footman has just come from the Baron de Breteuil to say that the ambassador will come to fetch you at eleven o’clock. You have an audience at midday with Empress Maria Theresa.’

  Nicolas opened the door. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘A quarter past ten.’

  Just my luck! thought Nicolas. He had only three-quarters of an hour to get ready. He asked Rabouine to help him. He went down half naked into the snow-covered courtyard and had a few pails of icy water thrown over his bo
dy. If he could get through this, he would be able to face all the courts in the world. He hurried back upstairs to shave, put on his wig, and again don his grey coat. Just before eleven, he was at the door of the hotel, while the servants looked on admiringly. Rabouine had been given his instructions in case Georgel took advantage of his absence to leave the hotel. The ambassador’s coach appeared at the appointed time. The crate containing the Queen’s bust was solidly secured to the vehicle, and two valets would keep an eye on it while it was being transported. It struck Nicolas, sitting down next to the ambassador, that he would never have done with wigs. He recalled the mockery he had overheard at Prince von Kaunitz’s house: with his old-fashioned wigs, the baron was a laughing stock. For this imperial audience, he sported a brown Regency-style wig which would not have been disavowed by either Monsieur de Noblecourt, loyal to the customs and fashions of his youth, or Monsieur de Sartine, with his tastes as a collector. The ambassador looked flushed and feverish. Beating the floor with his cane, he suddenly began questioning Nicolas on the fact that Monsieur de Lastire was missing.