The Baker's Blood

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  ‘What is the reason for this unspeakable absence? What am I saying? A desertion, Monsieur, yes, a desertion! You should be able to hold on to your men. Can you tell me without further ado what is behind this intolerable lapse, which will come as a great surprise to the Empress’s household?’

  Nicolas did not think that now was the moment for too honest or specific an answer. This angry manifestation of authority had no effect on him. He chose to humour Breteuil, while taking a more conciliatory tone.

  ‘No one could be more upset than I, Monseigneur. Monsieur de Lastire is still young. No doubt the temptations of Vienna have detained him longer than is reasonable. I shall pass on to him your displeasure, you can rest assured of that. Let us think of it no longer. I am here with the bust, not to mention the Queen’s letter to her august mother.’

  This timely reminder calmed the baron, whose face lit up at the thought of these happy prospects, although for form’s sake he spent a few more moments in angry rebuke. Nicolas remembered a piece of advice from Sartine: never upset influential people. It was necessary, said Sartine, to wrap them in assurances and soothing certainties. This preamble over, the ambassador undertook to initiate Nicolas into the subtleties of Viennese Court ceremonial, since any lapse might provoke a real drama. He discoursed at length on the subject, recalling that the respect for rank had in 1725, here in Vienna, pitted the Duc de Richelieu against the Duke of Rifferda, Philip V’s ambassador. The conflict had centred on the precedence always granted to the representative of the King of Spain.

  ‘The matter was only settled by the Spaniard’s recall. In any case, Rifferda was a traitor who went to Morocco and became a Mohammedan under the name Osman Pasha.1 A complete account of the disputes between our people and foreign ministers would fill volumes. And,’ Breteuil added, full of pride, ‘that’s very good for the reputation of the King at foreign courts.’

  Nicolas refrained from mentioning his conversation with Georgel or his dinner at the house of Prince von Kaunitz: the subject would occur to the baron soon enough. In order to maintain his good humour, as well as out of natural curiosity, he questioned him on the subtleties of the Empress’s audience at Schönbrunn. Having passed through the ramparts, the coach was now leaving the old city and entering a flat landscape, covered with snow as far as the eye could see. Here and there were new constructions, although work on them seemed to have been interrupted by the cold. The straight road had been swept and cleaned, and great pyramids of snow stood beside it at regular intervals, bearing witness to the daily efforts of the city authorities. Breteuil, his mind on the audience to come, was silent, one hand keeping the collar of his pelisse closed, the other waving his cane in an irregular rhythm.

  ‘Make sure, Marquis,’ he resumed, ‘that you keep a close eye on what I do and how I behave and copy me. That way everything will go according to the rules. In any case, everything is calculated in advance: the number of steps, the bows, the choice of seat, the length of the interview. As the representative of our master the King, I will be entitled, according to custom, to a chair with armrests. You will remain standing, except in exceptional circumstances. The Empress is kindly, but nothing escapes her, a fact of which Monsieur de Rohan was all too well aware. By the way, what about Georgel?’

  Pretending not to hear the question, Nicolas hastened to ask, ‘Who will be there to welcome us?’

  ‘The person in overall charge is the grand master of the Court, the Obersthofmeister. His deputy, the great chamberlain, the Oberstkämmerer organises the audiences, so his influence is the most marked. But in fact we will be dealing with the Oberstmarschall, who will welcome us.’

  All this was reeled off while his face quivered avidly. Much to Nicolas’s satisfaction, the baron forgot all about his obsession with the abbé and fell back into a state of nervous expectation. Nicolas looked out at the gently undulating landscape, with the outlines of steeper slopes visible in the distance. After passing through a neat little village currently being expanded, they came to a large gate. Admitted by the guards, they were then saluted by soldiers bearing arms with the French fleur-de-lis. Low buildings joined to the main body by stone arches surrounded a vast square in which were two fountains surmounted by statues. Nicolas leant out of the lowered window. In the cold sunlight filtering through the clouds, the ochre-yellow palace of Schönbrunn appeared. At first sight, it looked like a smaller-scale version of Versailles.

  ‘Remember my advice,’ murmured Breteuil through clenched teeth, taking off his pelisse.

  After some capricious movements by the horses, the carriage at last pulled up in front of the central entrance to the main building. Greeted by an officer, they were directed towards a richly coloured figure who bowed to them ceremoniously. He was introduced to the commissioner, then took the ambassador aside for a moment and spoke to him, before inviting them both to follow him. Nicolas assumed that this man was the grand marshal of the palace. A long walk awaited them. After climbing the grand staircase, they passed through an infinite series of rooms, in which Nicolas was surprised to note the regular presence of porcelain stoves. The warmth spread by these stoves was much more pleasant than that dispensed by the huge fireplaces of Versailles. They were finally admitted, without the excessive formality predicted by the ambassador, into the Empress’s study. Admittedly, the room was so small that it would have been difficult to perform all the regulation bows and steps. The Baron de Breteuil was invited to take his seat in an armchair. Nicolas remained standing while two grooms carefully placed at his feet the case containing the precious object of his mission to Vienna.

  ‘Ambassador, your presence gives me great joy,’ said the Empress, in French with a slight Germanic accent.

  ‘May I be allowed to present to Your Majesty the Marquis de Ranreuil, entrusted by my master with the task of conveying the precious consignment she is expecting.’

  Maria Theresa looked insistently at Nicolas, who, half bowed, did not flinch from her gaze, but bore this examination with the detachment of someone long accustomed to the company of monarchs. Only the late King, who was still such a strong presence in his memory, had once filled him with awe, although his veneration for the man had always overcome his fear and timidity. In exceptional circumstances, the feeling of being his own spectator prevailed over any other reaction.

  Those small, deep-set blue eyes continued to peer at him inquisitively, belying the apparently easy-going nature of the countenance. The Empress had sparse hair, sticking up gracelessly and barely concealed beneath a black mantilla. Her huge, shapeless body seemed slumped in the chair, although supported by silk cushions. In the muffled silence of the study, her breathing, coming in short, whistling gasps, was painful to hear. The lower half of her face, which was very red, displayed a smile close to a grin. On several occasions, her face tightened with pain or was shaken by involuntary movements. She tried to sit up, revealing as she did so feet wrapped in cloth and stuffed into misshapen slippers. Nicolas recalled the legs of La Paulet and felt a sudden sense of compassion, encompassing both the monarch and the brothel-keeper. Respecting the conventions, he waited to be addressed. He took advantage of this wait to look around the room, which was adorned with mouldings in blue painted wood imitating porcelain, with patterns of flowers, fruit, and Chinese umbrellas. Hundreds of blue wash drawings and a few framed portraits completed this cluttered but charming whole. The study was suffused with the mingled scents of perfumes and medicinal balms, accentuated by the heat of a room sealed against draughts.

  ‘I am delighted, Monsieur, to receive from your hands and –’ she looked at Breteuil – ‘those of the King’s ambassador, an object so long coveted by a mother’s heart.’ These words were spoken without any excessive sentimentality. ‘Did the Queen receive you before your departure?’

  It was merely a polite question, thought Nicolas. Her ambassador, Mercy-Argenteau, had been present at Versailles and must surely have informed her.

  ‘The Queen was good enough to gran
t me an audience, at which she entrusted me, not only with the task of conveying this bust, but also that of delivering this letter to Your Majesty.’

  Maria Theresa held out a podgy hand that was even redder than her face. Nicolas handed over the letter, which promptly disappeared into the depths of a sleeve.

  ‘Let us take advantage of your presence,’ the Empress said with a little laugh, ‘to have the latest news from France.’

  Breteuil was shifting in his chair, not daring to speak. This did not escape the Empress, who was clearly amused.

  ‘But before that, Monsieur, do place the long-awaited bust on this writing desk.’

  She pointed with an imperious finger to a small cylindrical desk. It was only necessary to pull out a few wooden pegs and the case was quickly and easily opened. Once the lid had been raised, Nicolas carefully removed the straw, untied the lace that held the thick twill wrapping in place, lifted the bust of Marie Antoinette like a monstrance and placed it on the shelf of the desk.

  The Empress put her hands together. ‘My God, how she has changed! How beautiful she has become! I no longer recognise my little girl! I’m very much obliged to you for the trouble you have taken. Although that is only to be expected from a man famous for his loyalty to the late King. It is said that he died in your arms. Is that true?’

  It was another elegant but direct way of informing him that they knew everything about him.

  ‘I was present, but he died in the arms of Monsieur de La Borde.’

  She did not pursue this, since only the question really concerned her, not the answer.

  ‘Is this bust a good likeness?’

  ‘Even the most delicate art and the finest bisque would be unable to render the full perfection of the reality.’

  With a sigh of emotion, Monsieur de Breteuil approved this delicate courtier’s phrase.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘we can understand that. By the way, Ambassador, when will we have a double portrait of the King and my daughter?’

  ‘Your Majesty,’ he replied, delighted that he was at last able to speak, ‘there is currently no original from which a copy could be made. Despite our entreaties it has not yet been possible to persuade Her Majesty to grant a few sittings in succession to the painter Duplessis, who was chosen for the task. But as soon as he has finished the King’s portrait, I hope he will begin the Queen’s.’

  ‘It’s true that my dear daughter writes to me that painters drive her to despair, that some have tried, but that their attempts have produced such a poor likeness that she has given up the idea of sending them to me. By the way, Monsieur, I am assured that she has become the arbiter of elegance, and that thanks to her the fashion for tall hairstyles has grown into a taste for plumage effects. Is that correct?’

  ‘The Queen has no need of tricks to enhance her beauty and, while it is true that the use of feathers as decoration leads to all kinds of excesses, she sets a reasonable tone. The practice has become widespread and gives a great deal of work to Parisian artisans and apprentices. But, as Your Majesty knows, fashion is ephemeral and one vogue quickly gives way to another.’

  ‘I know what you mean, of course. It would seem, though, that these excesses have become well established, that one can no longer walk through a doorway without bending one’s knees, that, seen from the balcony, the auditorium of a theatre is a sea of feathers, and that such hairstyles block the view of the stage. It is even said that some elegant women sport mountains, flowering meadows, silvery streams, English gardens and Lord knows what else in their hair!’

  It was clear to Nicolas that the Empress liked to keep abreast of what was happening.

  ‘Your Majesty is well informed, but all that is part and parcel of the taste for exaggeration. At the Opéra, I have also seen horns of plenty filled with fruit, which are intended as symbols of the expectations of the new reign.’

  ‘You reassure me. Distance, alas, leads to one receiving a distorted impression. My subjects are better informed than I by all the correspondence that passes so easily between Paris and Vienna. As a mother, I was most upset to hear about a sled accident …’

  Monsieur de Breteuil began coughing.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ said Nicolas, ‘nothing has been more exaggerated than that minor accident. I can speak with some authority, as I was in the sled behind the Queen’s. The flag that adorned it scared the horse. It bolted and the driver was thrown backwards. With admirable presence of mind, the Queen seized one of the reins and steered the sled towards a hedge, which broke its course. Her Majesty has since declared that more such accidents might occur, given how unfamiliar the French are with sleds. It seems to me that she has lately been turning away from this kind of amusement.’

  The Empress appeared satisfied, either because this account reassured her or because it confirmed what she already knew. ‘Marquis, you are a wonderful storyteller! I will therefore continue to take advantage of your indulgence. Does the Queen ride?’

  ‘She does take a little exercise, always on animals of a certain age that have been well trained, and always on safe ground, without hurdles.’

  He had the impression that this prudent reply did not satisfy her entirely and was not received with the same openness.

  ‘Once mourning ended at Court, I understand that balls resumed.’

  ‘Her Majesty was anxious for the Court to gather around her, as was only right, and no longer around Mesdames.2 Masked balls have indeed been given during this carnival period, the last just before I left Paris. The King appeared in a costume from the time of Henri IV.’

  ‘All of which ends late in the morning …’

  ‘Late at night, rather …’

  ‘And does the King take pleasure in these things?’

  ‘His Majesty is not overly inclined towards such festivities. But as the Queen has such a taste for them, he is happy for them to go ahead and takes whatever pleasure he can find in them.’

  Tirelessly, Maria Theresa pursued her enquiries. There ensued a curious game, to which Monsieur de Breteuil was merely the overwhelmed spectator. To the Empress’s ever more specific questions, Nicolas responded with a feigned enthusiasm that was beyond reproach. Each object of the Empress’s curiosity was gradually drained of its reality, reduced to a sham, and dismissed with a charming smile which ensured it would never regain its capacity for harm. As a spellbound onlooker, the ambassador could not help but admire this verbal tennis game, giving points both to the monarch’s gentle obstinacy and the Marquis de Ranreuil’s polite resistance. Occasionally the Empress’s irritation became apparent in the way she gripped her mantilla or the trembling of her leg. Nothing troubled Nicolas, who imperturbably defended his Queen by giving little away.

  ‘Well,’ concluded Maria Theresa, ‘I shan’t take any further advantage of you. Clearly, the Marquis has been well schooled …’

  She did not finish her sentence.

  ‘Ambassador, how has Vienna been receiving you?’

  ‘I have found here, Your Majesty, a reception befitting the closeness of our alliance.’

  She touched on several other points before tackling the question of Poland.

  ‘I know,’ she said, ‘that the division of that unhappy kingdom has been a great blemish on my reign. But circumstances overcame my principles. In order to counter the immoderate ambitions of the Russians and the Prussians, I made demands so exorbitant that I hoped they would be unacceptable and would lead to a breakdown in negotiations. Imagine my surprise and sorrow when the King of Prussia and the Tsarina agreed to everything. Prince von Kaunitz was extremely upset, being utterly opposed to this cruel arrangement and aware of the regrettable pall it casts over his ministry. Let us hope we can limit the damage!’

  She sighed and dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. Then she rummaged in her sleeve and took from it a box encrusted with diamonds, which she handed to Breteuil, and a diamond ring, which she gave to Nicolas.

  ‘Please accept these mementoes, gentlemen, as further proof of m
y gratitude for the Queen’s kindness.’

  In the carriage, Monsieur de Breteuil seemed to be mentally preparing his dispatch to Monsieur de Vergennes. His lips moved silently, as if formulating some incisive turns of phrase and rhetorical flourishes. These thoughts led him to question Nicolas again as to how he intended to transmit to Versailles a detailed report on the disturbances in Bohemia, a subject on which first-hand information was available. He received the same answer as previously. Although disappointed, he congratulated Nicolas on his familiarity with Court protocol and the skill of his answers.

  However conscious he was of the failings of a man who was often tetchy and difficult, Nicolas nevertheless respected a servant of the King who was so concerned with the service of the State and the reputation of France at foreign courts. He admired the fact that the ambassador was entirely devoted to its representation and glory, and ready to sacrifice a great deal to achieve it. The baron was honouring the name Breteuil in this constantly renewed struggle, just as much as if he were brandishing his standard and his arms on a field of battle. Even though he had only known him a short time, Nicolas was happy to defer to him, as if in tribute to a shared sense of morality and loyalty, which might already belong to another time.

  He accepted the baron’s suggestion that he follow him to the embassy in order to examine the official and confidential papers that needed to be conveyed to France. Once in the ambassador’s office, Breteuil installed him in a little study and brought him an armful of numbered sheets. He had written these dispatches himself, he explained – reviving the rheumatism in his arm in the process – in order to avoid any risks, given his uncertainty about the loyalty of his staff. He left Nicolas alone, asking him only to join him as soon as he was finished. Three hours later, Nicolas handed the papers back to Breteuil and assured him that all the essential points would reach Monsieur de Vergennes. He refused to say more, which greatly aroused the ambassador’s curiosity. All he would show him was a small sheet of paper covered with various series of figures. This unsolved mystery reminded Breteuil of Georgel, and he again questioned Nicolas on the subject. Nicolas replied evasively that ‘the great work was under way and that the arcana would soon be revealed’. With this alchemical formula, he bowed and set off back to the Golden Bull.