Moved by this, the old magistrate turned away and went and pressed his forehead against the window pane. Cyrus was moaning softly and scratching at his master’s leg.
‘He had distributed his Cotignac, or at least what remained of it, among his closest friends.’
‘Is that all?’
‘There’s no trace of him. You know as well as I do the disastrous state of the roads. I questioned the neighbours, the people at the staging posts, the local peasants. Nothing! Nobody saw him. Worse still, the principal told me an extremely disturbing fact. Two days before his … his departure, a man came to the school and asked to see Louis in order to give him a letter from you …’
‘From me? Impossible!’
‘The principal had no reason to object.’
‘Or to consent!’
‘Louis recognised your handwriting. He and the stranger conversed alone. The next day, he seemed even more sombre than before.’
‘Did he describe this mysterious character?’
‘He was a Capuchin monk.’
‘Another Capuchin! I really can’t get on with Capuchins. We have already had dealings with them on some bloody occasions. One in particular. A shadow in a dark cloak! Remember the past …’7
‘It’s true that a monk’s cowl is the best way to conceal an identity.’
‘I fear an abduction, somehow connected with what happened in Austria. That was my first thought.’
Bourdeau gave a start. ‘You were in danger. I knew it!’
‘I’ll tell you all about it later. For now—’
‘I can’t believe,’ interrupted Noblecourt, turning to them with red eyes, ‘that Louis wouldn’t have come and told his father the reasons for his conduct. I don’t think he’s in hiding, and I trust him completely.’
Nicolas stood up and held out his hands to his old friend. ‘The day I entered this house, I discovered what wisdom and goodness are.’
‘Now,’ said Noblecourt, ‘let us indeed be wise. Patience is the main thing. I’m sure Bourdeau has put our police, the envy of all Europe, on a war footing. We just have to wait for information, which should soon come flooding in.’
Bourdeau nodded.
‘Monsieur Lenoir, Monsieur de Sartine and Monsieur de Vergennes all asked to see you as soon as you returned. It’s said the Queen enquired after you three times.’
Noblecourt rummaged in his desk and took out two letters, which he handed to Nicolas. ‘These came a few days ago. This business has got me so muddled, I almost forgot them.’
Nicolas recognised Aimée d’Arranet’s usual square sea-green paper and untidy handwriting. In his helpless state, the sight of it warmed his heart. The other letter intrigued him: he did not recognise either the handwriting on the envelope, with its heavy downstrokes, or the red, almost black, seal. He put Aimée’s letter in his pocket. Having asked his friends to excuse him, he broke the strange seal, a religious one if he was not mistaken. This envelope contained a message which was itself sealed. The sight of the arms and the handwriting made his heart miss a beat, and for the second time he had to sit down. Worried, Noblecourt and Bourdeau ran to him.
‘Bad news?’
‘The past is knocking at my door. I have no idea what fate has in store for me.’
Notes
1. Phalanx: see The Saint-Florentin Murders, Chapter VIII.
2. Flee, star…: a chorus from Rameau’s opera-ballet Les Indes Galantes.
3. Huascar, etc.: characters from Les Indes Galantes.
4. Magistrato Camerale: president of the Chamber of Finances in Lombardy under Austrian rule.
5. See The Châtelet Apprentice.
6. This incident is based on real events that took place near Auxonne, Burgundy, in 1775.
7. See The Nicolas Le Floch Affair.
IV
DISTURBANCES
I have just read Monsieur Turgot’s masterpiece.
It seems to me that here is a new heaven and a new earth!
VOLTAIRE
His eyes staring into the distance, Nicolas sighed.
‘It’s a letter from my sister Isabelle de Ranreuil. You can imagine my emotion … I’m going upstairs to change. Then I’ll go and see Monsieur Lenoir and tomorrow I’ll leave early for Versailles. Pierre, I’d like you to accompany me to Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin. Find us a carriage.’
‘Will you dine with us?’ asked Monsieur de Noblecourt. ‘And you too, Bourdeau? Monsieur de La Borde is already invited. You’ll be among friends. It’ll do you good. The servants have gone to Saint-Eustache for vespers, to pray for … But don’t worry, everything will be ready in time – you know Catherine!’
‘It would be ungracious of me to refuse.’
By the time he reached his room, he felt nauseous and short of breath. He sat down on his bed, opened Isabelle’s letter and began reading.
Ranreuil, 3 April 1775
My dear brother,
It pleases me that for the first time I can give you that name, which unites us for ever. By the time you receive this letter, I will have taken the veil. It is with a clear head that I have made the decision to withdraw to the royal abbey of Fontevrault. The great age of our house and the inheritance of my aunt Madame de Guenouel allow me this final proud impulse. The mother superior, who was born a Pardailhan d’Antin, is a cousin of this aunt. I shall lay a large dowry at the feet of the divine bridegroom.
That is why I wish our father’s inheritance to revert to you entirely. Friends I still have at Court inform me that you are known there as ‘young Ranreuil’. I am not unaware that you once refused the King’s suggestion that you take the title which was yours by right and which your services have made ever more illustrious. You will accept it from your sister, thus offering your son the chance of a future which will open great positions to him. You will not thereby lose your office as commissioner. Have no compunction about being the Marquis de Ranreuil. Fulfil the wishes of our father who would have desired you to be so had he lived. Alas! Nothing, of course, obliges you to make such a legitimate act public knowledge. As for our house, it is yours. Our steward, Guillard, will henceforth be accountable to you. Accept all this simply, coming as it does from someone who is descending alive into the tomb, as once you received our father’s ring and sword.
Whatever you decide, I will respect your feelings, unless you refuse what I am humbly offering. You have no more loyal friend than I. Fifteen years ago you obliged me to be so. I will say it to you now more freely than I could then, knowing that my words will seem to you to be uttered in better faith now and that you will have no reason to doubt that, with all my soul, I remain, even at the foot of the altar, your loyal and loving sister.
Isabelle Marie Sophie Angélique de Ranreuil
In religion, Sister Agnès de la Miséricorde
This letter, which took him back so abruptly to his younger days, moved him more than he could have imagined. It touched him to the quick, at the very moment when he was most vulnerable. It was as if his moral foundation had been swept away from beneath his feet. In a flash, he imagined that lovely face, and the scissors cutting into her hair, and an existence that henceforth would be one of renunciation and ashes. He tried to get a grip on himself. He could not help smiling at the thought that Isabelle was still writing in the bombastic style inspired in her by the works of the last century. Sincere as her words might be, they still had a touch of the theatrical. As for the content, he was troubled by much graver concerns at the moment and had no desire to add to them. He opened Aimée d’Arranet’s letter, certain that he would find comfort in it.
Versailles, 26 April 1775
Monsieur,
Are you mocking me? My suspicions should have been aroused when you assured me of your fidelity. Almost two months have passed since your departure. What is keeping you in Vienna? What is there to keep me in Versailles?
Aimée d’Arranet
At the very moment when the past had come flooding back, must his present abandon him? Firs
t his son and now his mistress. Anger rose in him: why hadn’t the Chevalier de Lastire given her his letter? Wasn’t it more than a month since he had left them to return to France?
He went back downstairs, his arms laden with the gifts he had chosen in Vienna. Noblecourt went into ecstasies over the beauty of the copy of Suetonius. Bourdeau turned first white, then red, on receiving the brandy and the snuffbox. Marie and Catherine, who had just returned from Saint-Eustache, both burst into tears, not only at the beauty of the lace handkerchiefs, but also at the thought of Louis and his father’s anxiety. Last but not least, old Poitevin immediately put on his fur hat and ran to light the stove.
Bourdeau went to find a cab, and they set off. In a few sentences, Nicolas summarised for his friend the gist of what he should know about the Austrian expedition, underlining the most significant and disturbing aspects. This brief conversation did not stop the commissioner from noting that here and there crowds had gathered outside bakeries. All the way to Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, he felt happy to be plunging back into that close and uncomplicated complicity. It did him the world of good. As soon as they arrived at police headquarters, the old major-domo hastened to inform Monsieur Lenoir, who immediately summoned them, appearing himself in the doorway of his office to greet them. The initial lack of understanding between Lenoir and Nicolas had long since faded. The Lieutenant General’s good-natured face lit up with a smile when he saw the commissioner and his worthy associate.
‘Marquis, I give thanks to the Empress of Austria for at last restoring Commissioner Le Floch to us!’
‘I am more pleased than I can say, Monseigneur, to find you again in such rude health.’
‘My illness has indeed almost gone. Just a few moments of tiredness, which the concerns of my office soon put paid to. Now, then, let’s take things one at a time. What of your mission?’
‘The official part went very well. I saw the Emperor unwittingly, saw the Empress all too wittingly, and both saw and heard Prince von Kaunitz.’
‘Did all go well with Monsieur de Breteuil? He’s not always the easiest person to get on with.’
‘We got on perfectly! The King’s ambassador may have his faults, but everything he does is in the service of His Majesty. We were in complete agreement on the most important things.’
‘I’m delighted to hear it; he’s not a man to be ignored at a time when good and faithful servants of the King are becoming rare specimens. What of the more confidential part of your mission?’
‘It yielded the results of which the Chevalier de Lastire must have informed you. Georgel—’
‘Lastire? What do you mean? He hasn’t shown his face here at all. I thought he’d just come back with you.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Nicolas, surprised. ‘He left Vienna nearly a month ago with my report. We were detained at the request of the Empress, who wished to entrust me with a letter and a medallion for the Queen. What could have happened to him? Something must have prevented him … That’s very worrying, especially after what happened to me.’
He summarised everything to Lenoir, especially what they had discovered about Georgel.
‘You should be aware,’ he said in conclusion, ‘that without Lastire’s boldness and courage, I would not be alive now.’
‘If Lastire has been intercepted, which seems quite likely, then our ambassador’s dispatches, alas, are in the hands of the cabinet in Vienna.’
‘Fortunately not,’ said Nicolas, tapping his forehead. ‘They’re all in here.’
Once again, he explained his system. This discovery delighted Lenoir, convincing him that a major part of the mission had been successful. Nicolas took advantage of this good mood to inform the Lieutenant General of what he had been able to observe on the return journey: the gatherings, the unrest among the peasants and the recurring incidents in the towns and villages they had passed, particularly on the outskirts of Paris.
Lenoir’s face clouded over. ‘What you’ve just told me confirms what I’ve been hearing on all sides. The people have been restless ever since Turgot published his edicts on the free trade in grain. There’s great anxiety at the fact that the police have been told not to interfere in the movement of these essential supplies. The harvest of 1774 was extremely disappointing, this year’s is highly dubious. The state of the roads makes transportation nigh impossible. How are we to bridge this gap? Feelings are running high. Since 15 April, believing that a four-pound loaf would now be sold at thirteen sols, people have been surrounding the bakeries.’
‘They still are, as I witnessed coming here.’
‘Even on a Sunday! There are rumours flying that the people are facing starvation and that the government is speculating on wheat to pay off the late King’s debts! The same old mischief, intended to make people believe in a famine pact. Four days ago, on 26 April, the price of bread went up again. At the central market, an angry crowd formed around a steward from a noble house who had paid seventytwo livres1 for a litre of new peas. They threw his litre in his face and screamed that if his ass of a master could afford to spend three louis on peas, there was no reason he couldn’t give the people bread. The matter was immediately reported to me.’
‘I fear,’ observed Nicolas, ‘that this movement is growing ever larger and angrier.’
‘You’re quite right. At markets in the provinces, in Versailles and in Paris, an unusually large number of peasants, or people claiming to be peasants, have been seen, some coming from fifteen to twenty leagues away. These people, who are unknown to the local inhabitants, are spreading anxiety, saying things likely to inflame the less enlightened minds. What are we to think? There is every indication that the two movements seem to be merging. One spontaneous, born out of the genuine concerns of the populace, and the other more concerted, organised by persons unknown. I think we are going to need you. But first, go straight to Versailles. The King, Vergennes and Sartine are all waiting for you, as is the Queen.’
‘That was my intention, Monseigneur, but I wanted to report to you first.’
Lenoir went up to Nicolas and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I’m very touched. Get your orders from the Court, by all means, but I’ve already told the relevant circles that I intend to give you complete authority in this business. There are obscure aspects to it which threaten the safety of the King. We are entering difficult territory. Only a man of your experience will be able to tell false from true and suggest the right measures to take. I repeat that my trust in you is absolute. You can rest assured, too, that I am doing all I can in the private matter that most concerns you, and will leave no stone unturned nor hesitate to appeal to the highest authorities.’
‘Monseigneur, I am doubly your servant. Alas, I fear this disappearance may have some connection with what happened in Vienna.’
‘My God!’ said Lenoir. ‘Let’s avoid contemplating the worst.’
‘For the moment,’ said Bourdeau, ‘all we can do is wait for any information that may indicate the path to follow.’
Back in Rue Montmartre, Nicolas felt reassured by Monsieur Lenoir’s openness and support. He found in this benevolent man a combination of qualities, including common sense, which made him, different as he was, a worthy successor to Monsieur de Sartine, and he vowed to be as loyal to the one as he had been to the other. It was seven o’clock by the time they got back to the Noblecourt house. An angry-looking crowd had gathered near Passage de la Reine de Hongrie. They were conversing in low voices and staring at the bakery on the ground floor of the building.
The servants’ pantry, once more a busy hive, was echoing to Catherine’s commentary. She immediately chased them out, muttering that she did not want men under her feet when she had a dinner to prepare and that, when she was a canteen-keeper for the King’s armies, she would never have allowed a soldier near her cooking pot. She made no attempt, any more than did Marion, to conceal her pleasure at seeing Nicolas again. On the first floor, Monsieur de Noblecourt was chatting calmly with Monsieur de La Borde. Ni
colas was moved and delighted to see his old friend, the former First Groom of the King’s Bedchamber, now a farmer general. He enquired about the health of La Borde’s wife. She was gradually recovering from an attack of moral consumption that had somewhat overshadowed their early days as a married couple. Marion appeared, to announce that it was time to move to the library where the table had been laid as usual. Nicolas noticed that Monsieur de Noblecourt was watching him out of the corner of his eye. He vowed to put on a good show and not cast a pall over a reunion among friends which, he suspected, was precisely intended to distract him from his anxieties. He was immediately questioned about Vienna and his journey. He replied with that flair for description so much admired by the late King, humorously cataloguing all the incidents he could possibly tell.
‘Now it’s my turn,’ he said, ‘to ask about what’s been happening at Court and in the city in my absence.’
‘Oh!’ cried La Borde. ‘Lekain, our great actor, fell seriously ill.’
‘Yes,’ said Bourdeau, ‘of a disease now known as “cauchois”, since he caught it off a girl from the Pays de Caux!’
‘On 23 February, your friend Caron gave his Barber of Seville. The play was authorised at last, but disappointed the public. Only a week later, though, this semi-failure was transformed into a true triumph, a—’
Noblecourt interrupted La Borde. ‘And the leaders of the applause worked a miracle! You just have to know how to organise the audience!’
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