The Baker's Blood

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  Nicolas let the mare carry him and began meditating. Once again, he was convinced, he was confronting crime and death. He made an effort not to link these dark thoughts to the fate of his son. His powerlessness in such a personal situation drove him to despair. He had to control his over-active imagination in order to avoid exaggerated and baleful speculation. That he should have been affected in what he held dearest seemed like an undeserved punishment. Was his passion for Aimée d’Arranet the cause, he wondered. Had his captive heart overtaken his mind and his reason? He recalled the austere but fatherly figure of Canon Le Floch, who had often pointed out that even God’s most perfect creatures were neither inexhaustible nor infinite and could only be possessed occasionally and fleetingly. His sister Isabelle had chosen eternal love, which alone was inexhaustible. He wondered what sin, what remorse she was hoping to expiate by taking the veil.

  He had not yet thought about her request. He reflected on what marked him out from others. He knew he had had the soul of a commoner in his early years. What a poor little fellow he had been when, as a notary’s clerk, he had pounded the streets of Rennes! Yet he had not at the time considered himself in any way inferior to the nobleman he had been forced to become. Everyone had the same beginning and would meet the same end. When they breathed their last, all men were equal, whether noblemen or commoners. He knew whereof he spoke. He had been present at the last moments of a king,1 and it had been an edifying experience. The priest praying at the bedside of Louis XV had not called him Majesty but Anima Christiana, as he would have done with the humblest of the King’s subjects. At this memory, a pious shudder went through him.

  Even though he was indifferent to the matter, he would accede to Isabelle’s wishes. He would do so not for the title, which everyone gave him anyway without knowing why, but the better to equip his son to face a difficult and dangerous world, and to give him the chance to take his place in the long line from which, whatever the circumstances, he was descended and of which he was at present the last representative. Nicolas was relieved to have settled the question.

  Would Louis survive at Court? He himself had somehow done so all these years. He had never accepted the idea of being a clock that had to be constantly rewound2 at the whim of those who set the tone, ringing when they wanted him to, following like a minute hand the movements of an absolute will turning endlessly round and round. To do so, he would have had to concern himself with trivial matters, be lacking in charity, lavish with promises and compliments, and practised in dissimulation. He would have had to appear uninvolved and ignorant while surreptitiously undermining those who needed to be undermined. In other words, he would have had to cease living his own life and only do what others demanded. Instead of which, his only faith and pride was to serve his King, in the best tradition of the Ranreuils, as he had been taught it – all too long ago, alas – by his father the marquis.

  Compared with the city, the road to Versailles seemed deserted. As he passed through the Fausses Reposes woods, he felt a pang in his heart. It was here that he had met Aimée for the first time and clasped her to him … As his horse took him at a jog down the great drive lined with lime trees, where he had almost lost his life a few months earlier, towards the d’Arranet mansion, his impatience increased. His separation from his mistress, although relatively short, had made him realise how deeply attached to her he was. He dismounted, tied the horse to a ring in the wall, and climbed the front steps, surprised not to be greeted as he usually was by a bustling crowd of servants. He knocked at the door. After a few moments, it opened, and the scarred but friendly face of Tribord, the major-domo, appeared and lit up with joy and surprise. Tribord was not wearing his livery and his wigless head was covered in a woollen cap.

  ‘Good Lord, Monsieur Nicolas! It’s been a long time!’

  ‘Are your masters at home?’ asked Nicolas, increasingly worried by this welcome.

  ‘No! I’m the only one on board. Mademoiselle Aimée has put in at her cousins’ house in Saumur and the admiral is tacking from port to port. At the moment, I think he’s in Cherbourg.’ He noticed the disappointment his words aroused. ‘He told me to do you the honours of the wardroom and the stores if you were here in his absence.’

  ‘It was indeed my intention to spend the night here. I am planning to attend His Majesty’s hunt. Right now, I have to go to the palace. It’s likely I will be back quite late.’

  ‘Will you have dined?’

  ‘Yes, at Versailles. Please don’t put yourself out for me. I have one question, though. I wrote Mademoiselle d’Arranet a letter from Vienna. Do you know if she received it?’

  ‘It certainly arrived. A kind of Turk in a turban brought it yesterday. Riding a fine, lively steed. Gave me the letter and asked me to get it to Mademoiselle as quickly as possible. Actually, I kept it. The time it’d take me to send it to Anjou, she’ll probably be back here.’

  ‘How can you be sure it was from me?’

  ‘I recognised the seal with your coat of arms, Monsieur. My eyes may be covered in scars but they’re still sharp enough to tell a corvette from a frigate on the horizon!’

  Nicolas handed him a few louis, which he pocketed with a satisfied nod.

  ‘It’s always an honour to serve Monsieur.’

  ‘I’ll see you this evening, then.’

  When he arrived at the palace, he entrusted his mount to the care of a groom. It energetically demonstrated its displeasure at seeing its rider walk away. The groom, whom Nicolas had known for a long time, told him that, even in Versailles, there was a great deal of excitement among the common people and that an incident could occur at any moment, especially at the following day’s market. Nicolas proceeded to the building housing the Department of Foreign Affairs to report on his mission to Monsieur de Vergennes. He was immediately admitted. The minister continued to write as he listened to Nicolas, showing his interest with quick glances and the odd muttered phrase. The name Georgel seemed to upset him and he began hitting the surface of his desk with the flat of his hand.

  ‘The insolent fellow! Just imagine, he had the audacity to ask to see me. I didn’t receive him, of course. We shan’t be using his services any longer, given that he refuses to recognise our authority, in other words the King’s authority, as legitimate. Nevertheless–’ he looked at Nicolas with a touch of amusement in his eyes – ‘to go from that to making him a plotter, a conspirator, and seeing in his attitude, which may have other causes, something darkly suspicious, suggestive of evil intrigues, well, that’s a step I’d rather not take. Your imagination is running away with you. The papers that were seized are merely the remains of a casual correspondence exchanged by some wits who think they’re important, even though they have no power. As for the attempt on your life, from which you were so fortunately saved by the Chevalier de Lastire, I think we can safely lay that at the door of the Austrian authorities.’

  Monsieur de Vergennes was much more interested in Nicolas’s account of his audience with Maria Theresa. Nicolas reported his impressions with that gift for narration that always delighted his listeners. He combined his own memories with Breteuil’s judgements and other observations gleaned during his stay in Vienna.

  ‘The Empress clearly deserves the good reputation she enjoys throughout Europe. Nobody is more skilful at winning hearts, or puts such effort into it. She knows how important it is, for it is thanks to that skill that she has earned the love of her subjects, so openly expressed in the trials she has been through.’

  ‘Especially when the King of Prussia made life difficult for her. She got herself out of that situation very shrewdly.’

  ‘Yes. She’s so industrious, she even works and reads reports as she takes her stroll. Every day, she grants three or four hours’ audience, and admits everyone without exception. She deals with all kinds of matters, gives alms personally, hears complaints, claims, projects … and spies. She asks questions, answers them, gives advice, and arbitrates in disputes. Most matters have been settl
ed by the time the audience is over. I would add, however, to be absolutely honest, that a love of gossip somewhat obscures her finer qualities, and that her determination to bind women to their husbands often produces the opposite effect, since at the mere suggestion that a woman is disposed to flirtatiousness, she gives the husband advice that disrupts more marriages than it saves.’

  ‘And what of her relations with her son?’

  ‘Outwardly good, but she jealously guards her authority. When her husband died, she let it be known that she was planning to retire and leave her son to rule in her place. But her natural taste for being in command soon gained the upper hand and she abandoned a project conceived in the early stages of her grief. She claims to set great store by the alliance with France and sees her daughter’s marriage, with which she is extremely pleased, as a new means of ensuring it will last.’

  ‘Excellent! But what I’m most concerned about is our ambassador’s secret dispatches. Did you manage to get them out? What method did you use to do so?’

  When Nicolas revealed his system, the minister could hardly believe it. He rose and rang a bell. Soon afterwards, a clerk appeared, cut a quill and began writing at top speed to Nicolas’s monotone dictation. The whole recital took three-quarters of an hour.

  ‘… The public accuse the Emperor of having been too hasty in depriving the landowners of the surplus of the taxes they demand from the people, and everyone is agreed that the Empress would like to leave things on the old footing of servitude towards the feudal lords in order to close the public’s eyes to the burden of their own servitude to the authority of the monarchy, and even more so perhaps out of a feeling that one should proceed more slowly with innovations, even when they are prompted by a spirit of humanity and justice. Be that as it may, Monsieur, it would be hard to ignore the fact that the least one can expect from the current situation in Bohemia is a strong wave of emigration in favour of the King of Prussia. A constant state of war between the peasants and their masters could make this emigration an almost daily occurrence, which would harm Bohemia and be of great advantage to Prussian Silesia. That’s it, Monseigneur.’

  ‘Marquis,’ said Vergennes, delighted, ‘I would never have imagined … Your system should be widely adopted.’

  He quickly seized the transcriptions, went back to his armchair and began studying them without further ado. The audience was over, and Nicolas withdrew.

  This second audience left him with a taste of ashes in his mouth. The only thing the minister had taken from his report was what most affected the interests of his own department. But then he rebuked himself. Why should he feel disappointed when he knew, from having observed them over the years, that men in government might be plagued with a thousand concerns, but that the greatest was the concern with self-preservation? Endlessly moving from one matter to another without ever having the chance to go deeply into any of them, they must surely miss the point quite often. Doubtless Vergennes had reacted with all the ignorance of a man who, because of his diplomatic functions, had been too long away from the Court and the city. To such a man, it must be clear that Commissioner Le Floch, however great his reputation, should simply obey orders and not start to think about matters that did not concern him. His judgement, and his ability to disentangle the mysteries of domestic crime, in no way suited him to deal with matters of vital interest to the kingdom. And it was true that the outrageousness of the ideas put forward by those in power were, for Nicolas, a constant source of doubt and scepticism.

  He went back to the palace and entered the ministers’ wing, where he was planning to see Monsieur de Sartine, who divided his time between the Department of the Navy in the morning and the palace in the afternoon. He was hoping that the former Lieutenant General of Police, who was more familiar than Vergennes with the ins and outs of political intrigue, would be duly impressed by the news he had brought back and more inclined to draw the necessary conclusions from them.

  He was about to have himself announced when the door of Sartine’s study half opened and an individual with his head covered in an incredible turban came out and held out his hand to him. It took him a moment to recognise the Chevalier de Lastire. It was not until they had exchanged warm greetings that Nicolas realised that the turban in question, which had astonished Tribord, was actually a bandage so skilfully constructed as to deceive a less than observant spectator.

  ‘I’m choked with remorse,’ said the Chevalier. ‘I didn’t keep my promise to deliver your post. It was only yesterday that I handed it over to the Central Post Office, apart from the letter to Mademoiselle d’Arranet, which I delivered on the way to Versailles.’

  ‘But what happened to you?’

  ‘It’s a long story, too long to tell in this vestibule. Suffice it to say that the Austrians were reluctant to let me go. May I invite you to dinner this evening? I don’t know the town well, so I leave the choice to you.’

  ‘The easiest thing would be to meet at the Hôtel de la Belle-Image at seven. I have often eaten there and the food is perfectly decent.’

  They parted company and Nicolas hastened into the room, where Sartine stood waiting for him.

  ‘It’s time you learnt to be more punctual, Monsieur! The whole of Versailles has been buzzing with rumours about you: that you decided to enter the service of the Empress, that she fell under your spell and can no longer do without you, that even the Emperor Joseph praised your gift for repartee during a certain macabre encounter.’

  Nicolas yielded to his interlocutor’s pleasure, while pretending to be surprised. Sartine loved to dazzle others with how much he knew, thanks to his unequalled intelligence service. He was clearly in a good mood, as this affectionate mockery proved.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re surprised?’

  ‘From you, Monseigneur, I always expect the unexpected! However, if it had been up to me, I would have returned a long time ago. Sadly, it was not up to me. Allow me, as proof of my gratitude and loyalty, to show you that the time I spent in Vienna wasn’t completely wasted.’

  He placed an oval-shaped cardboard box on the desk.

  In an instant, Sartine reverted to being the child who had once played with a spinning top in the streets of Barcelona. He had immediately recognised what Nicolas had brought him. He picked up the box, raised it to eye level as if it were an offering, put it down, seemed to breathe it in, then, timidly, almost regretfully, lifted the lid and removed the silk paper. He closed his eyes, an expression of pure bliss on his face. Nicolas noticed that he was trembling. Was the taste for collecting a kind of illness? Sartine finally obeyed an inner voice, even though part of him seemed to be resisting. His eyes filling with tears, he at last plunged his hands into the box. As he did so, he let out a sigh. He lifted out a flood of silvery curls that spread like the tentacles of some sea monster. Finally, he could hold out no longer, and plunged his face into it.

  ‘Nicolas,’ he managed to say, although his voice was faint, ‘I thank heaven that the Empress left you the time to seek out this treasure. What a gem! What a wonder! Look at it shimmer, see how it changes shape, how the reflections dissolve. Where did you find it?’

  ‘At a wigmaker’s in Vienna, recommended by Georgel in the days when he was the honest secretary to Prince Louis. It’s a unique model, the official headdress of the Magistrato Camerale of the city of Padua.’

  ‘Ah!’ cried Sartine. ‘I’ll bring it out to a melody by Albinoni.3 The Chevalier de Lastire has told me a great deal …’

  Nicolas did not react to this sudden change of register, being accustomed to it from Sartine.

  ‘I know you’ve seen Vergennes and that part of your mission had a fortunate outcome, even though it confirmed our failure. That’s what happens when priests get ideas above their station and think they’re all Alberonis.4 It produces a curious mixture of pretension and little domestic crises. Breteuil’s arrival was the fuse that sparked this particular crisis. Georgel thought he could make himself indispensable, manipulated as he
is by those more cunning than him. He forgot that we serve higher interests under which we must restrain our ambitions, share our successes and demonstrate an ability to distance ourselves and attain complete humility.’

  Nicolas smiled inwardly. However deep his devotion to Sartine, he remained clear-headed. On many occasions, he had experienced the man’s innocent tendency to take the credit for other people’s actions and build his own reputation on the successes of his subordinates.

  ‘That old secret network belongs to a bygone time. It only meant something when motivated by the late King … We mustn’t cling to the past, or indulge in impotent nostalgia. We must rebuild our system, overhaul it completely … That’s what I’m doing in my new state. I already mentioned something about it to you. Monsieur de Lastire, Admiral d’Arranet and you yourself are its elements – my chess pieces, so to speak.’

  ‘I agree, Monseigneur, that the Georgel affair can be written off, given that you now know the ins and outs of the situation, but this paper, which Lastire must have mentioned to you, is another matter and even more disturbing.’

  He handed over the reconstruction of the paper seized from the hearth in Georgel’s room in Vienna. Sartine gave it a somewhat cursory examination, then waved it in the air.