The Baker's Blood

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  ‘A tavern called the Grand Hiver!’ cried Nicolas in surprise. ‘I don’t know anywhere of that name.’

  ‘He takes after his grandfather and father,’ said Noblecourt to Cyrus, who was wagging his tail under the table.

  ‘And what do those three points or dots you’ve drawn above it mean?’

  Nicolas had somewhat forgotten this detail. ‘I think they refer to a watchword I heard in the crowd of rioters on the road from Versailles to Paris.’ He thought for a moment. ‘No, in fact, it was something reported to me … by Bourdeau, I think. Something a rider said to the crowd, at Vaugirard. I’m not sure yet what all this means. A watchword there, but in this case? Perhaps a signature, a means of recognising or authenticating the message. I really have no idea.’

  ‘Could it be,’ asked Noblecourt, ‘that these clues were put there specially for you? Or for someone else, whose identity we don’t know?’

  ‘Both hypotheses seem equally uncertain.’

  ‘Louis,’ said Noblecourt, much to Nicolas’s surprise, ‘please leave us, I need to speak to your father.’

  After Louis had left the room, Noblecourt paused for a moment, apparently meditating, then took a deep breath and looked Nicolas in the eyes.

  ‘It falls to me to talk to you about Louis’s future. Oh, I know I have no right to—’

  Nicolas raised his hand in protest.

  ‘No, none at all,’ Noblecourt continued, ‘except the privilege of age and friendship. Last night I spoke for a long time to Louis. Whatever the circles he was close to in his childhood, it has to be acknowledged that his mother and his own nature have protected him from the worst. Vice has slid off him like water off a duck’s back. Good blood cannot lie, and here he is, aspiring to serve the King as a soldier. You suspected that he might, so I’m not teaching you anything. I assume such a wish does not upset you?’

  ‘You assume correctly.’

  ‘We still have to determine how to grant it in the best possible conditions. Late last night, I had an unexpected visit from the Maréchal de Richelieu. You know how he loves to appear unannounced like that. It wasn’t me he had come to see. He had received a letter from your sister Isabelle …’

  ‘My sister!’ said Nicolas in astonishment.

  ‘Yes, Sister Agnès de la Miséricorde, a nun at Fontevrault. Richelieu was fond of your father the marquis, but then of course he knows everybody! I admire Mademoiselle de Ranreuil’s savoir-faire. In her missive she informs the maréchal that she has given up her title and that Nicolas, known as Le Floch, is now the Marquis de Ranreuil and head of the house. She seeks for her nephew Louis a place among the pages in the Grand Stable, who, as you know, are under the authority of the First Gentleman of the Bedchamber and the Grand Equerry. It was as First Gentleman that Richelieu came to question me. You can imagine what I told him.’

  ‘But my birth and my son’s birth—’

  ‘A plague on your modesty! I know of course that the school for pages is reserved for those of the highest birth, who come from families ennobled before 1550. But fortunately your sister thinks of everything. She had enclosed with her letter a long statement filled with extracts from the charter of the Ranreuils. Your ancestor Arnaud, it appears, accompanied the constable Du Guesclin on his expedition against Peter the Cruel, King of Aragon. Last but not least – and I have been hesitating as to whether to mention this – it seems that Richelieu is in possession of some mysterious information about your mother, who also, it seems, came from an ancient line!’

  A strange emotion seized hold of Nicolas, and yet the face that imposed itself was that of Canon Le Floch. The man who had loved, protected, fed and cared for him. Sensing his disquiet, Noblecourt hastened to continue.

  ‘The maréchal, out of favour and fearing that he would be repulsed, was able, thanks to his old accomplice Maurepas, to approach the King, who, although reluctant at first, agreed to everything when your name was brought up and he found out that you were unaware of these moves. I will only add that the services the pages perform for the King and the aristocracy give them a great boost for their future careers.’

  ‘It’s said, though, that, under Monsieur le Grand and Monsieur le Premier, their education is somewhat neglected in favour of horsemanship, the use of arms and the study of social usage.’ ‘It will be up to us to remedy that. I have already started, as you know.’

  ‘And you give me even more reason to be grateful to you, if that were possible.’

  ‘Let’s talk no more about it! As for the fees, they will be much easier for you to bear than those of the school at Juilly. True, it will be up to you to provide the boy with clothes and equipment. The pages of the Grand Stable not only attend the King when he returns from the hunt and lead him to the chapel, but hold his stirrups straight when he mounts his horse. They precede the princesses or carry the tails of their dresses and walk beside their carriages. During the hunt, as you have seen many times, they are present all the way through, changing and loading the rifles, collecting the game killed and keeping count of it. They are used as errand boys and, in times of war, they assist the King’s aides-de-camp. Last but not least, any page leaving after three or four years has the right and privilege to choose a second lieutenancy in a corps of the army.’

  ‘Do you think that Louis will submit to the discipline this work demands? The pages’ noviciate is harsh and newcomers are ruled with a rod of iron by the older boys. Total obedience is the first of the qualities required.’

  ‘Any choice involves an element of risk. But don’t worry, Richelieu assures me that things are not as severe as they used to be and that no page has ever joined a regiment without being well liked by everyone. And as everyone will find out very quickly that the maréchal has his eye on the boy, whom in fact he intends to house in Versailles,1 nobody will dare to pick a quarrel with your son.’

  ‘But no preferential treatment, please!’

  ‘As for the clothes, it’s the King’s livery with a blue coat and crimson and white silk braid, then for riding a waistcoat and red breeches with gold braid, and at the hunt a small blue twill waistcoat and hide gaiters. Louis will look magnificent!’

  Noblecourt noticed a kind of anxiety on Nicolas’s face.

  ‘I know what’s troubling you. But look at yourself. Remember what trials and snubs you endured when you first arrived in Paris. The highly honourable prospect facing Louis is an infinitely easier and more favourable entrée than yours was. To be frank, he will either assert himself or fail. There is nothing to guarantee that his birth won’t be flung in his face, but, supported as he will be by a famous name, as well as being descended from a family devoted to the King’s service, the odds are in his favour. It will not be up to you, Nicolas; his own character will decide. Think about it and give me your answer. Richelieu is waiting. Talk to Louis once your inner court has reached a verdict!’

  Nicolas thanked Noblecourt and left Rue Montmartre on foot. His head was whirling, and he forced himself to empty his mind. The Paris he loved so much was bustling around him, offering a thousand distractions to the informed observer. But his anxieties had filled him with gloom, and he saw in this spectacle only what was sad and disturbing. There, outside Saint-Eustache, he pitied the unfortunate women with heavy baskets on their backs, their faces almost blood-red from their efforts, breathing heavily like a blacksmith’s bellows. Was it his grim mood? It seemed to him that he passed only filthy, half-naked creatures, debased by poverty and without any sense of who or what they were. There were porters labouring under enormous burdens, and for the first time he saw them differently, struck by their destitution. Their extremities were so distended that all the blood moved into the upper parts of their bodies, causing great bulging varicose veins. The constant forward thrust of the body often caused a twisting of the vertebra and left many of them hunchbacked. The city had returned to normal, its peace secured by the many mounted patrols. Sentries were keeping guard outside the bakeries.

  At police h
eadquarters, the old major-domo seemed so overcome with grief that Nicolas could get nothing from him. He discovered Monsieur Lenoir in shirt and breeches, filling trunks with files amid a cloud of dust. He gave a weak smile when he saw Nicolas.

  ‘It’s so very much like you to come and pay your respects to a poor wretch in disgrace. Oh, but I see from your expression that you are not aware of the latest news. This morning, I received a package from Monsieur de La Vrillière containing two letters, one from the King, the other from the comptroller general, both informing me of my dismissal!’

  ‘Your dismissal, Monseigneur?’

  ‘My immediate dismissal! Apparently, because of its lack of action, the police contributed to what happened. I was badly served … We were not up to the demands of the situation … Turgot doesn’t know everything.’

  Was it that the police had acted badly, Nicolas wondered, or that Lenoir had been attacked at Court?

  ‘The King’s letter was sufficiently curt to remove any remaining illusion. It has left me very disappointed.’

  He took from his cuff a small piece of paper, which he began to read in a distressed tone.

  ‘Monsieur Lenoir, as your way of thinking does not accord with the stand I have chosen, I ask you to send me your resignation … That’s how it is.2 Two armies are to be created, one inside Paris, under the command of the Maréchal de Biron, and the other outside, under the Marquis de Poyanne. The troops now have orders to open fire … The provost’s court will deal without delay with those who have been arrested. But I still say that there were few popular uprisings in Paris while the old ordinances were observed.’

  He had collapsed into an armchair.

  ‘Well, fate certainly teaches us some valuable lessons. When the King died, you were removed from the police force through my unjust prejudice against you. That was my fault then and a source of remorse to me now.’

  ‘Monseigneur, please believe me, I—’

  ‘No, no, it must be admitted, however lenient you are. It does you honour and gives me some comfort. You see me confounded. How is one to harden oneself against such reversals of fortune? The soul may be swayed, but it has to believe that nothing is ever written in stone. In the meantime, take the thing as a kind of relief, the harness at last thrown off. Blessed be he who dismisses you and gives you back to yourself, your family, your friends, among whom I count you …’

  ‘I did not dare say so, Monseigneur.’

  ‘Loyalty like yours is rare these days. Defeat allows us to see such things more clearly. Man is a machine with many motives: self-interest, vanity and a thousand other things. Divine and human philosophies may create some harmony between them. Misfortune disturbs this harmony and submerges our whole being, insulting its misery. Oh, one should remain inured to all that.’

  A string of increasingly incoherent remarks followed, then he raised his head with a kind of defiance.

  ‘I have nothing with which to reproach myself, and I’m not even exiled. Besides, being sent to some obscure spot in the country is nothing when you carry the truth in your saddlebags. In this case, I didn’t receive any instructions. The important thing was to avoid an explosion and not fire on the people. I’ve always thought that with absolute moderation, a concern for leniency, a well-reasoned impassivity, the anger of the people faded by itself. The trick is to leave them with just that degree of anger and effrontery that satisfies their nature without their being led into excesses detrimental to authority. I observe that, with a few exceptions who, I fear, will be used as an example for the others, most of those who were arrested last night were from a higher stratum of society. Well-dressed men of all ages, all curled and powdered, who didn’t seem to show the effects of poverty. Who, then, had urged them to this adventure?’

  ‘You think that—’

  ‘I fear you have not been sufficiently listened to, and that there is some plot behind these events. My departure is a move in a billiard game: I’m an unimportant ball, but they’ve touched me in order to hit Sartine, who has never concealed his reservations concerning the free trade in grain. They’re going in for the kill now, you’ll see. Turgot and his fellow physiocrats will try to move forward and overtake their opponents. I don’t claim that reform is impossible, only that it’s being imposed in the worst way imaginable. They can’t see the wood for the trees. But who cares? The comptroller will serve his term and then we will reappear. The people will soon scorn him. He and his small band of dogmatists think they are winning, but it won’t last.’

  ‘Monseigneur, I feel obliged to give you an account of my investigation. You will immediately grasp the interest of it. At the same time, I would like to take advantage of your instruction and counsel.’

  ‘You can count on my counsel. As for instruction, you will have to get that from Albert, my appointed successor.’

  ‘Albert?’

  ‘Yes, another of these extreme economists! Just think, the intendant to the trade having under his control the department dealing with grain! It’s a blunder of major proportions. How can one appoint to the police, the day after a riot against the monopoly in grain and the high price of bread, the official responsible for the preservation and circulation of these essential commodities? A tiresome, cantankerous individual, to boot! His study of canon law has made him as pernickety as he is arrogant. In this post, a delicate one, as I know only too well, you will have to serve a tactless, slow, heavy and bad-tempered professor. Your position at Court should protect you from his snubs, but you’ll still have to deal with his specious quibbling and splitting of hairs! Now then, where are you with your case?’

  Nicolas launched into a detailed account of the ups and downs of his investigation. He tried to show how his enquiries into the presumed murder in Rue Montmartre kept coming up against the question of the trade in grain. Although nothing had yet been firmly established, everything pointed to the likelihood that the baker’s death was somehow connected to the mysterious meeting held at La Gourdan’s brothel, in which the victim had taken part. Apart from that, Mourut’s immediate circle was extremely suspicious and there was nothing to rule out the possibility that the guilty party was to be found there.

  His head sunk in his collar, Lenoir seemed to have dropped off to sleep, but his right hand, drumming on the surface of the desk, revealed that he was thinking hard. He was about to speak, changed his mind, then finally motioned Nicolas to come closer. He began speaking in a low voice.

  ‘I’m sure you recall last year’s scandalous royal almanac. For the first time, it mentioned a man named Mirlavaud,3 the King’s treasurer for grain.’

  ‘That curious reference persuaded the most credulous that there was a famine pact from which the late King profited in order to meet the expenses of Madame du Barry.’

  ‘Not only Madame du Barry, but many others, it was said. There were even songs written about it. A heinous slander, which made it all the more credible. The rumour started in 1765 when Laverdy, who was then the comptroller general, signed a contract with a rich miller named Malisset. The plan was simple: a certain amount of grain was to be set aside to balance the market and avoid shortages. When the price of grain went above a certain level, the State would sell and replenish the stocks, and Malisset would receive a two per cent commission. It was at this point that a fanatic named Le Prévôt de Beaumont, who was the secretary to the Clergy of France, got the idea into his head that the King was involved in a scheme to control the market. He was preparing to spread so much poison about the King’s faithful servants, especially Choiseul, Sartine and myself, that in November 1768, he was sent to the Bastille. He’s in solitary confinement, despite which he still manages to get letters passed to the outside world.’

  ‘What?’ cried Nicolas, horrified. ‘Is he still in the Bastille after seven years, without ever being brought to trial?’

  ‘He’s still as mad as ever, and his madness is a danger to the State. He isn’t in the Bastille any longer, though: he’s been moved to Vincennes, wher
e he continues to proclaim his innocence. Not a month passes without my receiving one of his petitions. I want to help you: it will be, in a way, my legacy to you, the last thing I can do for you while I still have some authority left and Monsieur Albert has not yet taken over.’

  The end of this sentence was uttered through pursed lips and in a tone of inexpressible contempt. Lenoir seized a large sheet of paper, a quill which he dipped in an inkpot held by a red, chubby-cheeked cupid, and began writing, stopping briefly from time to time to find the exact word or phrase. He dried the ink with a sprinkling of powder, heated the wax, let a thick drop fall on the paper and pressed it angrily with his seal.

  ‘There, nobody will stand in your way now. I will read it to you. It is addressed to Monsieur de Rougemont, governor of the royal château of Vincennes.

  ‘Monsieur,

  Please place yourself at the disposal of my special investigator and give him immediate access to the prisoner of State whom you know. He is authorised to speak to this prisoner, without any witnesses, for as long as he likes. Remember that he is acting in His Majesty’s service. Please countersign this note and give it back to my envoy.

  Paris police headquarters

  4 May 1775

  Lenoir

  ‘I am not just advising you to keep this secret, I am demanding it. Rougemont won’t say anything if he doesn’t know what it’s all about. As for you, I repeat, absolute discretion, and I except nobody from that prohibition. This is a matter between you and me, and divulging it, as I’m sure you will understand, would threaten more than our positions, in so far as we still have them.’

  ‘All the same, Monseigneur, aren’t you afraid that a prisoner who appears to maintain communication with the outside world might be inclined to let this be known?’

  ‘I trust blindly to your skill to ensure that the man will find it more disadvantageous to talk than to keep silent. He just has to be persuaded that his interests lie in keeping absolutely quiet about your conversation.’