The Nicolas Le Floch affair

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  He wandered for a long time along the quais, in the darkness and the mud, accosted at times by whores with toothless mouths uttering obscenities and disgusting propositions. In one of them, excessively made up and with her nose missing, he thought he recognised old Émilie, a ghost from his past, who cut meat from the carcasses of horses in the knacker’s yard at Montfaucon to use in the soup she sold. The memory of the old woman cast him into a whirlpool of images and faces, amongst which the face of the young man in Rue de Verneuil kept coming back like an obsession. He stopped to drink some vile rotgut in a smoky tavern, and after many detours found himself in Rue Montmartre, outside Monsieur de Noblecourt’s house.

  The servants’ pantry was so untidy, it was clear the party was a lively one. He shook his head bitterly. This, then, was what his evening boiled down to: rebuffs, escapes, visits to kitchens. A tremendous din of words and laughter was coming from the first floor, dominated by the bass voice of Guillaume Semacgus. Reaching the half-open door of the library, where the table usually stood, he stopped and rested his burning forehead against the wood, the smell of polish filling his nostrils, and listened to what his friends were saying.

  ‘Faced with such a wonder,’ Semacgus was proclaiming, ‘it is necessary to proceed with the most consummate care. Making a long incision would let in too much air from outside and the contact with the air escaping might well upset a fragile equilibrium and cause the whole thing to collapse. I’m reminded of an operation I once performed in the middle of a storm off Ile Bourbon. It was a trepanation, and the meningeal part—’

  ‘Pah!’ said Monsieur de Noblecourt. ‘There speaks the navy surgeon! Whatever is he about to tell us? I fear it may detract from our pleasure. What do you think, La Borde?’

  ‘The King,’ replied La Borde, ‘excels at this kind of operation. He’s both decisive and gentle. It’s just like softening up a courtesan.’

  ‘Hush now, you rogue!’ said the former procurator, spluttering with merriment. ‘There are ladies present. At my age, I’m not as firm as I used to be and my hand trembles.’

  ‘Upon my word as a navy surgeon, there’s a statement intended to be moral, but which makes the image all the saucier!’

  ‘Nicolas would have opened it for you in no time at all,’ said Bourdeau. ‘You just have to make up your mind. To delay too long would spoil its excellence and soften the inner layers.’

  ‘Ah, yes, we do miss our Nicolas,’ sighed Monsieur de Noblecourt. ‘But he’s in love and, being so delicate in his feelings, too much is not yet enough for him.’

  ‘Our friend,’ grunted Semacgus, ‘was a livelier companion when he was seeing the young lady in Rue Saint-Honoré.’

  A silence followed this allusion to La Satin, the love of Nicolas’s youth, who was now in charge of the Dauphin Couronné. The ties of tenderness that had bound them had never entirely loosened. Nicolas was surprised that they were so familiar with his private life, and comforted to sense no sharpness in their words, but on the contrary a thoughtful and indulgent demonstration of their affection for him.

  ‘Come on, now,’ said La Borde. ‘While waiting for the return of the prodigal son who doesn’t know what he’s missing, let the magistracy do its work. Ladies, proceed!’

  Intrigued by the noises he heard, Nicolas peered through the crack in the door. The scene which presented itself to his gaze reminded him of those so much admired by art lovers at the annual Salons: a vision of an enclosed interior, whose harmony seemed to enhance an enjoyment of the pleasures of nature and society. This charming moment of intimacy was softly illumined by the light from slender candles. In this fine room, three walls of which were covered in light wooden bookcases filled with precious volumes, the four guests sat at an oval table adorned with a silver centrepiece depicting the Abduction of Omphale. Poitevin always polished this object with maniacal care and grumbled whenever a public holiday or special occasion provided an excuse to display it on the table, like the monstrance in a dazzling culinary liturgy. Two candlesticks, also silver, flanked this showpiece. La Borde, Semacgus and Bourdeau were watching as Monsieur de Noblecourt, wearing a large Regency wig and a black coat with jet buttons, prepared to initiate a curious ceremony.

  Poitevin stood motionless by the sideboard, holding in his hands a bottle just taken from a cooling pitcher, his eyes fixed on the monumental tower of golden pastry that had been placed before his master. Sitting on a bergère by the window, her chin resting on the pommel of her stick, Marion watched spellbound. Finally, like two Levites assisting the high priest, Awa, Semacgus’s African maid, and Catherine Gauss stood holding between them a thin cloth which they gradually lowered over Monsieur de Noblecourt’s head as he bent to find the best spot at which to cut into the golden splendour. The point of the sharp knife entered the crust, and the religious silence was broken by a kind of hiss, followed by a deep intake of breath from the magistrate and an almost voluptuous moan of pleasure. A cheer went up from the assembled company. Marion, doubtless the inspiration if not the architect of this success, sighed with satisfaction. Poitevin brought the bottle and began serving. The two cooks carefully folded the cloth and the guests applauded the perfection of the ceremonial gesture. With a nimbleness of which he would not have been thought capable, the high priest cut a small hole in the pastry and was making ready to plunge the fork into the well of wonders when Semacgus, who was watching, stopped him.

  ‘What were you planning to do? You wouldn’t by any chance be thinking of digging into the soft crust to extract the splendours it contains, would you, Monsieur? What about your gout? Do you intend, in the teeth of the Faculty, to extinguish the fire of a good humour that delights your friends, all for the vain pleasure of a greed which will cause your hands, knees and feet to suffer for days? Do you set at nought the pain and sorrow of Marion, author of this bastion of succulence on which you are about to launch an attack as if you were a young blade? It can only lead to a resurgence of your rheumatism, followed by an attack of melancholy for which, Monsieur, I shall hold you entirely responsible. Was it not agreed that we would grant you the unique privilege of breathing in the first odours coming from this dish, a privilege that leaves us weak with envy, having ourselves to be content only with the heaviness of the quintessential products?’

  ‘I would happily burden myself with that quintessence!’ With a contrite expression, Monsieur de Noblecourt teased the hidden treasures of the culinary fortress with the end of his fork. ‘This is really cruel,’ he muttered, ‘and reminds me of the old Parisian story about a seller of roast meats who, when he demands payment from a customer, is paid with the mere clinking of coins. Well, I just have to resign myself to this sacrifice, I suppose, but I do ask one favour: let me taste a tiny bit of this treasure. A little piece of truffle, for example. It’s only a mushroom after all.’

  ‘No, no!’ replied Semacgus. ‘Even a little piece of truffle can cause constipation! I suggest a piece of pastry, although even that’s too much.’

  ‘A curse on old age! It deprives us of everything. Even when the spirit is willing, the body is weak. Does that mean we have to renounce these delights, compared with which our neighbours’ recipes are mere cheap nothings more easily tolerated amongst the Mangageats3 than in a refined climate like ours where cleanliness, delicacy and good taste are, alas, the true object of our zeal?’

  ‘Philosophise as much as you like, Monsieur, you won’t win us round,’ murmured Semacgus.

  Monsieur de Noblecourt slowly savoured the spoils of war, as Catherine cut the smoking fortress into four.

  ‘Why four pieces?’ he asked in surprise. ‘Have you forgotten that I’m condemned not to have any of it?’

  ‘What?’ Marion said, equally surprised. ‘Have you forgotten the poor man’s portion? A fine Christian you are! Church warden of Saint-Eustache, to boot! And besides, what if I wanted to keep part of it for Nicolas? I’ll cover the plate and put it on a corner of the oven. That’ll keep it warm but won’t make it too dry. He
needs something to sustain him with all the running about he does!’

  ‘It’s too much for an ingrate who so often deserts our banquets,’ protested Semacgus.

  Monsieur de Noblecourt threw him a stern look. ‘Weren’t you young once? And have we done all we could to try and understand him and support him in a difficult situation?’

  To divert them, Marion spoke up, her face flushing. ‘If Monsieur so desires, I’ll tell you my recipe.’

  ‘Go on. The telling is often as succulent as the eating.’

  The old cook threw a sideways glance at Monsieur La Borde. ‘First, I must tell you that I got the recipe from Monsieur there.’

  The cries of the guest covered her voice. La Borde, feigning embarrassment, hid his face in his napkin. He assumed a pitiful tone. ‘Merely an attempt to relieve the austerity of my host’s life. And besides, this recipe is not even mine. Its author is His Royal Highness Louis-Auguste de Bourbon, Prince de Dombes, governor of Languedoc.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ said Bourdeau sardonically. ‘A grandson of the great Bourbon, no less!’

  ‘This promises a fine diversion!’ said Monsieur de Noblecourt. ‘After the aroma, the recitation of my cook’s fine deeds, then my guests feasting, and all I get is a wretched piece of pastry!’

  Marion smiled, allowed them their joke, then took advantage of a short silence to resume speaking, anxious to play a role in this celebration.

  ‘I make some very thin shortcrust pastry,’ she began, ‘and while I’m letting it cool, I prepare the stuffing: foie gras with a lot of grated bacon, parsley, chives, mushrooms and chopped truffles. It’s better to do this early, that way it’ll taste better. I open a few dozen green oysters from Cancale, as many as I need, whiten them in their own water and drain them in a sieve to keep the liquid. Then I put the stuffing in the bottom of the mould, with a layer of oysters over it, and so on. I cover the whole thing with a sheet of pastry brushed with egg to make it turn golden. When the oven’s quite hot, I put it in and let it bake as long as necessary. Meanwhile …’ – and here she pointed to a silver sauce dish – ‘I make a sauce with the water from the oysters, to which I add two pieces of bread with melted butter from Vanvres and finely chopped herbs. Then I season it with lemon juice. It’s a matter of taste, but I find it makes the stuffing nice and moist and gives the oysters their natural flavour back.’

  ‘And what’s the name of this marvel?’ asked Noblecourt, his eyes bulging with desire. ‘I didn’t know Marion could describe her culinary dexterity in such a poetic fashion.’

  ‘Ungrateful wretch!’ said Semacgus. ‘She’s been serving him for forty years and he’s only just discovered how good she is!’

  ‘Forty-three, to be precise,’ said Marion modestly. ‘But, to answer Monsieur, the name is tour farcie aux huîtres vertes. I should add that the secret lies in the shortcrust pastry, which is kneaded for such a long time that it appears quite light and flaky but is actually firm enough to hold the stuffing.’

  ‘It’s true,’ said La Borde with a smile, ‘that to hear it talked about is to eat it twice.’

  ‘I wonder,’ said Semacgus, ‘if just hearing this recitation won’t reawaken our host’s gout? That would be the revenge of Comus!’

  They all burst out laughing. Nicolas listened to them, feeling sad and happy at the same time. It was strange to be witnessing this feast without his friends being aware of his presence. He could not bring himself to open the door and cross the threshold into the light. The fever was building in him, making him shiver, clutching at his temples. He was assailed by contra dictory feelings: the sadness which went through him in waves, a kind of nostalgia for a past which would never come again, and the temptation to sleep and forget. He tried to get a grip on himself by concentrating hard on the conversation, which was as lively as ever.

  ‘For a long time,’ said La Borde, ‘His Majesty cooked dinner for his guests and served it himself in his small apartments. If Nicolas were here, he’d be able to confirm it. The King once served him a whole plate of chicken wings, delighted to see that young Ranreuil, as he’s in the habit of calling him, shared his predilection for this delicious dish.’

  ‘How is the King?’ asked Noblecourt gravely.

  ‘Both well and ill. He acts like a young man, but feels the fatigues of old age creeping up on him.’

  ‘Come on, I’m ten years older than he is and I feel like—’

  ‘Like a man whose friends protect him from the temptations and foolishness which would kill many stronger men,’ said Semacgus.

  ‘You’re a fine one to talk!’

  ‘Even I, Monsieur, have been forcing myself to be more careful. I hope to be able to enjoy life as long as you have.’

  ‘There you have it,’ said La Borde. ‘The King is not reasonable, and the lady takes advantage of the fact, constantly arousing his remaining passions. She’s not La Pompadour and has no political ambitions, but she places her influence at the service of those who do have them.’

  This was a clear allusion to the First Minister, the Duc d’Aiguillon, and was greeted with applause. La Borde sighed.

  Nicolas recalled that his friend had quarrelled recently with La Guimard, the mistress he shared with the Prince de Soubise. The prince had demanded an end to a situation which had previously suited everyone, on the pretext that Monsieur de La Borde had given the actress a venereal disease, and she had given it to the prince, who had transmitted it to the Comtesse de l’Hospital and she to someone else, the chain of cause and effect swallowed up in the complex web of Court and city liaisons. La Borde had confided to Nicolas that he had been treated, on the advice of the Maréchal de Biron, a colonel in the French Guards, with anti-venereal pills supplied by a quack named Keyser, a remedy which the old soldier had tried out on those of his men who had been corrupted by the city.

  ‘Is it true,’ asked Noblecourt, ‘that Madame du Barry paid twenty thousand livres for a full-length Van Dyck portrait of Charles I of England, and placed it opposite the King’s portrait to remind him of the fate in store for him if he yields to the parlements?’

  ‘I don’t know if that’s the correct explanation. But the portrait is certainly there, and I have often admired it. The idea may have been d’Aiguillon’s, hoping to appeal to my master’s morbid tastes. Whatever the truth of the matter, the sight of the painting always makes me uneasy. The fact is, the King is weary. He needs a stepping stone to get on his horse these days. He’s thinking of using that private carriage invented by the Comte d’Eu when he found himself physically unable to hunt: it turns on a pivot and allows the user to follow all the movements of the prey. And he’s always filled with grim thoughts.’

  ‘My friend the Maréchal de Richelieu,’ said Noblecourt, tipping his wig slightly in honour of this great name, ‘told me that last November, during a game of whist at the Comtesse du Barry’s, the Marquis de Chauvelin, feeling unwell, leant back against the Maréchale de Mirepoix’s armchair and made a joke. Suddenly, His Majesty noticed that his face was all twisted. At that very moment, he fell to the floor, dead.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said La Borde. ‘They tried to help him, but in vain. His Majesty was quite affected by it all, especially as his old friend was only fifty-seven. Soon after that, alarmed by some slight health problem, the King spoke frankly to his First Surgeon, in whom he has great confidence. He told him how worried he was about the sorry state of his health. “I see that I am no longer so young,” he said, “I have to slow down.” “Sire,” La Martinière replied, “you would do even better to stop.”’

  A long silence fell, as if each man were weighing the gravity and implications of these words. Nicolas felt as if his whole body were sweating. That was what happened, he thought, when you rushed around madly in the cold and dark. Suddenly, he slid to the floor, and the venerable bottle of Tokay fell from his hand and smashed to pieces. Cyrus, the old water spaniel dozing at his master’s feet, rose at this noise and started howling loudly. Everyone ran out, exc
ept Monsieur de Noblecourt who tried to rise from his armchair, his face pale, his body trembling, his eyes filled with panic.

  Notes – CHAPTER 1

  1. The barracks of the Regiment of Musketeers were situated on the corner of Rue de Verneuil.

  2. Françoise Marie Saucerotte, known as Mademoiselle Raucourt (1756–1815): actress at the Théâtre-Français.

  3. A Brazilian tribe.

  II

  SUSPICION

  ‘Lord,’ replies the knight, ‘I see that I must talk of my shame and my pain … in order to prove my loyalty.’

  BOOK OF THE GRAIL

  Friday 7 January 1774

  Through the misty clouds that enveloped everything, Nicolas vaguely distinguished the faces of three greybeards shaking their heads and looking at a fourth who was muttering indistinctly, his head covered with a towel. A little old lady, her features obscured by thick black lace, was cutting a Twelfth Night cake with what looked like a billhook. When they were served, the four guests got down to eating their portions of the feast, which seemed to be difficult to chew. This activity was punctuated with brief, inarticulate words. Suddenly, the man whose head was concealed let out a brief cry, plunged his hand beneath the towel, and took out a black charm. Nicolas was wondering about the meaning of this scene when the old man with the hidden face struggled to his feet, seized a crown in his gloved hand, and raised it to his cranium. At the same time, the towel fell, revealing, to Nicolas’s horror, a death’s head, now crowned, laughing and staring at him with its empty eye sockets. The old woman removed her lace and he saw, with an increased feeling of dread, that her emaciated body bore, as if detached from it, the exquisite powdered head of Madame du Barry. He cried out and closed his eyes to dismiss the image …