The Nicolas Le Floch affair

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  ‘Whatever blunders they committed,’ said Nicolas, humiliated by this arrogantly proffered lesson, ‘nothing in your words demonstrates the consideration with which your government should have treated a mission of whose aims and importance you were well aware.’

  ‘It would have been treated in such a way, naturally, if everything had been conducted in secrecy, without publicly damaging the rights and customs of the English nation. You’ll just have to accept it and bide your time. You can get them back in a few years.’

  He poured himself another glass of sherry. His cheeks were gradually turning redder.

  Nicolas rose to his feet, deep in thought. ‘My lord,’ he said at last, ‘I fear we have nothing more to say to each other. I shall inform my master of the failure of a procedure which was only authorised because of the commitments made by your embassy in Paris. No doubt this result will please those in my country who observe your country’s difficulties with the stated aim of taking advantage of them. The fortunes of war are changeable. The Duc d’Aiguillon, who has been anxious to maintain the peace, may, after such an affront, change the direction of his policies. As for Monsieur de Choiseul, who, as you know, dreams only of returning to office and is driven by the spirit of revenge, he is sure to turn this business to his own advantage.’

  Lord Ashbury had turned red with outrage. ‘My country’s difficulties? What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve read your free press. It’s full of the problems your government is encountering in India and in your colonies in America.’

  Nicolas felt extremely pleased now that he had read so carefully the documents with which Sartine had provided him. He could sense Lord Ashbury’s dismay.

  ‘Are you suggesting that—’

  ‘I’m not suggesting, I’m merely observing, in my role as plenipotentiary, how impossible it seems to resolve to everyone’s satisfaction a deplorable situation which would never have existed if a person as harmful as Monsieur de Morande had been duly prevented from causing harm, instead of finding refuge, support and sustenance in your country. Equally—’

  ‘Come now, Marquis, you have the passion of youth, but you still have to acquire the self-possession which is considered the most desirable quality here. Please sit down.’

  Nicolas pretended to do so reluctantly.

  ‘The government of His Gracious Majesty,’ Lord Ashbury went on, ‘has no wish to turn this affair into a casus belli. We will pass over our inviolable rights, the freedom of our press and the independence of our courts. In two days’ time, at six in the morning, you will get your men back and be able to take them home. There you have it, sir. I bid you good evening. I doubt we shall ever meet again.’

  Lord Ashbury gave a forced smile and stroked his crown of white hair with one hand. Nicolas was not convinced he had carried off the prize by his own efforts. His arguments had merely confirmed the English in their belief that this trivial episode risked triggering a serious crisis that would impugn the honour of the two nations and tarnish the throne of France, thereby making any solution impossible. The game was not worth the candle. Had the English hoped to obtain something in exchange? If success there was, it was in that direction that it had to be sought.

  The Englishman rose. ‘Marquis, Commissioner, Plenipotentiary, you are as diverse and multiple as your Chevalière d’Éon. I take my leave of you.’

  With these words, and without holding out his hand to Nicolas, he took a few steps towards the door. Then he stopped and turned, making his lorgnette spin.

  ‘Above all, don’t stay too long in London. My fellow countrymen can be cruel and vindictive. I have reason to believe that a price has been placed on your head by persons unknown. God save the commissioner. Goodbye.’

  Lord Ashbury left the room with small steps. The door opened at his approach. He gave a start on realising that Mrs Williams had probably been listening to their conversation. Nicolas told himself that his own ingenuousness and inexperience were no match for this strange new world. What an improbable situation: this Englishwoman at the service of a French spy, known as such, who was himself working in league with men from the English secret service. How did she see her way through such an imbroglio, and on what did Éon base the trust he seemed to have in her? Nicolas added a further observation to this reflection: everyone, friends and enemies alike, seemed to know about the threats concerning him. The adversary was nowhere, but for Nicolas the danger was everywhere and would jump out at him one day when he least expected it.

  A dish of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, washed down with a good-quality Bordeaux, dispelled these gloomy thoughts. At the end of his dinner, he was surprised to see the butler bring in a dusty bottle and place it carefully on the table. It was a fine wine from Portugal, called port, he said, usually served at the end of a meal and drunk exclusively by men. The liquor shimmered amaranth and amber in the candlelight. Breathing in this nectar proved to be a rare treat, drinking it was an enchantment. Its velvety smoothness seemed to gain in strength and warmth as it suffused his chest. Nuts and squares of dry cheese set off this sumptuous beverage. Unable to resist its pleasures, he finished the bottle, putting off until the morrow the task of untangling the web of thoughts and theories cluttering his mind.

  Monday 17 January 1774

  Nicolas woke at dawn, but did not have time to laze in the gentle warmth of the bedroom before the appetising smell of toast roused him completely from his sleep. Once again, he found the eternal pot of tea. Mrs Williams waited for him to finish washing and dressing before she appeared. She was impatient to tell him that a cab would take him into town, to an unspecified location, and that he should not be surprised by the precautions taken during the journey, at the end of which he would meet ‘you know who’. The driver would explain what was required. He could rest assured that everything was being done to keep his movements as discreet as possible.

  He did indeed find a cab waiting for him outside the door, and as soon as he had sat down it set off. Traffic in London was as heavy as in Paris. He was unaware of anything suspicious, trusting entirely in his English accomplices, the arrangements made by Éon, and fate. After half an hour, the cab came to a halt. The driver got down calmly from his seat and beckoned him to enter a wig-maker’s shop. The sight of the most diverse types of wig on display would have driven Monsieur de Sartine mad with envy. A young girl took him by the hand, led him behind the counter of ebony and polished brass, and preceded him down a dark corridor. A door was opened. He felt a cold draught on his face and stony ground beneath his feet. Soon daylight appeared, a second door opened, and the girl handed him over to a little boy who was waiting for him, his face half hidden by a woollen cap somewhat too big for him. The boy pulled him by the sleeve and led him to another cab with a new driver.

  The cab rode on for a long time, turning several times at right angles, and fifteen long minutes went by. It stopped at last. The door was opened and the coachman asked him to enter a church which he called Queen’s Chapel. He handed him a Catholic missal in French and told him that, as he knew his address, he could find his own way back. The person he was looking for, he said, would offer to describe the monument to him. He shouldn’t talk to anyone else.

  *

  The chapel was not large but admirably proportioned, with a carved and coffered ceiling. As Nicolas approached the altar, he heard someone come up behind him. Turning, he discovered a man of medium height, draped in a cloak with a high collar, a wig on his head, his tricorn in his hand. He had a plump, smooth face, but inquisitive eyes.

  ‘Perhaps,’ the man said in French, ‘Monsieur would like to know the history of this monument?’

  He took Nicolas’s missal, opened it, checked something, then put it in his pocket.

  ‘Yes, I’d like that,’ said Nicolas.

  ‘The architect Inigo Jones built it in 1627 for Princess Henrietta Maria of France, the wife of Charles I. I recommend the altar decorated by Annibale Carracci. Does that satisfy your curiosity?’
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  ‘Monsieur,’ said Nicolas, ‘you know who I am and who sent me. I’ve been authorised to propose any arrangement that may help to put an end to a situation which is prejudicial to everyone, but especially to you, and which can only be the result of a misunderstanding.’

  ‘That’s all very well for you to say,’ the man protested. ‘Look how I’m treated! What about the bandits who were sent after me to kill me? How can I accept just any old proposition? As sure as my name is Morande, I want revenge! I’m going to lodge a complaint, and as a victim of despotism I’m bound to obtain something.’

  He suddenly calmed down, and adopted a honeyed tone.

  ‘I have nothing against you,’ he said. ‘Come and meet my wife and children. I beg you very humbly to come to my home and eat a head of salmon I’ve been given as a present and which is worth all the fish in France. There’ll be fried oysters with it. What do you say? Enough to satisfy the heartiest appetite. My wife is very ill, she often loses blood. Have pity on her, be kind.’

  ‘I’m willing to help you in any way I can,’ replied Nicolas. ‘I haven’t come all this way without having a solution to propose which would allow all the interested parties to obtain satisfaction.’

  ‘No,’ retorted Morande. ‘It’s too late for a deal. I’m being attacked, so I counterattack.’ He stamped his heel on the floor. ‘I’ve consulted lawyers. I’m going to write another article in the newspapers about those rogues from the Paris police that d’Aiguillon sent here to abduct and kill me.’

  ‘Monsieur,’ replied Nicolas, ‘it’s all well and good making accusations, but you yourself are the cause of your tribulations. Can’t you find anything better to do than tarnish the reputations of people of quality who don’t know you from Adam?’

  ‘And what would you have me do? Can you tell me what better subjects there are than the Court whores to help me reach the goal I’ve set myself, which is to obtain money. If I wrote plays or novels, no one would read them or buy them! Thanks to the subjects I choose and the manner in which I treat them, I’m assured of buyers and readers all over Europe. Let the people in Versailles who’ve sent you dispatch assassins. I don’t give a damn about poison or knives, and if I died that way I’d escape hanging, and that would dishonour those who sent the murderers.’

  He had grabbed hold of Nicolas’s cloak, and was now shaking it in his frenzy, while also gnashing his teeth and frothing with rage.

  ‘I’m not threatening you, Monsieur,’ said Nicolas. ‘On the contrary, I’m offering you an honourable way out of this business, giving you the means to feed and cherish your family without all this torment; in short, I’m holding out my hand to you, and yet you refuse to listen to me! Accept my proposals and destroy those scandalous writings, which provoke tears in a woman who genuinely cares for those less fortunate than herself and who, on many an occasion, has shown that she can respond with pity to the signs of a generous temperament.’ Nicolas had the impression that these sensitive words had touched Morande. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, kneading his tricorn in his hands. But his pride finally got the better of him.

  ‘I want them censured in a public court! Oh, you don’t know the English judges! Béranger and his officers are in their clutches in Bow Street. I shall crush them, those vile serpents of the Court! As for you, please take advantage of my hospitality, and you can judge my style.’

  Nicolas bade him farewell and left the chapel in disgust. The cold air did him good. He decided to walk aimlessly: he could always take a cab if he felt tired. As Éon had predicted, the man was too driven by hatred to give in easily. Had he even shaken him? Absorbed in his thoughts, he bumped straight into a woman in a striking red dress and a short rabbit-skin cape.

  ‘Throw me to the ground, why don’t you?’ she cried out in French. ‘What a brute!’

  Suddenly her painted face froze in an expression of surprise.

  ‘I can’t believe my eyes! Monsieur Nicolas! You’re the last person I’d have expected to meet in London! Don’t you know who I am? Don’t you remember? La Présidente, the friend of La Satin! I used to work at the Dauphin Couronné!’

  He did indeed recognise, beneath the make-up and the impasto, the former resident of the brothel in Rue Saint-Honoré. ‘What have you been up to, my beauty?’

  ‘I crossed the Channel in 1770, taking advantage of the peace. Frenchwomen are very sought after here. You could meet a whole flock of charmers from our shores. It’s much easier, we don’t have the police on our arses so much. We use the beer shops as boudoirs and their back rooms as bedrooms. We don’t have to hide, everything’s perfectly free – they even publish a list of girls, with names, addresses and the liveliest details about their size, their figure, and their particular talents. What’s more, the list is revised with every fresh consignment.’ She winked.

  ‘So the police are more indulgent here?’ said Nicolas.

  ‘Not better, but less money-hungry, except in the bagnios. The fools are the same everywhere. No offence intended, Nicolas.’

  ‘None taken. The bagnios, you say?’

  ‘Yes, they’re the places where amorous parties are organised. The owners don’t like too many scandalous scenes. Besides, business would be bad if they allowed people to insult the girls.’

  ‘So you’re happy in London, then?’

  ‘Oh, I miss Paris, but there’s work for wenches who aren’t too choosy. I’m building up a nest egg so I can get back to Faubourg Saint-Marcel and open up my own business. I still pay my way, but I’m no spring chicken any more. How’s La Satin?’

  ‘Fine. She took over from La Paulet.’

  ‘Really? Now there’s something! The sweet La Satin, a brothel-keeper! I can’t get over it. Are you two still lovers?’

  Nicolas did not reply.

  ‘I know how close you are. How’s your son?’

  ‘My son?’

  ‘Yes, little Louis, the spitting image of you. You can’t deny that.’

  Nicolas felt his whole body turn to ice, and he had to lean against the wall. The blood drained from his face, so much so that La Présidente noticed.

  ‘Oh, that’s just like me. Always talking too much. You look so pale. What did I say? My God, you didn’t know! I could kick myself, old fool that I am … She begged me to keep quiet. I was coming to England, she didn’t think she’d ever see me again.’

  Nicolas hurried away, leaving her standing there. He was walking like a madman, his thoughts feverish. When, in 1761, La Satin had told him that she had had a baby, he had questioned her, anxious to know if the child was his. Her answer still echoed in his ears. ‘I did my accounts, and it was a long time after we were last together.’ He had taken her at her word. Her evident embarrassment he had put down to modesty and shame. Now he felt like a fool. A moment later, he had convinced himself that it couldn’t be, that La Présidente was imagining things, that she had put it together from scraps of brothel gossip. He would have to investigate this new mystery when he got back to Paris. For the moment, he would have to try not to think about it.

  He looked round him at London. Its filth rivalled Paris, despite the enormous tipcarts used for taking away the rubbish. Thanks to the use of coal as the only fuel in kitchens and apartments, the sun was constantly veiled by smoke and fog. Nicolas finally took a cab back to Berkeley Square, where Mrs Williams, reassured to see him, sighed and handed him a sealed letter without arms or signature. The unknown writer informed him, in a tall sloping hand, that because of the tide the evacuation of his protégés would take place that very evening. Nicolas had to be at Bow Street police station at five o’clock precisely. He and the men would immediately be conducted to the Embankment, from where a rowing boat would take them to their ship. Nicolas went upstairs to pack his portmanteau, and gave a few guineas to the butler, who was greatly surprised. Mrs Williams simpered, but finally accepted some money, too. Nicolas had won her over, and her surly attitude had gradually faded. She gave Nicolas a cake with raisins and Indian spices:
the house was still suffused with the smell of baking. They parted good friends.

  The welcome he received from the English authorities revealed their annoyance. A shifty-looking magistrate explained how he intended to proceed. The police carriage would approach the front steps of the Bow Street station and let the Frenchmen get in, trying, as far as was possible, to prevent any hostile move from the crowd. Nicolas had encountered this ugly rabble, the dregs of the port and the street, when he arrived. The sight of him had unleashed cries and insults, and a clump of mud had narrowly missed him.

  He found his countrymen in their cells, gaunt and distraught, their clothes in tatters and their beards bushy. Captain Béranger was trembling, and it was immediately obvious to Nicolas that he had been the wrong man for such a delicate mission – quite apart from the information given him by Sartine, which had already warned him against this officer and adventurer, who risked every thing because he had nothing to lose, was well known in the gambling dens for cheating at faro1 and was ready to do anything for money. One of the officers was lying on the floor, and seemed to be delirious. Another started to cry, and all of them grabbed Nicolas’s knees, imploring him to save them.

  Their departure from the police station was tumultuous. Projectiles rained down on the carriage. The hatred of the populace for the French was all too clear, which struck Nicolas as a bad omen for future relations between the two kingdoms. He gave up the idea of getting back to his cab and squeezed in with the prisoners, even though he was worried about losing his baggage. When they reached the quay, he was grateful for the presence of mind of Éon’s servants: the cab driver had preceded them and now gave him his portmanteau, with a smile. He received a guinea, and shook Nicolas’s hand warmly. Why was this Englishman, who had no stake in the matter, so sympathetic towards him? But there was no time now to think about these things, and he jumped in the rowing boat.