The Nicolas Le Floch affair

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  ‘Ah, at last the commissioner consents to wake up! I’ve been shouting myself hoarse for ages.’

  Nicolas yawned. ‘I was just finishing off the night.’

  ‘My God, I wish I had nights like that! From four in the afternoon to nine in the morning, that’s seventeen hours! I hope you’re feeling refreshed?’

  ‘Wonderfully,’ cried Nicolas, leaping out of bed. ‘I thought you were a cat.’

  With these words, which left his friend dumbstruck, he ran to wash himself. It was not long before he returned, to find Bourdeau with Marion, drinking a milky coffee. It struck Nicolas, who preferred chocolate, that this beverage had now reached all levels of society, being enjoyed as much by fishwives in the central market as by duchesses. As Bourdeau was burning his tongue, Marion advised him to take the bowl with him and finish drinking it at his leisure.

  ‘This beverage is only good when made at home,’ said Bourdeau as their carriage was setting off.

  ‘Monsieur de Noblecourt likes it. He says that when he was a young man the first café was set up at the Saint-Germain fair by Armenians. Later, a Persian opened a second establishment in Rue de Buci. But the thing that really started the current craze for it was the superb establishment in Rue des Fossés-Saint-Germain, near the Comédie-Française, founded by a Venetian named Francesco Procopio di Coltelli.’

  ‘Hence the name Procope, that mecca for wine lovers and chess players.’

  ‘And talkers – that’s why we keep a good half-dozen spies there on a permanent basis!’

  ‘In fact, their coffee isn’t bad, and they have it delivered all over Paris.’

  ‘I’ve never taken to it,’ said Nicolas. ‘When I first arrived in Paris, the bavaroise was in great demand. That used to be delivered, too.’

  ‘You haven’t forgotten our appointment at the Pont Royal, I hope?’ said Bourdeau. ‘If the experiment is successful, what do you think we’ll discover?’

  ‘We shall see,’ said Nicolas. ‘To tell the truth, this is hardly the best season for diving. But with everything the city throws into the river, there are really only a few moments in summer when the water is a little clearer. In January, there’s all the mud and snow to contend with, not to mention the current.’

  ‘I pity the poor inventor,’ said Bourdeau. ‘I fear he may get into trouble. But we have people there to rescue him if he does, and to deter onlookers.’

  By the time their carriage crossed the Pont Royal, the sun had returned and was intermittently lighting up Quai des Tuileries. Against the other bank, boats and barges rose and fell on the choppy water, and from them porters were unloading wood and other building materials for the construction sites of the rapidly expanding Faubourg Saint-Germain. Beyond the bridge, the tall white façades of the Mailly and Belle-Isle mansions rose over Quai d’Orsay and Quai des Théatins. A small crowd had gathered at the entrance of Rue de Beaune, but were being kept at a distance. A row of carriages had drawn up near the bridge, and beside them a group of officials stood waiting at the top of the steps leading down to the river, stamping their feet to keep warm. A chain of boats moored in a semicircle demarcated the small space reserved for the experiment. The watch let Nicolas and Bourdeau through the cordon. A man in a military-style cloak, still young, held out his hand warmly to Nicolas.

  ‘There’s no mistaking you, you’re Commissioner Le Floch. May I introduce myself? I’m the Chevalier de Borda, naval lieutenant, member of the Royal Academy of Sciences and the Royal Academy of the Navy. And these are my colleagues.’

  One by one, apparently in order of age and office, he introduced Monsieur Leroy of the Royal Society in London and the Philosophical Society of Philadelphia, Monsieur Petit, professor of anatomy and inspector of military hospitals, and a priest with a childlike face, wrapped in an otterskin pelisse to keep out the cold.

  ‘Abbé Bossut, Examiner of Engineers. We are the special commission of the Academy of Sciences, appointed to evaluate the interest of this new invention. Monsieur de Sartine asked us to combine the scientific with the practical and lend our help to your investigation. We were glad to oblige.’

  ‘And we’re grateful to your learned company,’ said Nicolas. ‘May I introduce my deputy, Inspector Bourdeau? One question, though: you appear to know me. Have we met before?’

  ‘I had the honour,’ said Monsieur de Borda, lifting his hand to his tricorn, ‘of serving with your father, the Marquis de Ranreuil, during the Seven Years War. Sailors sometimes fight on land. You bear a strong resemblance to him, I thought I was seeing him again. He was a soldier and a wise man …’

  Nicolas trembled with emotion at this mention of his father. It was always a surprise to him that everyone knew his personal history, but secrets never stayed secret for very long, either at Court or in the city, and everything was discovered in the end, provided the object of curiosity occupied a certain rank in society and therefore aroused interest in his case. How much longer, he wondered, would people be judged by their origins and their birth?

  Near the parapet, in a coarse shirt and shiny woollen breeches, with a sheepskin over his shoulders, stood a man with a face like a peasant’s, who reminded Nicolas of the rough fishermen of his native Brittany. He was waiting with an inscrutable expression and inquisitive eyes for the ‘gentlemen’ to give the signal. A servant, as coarse as his master, was preparing a strange costume which for the moment looked like nothing but a shapeless heap of leather and metal.

  ‘My dear colleagues, Commissioner Le Floch, may I have your attention, please?’ said Borda. ‘Our friend here, being unaccustomed to public speaking, has asked me to present his invention. This is a new machine which makes it possible to remain underwater for at least an hour without any communication with the outside world. It consists of a kind of leather sheath shaped exactly like a man. The person attempting immersion, who is wearing a shirt or nightshirt, gets inside the sheath through an opening made in the neck. Thus attired, he puts on a brass helmet …’

  The servant handed him a large, shiny metal ball which the scientists considered with great curiosity.

  ‘… which encases his entire head, and which is fitted to the wide collar of the same metal at the top of the sheath and screwed on tightly. You will observe that there are three glass openings, two for the eyes and one on the forehead. At the top of the helmet are two pipes, one on top of the other, each attached to a leather tube the diameter of a thick candle. These two pipes, which are about four feet long, end in a brass ball. This ball, so I’ve been told, possesses a spring which can be lifted with a wrench. The air contained in it is pumped through the lower tube to the diver’s mouth and then, rarefied, is carried up through the upper conduit, where it is purified in the ball before going back to the mouth.’

  ‘But my dear fellow,’ said Monsieur Leroy, ‘these leather tubes can easily be crushed or get stuck together under pressure. What happens then to the unfortunate diver?’

  ‘That has been taken into account,’ replied Borda. ‘The tubes are strengthened at regular distances by iron rings which make it possible to avoid the disadvantage you so rightly raise, my dear colleague.’

  ‘But what is in the brass ball,’ asked Abbé Bossut, adjusting his gloves, ‘that can purify the carbonic air corrupted by the diver’s breathing?’

  ‘I cannot tell you that. Our friend claims that he will prove the efficacy of his machine before consenting to reveal the mystery of its invention.’

  There was a discontented murmur. The man raised his head defiantly, and for a moment Nicolas thought he was about to withdraw.

  ‘But what is the point of this apparatus?’ asked Monsieur Leroy. ‘Will it help our enlightened century to progress in a way that is useful to the human race, for it is that, and that alone, which opens doors and …’

  ‘God protect us from long-winded philosophers!’ Borda whispered in Nicolas’s ear. ‘He’s a good man, and fortunately he never finishes what he has to say.’ Then, turning to the audience, he explaine
d, ‘Apart from the fact that it will help us to examine the condition of our ships’ hulls without having to take them into dry dock, it should also allow us to study the bottom of the sea and its flora and fauna. These are only some of the objectives which come to mind. No doubt other prospects will present themselves. I’m sure our friend here has thought of some.’

  The man, clearly assuming that he had been called upon to say something, launched into a speech in his low, urgent voice.

  ‘I was a navy blacksmith for twenty years,’ he said. ‘I didn’t design and make this machine just to go ferreting about underwater for trifles. Far be it from me to try and deceive gentlemen as learned as you. Let me tell you about it. I used to live on the coast near Cherbourg, and we had loads of shipwrecks round there. All those fine boats smashing up. I told myself we were really stupid to let the cargoes go, it was a crying shame to leave all those riches in the sea. So if we had a way when the weather was good to go down to the wreckage that wasn’t too far from the surface, we’d surely recover something. Times are hard and—’

  Monsieur Leroy struck the ground impatiently with his cane. Foreseeing an outburst, the Chevalier de Borda thought it best to cut short the good fellow’s speech.

  ‘I think we should get down to work now,’ he said. ‘You know what the police are expecting from you. That’s at least one thing that will justify your invention.’

  The man took off his shoes and his breeches. The leather diving suit was lying shapeless on the ground. Helped by his servant, he first put on the part containing the legs, then, with a great many contortions, plunged first one arm, then the other, into the sleeves. He now looked like a knight in armour before battle. The brass helmet was placed over his head and screwed to the collar. Just imagining how the man must feel enclosed in that shell made Nicolas feel suffocated.

  ‘I may be completely wrong,’ he could not help saying to Monsieur de Borda, ‘but surely there’s a strong likelihood he’ll tip upside down as soon as he’s in the water.’

  ‘That indeed is what would happen if the feet of the suit were not filled with ballast to keep him upright. He’ll balance like the keel of a ship.’

  The servant stood on tiptoe and carefully lifted the spring on the brass ball with the help of a small wrench. The noise of it echoed in the cold air and silenced the crowd on the quais, who ceased their talk and laughter and became suddenly attentive. Ready for the experiment, the man clumped heavily towards the steps which began directly above one of the supports of the Pont Royal, descended all the way to the river and vanished below the surface. A rope was tied round his waist. It would be used to hoist him up in case of danger. He had only to tug on it for his servant at the other end to understand that he needed to bring him up as quickly as possible. In his hand he held another rope, also tied to the servant, and a kind of coarse net, with which he would collect any object he might find on the river bed. Slowly, the man disappeared into the yellowish water and everyone leant over the parapet. The moments that followed seemed very long. Five minutes after he had gone under, there were several tugs on the rope. The servant hauled it up. Nicolas and Bourdeau walked down as far as the level of the water. The net came up with a small brown mud-covered object caught in it. Bourdeau grabbed it and handed it to Nicolas, who cleaned the sides of it roughly. It was a small metal box, open and empty.

  ‘It’s just a trinket, without any interest!’ said the inspector. ‘The things we’d find in the river, if ever we drained it!’

  Nicolas moved the object closer to Bourdeau’s eyes. ‘But we might not find this every day. A pewter jewel box … with Julie de Lastérieux’s initials engraved on the side.’

  Monsieur Leroy, exasperated by their whispering, tapped Nicolas on the shoulder with the pommel of his cane, and Nicolas stopped speaking. The experiment continued in a silence disturbed only by the lapping of the water. Almost ten minutes had gone by since the beginning of the experiment when suddenly there was such a strong tug on the rope that the servant almost fell in the river. He asked for reinforcements, and Nicolas and Bourdeau, his closest neighbours on the narrow platform, rushed to him. It took two minutes to bring up an inert body. The brass helmet was nodding as if the person it was supposed to be protecting were already dead. He was lifted up on to Quai d’Orsay, and the helmet was quickly unscrewed. Monsieur Leroy came running, but made no attempt to take off the suit. The man had lost consciousness and his face was almost blue and quite lifeless. Monsieur Leroy took a little phial from his pocket and passed it several times under the inventor’s nose. The effect of the salts was to revive the man immediately. After a few moments, his breathing resumed its normal rhythm and he opened his eyes.

  ‘I’d have made it,’ he said, spluttering, ‘if that damned spring hadn’t broken.’4

  ‘It’s already quite something to have stayed underwater for ten minutes,’ said the Chevalier de Borda, glancing at his watch. ‘But the experiment wasn’t conclusive. Improve your apparatus and we’ll again give you all the attention you deserve, won’t we, my friends?’

  The academicians nodded their approval. The man shook his head, muttering, ‘Well, it was conclusive enough to drag that box from the mud. The commissioner seems very interested in it.’

  Nicolas took a few louis from his fob and held them out to the man. ‘And the commissioner is grateful to you. May this little contribution help you to perfect your invention.’

  The gold was pocketed avidly. Nicolas and Bourdeau took their leave of the commission and got back in their cab. The crowd that had gathered at the entrance to the Pont Royal moved aside and muttered as they passed. A woman rushed forward, climbed on to the footplate and hung on, her grimacing, toothless face framed in the window.

  ‘Tight-fisted bastards!’ she cried. ‘Treasures belong to the people!’

  She spat and jumped off, nimbly dodging a blow from the driver’s whip.

  ‘What was the matter with her?’ said Nicolas.

  ‘The common people always see evil where it doesn’t exist,’ replied the inspector. ‘They saw us recovering something from the river. Tongues are already wagging.’

  ‘There’s hatred in the air these days.’

  ‘Oh, the people have been filled with hatred for many centuries,’ said Bourdeau, ironically.

  He was about to go on when he had second thoughts. It was not the first time that Nicolas had witnessed these moments of bitterness in his deputy. Of course, Bourdeau’s attitude could be explained by his humble origins, the tragic fate of a father sacrificed to satisfy a King’s pleasure – he had been fatally wounded by a boar during a royal hunt – and the existence in him of a diffuse mixture of criticism, acrimony and sympathy for the interests of the poor. There was a kind of contained violence in him which might well explode one day.

  ‘Is there any particular reason she called us tight-fisted?’ asked Nicolas.

  ‘Haven’t you heard the rumours that the King is filling his coffers by speculating on wheat?’

  Nicolas remembered how worried his tailor, Master Vachon, had been about the same thing. ‘Don’t tell me you give credence to such slanders?’

  Bourdeau shook his head, as if pitying the commissioner’s naivety. ‘I don’t give anything; I simply obey and do my duty. Haven’t you read the Almanach royal for 1774?’

  ‘I never read it,’ replied Nicolas. ‘I may occasionally consult it to find a name, a position or an address.’

  ‘Others do it for you. If you’d read it, you’d have been surprised to discover on page 553 a reference to a man named Demirvalaud, treasurer of grain in the King’s employ.’

  ‘Where’s the harm in that?’ said Nicolas, irritably. ‘It must be a financial position. God knows they’ve multiplied lately!’

  ‘Financial! Precisely. You’ve put your finger on it. Position or not, everyone read the news in his fashion, and it spread like wildfire in every direction and through every level of society. The whole kingdom is laughing it to scorn, especially n
ow that—’

  ‘Now that what?’

  ‘Now that the order has been given to seize all copies still on sale, fine the printer, and close his workshop pending further information. These accumulated blunders have convinced everyone that the reference was included out of malice, its aim to accuse, and the 1774 Almanach has become a rare item, now much in demand from collectors who are willing to pay a hundred times what it cost before it was seized. It’s even become the subject of a song:

  Now everyone knows what before was just theories

  The master is trafficking the gifts of Ceres

  And to show that he has nothing to hide

  He even takes a certain pride

  In putting in his Almanach no less

  His fortunate agent’s name and address.

  And that, Commissioner, is why we, as the King’s men, now have the advantage and privilege of being called these names by the people.’

  Pensively, Nicolas stroked the pewter box, which, although small, was very heavy. It must have fallen like a rock when it was thrown from the bridge, and then hit something, presumably a stone on the river bed, and opened, causing the contents to spill out.

  Bourdeau must have been following the same train of thought and had reached the same conclusion. ‘If this is a jewel box,’ he said, ‘where are the jewels?’

  ‘There were jewels all over the place in Julie’s bedroom when we searched it. I pointed them out to you on the sideboard.’

  ‘Yes, I remember. What do you deduce from that?’

  ‘That there was something else in this box. That whatever it was had been put there with the one aim of getting me into trouble yet again, by implying that I had thrown it in the river. That this thing got lost when the box opened and is probably either lying buried in silt, or has been carried off by the current.’