Nicolas went out into the park. A light wind, full of the scent of flowers, rustled the big trees. Crowds of people were on the paths. As news reached them, voices rose, and there was laughter. He heard one worker say to another, ‘What difference does it make to me? We couldn’t be any worse off than we already are.’ He felt a tightness in his throat, as if the grief he felt were stuck there, made all the stronger by the general indifference. He realised that his fists were so clenched that his nails were digging into the flesh of his palms. He returned to the palace at about five, in time to witness the departure of the royal family, the new King and Queen for Choisy and the old King’s daughters for La Muette, in sixteen eight-horse coaches. A large and already forgetful crowd filled the square and the avenue, erupting in cheers as the carriages passed.
In the deserted apartments, the Duc de La Vrillière was making an inventory of the objects found in the King’s bedchamber and office. The First Gentleman, the Duc de Villequier, had given orders to Monsieur Andouille to proceed with the opening and embalming of the body. Nicolas heard the surgeon laugh.
‘I’m ready, Monsieur. You can hold the head while I operate, as your duty demands, and in forty-eight hours we’ll both be dead.’
Nobody insisted. For Nicolas, the two days that followed were like the road to Calvary. They were content to wrap the King’s body in large aromatic sheets before placing it in a lead coffin coated with a compound of lime, vinegar and camphorated brandy. The coffin was then soldered shut and placed inside another coffin made of thick oak. Priests, missionaries and Franciscan and Cistercian monks remained in the chapel of rest, praying, until the time came to transport it to Saint-Denis.
Thursday 12 May 1774
The funeral cortege was due to leave at about seven in the evening, as darkness was falling. Naganda had asked Nicolas for permission to go with him and pay his last respects to his monarch. The two men climbed into Monsieur de La Borde’s carriage. La Borde seemed to have aged several years. All three remained silent. The coffin was placed inside a large coach covered in black velvet. Two others were to carry the Gentlemen of the Bedchamber, the chaplain and the priest of Notre Dame de Versailles. These carriages were the same ones the late King had used for hunting. The French Guards and Swiss Guards sounded the salute. A group of pages stood as far as possible from the coffin, holding handkerchiefs over their noses and playing pranks with their torches. As they rode along, the convoy was the butt of the onlookers’ jokes. Occasionally, people cried ‘Tally ho! Tally ho!’ as Louis XV had often done while out hunting, and sometimes they sang, ‘Here comes the ladies’ man, here comes the ladies’ man!’ With foresight, the King had built the Révolte road, which made it possible to get from Versailles to Saint-Denis by way of Porte Maillot without having to cross Paris. They reached the old basilica about eleven. After a few blessings, the coffin was lowered into the Bourbon family vault and a small brick sarcophagus was immediately erected around it.
Soon, only a few monks were left at the foot of the altar, praying, in the declining light of the candles. Near a pillar, La Borde, Nicolas and Naganda stood in silent meditation, the Indian as unshakable as a statue. They heard someone weeping near them. It was Monsieur de Séqueville, who had appeared as if from nowhere. The man whose life had been devoted to ceremony was on his knees, chanting in a low voice and describing, amidst sobs, the protocol of an imaginary funeral.
‘Alas, my master, how they have treated you! Once the mass was said, they should have proceeded to the last acts of burial. Twelve bodyguards lift the coffin and lower it into the vault. The chief herald removes his coat of arms and his hat, throws them on the coffin, along with his caduceus, then, moving three steps back, cries, “Heralds of the arms of France, come and fulfil your function!” The officers approach the opening of the vault and in their turn throw their caducei, their coats of arms and their hats. The chief herald speaks again and orders the servants to lower the royal ornaments, the dead man’s honours, the two sceptres, the pennon, the spurs, the shield, the coat of arms, the helmet and the gauntlets. The Grand Chamberlain, obeying the call of the chief herald, moves the flag of France towards the vault. Then, as grand master of the royal house, he cries, “The King is dead, the King is dead, the King is dead,” adding, “Let us all pray to God for the peace of his soul.” Everyone bows and prays silently. The Grand Chamberlain raises his staff, which he has lowered towards the vault, and cries, “Long live the King!” three times and adds, “alas, alas …”’
Monsieur de Séqueville got to his feet, raised his hands towards the dark ceiling and cried out, wakening the echoes of the necropolis and causing a few trapped pigeons to fly off in panic, ‘“Long live Louis, sixteenth of that name, by the Grace of God very Christian, very august and very powerful King of France and Navarre, our most honoured lord and good master, may God give him a very long, very happy life.”’
Then, in the old church, a moan was heard, almost like a child’s: an Algonquin orphaned by France was weeping, beside a loyal Breton, for his dead King.
Notes – CHAPTER 10
1. The King presided over the going-to-bed ceremony in the show bedchamber, then went to his real bedchamber a few rooms away, which was where he actually slept.
2. Arab doctor and surgeon, also known by the name Abulcasis (936–1013).
3. The same debate on the expulsion of the then mistress, the Duchesse de Châteauroux, had caused a scandal during the King’s illness at Metz in 1742.
4. It was reported that Madame du Barry had introduced a young girl into the King’s bed and that it was she who had given Louis XV smallpox.
XI
ILLUMINATION
To them, we are like a broken vase which is thrown away and no longer used.
SAINT BERNARD
Friday 13 May 1774
That night of affliction ended with a silent return to Versailles. La Borde, whose functions had ceased immediately on the death of the King, invited Nicolas and Naganda to have something to eat and drink in his apartments, which he would soon have to leave. Then all three, accompanied by a tearful Gaspard, set off again on the road to Paris. The deserted palace seemed like a great ship abandoned to the cleaners who were now preparing the apartments for the return of the new King and his Court once the quarantine was lifted. La Borde told them that Madame du Barry had been taken the day before to the convent of Port-aux-Dames at Brie, in Champagne, ten leagues from Paris. Amongst other details, he indicated, looking particularly at Nicolas, that she was in solitary confinement and did not have authorisation to receive visitors for the moment.
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Nicolas.
‘I’m going to stay in Paris. It’s been too long since I abandoned my studies, my work and my own affairs. It will help me to forget, and to bear what the future has in store. I’m going to deaden my grief with music, writing and women. That’s what everything boils down to … We just have to accept it. You’ll see, we’ll become the “old Court”! Our devotion and loyalty will be considered of no account. People will pretend not to see us, few will greet us, most will turn their backs!’
‘You seem very sombre and bitter.’
‘You’re still young – I’m a little older than you …’
‘In the old days in my land,’ said Naganda, ‘when a chief died, all the warriors were killed. They were supposed to serve him beyond the grave.’
‘Let us thank God we’re not Micmacs,’ replied La Borde, smiling weakly. ‘Although …’
‘We will show our loyalty to the King,’ declared Nicolas, ‘by serving his grandson.’
‘Of course. However, the near future is going to be difficult. Condemning the King’s true servants, settling old scores, scrambling for honours and positions, and provoking exiles and departures, that’s what respectable people will spend their time doing. I’ve heard that Choiseul has already returned to Paris from his pagoda in Chanteloup, his lettres de cachet having been revoked, and intends to see the King
at the Château de la Muette.’
‘So,’ remarked Nicolas cryptically, ‘some travelling will soon be imperative.’
‘I doubt the new King will show any interest in Choiseul. But then there’s the Dauphine, I mean the Queen, who owes her marriage to him. We can’t really be sure of anything. And what of you, Monsieur, what are your plans?’
‘I’m going back to Brest tomorrow,’ replied Naganda. ‘From there I shall set sail for the Americas. I received some letters yesterday informing me that the events I predicted are coming to pass. A cargo of tea was dumped into the sea at Boston last December. The English have decided to impose a blockade and the colonists are intending to defend themselves by force of arms. It’s said that regiments have already set sail from a number of ports in England.’
‘I hope,’ said La Borde, ‘that won’t be a boon to Choiseul’s plans. He’s a great adversary of the English, and would dearly like to take his revenge on them for our past defeats.’
La Borde’s carriage dropped Nicolas and Naganda in Rue Montmartre. The household was in turmoil. Two days earlier, Catherine, who slept little and often stayed up late, dozing by the stove, had been drawn from her torpor by Cyrus, who was unusually agitated. She had followed the dog, who was moaning and growling, as far as Nicolas’s apartments, where she had surprised a masked stranger searching through his bed and his linen. She had not forgotten that she had been a canteen-keeper in the King’s armies and had occasionally had to do the work of a soldier. Armed with a cast-iron frying pan, she managed to put the burglar to flight, having first inflicted a number of violent blows on his head. She was helped in this by a furious Cyrus, who tore a piece from the intruder’s coat. The man hurtled down the hidden staircase which led to the courtyard and fled. Hearing all this, Nicolas felt a shiver go through him. He rushed up to his room and, with a trembling hand, laid waste to the row of books. The box was still there. He worked the mechanism, and collapsed in relief on his bed: it still contained the purse and the letter. Deciding that he would not let them out of his sight from now on, he placed the box in the inside pocket of his coat, then went back to Naganda and Catherine, who had been left speechless by his disappearance.
‘So,’ said Catherine, ‘did he steal anything? Personally, I don’t think he had time. And I promise you his head must still be ringing from the knocks I gave him!’
Naganda was introduced to Monsieur de Noblecourt, whom he charmed with his manners, his erudition and the elegance of his speech. The former procurator questioned him about his people and their customs with all the enthusiasm of a schoolboy. Unfortunately, the young Micmac chief had to get back to Versailles. He took his leave amidst a chorus of friendly words. Monsieur de Noblecourt gave him as a gift Montesquieu’s De l’esprit des lois, a rare gesture from a man who loved books so much that he rarely parted with them: Nicolas whispered in his friend’s ear how generous a gift it was. In return, Naganda gave Monsieur de Noblecourt a sachet of dried bear meat, reputed to be a perfect remedy for rheumatism when used in soup, and two bear’s teeth of the finest ivory, which the beneficiary immediately placed amongst the other treasures in his cabinet of curiosities. Poitevin called a carriage and Naganda, surrounded by the whole household and watched curiously by the young baker’s boys, said his farewells and left Rue Montmartre accompanied by a unanimous chorus of wishes.
‘This man honours all those who acknowledge themselves as his friends,’ said Monsieur de Noblecourt. ‘What New France might have become with such talents!’
He asked Nicolas to tell him about the death of the King. The account was detailed but omitted some of the more shocking aspects. Nicolas insisted that the King had been quite peaceful at the end, and had remained truly regal in his demeanour until the very last. Monsieur de Noblecourt listened pensively, showing no reaction, and Nicolas feared that he had depressed him. Was it wise to mention such things to the old man?
‘There’s something I have to tell you,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t mere chance that my room was broken into. I am the holder of a secret—’
Monsieur de Noblecourt raised his hand in a gesture of denial. ‘A secret that is yours and that I have no wish to know.’
‘A secret,’ Nicolas went on, ‘and an object which may place me in great danger. I lost my keys, which were probably stolen during a recent mission. I have every reason to suspect a definite conspiracy behind all this. I’m going to give instructions for the locks to be changed on the carriage entrance and the door to my staircase. Caution demands it, especially as I have no desire to put the inhabitants of this house, including you, in danger.’
‘I shall make sure it’s done. Will you stay with us a while?’
‘Not yet. There is a final task I must do: keep a promise I made to the King.’
He went upstairs to get ready. What troubled him were the orders that had been given concerning Madame du Barry’s exile in the convent of Pont-aux-Dames. Would he even be received? He resolved to do all he could: the end would justify the means. Even if he had to lie or distort the truth, nothing would stop him. Thinking he might have to impress, he decided to take his commissioner’s robe and his ivory rod, symbol of his authority, which he rarely used except for ceremonies at the Châtelet or the Parlement. He left Rue Montmartre at eleven o’clock, having first eaten two pig’s ears grilled in mustard that Catherine and Marion had made for him while in the middle of preparing a head of pork in terrine for the dinner which Monsieur de Noblecourt, as church warden of Saint-Eustache, gave every year for the parish council. His last act before leaving was to instruct Poitevin to call in the locksmith. He walked along the dead-end street leading to the church, where he remained for a good quarter of an hour before retracing his steps and plunging into the dark Passage de la Reine de Hongrie, opposite Monsieur de Noblecourt’s house, which took him to Rue Montorgueil, where he found a carriage. He harboured no illusions about these precautions, although his long experience of surveillance gave him a fairly good idea of where anyone following him might be likely to slip up. His first stop was police headquarters in Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, where he let it be known that he would be absent, without going into further detail. Monsieur de Sartine had just left for the Château de la Muette, summoned by the new King. Nicolas changed carriages, reached Vincennes and set off along the Lagny road towards Meaux.
He was riding through a forest, half dozing, when a sharp crack roused him. The carriage swerved and came to a halt. He got out and noticed that the coachman had his head on his knees. Had the fellow had too much to drink and fallen asleep? As he was trying to shake him awake, a shot rang out and he heard a bullet whistle past his left ear. This was no time to hesitate. Pretending that he had been hit, he fell to the ground. His tricorn was still in the carriage, and in the right-hand brim was the pocket pistol, a gift from Bourdeau, which he never let out of his sight. A rider was approaching from behind the carriage. In the position Nicolas was in, it was impossible for him to draw his sword. Lying near the ditch, amongst the horses’ legs, he tensed all his muscles, ready to roll across the grass for a desperate attempt on his attacker. He half closed his eyes, and saw everything around him in a kind of haze. Everything depended on his enemy’s intentions. He did not think much of his chances of survival if the man chose to fire a second time. If, on the other hand, he drew his sword, there was a small chance that he could turn the situation around. He heard the horse advancing cautiously, at a walking pace. There was a brief moment of silence, punctuated only by the beating of his heart. Nicolas was afraid his adversary could hear it, too. The horse snorted and tapped its hoof impatiently. The carriage horses responded by neighing. Silence fell again, then the gravel on the road crunched: the rider must have dismounted. Clearly he was taking the measure of the situation, on the lookout for any signs of life. Nicolas heard the footsteps slowly coming closer. Another shot rang out, from somewhere close by. Instead of being hit, Nicolas heard a muffled cry, followed by the sound of a body falling. Someone was runnin
g towards him.
‘Nicolas! Nicolas!’
The voice was Bourdeau’s. He looked up. The massive figure of the inspector loomed above him. Nicolas stood up and they embraced.
‘That’s the second time you’ve saved my life, Pierre. I remain in your debt.’
They considered the damage: the coachman was dead and the stranger was lying on his stomach, beside his horse. He had a red hole in the back of his neck from which issued a thin trickle of blood.
‘Congratulations, Bourdeau. What a shot!’
‘I did what I could,’ said the inspector modestly. ‘There was no time to lose.’
‘One thing at a time,’ Nicolas went on. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
‘Oh, that’s a long story,’ said Bourdeau, sardonically. ‘Monsieur Le Floch killed! That would have been the last straw. I would have had to account to Monsieur de Sartine, who would have stood there stony-faced and demanded satisfaction of me, all the while torturing one of his wigs. I can just see it! Anyway, to cut that long story short, it all began when Monsieur de Noblecourt sent for me regarding the attempted robbery in your apartment. Neither of us thought it was chance. There are too many things happening around you. The house was placed under surveillance, with Monsieur de Sartine’s blessing. Apart from that, Monsieur de La Borde informed me this morning that you had been entrusted with an extremely dangerous mission, and advised me to have you followed … You didn’t make it easy for me, though, with all your usual tricks for throwing a pursuer off the scent!’
‘You taught me well,’ said Nicolas, with a smile.
‘At your service! Anyway, until I got to Vincennes, impossible to observe anything, there was too much traffic. But later, on the open road, I spotted a rider who looked suspicious. The most difficult thing was to keep the right distance: far enough away not to be spotted by him and close enough to protect you. This poor coachman was his first victim. At that point, your servant, seeing what was about to happen, went full tilt. I took a short cut through the trees and arrived just in time to shoot this criminal. I was in a cold sweat, I can tell you, thinking you were wounded or worse. But let’s take a closer look at our man.’
The Nicolas Le Floch affair Page 28