Saturday 14 May 1774
Early the following morning, Nicolas presented himself at the Hôtel de Gramont in Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin. As he entered the building, he ran into Monsieur Durfort de Cheverny, former presenter of ambassadors, now governor of the Blésois, and a friend of Sartine’s. He liked Nicolas, whom he had met at the King’s little dinners and who had once helped him by solving a tricky case involving false bills of exchange.
‘Commissioner,’ said the comte, ‘I hope your presence will cheer our friend. Before you go in, I must tell you that your devotion to His Majesty in his last days was a comfort to all those close to him. Now our master is gone, and for an insensitive nation that’s an occasion for singing and laughter. When one reign ends and another begins, we know what we are losing but not yet what we are gaining. You will find Monsieur de Sartine in quite a bitter mood.’
‘Did something unfortunate happen at La Muette, where he was due to see the King?’
‘If you want to put it like that. Being his usual calm self, I fear he lacked presence of mind. The Dauphin – I mean the new King – is the best of men, but wearing the crown is a great burden. He is not sure whom he can trust, having no confidence in any of those currently in charge. His first concern was to ask for his Lieutenant General of Police.’
‘It was a sensible move.’
‘Of course, but His Majesty embarrassed our friend by drawing up an armchair for him and forcing him to sit down. He asked him a few questions about his post, then opened his heart to him and asked him to indicate which people he thought best able to run affairs. But …’
‘But?’
‘But Monsieur de Sartine dropped the ball. If, instead of saying that he would give his answer within two days, he had come prepared to speak knowledgeably on the various matters requiring attention by the government, the odds are that the young King would immediately have given him his full confidence. He would have become First Minister, instead of which His Majesty, not having found in him the support he had been hoping for, will now look elsewhere.’
Nicolas had been warned: the welcome he would receive from his chief would be the kind he usually received when the man was in a bad mood. And indeed Monsieur de Sartine replied to the commissioner’s greeting with a low mutter and an absent air. He did not even seem interested in the wicker baskets, covered with labels, seals and string, containing the latest wigs newly arrived from the best manufacturers throughout Europe, but sat there, looking at his hands, without raising his eyes. Nicolas did not wait for him to ask questions. He recounted how he had attended the King with Monsieur de La Borde, the mission with which he had been entrusted, the events in Rue Montmartre and those on the road to Meaux, his meeting with the disgraced Madame du Barry, and Gaspard’s betrayal.
As his story went on, he noted that Monsieur de Sartine’s interest was gradually aroused, even though he did not manifest any reaction. He finally stood up and began pacing about the room. Then he sat down again, took a sheet of paper, wrote a few words, folded it and sealed it.
‘Thank you, Nicolas,’ he said, ‘for having been where I was unable to be, due to my tasks here and the difficult situation here in Paris. I appreciate your loyalty. Now we have to trust in the new King. He has done me the honour of listening to me … or at least …’
He broke off, and gave a slightly bitter smile.
‘And besides, he knows you, I think. This letter will allow you to approach him without hindrance. Do not waste a minute. And when you return, do not hesitate to come and report to me, even if you have to wake me. I have every reason to believe that the interests of the kingdom are at stake. We’ll speak of that again. Intrigue is the order of the day as never before!’
Nicolas ran down the steps of the building, found a carriage and ordered the coachman to take him immediately to the Château de la Muette, which was situated on the edge of the Bois de Boulogne. On the way there, he thought again about his interview with Monsieur de Sartine. Only once before, in all the time they had worked together, had he seen events upset the precise mechanism of the Lieutenant General’s thoughts and feelings in that way. He could not say whether it was a matter of the sorrow Sartine felt at the severing of the close ties he had established with his monarch during their weekly interviews, or the anxiety of a powerful man whose influence, unquestioned until now, could well, with the new reign, diminish and even disappear. This must be on the minds of all Louis XV’s closest servants, Nicolas thought: La Borde had expressed the same fear in another form.
As he approached the Château de la Muette, he was surprised by the cheerful atmosphere that seemed to prevail amongst the idle crowd thronging the Bois de Boulogne. Stalls had sprung up, from which pastries and coconuts were being sold. He observed a vendor with a tin dispenser on his back and a cap adorned with plates of copper and heron feathers. Around his waist he had a white apron, and two silver cups hung from his belt on chains. The carriage having stopped for a moment, brought to a halt by the crowd, he heard the traditional cry: ‘Nice and cool, nice and cool, who will drink?’ A man refreshing himself from one of these cups suddenly saw it jump from his hands and fly away, spattering those around him with liquorice water: someone had walked on the chain and made it taut, thus producing this catastrophe. Some distance away, onlookers were crowding around a magic lantern. Its happy owner promised his prospective customers that he would show them ‘what will never be seen anywhere else, the virginity of a girl from the Opéra’. With him was a fat woman who was taking advantage of the growing crowd to sell a box of fragrant almond biscuits hung round her neck on a strap. Despite his grief, Nicolas was not insensitive to the joy of this friendly crowd gathering around the royal residence in the hope, often disappointed, of seeing its occupants and proclaiming their expectations for the new era.
It was at La Muette that the Duchesse de Berry, the beloved daughter of the regent, the Duc d’Orléans, had died. In 1747, the late King had rebuilt it and transformed it into a boating and hunting lodge. Louis XVI and Marie-Antoinette were living there with a reduced staff. Nicolas encountered no difficulty in entering the chateau. The captain of the guards handed him over to the care of Monsieur Thierry, previously First Groom of the Dauphin’s Bedchamber, who had now, with the accession of his master to the throne, taken over Monsieur de La Borde’s functions. This discreet, courteous man took Monsieur de Sartine’s letter, with drew, then returned and ushered him into a drawing room. Two people were already there. One, wearing the purple mourning coat of the Order of the Holy Spirit, he recognised as the man he still, in his heart of hearts, thought of as the Dauphin, while the other was Monsieur de La Ferté, steward of the royal entertainments.
‘Who are you?’ the King was asking, looking down his nose at the steward and blinking his eyes.
‘Sire, my name is La Ferté and I have come to receive your orders.’ ‘What? Why?’
Nicolas noted the somewhat abrupt tone. Monsieur de La Ferté shrank back, disconcerted.
‘But … Sire, I’m the steward for entertainments …’
‘What entertainments?’
‘Your Majesty’s entertainments, Sire.’
‘Our entertainment is to stroll in the grounds. We do not need you.’2
He turned his back on the steward and, as he did so, noticed Nicolas. He did not recognise him at first. His eyes were clear and gentle, but vague: he was short-sighted and, without spectacles, moved in a blurred world which made him look totally lacking in self-confidence. Nicolas remembered the late King’s dark, expressive eyes. He was struck again by the new monarch’s size: he towered over Nicolas by a good head. But the whole was lacking in harmony, the legs were too thick, the face a little flabby, the teeth very irregular. Still irritable from his encounter with Monsieur de La Ferté, the King approached Nicolas and looked him up and down. At last, his face lit up in a friendly but not very graceful smile.
‘Ah, Monsieur, did you know we had a good conversation with your Algonquin friend? Ve
ry interesting, in truth.’
Nicolas took Sartine’s letter, now quite crumpled, from his coat.
‘Monsieur de Sartine, in whom I have full confidence, urges me to hear what you have to say.’
He looked behind him. Realising that he was superfluous, Monsieur de La Ferté backed out of the room.
‘We would have done so even without this,’ the King went on. ‘Our grandfather held you in great esteem, which fully entitles you to have access to our person. We are listening, Monsieur.’
This was said without hesitation and with real majesty, accentuated by the use of the royal ‘we’, which created a somewhat artificial distance. He sat down and invited Nicolas to do the same. Nicolas hesitated, but had to resign himself after a second, more peremptory gesture of invitation. He decided to get straight to the point, at the risk of seeming abrupt. He explained clearly and concisely what the late King had ordered him to do, as well as the exact circumstances in which the box had been handed over to him in the presence of Monsieur de La Borde. He next spoke about Gaspard’s confession. The King did not interrupt him. From time to time, he took out an elaborate watch, more to observe its mechanism somewhat distractedly than because he was trying to show his impatience. Nicolas also evoked, in a succinct manner, the possibility that this episode might have some connection with a case that concerned him closely and because of which the late King had sent him to England. Louis XVI did not utter a word. He rose and tugged at a bell pull. Almost immediately, Monsieur Thierry appeared, and was told to fetch the Duc de La Vrillière, who was still Minister of the King’s Household. The graceless little man appeared, bowed to the King and threw a casual glance at Nicolas, who was used to the minister’s curt manner.
‘Commissioner Le Floch has just revealed all to me,’ said the King. ‘That doesn’t surprise you, I suppose?’
‘Good, good. He’s one of us, a man of honour. It could not be otherwise.’
Nicolas did not understand anything of this exchange. The King started laughing, positively shaking with mirth. Nicolas, whose grief for his former master was like an open wound, was shocked. But then he recalled that the Dauphin was not yet twenty.
‘Monsieur,’ the King went on, ‘our grandfather was very fond of you. But he also loved the kind of action in which secrecy is everything and prevails over what one owes to the human instruments one uses, even their rights. Carry on, Minister.’
‘Very well,’ said La Vrillière, looking at the ceiling. ‘It was the King who had those stones and that blank sheet of paper placed in the box that was entrusted to you. It was all a ploy to flush out those who wished to seize the box and its contents, by setting them on your trail.’
‘But, Monsieur,’ said Nicolas, astonished, ‘how could the King foresee what was going to happen to me?’
‘How? How? Please don’t imagine, Monsieur, that you are the centre of all intrigues and the only victim of these plots. We had been aware on several occasions that information to which only the King and a few of his associates were privy had been leaking out. For a long time, we had suspected that it was one of the servants, those who are always around the King and are so much part of the furniture they are no longer noticed. Who this traitor is, we may never know.’
‘Wrong,’ said the King. ‘Monsieur de Ranreuil has just revealed the culprit. A page by the name of Gaspard.’
‘Well, well,’ said La Vrillière. ‘The chapter is closed, then. Commissioner Le Floch remains at your service, Sire, I recommend him to you. This affair proves his loyalty once again, if proof were needed.’
Nicolas had the impression that it was all going to end like this, but he could not agree to it. What of his honour? What of the promise he had made a fallen woman to find the objects entrusted to him by the King? Was he going to remain silent, thus surely earning him the mistrust and contempt of the Comtessse du Barry? He could hesitate no longer.
‘Monsieur,’ he said to the minister, ‘I can understand the King’s precautionary measures, but with your permission, Sire, I should like to know what was supposed to happen to the real box.’
‘Ah!’ said La Vrillière. ‘I was supposed to hand it over to the lady after the King’s death.’
‘And …’
‘And, Monsieur, to satisfy your curiosity, I did not do so. I considered that, as my master was dead, my service ceased immediately and that there was no further need to carry out his orders. His successor would have to decide whether to revoke or renew them.’
‘Nevertheless,’ Nicolas said, raising his voice, ‘I gave my word to a lady in distress. What must I say to her now?’
‘There is nothing to say to her,’ La Vrillière replied curtly. ‘She should count herself lucky that the King has been so lenient.’
Nicolas was dizzy with indignation. But then he noticed the King looking at him intensely. It was as if a cloud had settled over his face. Was he or the minister the cause of it? Could it be that La Vrillière’s fate had been sealed? Was everything now in the hands of this awkward giant, who, for all his easy-going ways, had a good deal of knowledge and common sense, as Nicolas had already seen demonstrated?
‘Monsieur Le Floch is right,’ Louis XVI said at last. ‘A man of good breeding does not lie. Here, Monsieur.’ The King took out the little sealed red velvet purse and handed it to him with a smile. ‘You may check the contents, Monsieur.’
‘Your Majesty is mocking me. You know I would obey the King with my eyes closed.’
‘That’s good, Monsieur. Here is a letter for the abbess. We have such confidence in you that we anticipated your visit. As for the lady in question, tell her from me – my word is worth more than any scrap of paper – that the respect we have for our grandfather’s memory precludes us from behaving in an unseemly way towards her. She needs to be patient, and make sure she is not spoken about. The unfortunate woman is more to be pitied than many of those who have abandoned her.’ He cast a sideways glance at La Vrillière. ‘In any case, she can rest assured that never – I repeat: never – will Choiseul, whose vengeance I am well aware she fears, return to office. Now, Monsieur, go to cleanse your honour: it is dear to me.’
Nicolas knelt before the King, who raised him up while the minister looked on expressionlessly.
On the return journey, Nicolas forced himself not to think and to concentrate on the spectacle of the street. His first reaction had been to accept and understand the former King’s final precautionary measure. He told himself, nevertheless, that a more honest procedure would have been just as effective and would have made it possible for him to be more aware of the risks inherent in his mission. He would then gladly have agreed to be used as bait. But his life was of no account in this affair. The bullet aimed at him had missed him by a whisker and, without Bourdeau’s intervention, his corpse would now be rotting in some shady copse in Brie. In truth, he no longer knew what to think. He remembered La Borde’s words during those terrible days of the King’s agony. Their master, in so far as his condition allowed it, had been tirelessly pursuing a long meditated plan. The firmness of purpose with which he had done so had astonished even La Borde. He had calculated everything, arranged every thing, without saying a word. He had only asked for the sacraments when he was convinced he had no other recourse.
He recalled other, more bitter words: those of Bourdeau. The inspector, although as devoted as ever to his task, no longer nourished any illusions about the gratitude and consideration of the powers that be. Gratitude was, in his opinion, the only wealth of the poor, and consideration an illusion of those who thought they enjoyed it. ‘That’s what the great are …’ he would say, raising his eyes to heaven. He nevertheless continued to serve his masters without unnecessary qualms. Nicolas vowed to follow his example. The years inevitably brought disappointment. The lessons piled up, but you never learnt from them. In this age of dissipation and corruption, did devotion and loyalty amount merely to naivety? Despite everything, he could not convince himself of that. There was more
honour in keeping to one’s own rules than in abandoning oneself to the failings of the century. It was with this reflection that he entered the Hôtel de Gramont.
Monsieur de Sartine was just finishing lunch – rather late, as he had been delayed by a number of urgent matters.3 He came running, his table napkin in his hand. Nicolas reported his audience with the King, word for word. Sartine listened to him icy-faced, without interrupting. A long silence followed.
‘So,’ he said, ‘the Duc de La Vrillière knew right from the start about the mission with which the King entrusted you?’ Another silence fell. When Sartine opened his mouth again, it was as if he were speaking to himself and Nicolas could barely catch his words.
‘I understand him only too well … Where I was stupid was in misjudging him despite being such a close friend of his … What vanity, to mix sentiment with business … And that’s not the half of it! Well, I’ve been servile for twenty years, and proud of it, so why should I be surprised now if I feel a certain disgust? This moment is a decisive one … Let’s forget elegance, and may clarity take the place of reason.’
He looked up, as if suddenly discovering that he was not alone. His face regained its usual impassivity.
‘If such is the case,’ he went on, ‘it is up to me to inform the King. Here are my instructions: that Commissioner Le Floch – you, Nicolas – after visiting the convent of Pont-aux-Dames, return promptly to Paris. That, aided and abetted by Inspector Bourdeau and by the full apparatus of the police force, he reopen the file on the murder of Madame de Lastérieux. That he place under arrest those witnesses so far protected by the powers that be and duly interrogate them. That the elements of the original investigation, once gathered and matched, be used as the basis of a formal and – I will request this if need be from His Majesty – secret judicial process. For that purpose, a commission over which I shall preside, along with the Criminal Lieutenant and a person of quality whom the King will appoint, will meet to hear you present your evidence and decide how to proceed with the case. I want to throw complete light on this series of events, which I am convinced are linked to hidden political intrigues. Monsieur, your duty is clear. Go.’
The Nicolas Le Floch affair Page 30