The Châtelet Apprentice

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  On that front there was no progress. On several occasions he had gone to the address written on the Marquis de Ranreuil’s letter. He had greased the palm of a suspicious doorkeeper only to be ushered off the premises by an equally disdainful footman. The weeks went by slowly. Seeing how unhappy he was and wanting to give him something to do, Père Grégoire suggested that the young man work alongside him. Since 1611 the monastery of the Discalced Carmelites had been producing a medicinal brew sold throughout the kingdom, made from a recipe that the monks kept a closely guarded secret. Nicolas’s task was to crush the herbs. He learnt to recognise balm, angelica, cress, coriander, cloves and cinnamon, and discovered strange and exotic fruits. The long days spent using the mortar and pestle and breathing the fumes of the stills befuddled him so much that his mentor noticed and asked what was on his mind. Père Grégoire immediately promised that he would inquire about Monsieur de Sartine. He obtained a letter of introduction from the prior that would smooth Nicolas’s path. Monsieur de Sartine had just been appointed Lieutenant General of Police, replacing Monsieur Bertin. Père Grégoire accompanied this good news with a stream of comments so detailed that it was obvious the information had only recently been acquired.

  ‘Nicolas, my son, here you are about to encounter a man who might influence the course of your life, providing you know how to please him. The Lieutenant General of Police is the absolute head of the service to which His Majesty has appointed the task of maintaining law and order, not only in the streets but also in the daily lives of all his subjects. As criminal lieutenant of the Châtelet prison, Monsieur de Sartine already had considerable power. Just think what he will be able to do from now on. Rumour has it that he will not refrain from making arbitrary decisions … And to think that he’s only just turned thirty!’

  Père Grégoire lowered his naturally loud voice somewhat and made sure that no indiscreet ear could catch what he was saying.

  ‘The abbot told me in confidence that the King has given Monsieur de Sartine authority, in the last resort and when the situation is critical, to decide matters alone, outside the court and with the utmost secrecy. But you know nothing of this, Nicolas,’ he said, putting a finger to his lips. ‘Remember that this great office was created by our present King’s grandfather – God be with that great Bourbon. The people still remember his predecessor Monsieur d’Argenson, who they called “the creature from hell” because of his twisted face and body.’

  He suddenly threw a pitcher of water over a brazier, which sizzled, giving off acrid smoke.

  ‘But enough of all this. I’m talking too much. Take this letter. Tomorrow morning go down Rue de Seine and follow the river as far as Pont-Neuf. You know Île de la Cité, so you can’t go wrong. Cross the bridge there and follow the Quai de la Mégisserie on the right-hand side. It will take you to the Châtelet.’

  Nicolas got little sleep that night. His head was buzzing with Père Grégoire’s words and he was only too aware of his own insignificance. How could he, alone in Paris, cut off from those he loved and twice orphaned, have the audacity to face such a powerful man who had direct access to the King and who, Nicolas sensed, would have a decisive effect on his future?

  He tried unsuccessfully to banish the restless images haunting him and sought to conjure up a more soothing picture to calm his mind. Isabelle’s delicate features appeared before him, causing him further uncertainty. Why, when she knew that he would be gone from Guérande for some time, had his godfather’s daughter left without saying goodbye?

  He saw again in his mind’s eye the dyke amid the marshes where they had sworn their eternal love. How could he have believed her and been foolish enough even to dream that a child found in a cemetery might so much as look upon the daughter of the noble and powerful Marquis de Ranreuil? And yet his godfather had always been so kind to him … This bittersweet thought finally carried him off to sleep at about five in the morning.

  It was Père Grégoire who woke him one hour later. He washed and dressed, carefully combed his hair and, with the monk urging him on, stepped out into the cold of the street.

  This time he did not lose his way, despite the dark. In front of Palais Mazarin, buildings were gradually emerging from the gloom as day was breaking. The banks of the river, like muddy beaches, were already a hive of activity. Here and there groups of people huddled around fires. The first cries of the Paris day were ringing out everywhere, signs that the city was rousing itself from slumber.

  Suddenly a young drinks seller bumped into him. After almost dropping his tray of Bavarian tea the boy went off, swearing under his breath. Nicolas had tasted this drink, made fashionable some time ago by the Palatine princess, the Regent’s mother. It was, as Père Grégoire had explained to him, a hot beverage, sweetened with syrup of maidenhair.

  By the time he reached Pont-Neuf, it was already thick with people. He admired the statue of Henry IV and the pump of La Samaritaine. The workshops along the Quai de la Mégisserie were beginning to open, the tanners settling down to their day’s work now that the sun had risen. He walked along this foul-smelling bank with a handkerchief held to his nose.

  The mighty prison of the Châtelet rose up before him, dour and gloomy. He had never set eyes on it but guessed what it was. Uncertain how to proceed, he entered an archway dimly lit by oil lanterns. A man wearing a long dark gown passed him, and Nicolas called out:

  ‘Monsieur, I would like your help. I’m looking for the offices of the Lieutenant General of Police.’

  The man looked him up and down and, after an apparently thorough examination, answered him with a self-important air:

  ‘The Lieutenant General of Police is holding a private audience. Normally he sends someone to represent him, but Monsieur de Sartine is taking up office today and is presiding in person. Presumably you know that his department is to be found in Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, near Place Vendôme, but he still has an office in the Châtelet. Go and see his staff on the first floor. There’s an usher at the door, you cannot mistake it. Do you have the necessary introduction?’

  Wisely, Nicolas was careful not to reply. He took his leave politely and went off towards the staircase. At the end of the gallery, beyond a glass-panelled door, he found himself in an immense room with bare walls. A man was seated at a deal desk and looked as if he were nibbling his hands. As he approached, Nicolas realised that in fact it was one of those hard, dry biscuits that sailors ate.

  ‘Good day to you, Monsieur. I would like to know whether Monsieur de Sartine will receive me.’

  ‘The audacity! Monsieur de Sartine does not receive visitors.’

  ‘I must insist.’ (Nicolas sensed that everything depended on his insistence and he attempted to make his voice sound more assertive.) ‘I have, Monsieur, an audience this morning.’

  With instinctive quick-wittedness Nicolas waved before the usher the great missive bearing the armorial seal of the Marquis de Ranreuil. If he had presented the little note from the prior, he would doubtless have been shown the door immediately. This bold stroke shut the man up and, muttering something under his breath, he respectfully took possession of the letter and showed him a seat.

  ‘As you wish, but you’ll have to wait.’

  The usher lit his pipe and then withdrew into a silence that Nicolas would dearly have liked to break in order to allay his anxiety. He was reduced to contemplating the wall. Towards eleven o’clock, the room filled with people. A small man entered, to the accompaniment of polite whisperings. He was dressed in magistrate’s robes with a leather portfolio under his arm, and he disappeared through a door that had been left ajar, allowing a glimpse of a brightly lit drawing room. A few moments later the usher rapped on the door and he, too, disappeared. When he came back, he beckoned Nicolas to go in.

  The magistrate’s gown lay on the floor and the Lieutenant General of Police, dressed in a black coat, stood in front of a desk made of rare wood with gleaming bronze ornaments. He was reading the Marquis de Ranreuil’s letter w
ith intense concentration. The office was an ill-proportioned room, the bareness of the stone and the tiled floor contrasting with the luxury of the furniture and the rugs. The light from several candelabra added to the weak rays of the winter sun and to the red glow from the Gothic fireplace, illuminating Monsieur de Sartine’s pale face. He looked older than he was. His most striking feature was his high, bare forehead. His already greying natural hair was carefully combed and powdered. A pointed nose sharpened the features of a face lit from within by two steel-grey eyes that sparkled with irony. Though short of stature, his erect bearing emphasised his slenderness without detracting from his air of authority and dignity. Nicolas felt the beginnings of panic, but he remembered what he had been taught at school and controlled his trembling hands. Sartine was now fanning himself with the letter, examining his visitor inquisitively. The minutes seemed unending.

  ‘What is your name?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘Nicolas Le Floch, at your service, Monsieur.’

  ‘At my service, at my service … That remains to be seen. Your godfather gives a very favourable account of you. You can ride, you are a skilled swordsman, you have a basic knowledge of the law … These are considerable attainments for a notary’s clerk.’

  Hands on hips, he slowly began to walk around Nicolas, who blushed at this inspection and its accompanying snorts and chuckles of laughter.

  ‘Yes, yes, indeed, upon my word, it may well be true …’ continued the Lieutenant General.

  Sartine examined the letter thoughtfully, then went up to the fireplace and threw it in. It flared up with a yellow flame.

  ‘May we depend on you, Monsieur? No, don’t reply. You don’t know what this will mean for you. I have plans for you and Ranreuil is handing you to me. Do you understand? No, you understand nothing, nothing at all.’

  He went behind his desk and sat down, pinched his nose, then examined Nicolas once more, who was sweltering as he stood with his back to the roaring fire.

  ‘Monsieur, you are very young and I am taking a considerable risk by speaking to you as openly as I do. The King’s police needs honest people and I myself need faithful servants who will blindly obey me. Do you follow me?’

  Nicolas was careful not to agree.

  ‘Ah! I see you are quick to understand.’

  Sartine went towards the casement window and seemed fascinated by what he saw.

  ‘So much cleaning-up to do …’ he mumbled. ‘With meagre means at our disposal. No more, no less. Don’t you agree?’

  Nicolas had turned to face the Lieutenant General.

  ‘You will need to improve your knowledge of the law, Monsieur. You will devote some hours each day to this, as a form of diversion. You will have to work hard, indeed you will.’

  He hurried across to his desk and grabbed a sheet of paper. He motioned to Nicolas to sit down in the great red damask armchair.

  ‘Write. I want to see whether you have a good hand.’

  Nicolas, frightened out of his wits, concentrated as best he could. Sartine thought for a few moments, removed a small gold snuff-box from his coat pocket and took out a pinch of snuff which he delicately placed on the back of his hand. He sniffed first with one nostril and then the other, closed his eyes in contentment and sneezed loudly, sending black particles flying all around him and onto Nicolas, who withstood the storm. The Lieutenant gasped with pleasure as he blew his nose.

  ‘Come, write: “Monsieur, I think it appropriate for the King’s service and my own that as from today you should take as your personal secretary Nicolas Le Floch, to be paid from my account. I should be obliged if you would provide him with board and lodging and submit a detailed account of his work to me.” Take down the address: “To M. Lardin, Commissioner of Police at the Châtelet, at his residence, Rue des Blancs-Manteaux.”’

  Then, swiftly taking hold of the letter, he held it up to his face and examined it.

  ‘So, a somewhat bastard hand, yes, somewhat bastard,’ he declared, laughing. ‘But it will do for a beginner. It has flourish, it has movement.’

  He returned to the armchair that Nicolas had vacated, signed the missive, sanded it, folded it, lit a piece of wax from embers left in a brass pot, rubbed it over the paper and impressed his seal on it, all in the twinkling of an eye.

  ‘Monsieur, the functions I wish you to perform with Commissioner Lardin require integrity. Do you know what integrity is?’

  For once Nicolas dived straight in.

  ‘It is, Monsieur, scrupulously fulfilling the duties of an honest man and …’

  ‘So he can speak! Good. He still sounds rather schoolboyish but he’s not wrong. You will need to be discreet and cautious, be able to learn things and to forget things, and be capable of drawing secrets out of people. You will need to learn to write reports about the cases assigned to you, and in an elegant style. You will have to pick up on what you’re told and guess what you’re not told and, finally, to follow up the slightest lead you may have.’

  He emphasised his words by raising his forefinger.

  ‘That is not all: you must also be a fair and faithful witness to all you see, without weakening its significance or altering it one jot. Bear in mind, Monsieur, that on your exactness will depend the life and honour of men who, even if they may be the lowest of the low, must be treated according to the rules. You really are very young. I wonder … But then again so was your godfather when at your age he crossed the lines under enemy fire at the siege of Philipsbourg. He was with Marshal Berwick, who lost his life in the action. And I myself …’

  He seemed deep in thought and, for the first time, Nicolas saw a flicker of compassion light up his face.

  ‘You will need to be vigilant, swift, active, incorruptible. Yes, above all incorruptible.’ (Here he hit the precious marquetry of the desk with the palm of his hand). ‘Go, Monsieur,’ concluded Sartine, rising to his feet, ‘from now on you are in the King’s service. Ensure we are always satisfied with you.’

  Nicolas bowed and took the letter that was held out to him. He was near the door when the mocking little voice stopped him with a laugh:

  ‘Really, Monsieur, you are admirably dressed for someone from Lower Brittany but you’re in Paris now. Go to Vachon, my tailor in Rue Vieille-du-Temple. Get him to make you some coats, undergarments and accessories.’

  ‘I do not …’

  ‘On my account, Monsieur, on my account. Let it not be said that I left the godson of my friend Ranreuil in rags. A handsome godson, to tell the truth. Be off with you and always be at the ready.’

  Nicolas was relieved when he reached the river again. He took in a deep breath of the cold air. He felt he had survived this first ordeal, even if some of what Sartine had said was bound to worry him a little. He rushed back to the monastery of the Discalced Carmelites, where the good monk was waiting for him whilst furiously pounding some innocent plants.

  Grégoire had to temper Nicolas’s enthusiasm and managed to dissuade him from going off to Commissioner Lardin’s residence that very evening. Although the watchmen did their rounds the streets were dangerous; he was afraid that Nicolas might lose his way and attract trouble, especially in the dark.

  He tried to dampen the young man’s eagerness by asking for a blow-by-blow account of his audience with the Lieutenant General of Police. He made Nicolas go over the smallest detail and drew out the proceedings by adding his own comments and asking more questions. He constantly alighted on points requiring further explanation.

  Inwardly, and despite his original foreboding, Père Grégoire marvelled at how Monsieur de Sartine had so quickly been able to turn this unknown provincial boy, still overawed by the great city, into an instrument of his police force. He rightly assumed that beneath this near miracle, performed with such speed, there lurked a mystery whose complexities he did not understand. He therefore looked on Nicolas with amazement, as if he were a creature of his own making who was now suddenly beyond his control. It made him feel sad, but not bitter, and
he punctuated his remarks with ‘God have mercy’ and ‘This is beyond me’, repeated ad infinitum.

  By now it was time for supper, so the pair of them hurried off to the refectory. Then Nicolas prepared himself for a night’s sleep that proved no more refreshing than the previous one. He had to try to restrain his imagination. It was often feverish and unbridled and played unfortunate tricks on him, either by making the future look bleak or, on the contrary, by putting out of his mind what should have been a reason for caution or concern. He resolved once more to improve himself and, for reassurance, told himself that he knew how to benefit from experience. However, his familiar anxiety soon returned with the thought that the following day he would be starting a new life that he had to avoid conjuring up in his imagination. On several occasions this idea gripped him just as he was dozing off, and it was very late by the time he finally fell into a deep sleep.

  *

  In the morning, after he had listened to Père Grégoire’s final words of advice, Nicolas said goodbye and they promised to see each other again. The monk had indeed grown fond of the young man and would have been happy to continue to instruct him in the science of medicinal herbs. As the weeks had gone by his pupil’s considerable qualities of observation and reflection had not escaped his notice. He made him write two letters, one to his guardian and the other to the marquis, and promised to have them sent. Nicolas did not dare add a message for Isabelle, vowing that he would make good use of his new-found freedom to do so a little later.

  Almost as soon as Nicolas had stepped out of the doors of the monastery, Père Grégoire went to the altar of the Blessed Virgin and began to pray for him.