Public conveniences were singularly lacking in Paris and strollers often found themselves caught out on the busy streets when the need was urgent. Short of finding a quiet spot, a difficult thing to do, or relieving themselves in a strange house with all the risks that involved, they resorted to this odd character, who under a loose-fitting, canvas gown concealed two pails suspended on a crossbar he carried on his shoulders. Tirepot had perfected the system by fixing a stool for himself down below his back, enabling him to sit down whilst his customers went about their business, thus making conversation easier.
‘Nicolas, have a seat, I’ve got some important things to tell you.’
‘I don’t have the time. But stay around and I’ll see you later.’
Jean agreed and continued his rounds. His usual shout – ‘Everyone knows what they need to do’ – rang out under the arches. Nicolas went into the Châtelet. Never had this seat of law and order, sunk in its bluish, sepulchral gloom with its musty smell, seemed so sinister and so deserving of its reputation. A heavy torpor began to numb his senses; he was weary in body and soul, and yet he knew that a hard day’s work lay ahead of him. He tried to pull himself together and drive away the dark thoughts that haunted him.
As he began to climb the great staircase he paid no attention to the person who stood motionless on a step, watching him go up. What happened next was swift and sudden. The shadowy figure sprang out in front of him, and at first all he noticed was the sour, stale smell of damp leather. Nicolas was thrown against the wall, his hat fell off and his head, which was still sore, hit the stone surface. His wound started bleeding again and a hand grabbed him by the throat. He could now make out the face of his assailant, who in any case made no effort to disguise himself. It was that of a man still quite young, with a scar running right across his closely shaven head. The initial impression was of someone level-headed and kind but this picture was immediately contradicted by the implacable light in his staring eyes. He pursed his thin-lipped mouth so tightly that the whole of his face, emptied of blood and life, looked like death itself.
The man was holding Nicolas fast. His features changed completely, reverting to their former beauty. Nicolas was terrified to be at the mercy of such a two-faced creature.
‘A word of advice, young Breton; you got away with it yesterday, you won’t get off so lightly next time. Forget what you know, or else …’
The man made a more violent movement and Nicolas felt a weapon strike him near the ribs, but without going very deep into the flesh. He was released and pushed back against the wall, hitting his head again. The man sprang up, bounded down the steps and disappeared.
Nicolas knew he would never forget those pale green eyes. He recognised that lifeless look; it was that of a reptile. He saw himself as a child once more, crouching in the marshes near Guérande, preparing to catch in mid-air a frog he had lured with a poppy petal attached to the end of a string. An enormous grass snake had risen up and, before grabbing its prey, had fixed Nicolas with its cold, unwavering stare.
This new assault, carried out in cold blood in the very building that symbolised the law, proved at any rate the extent to which his investigation threatened some murky interests, and how immune from punishment those behind his assailant felt, to have struck him like this in broad daylight.
Nicolas dragged himself onto the landing. His heart was pounding so fast that he was unable to get his breath back. In the Lieutenant General’s anteroom his old friend the usher, sitting at his deal table, did not see him enter. He was completely taken up by one of his favourite activities: he was grinding a plug of tobacco and the result of this operation was then carefully recovered, without losing a single scrap, and placed inside a small pewter tin. Nicolas’s hurried breathing made him look up and he let out a cry of surprise when he discovered the young man covered in blood.
‘Good God, what a sight, Monsieur Nicolas. I’m going to send for help. Monsieur Bourdeau is looking for you and can’t be far away. Mary and Joseph, whatever has happened to you?’
‘It’s nothing. A wound to the head that has started bleeding again. The head always bleeds a lot. I must see Monsieur de Sartine immediately. Is he here?’
Nicolas had to support himself by holding onto the table to avoid collapsing; his vision was becoming blurred and everything around him was spinning. The usher took a glass flask from one of his pockets and, after a quick look around to check they were alone, offered him a drink.
‘Drink it. It’s good stuff. Heavens, in this cold I’ve always got my little stock of rum, like the old salt I am. Come on, it’ll buck you up.’
The awful gut-rot made Nicolas cough but the after-effect of the alcohol warmed him and brought some colour back to his cheeks.
‘That’s more like it. You’re already looking better. A bit more life about you now, eh? You want to see Monsieur de Sartine? Well, you’re in luck. He ordered me to show you in, and quickly, if you turned up. He wasn’t in a good mood for someone who’s always on such an even keel. He was taking it out on his wig, which says it all.’
It seemed that everyone was looking for him this morning!
The usher rapped on the door, waited for an invitation that was not forthcoming, carried on regardless and stepped aside to let Nicolas in.
The familiar room seemed empty. Only the roar of the fire in the grate and the crackle of a log collapsing in a spray of sparks disturbed the silence of the study. The warmth enveloped Nicolas, together with a soothing, languid feeling. Since he had left Antoinette this was the first moment of well-being he had experienced. Motionless and almost in a daze he suddenly noticed the tops of two wigs above the backs of the armchairs in front of the desk. Rooted to the spot, he heard more than listened to the conversation.
‘But, my dear fellow, how did we get into this mess?’ exclaimed Sartine. ‘And this morning I read in a dispatch of a rumour going around London: Lally, under siege in Pondicherry, is said to have capitulated.1 Our possessions in India are now under threat like those in Canada a year ago …’
A shrill voice interrupted the Lieutenant General of Police.
‘What do you expect? We were already at war with England and now we’ve added the alliance with Austria. A land war on top of a war at sea. Trying to do two things at once … In addition all this requires gold, a lot of gold, and leaders. Yes, leaders most of all. The army is in chaos. There are too many laws that cannot be enforced; the officers are corrupt, the upper ranks are incompetent and the lower ranks disaffected. There’s nothing but disorder, unbridled ambition and court intrigues …’
‘But wasn’t all this carefully weighed up?’
‘Carefully weighed up and pondered over, Monsieur. But the lure of the sirens’ song was too strong. And when I say sirens … Count Kaunitz,2 the then ambassador of Her Imperial Highness, was the idol of Paris and Versailles. He played to the gallery bringing out his manservants just to powder wigs …’
A hand suddenly emerged above the back of the chair, checking the sit of a wig.
‘… He is courting the good lady, who is being lured with the prospect of imperial recognition.3 She has suddenly become interested in diplomacy and having a new role to perform. Acting in playlets in the private apartments is no longer enough for her. A show of devoutness and an interest in affairs of State, that’s where the future for ageing royal favourites lies! For my part, if I took the liberty of judging the state of France I would conclude that the future of this country is hanging by a thread, and that it’s a dilapidated old machine that will, in the end, break into pieces at the first impact. I fear no one can see the danger. That it’s deliberate policy, not to want to see.’
‘My dear friend, you are very incautious.’
‘We are alone and talking to you, Sartine, is like talking to myself. We are old companions. In Paris people are saying that the good lady is collecting anything ever written about Madame de Maintenon …’
‘That’s what they say and it’s true.’
>
‘You are in the best position to know … But I’m straying from the point. In fact the choice was between war with England and the costs that incurred, or a daring reversal of alliances with the risk of a land war. But these featherbrains imagined that the war would be short. And what were the expected benefits for the Kingdom? All talk and show.’
‘What exactly do you mean?’
‘Well, of course. Everyone galloped on, heads in the clouds. Oh! The French are birdbrains! Austria held out so many prospects. The Infante Don Felipe, the King’s son-in-law, promising to give up his little Italian dukedoms in exchange for settling in the Low Countries. Ostend and Nieuport pledged to France and occupied by our forces, thereby protecting our vulnerable northern border. Think of how promising this agreement was supposed to be, with advantages even for our Swedish, Palatinate and Saxon allies. Lastly, Austria, so full of fine words, agreeing to end its opposition to Prince de Conti’s claims to the Polish throne. The good lady already saw herself holding all these fragile threads together. The end of hostilities with the enemy Habsburgs was considered an exemplary model of caution and politics. Think of the claims that were made. That peace would be firmly established and that the alliance would strengthen it. “They” were in a hurry to produce commemorative plaques and medals … The mistake was forgetting about the English and that “Solomon of the North”,4 so highly praised by Voltaire, for whom the spilling of French blood is cause for celebration.’
‘The war with England was not of our making,’ Sartine remarked.
‘True, they didn’t leave us any choice. They’re pirates, yes, that’s what they are.’
The sound of a fist thumping the corner of the desk made Nicolas start. He wondered whether or not to signal his presence.
‘They seized three hundred of our ships and captured six thousand sailors, without officially declaring war,’ continued the shrill voice. ‘And today, as you well know, our navy is in the hands of an incompetent. That predecessor of yours, Berryer, who made a reputation for himself with the good lady by indulging her whims, by telling her all the gossip of the capital and by foiling imaginary plots, is now the minister in charge of that department. And Monsieur de Choiseul wanted a landing in Scotland. A friend of mine, who has served on the King’s ships, proved to me, map in hand, the folly of such a plan. What’s more …’
One of the wigs disappeared and the voice took on a hushed tone:
‘What’s more, we were betrayed.’
‘What do you mean, betrayed?’
‘Yes, Sartine. One of my colleagues, an official in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, was selling our plans to the English.’
‘Was he arrested?’
‘Of course not. It was important not to tip off London. We are monitoring him now, but it’s too late. The damage is done, the disaster has happened and we still have men-of-war blockaded in the estuary of the Vilaine by the English fleet.
Nicolas remembered that in one of his last letters, Canon Le Floch had recounted how, with the Marquis de Ranreuil, he had gone to see the French ships at anchor near Tréhiguier.
‘My friend,’ asked Sartine in a low voice, ‘does this betrayal have any connection with the matter currently exercising us?’
‘I don’t think so, but the result will be the same. The situation is such that nothing must be allowed to compromise the interests of the King or those of his advisers. Alas, since our defeat at Rossbach5 nothing must be overlooked. The King of Prussia was taken for an inconsequential fool and look at the result. Everything went to pieces the day that pillager Richelieu – you know his soldiers call him “the Old Pilferer” – negotiated terms with Frederick instead of crushing him.’
‘You’re unfair on the victor of Port Mahon.’
‘A terrible price was paid, Sartine, a terrible price! The marshal’s attitude in Germany was worse than a betrayal, it was foolishness. This is what happens when you let a woman run affairs of State from her boudoir. The good lady wanted her friend Soubise to have all the credit for a probable victory over Frederick. What other result could you expect from a tactic drawn up three hundred leagues from the battlefield by her protégé and commissary of the army, Paris-Duverney?6 Since then successes and reversals have alternated with monotonous regularity. And for what? What interests are at stake now? It makes me weary and sad.’
‘Come, come. This isn’t like you. We’ll win in the end and the King …’
‘Talking of whom. As someone who sees him, how do you find him?’
‘I saw him at my weekly audience on Sunday evening in Versailles. He also seemed to me weary and sad. His face was bloated, his complexion sallow …’
‘Private dinners, game, wine … He’s getting too old for all that.’
‘The mood was glum,’ continued Sartine. ‘He paid no attention to the piquant little anecdotes that he has such a liking for and that I constantly feed him. That evening all the talk was about people who had died recently – and preferably suddenly – prayers for the dying and other gloomy subjects. Things often become an obsession with His Majesty.’
‘Especially since the assassination attempt.’
‘You’re quite right. Do you know what the King’s response was to his doctor, La Martinière, when he came to examine the knife wound caused by Damiens and reassured him by saying that the wound wasn’t deep? “It is deeper than you think, for it goes to the heart.” He also quoted his grandfather when he confided in me “that one was no longer happy at his age”. And yet he’s much younger than Louis the Great was at the time of the military reversals at the end of his reign. Finally he spoke at length of the basilica of Saint-Denis “that kings never see because only their coffins take them there on the day of their funeral”. He pressed me, of course, on you know what …’
‘The good lady bears her share of responsibility in all this. On the pretext of taking the King’s mind off his gloomy thoughts, she finds more and more opportunity for entertainments of a particular kind, when she’s not organising them herself.’
‘Public opinion will turn against her, if our misfortunes continue. The war, the struggle with the parlements and the religious issue – that’s quite a list.’
‘To return to matters concerning us,’ said the stranger, ‘is there anything new? It fills me with anxiety to think that … Can you give me some hope?’
A long silence followed. Nicolas dared not breathe.
‘I’ve got one of my men on the job. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for. He’s at one and the same time my hare and hound. His greatest advantage is that no one knows him and he knows nothing.’
Nicolas felt his legs give way beneath him; he just managed to catch himself in time but his hand struck the ground. The faint noise sounded as if a thunderbolt had hit the room. Reacting simultaneously but in opposite directions, Monsieur de Sartine turned round to discover a petrified Nicolas, whereas his guest turned his back and hid his face behind a hat. Then the Lieutenant General waved imperiously towards a bookcase behind his desk. The visitor scuttled towards it and pressed its gilt mouldings. The bookshelves swung round, opening up a passageway through which the man hurriedly disappeared. The whole scene had lasted no more than three seconds.
Now, arms crossed, Monsieur de Sartine gazed at Nicolas without saying a word.
‘Monsieur, I did not want to …’
‘Monsieur Le Floch, what you have just done is inexcusable. I put my trust in you … On pain of death, you heard nothing. But look at the state you are in. This is what taking up with whores does for you. Well, Monsieur, what do you have to say for yourself?’
Monsieur de Sartine stood up straight, with that triumphant little look in his eye that the satisfaction of showing that he was the best-informed person in France always gave him.
‘Monsieur, may I say very humbly that I do not deserve either your anger or your irony. I am truly sorry about what has just happened. I did not do it willingly or deliberately. The usher showed me in, saying th
at you were looking for me and had ordered that I should be sent in without delay. Dazed by my injury and almost fainting, I thought your study was empty, and when I discovered that you were here with your visitor, I felt it inappropriate to show myself. I didn’t know what to do.’
The Lieutenant General remained silent, displaying the laconic disposition that Parisians said could make the dumb talk and the most resolute tremble. Nicolas had never been subjected to it before, his master always having been until then talkative and courteous, even if occasionally brusque and impatient.
‘You are misinformed, Monsieur …’
Nicolas waited in vain for a reaction to his rejoinder.
‘I was not with whores, as you say. Yesterday my investigation into Commissioner Lardin’s disappearance led me to a house of pleasure kept by a madam called La Paulet. I presume you know of the Dauphin Couronné. As I was leaving the establishment a cab attempted to run me over. I was knocked down on the cobblestones and lost consciousness. A girl helped me and took me to her room to dress my wound.’
Nicolas did not feel it necessary to expand and to dwell on details of the story that concerned only him.
‘This morning I came as quickly as possible to the Châtelet where I hoped to have the honour of speaking to you. As I climbed the grand staircase I was attacked once again by a hired ruffian, who threatened and wounded me, and who I have every reason to believe was Monsieur Mauval. This, Monsieur, is the explanation for the dishevelled and confused state I was in when I came into your room.
He was becoming increasingly excited and speaking more and more loudly. Sartine remained inscrutable.
The Châtelet Apprentice Page 13