The Châtelet Apprentice

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  They were nearing Versailles. Nicolas summoned up all the resources of his childhood faith and sighed as if to relieve the weight of things unsaid that was crushing him.

  Monsieur de Sartine misinterpreted Nicolas’s reaction. He had been waiting for a signal to break the silence that he obviously found so oppressive. Good-naturedly he sought to reassure Nicolas. He held forth about the Court as only an insider could. During the present reign Versailles, he said, had lost the splendour it had enjoyed under Louis XIV. The King was frequently absent and then it was truly deserted, with nobody there except those who were obliged to remain. On the other hand, when the King was in residence, the courtiers flocked there and hunted with him, but as soon as they could they hurried back to Paris and its pleasures. Most of the ministers now resided in the capital.

  Nicolas admired the immense avenue that crossed a town with buildings scattered amidst parks and gardens. The crush of carriages grew. He leant out of the door and in the dazzling brightness of that spring day glimpsed a massive, impressive building thinly veiled in mist. The blue of the slate, the flashes of gold, the light-yellow stone and the red mass of brick heralded the royal palace. Soon the carriage reached Place d’Armes, filled with a host of other carriages, sedan chairs and pedestrians. It went through the first monumental gates decorated with the coat of arms of France and entered the first courtyard. It stopped in front of the second gate that restricted entry to the royal courtyard. Sartine informed Nicolas that this protected part was called the ‘Louvre’ and that only carriages or sedan chairs with red caparisons, showing that the occupants enjoyed the ‘honours’ of the palace, could enter it. They got out of the carriage, which the coachman stationed to the side. Two guards in blue jackets with long gold and silver braided stripes and red lapels saluted them before they headed off towards the buildings to their right.

  Nicolas, feeling lost, followed Monsieur de Sartine who was hurriedly making his way through a crowd of onlookers and courtiers. He had the feeling he was entering a gigantic maze of galleries, corridors and staircases of all sizes. The Lieutenant General was a frequent visitor and found his way around with ease. The young man’s state of confusion was comparable only to that he had experienced two years earlier on his arrival in Paris. His discomfort was further increased by the thought of all those stares directed at him, a stranger accompanying such a daunting figure. He felt constricted in the coat he was wearing for the first time. The foolish idea suddenly occurred to him that someone might suspect it had been ordered for someone else. He was not at all aware of the route they took, and he found himself in an enormous room amidst a dozen or so people who were gathered round a tall man being helped by a manservant to remove a blue coat with gold braid.1 The man then removed his shirt and was dried. A little old man, powdered and bejewelled, was handing him a change of clothes. The man recited some names in a monotonous voice to an usher. Sartine nudged Nicolas sharply, telling him to doff his hat. It was then that he realised he was in the presence of the King. He was surprised that the few people present continued to talk amongst themselves in low voices. A man whom he did not immediately recognise approached him and whispered in his ear:

  ‘I am delighted to see you again, Monsieur. You are present at the removal of the King’s boots. My compliments. His Majesty is in the process of choosing who will have the honour of dining with him.’

  He also greeted Sartine, who made no attempt to conceal his surprise at seeing Nicolas on friendly terms with Monsieur de La Borde, First Groom of the King’s Bedchamber. The expression on his superior’s face reassured the young man. He was not the only person to be experiencing surprise. The King’s voice rang out.

  ‘Richelieu,’ he said, speaking to the little old man, ‘I hope you have made your peace with d’Ayen about which of you is in charge of placing the guests at the riding school ball. Consult Durfort.’2

  ‘I shall comply with Your Majesty’s instructions. However, Sire, may I observe –’

  ‘That the hunt was not successful,’ the King interrupted. ‘Two stags missed at Fausse Repose. A third took refuge in the doe pond. It took us three attempts to shoot it. We are not pleased at present.’

  The old marshal nodded and forced a smile. As the King had finished changing he headed towards a small staircase and those present watched him disappear from view, bowing as he left. Before Nicolas had had time to think, La Borde was already leading them away.

  ‘We are going to the private apartments,’ he explained to him. ‘The King wants to hear in the privacy of his own rooms your personal account of a certain investigation. His mood is not good today. The hunt did not succeed in making him forget his worries. But have no fear, all will be well. Speak confidently and don’t be shy, because if you hesitate the King will withdraw into himself. Be agreeable without being long-winded, but say enough to keep up his interest. Deep down the King is kindly, especially towards the young.’

  They found themselves in an anteroom with a fairly low ceiling, then went through a gallery decorated with large paintings. La Borde explained that the King had wanted exotic hunting scenes. There were representations of animals and people from far-off lands that Nicolas had never had the opportunity to see.3 A manservant showed them into a drawing room with white wood panelling set off with gold. The room gave an impression of balance and harmony. Seated in a red damask armchair, the King was drinking a glass of wine that a lady had just poured him. They all bowed, holding their hats in their hands. The King gave them a faint wave. The lady held out her hand to Sartine, sat down in turn and gave a noble bow in response to the greetings of other guests entering the room.

  ‘So, Sartine,’ asked the King, ‘how fares your city of Paris?’

  The Lieutenant General of Police duly responded to the monarch’s question and the conversation began. Nicolas felt strangely composed. He was unable to believe that he was in the presence of his sovereign. He saw before him a distinguished-looking man, with well-defined features and a gentle expression accentuated by large eyes. Instead of surveying those around him the King was staring into space. The face, with its high forehead, gave an impression of great dignity. Signs of age and tiredness were, however, evident in the bloated, sagging cheeks. His pallid complexion was marked in places by sallow patches. He spoke in a low voice, looking listless, almost dejected. Occasionally Nicolas was aware of the King glancing at him quizzically then immediately looking away.

  Sitting next to the King the lady, whom Nicolas assumed to be the Marquise de Pompadour, seemed quite unlike the image he had in his mind of the King’s favourite. He was surprised by what she was wearing: a sort of tight-fitting jacket, buttoned up to the neck. The sleeves hung down to her wrists and hid her hands. He remembered all the nasty comments he had heard about how appropriate this attire was for a lady not renowned for the beauty of her hands or the attractiveness of her bosom. Her ash-blonde hair was half covered by a hood attached to the cape of her dress. Its greyish, iridescent colour matched that of the King’s coat, contrasting with the blue of the Order of the Holy Spirit. Her face, with its perfect oval shape and large, wide-open blue eyes, had nevertheless been too rouged for Nicolas’s liking. Yet the overall effect was almost austere. He recalled the rumours that the marquise wanted to model herself on Madame de Maintenon. She was smiling but her expression remained fixed. He concluded that her appearance concealed worry and suffering. Occasionally the marquise cast a look that was both adoring and anxious towards the King, who for his part showed his fondness for her with numerous small gestures of affection. Nicolas was breathing more easily; he felt as if he were at a family gathering.

  ‘So here is your protégé, Sartine, to whom we are much indebted. La Borde has spoken to me of him.’

  The Lieutenant General did not hide his astonishment.

  ‘I had not realised that Monsieur Le Floch was so popular, Sire.’

  The King beckoned to Nicolas.

  ‘Monsieur, I wish to hear your personal account of a
matter close to my heart. I am listening.’

  Without a second thought Nicolas plunged straight in. His future was probably at stake and in his situation others would have seized this opportunity by drawing on all their personal resources and making every effort to charm. He chose to speak simply, clearly and colourfully, though not overly so, suggesting rather than describing, not asserting himself too much and giving Monsieur de Sartine far more credit than he deserved. The King interrupted him several times, asking for more details about the post-mortems on the bodies, before giving up the subject at Madame de Pompadour’s request, since these morbid details horrified her. Nicolas managed to be sparkling yet modest, and dramatic when the situation required. What he said was interesting without being overlong. The King, engrossed in the account, seemed suddenly younger: there was a brightness in his expression once more. Nicolas concluded his account and stepped back a pace. With a charming smile the marquise held out her hand for him to kiss, a hand that to the young man seemed feverish.

  ‘Thank you, Monsieur,’ she said, ‘we owe you a great deal. His Majesty, I am sure, will not forget the services you have rendered us.’

  The King got up and took a few steps.

  ‘The King is the first gentleman of the Kingdom, as my forbear Henry the Fourth used to say, and will reward in a manner befitting the son of one of his most faithful servants, one of those noble Bretons, who three years ago spared no effort in the fight against the English.’4

  Nicolas understood nothing of this: it was as if the words had been addressed to someone else. Sartine remained impassive. La Borde was open-mouthed. The marquise looked at the King in surprise.

  ‘I did indeed say the son of one of my servants,’ the King went on. ‘Monsieur,’ he said, looking at Nicolas, ‘your godfather, the Marquis de Ranreuil, who has just died and whose service I do not forget, presented me with a letter in which he officially recognises you as his natural son. It is my great pleasure to inform you of this and to restore to you the name and titles that are yours.’

  A long silence followed these words. Nicolas threw himself at the King’s feet.

  ‘Sire, I beg Your Majesty to forgive me, but I cannot accept.’

  The King jerked his head back.

  ‘On what grounds, Monsieur?’

  ‘To accept, Your Majesty, would be to betray the memory of my … my father, and would deprive Mademoiselle de Ranreuil of an inheritance that is rightfully hers. I renounce it, as I do my title. I have already had the good fortune to serve Your Majesty. I beg to be able to continue to do so under my own name.’

  ‘So be it, Monsieur.’

  He turned towards the marquise.

  ‘Here is a very rare example and one that restores our faith in human nature.’

  Then, turning again towards Nicolas, he said:

  ‘The marquis wrote to me that you were an excellent huntsman, as he was.’

  ‘Sire, I did my apprenticeship under him.’

  ‘You will always be welcome at my hunt. La Borde, Monsieur Le Floch is to have the privilege of hunting the stag. He is to be exempted from wearing the beginners’ uniform.5 For the rest, Monsieur de Sartine will make my wishes known to Monsieur Le Floch.’

  The audience was at an end. They withdrew. In the gallery, the First Groom of the Bedchamber congratulated Nicolas.

  ‘The King has admitted you to his hunt. He knows you are a Ranreuil and honours you as such. You have the honours of the Court and the right to ride in the King’s carriages.’

  Nicolas followed Sartine as if in a dream, and he was not sure he wanted it to end. They returned to their carriage. Sartine was silent until they had left the palace.

  ‘I had warned the King that you would say no. He didn’t believe me.’

  ‘You knew all along, didn’t you?’

  ‘All along, since your arrival in Paris. Monsieur de Ranreuil loved you. He was very unhappy about the situation he had created. Imagine his anguish at the fondness between you and Mademoiselle de Ranreuil, your sister, and in honour of his memory try to forgive decisions that at the time you could not understand.’

  ‘I sensed there was a mystery.’

  ‘Another example of your intuition!’

  ‘And what about my mother?’

  ‘She died giving birth to you. You need know no more than that. The marquis was married. She was of noble birth and would have been disgraced.’

  ‘May I ask, Monsieur, why you thought I would say no?’

  ‘I have been observing you since your father entrusted you to my care. You are very like him. But what he obtained by birth you have had to earn by your talent. You have already proved that you were able to overcome your weaknesses, despite the misfortune of your birth. If I have sometimes seemed to mistrust you in a way you found hurtful, it was more a reflection of my concern than a judgement on your worth. I do understand you, Nicolas. I was orphaned at fifteen, without wealth or connections. I was Spanish on my father’s side. He was the intendant of Catalonia and I was sent off to the college of Harcourt, where from an early age contempt and disdain were heaped upon me. Humiliation is the most powerful of social mechanisms. The nobility opens its doors, but it is often an illusion. And, if we are to believe our philosopher friends, it might be better to be one of the common people in these changing times. Whatever the case,’ he added with a smile, ‘it was not very diplomatic to turn down a title that was your due in the presence of a favourite born a Poisson. Fortunately for you she did not seem to take offence.’

  He took a bundle of papers out of his coat and handed them to Nicolas.

  ‘Read this.’

  The young man was not sure he understood the meaning of the words before him and Sartine had to explain.

  ‘His Majesty in his great goodness has seen fit to give you as a token of his satisfaction the position of Commissioner of Police at the Châtelet. The cost of the commission has been paid and you will find a receipt for the fees. The only condition the King attaches to this favour is that you should report directly to me. He intends to use you without any intermediary for matters exclusively related to his service. I dare to presume, Commissioner Le Floch, that this condition will not be too burdensome to you.’

  ‘Monsieur, without you …’

  ‘Let’s forget about that, Nicolas. It is I who am indebted to you.’

  For the rest of the journey Nicolas was unable to control the flood of emotions surging through him. When the coach had entered Paris he asked Monsieur de Sartine’s permission to get out at the College of the Four Nations6; he wanted to return to Rue Montmartre on foot. The magistrate agreed with a smile. The Seine and, on the other bank, the Garden of the Infanta and the Old Louvre were bathed in the glow of dusk. The air was light, scented with the perfume of grass and flowers. The wind blew away the foul smells of the riverbanks. Small clouds, pink, grey and golden, drifted over the city. Shrill cries heralded the arrival of the swallows.

  It was a moment of peace. The thorn that had for so long been embedded in Nicolas’s heart and flesh plagued him no more. In the chaos of this world he had found his place. He had set aside the temptation of assuming a rank whose value was dependent on the prejudices of others. From now on he would be his own judge. Having come to terms with the past, a new life was opening up for him, one that he would form with his own hands. He remembered with affection Canon Le Floch and the marquis. Their shades could feel satisfied. He had proved himself worthy of their love and their teachings. The bittersweet image of Isabelle resurfaced as the happy memory of a shared childhood. For a long time he looked towards the setting sun. Over there, far away, ocean waves were breaking upon his native land. He walked back along the quais as far as Pont-Neuf, whistling an aria from an opera.

  EPILOGUE

  1. A hunting coat worn at Versailles. Each hunting ground and each type of hunt would have a particular coat.

  2. The Master of Ceremonies.

  3. There were two paintings by Van Loo (an ostrich hunt
and a bear hunt), two by Parrocel (an elephant hunt and a buffalo hunt), two by Boucher (a tiger hunt and a crocodile hunt), one by De Troy (a lion hunt), one by Lancret (a leopard hunt) and one by Pater (a Chinese hunting scene). Most of these paintings are now on display in the Museum of Amiens.

  4. In 1757 the Breton nobility mobilised against raids by the British.

  5. The grey hunting coat worn by beginners.

  6. Palais Mazarin.

  NOTES

  CHAPTER III

  1. The name given to the morgue situated in the basement of the Châtelet.

  2. A card game in which the banker plays alone against any number of players.

  3. A meal in which the meat course and the dessert are served at the same time.

  CHAPTER IV

  1. The Jansenists represented Christ with arms unopened on the Cross.

  2. The medical service for the French navy was founded in 1689 and was largely made up of surgeons. Doctors, holders of degrees in medicine, were trained in the universities whereas navy surgeons were trained in schools of surgery in Rochefort, Toulon and Brest. Throughout the eighteenth century doctors attempted to prevent surgeons from practising medicine or even tending the sick.

  3. L. Batalli. Italian doctor and author of De Curatione per sanguinis missionem (1537).

  4. G. Patin (1605–1672). Professor of medicine at the Collège de France.

  CHAPTER V

  1. First mentioned in Europe in 1533, this tuber was introduced into Spain in 1570, and later into Italy, Germany and Ireland. Present in France from 1616 onwards, the potato became a source of controversy: it was claimed to cause leprosy. It was Parmentier (1737–1813) who popularised the vegetable during the reign of Louis XVI. The King was said to eat some at every meal.