Читать книгу The Phantom of the Rue Royale: Nicolas Le Floch Investigation #3 - Jean-Francois Parot - Страница 11

A sneering face topped by a red bonnet appeared at the door of the carriage, and hands with blackened nails clutched the lowered window. Beneath the grime, Nicolas recognized the already wizened face of a little boy. This sudden apparition took him back almost ten years to a certain Carnival night just before Monsieur de Sartine, the Lieutenant General of Police, had given him his first case. The masks that had surrounded him then had remained in his memory as death’s heads. He dismissed these thoughts, which merely added to the gloom he had been feeling since the morning, and threw a handful of coins into the air. Delighted with the alms, the apparition disappeared: leaping backwards from the running board of the carriage, it landed on its feet and made its way through the crowd in search of the coins.

Nicolas shook himself like a weary animal and sighed, trying to shrug off his nagging sense of melancholy. It was clear that the past two weeks had exhausted him: too many sleepless nights, constant watchfulness and the nagging fear that he might be caught unawares by some unforeseen incident. Since the assassination attempt by Damiens, security had been tightened around the King and his family. It was an endless struggle to remain vigilant, and for nearly ten years the young Châtelet commissioner had been in the front line of this struggle, closely involved with matters of state, often secret matters, on whose mysteries he had thrown light. Monsieur de Sartine had entrusted him with keeping a close watch on the royal family on the occasion of the wedding of the Dauphin and Marie-Antoinette, archduchess of Austria. Even Monsieur de Saint-Florentin, Minister of the King’s Household, had urged him to give of his best, reminding him, affably, of his past successes.

Beyond the Vaugirard toll-gate, serried ranks of people filled the roadway, frequently impeding the disorderly stream of carriages. Nicolas’s coachman kept yelling warnings, punctuated by sharp cracks of his whip. From time to time, the carriage came to a sudden halt and tipped forward, and Nicolas had to reach out a protective hand to stop his friend Semacgus from smashing his nose against the partition. He could not have said why, but nothing had ever caused him as much anxiety as this unruly multitude converging on Place Louis XV. A wave of impatience seemed to run through this great mass of people, like a nervous shudder through the flank of a horse, as they hurried towards the celebration, eager for the pleasure they had been promised: a great firework display organised by the city authorities in honour of the Dauphin’s wedding. Rumours were rife, and Nicolas was listening out for what people around him were saying. The provost of the merchants, who was providing the festivities, had announced that the boulevards would be lit up after the display. As if he had read his neighbour’s thoughts, Semacgus belched a few times and woke up, then pointed at the crowd and shook his head.

‘Look at them, so confident in their provost’s generosity! Let’s hope they’re not disappointed!’

‘What makes you think they might be?’ Nicolas asked.

After all these days of anxiety, it had been a pleasure for him to go and fetch Dr Semacgus from the depths of Vaugirard. He knew that the doctor was fond of such great occasions, and had invited him along to Place Louis XV to watch the festivities from the colonnade of the new buildings on either side of Rue Royale. Sartine was expecting Nicolas to report on the event, even though, for once, the city authorities had not called on the services of the police.

‘Jérôme Bignon is not known for caring much about the populace, and I fear these good people may be bitterly disappointed by the celebrations. How times change! You can’t imagine the feasting when the father of our present Dauphin remarried. The provost at the time sent out wagons carrying horns of plenty overflowing with sausages, saveloys and spicy leeks, not to mention the drink … Damn it, people knew how to live in those days, and they really indulged themselves, I can tell you!’

Semacgus clicked his tongue at these pleasurable memories, and his face, already naturally ruddy, turned quite purple. He ought to be careful, Nicolas thought. The man was still true to form, still greedy for the pleasures of life, but he was becoming a little fatter with every year that passed and tended to doze off more and more frequently. His friends were starting to worry about him, although they did not dare to offer him advice. In any case he would never have consented to lead a more careful life, a life more suited to his age. Nicolas measured his friendship for Semacgus by the degree of anxiety the old man caused him.

‘It’s very kind of you, Nicolas, to have come and fetched this old bear from his den …’ He raised his big, bushy eyebrows – increasingly white these days – in a gesture of interrogation or puzzlement. ‘But … you seem to be in a sombre mood for such a festive day. I’d wager you’re worried about something.’

Beneath his dissolute exterior, Semacgus concealed an acute sensitivity towards his fellows and a great concern for their welfare. He leaned towards Nicolas and placed a hand on his arm.

‘You mustn’t keep things to yourself,’ he said in a graver tone.‘You seem to have something on your mind …’ Then, reverting to his usual manner, ‘Some pox-ridden beauty who left you a souvenir?’

Nicolas could not help smiling. ‘Alas, no, I leave that to my more boisterous friends. But you’re right, I am worried. Firstly, because I’m about to attend a great public gathering merely as an observer, with no mission to accomplish, and no means at my disposal, and secondly—’

‘What do you mean?’ Semacgus interrupted him. ‘Is the finest police force in Europe, held up as an example from Potsdam to Saint Petersburg, at a loss, with its hands tied, incapable of doing anything? Couldn’t Monsieur de Sartine have sent his best investigator – what am I saying, his extraordinary investigator – into action? I can’t believe it!’

‘I see I shall have to tell you everything,’ Nicolas replied. ‘Naturally, Monsieur de Sartine is somewhat anxious – quite rightly, since there are precedents …’

Semacgus looked up in surprise.

‘… Yes, when our Dauphin’s father married the Princess of Saxony. I heard it, of course, from Monsieur de Noblecourt. It happened in 1747, and he was there. There was a firework display in the Place de l’Hôtel de Ville, which went well, but, because there was an unexpectedly large number of spectators, the streets became congested with carriages and many people died, crushed and trampled. Monsieur de Sartine, who’s always sending for files from the archives, must have read about this and drawn the obvious conclusions.’

‘Of course! So what’s the problem?’

‘The problem is that nobody is prepared to take drastic action.’

The carriage swerved to avoid an old man who was singing, hopping on one foot and accompanying himself on a bird-organ. He was surrounded by a small crowd, who took up the refrain:

We shall give subjects to France

And you will give them kings

Someone in the crowd whistled, and a brawl broke out. Nicolas was about to intervene, but the culprit had already fled.

‘My deputy, Bourdeau, often says Parisians are capable of the best and the worst, and when their patience … Anyway, His Majesty decided to ignore Monsieur de Sartine.’

‘The King is getting old and so are we. La Pompadour used to watch over him. I don’t know if the new concubine is so thoughtful. He’s in decline, and that’s a fact. Last year, when he reviewed the French Guard, everyone was struck by how changed he was, bent over his horse – he used to be so upright. In February, he had a bad fall while hunting. These are difficult times. But how to account for such a strange decision?’

‘He was anxious for the wedding celebrations to pass off without incident. There are too many sinister omens hanging over this marriage. Have you heard about the horoscope by the Tyrolean astrologer, Dr Gassner?’

‘You know I’m a philosopher. Why should I concern myself with such nonsense?’

‘He cast the Dauphine’s horoscope when she was born, predicting a terrible end for her. And there have been some curious incidents. Our mutual friend Monsieur de la Borde, First Groom of the King’s Bedchamber, told me that the pavilion in Kehl intended to welcome the princess was decorated with a Gobelins tapestry depicting the bloody wedding of Jason and Creusa.’

‘A remarkably tactless thing to do, to say the least. A deceived woman who takes her revenge, Creusa burned to death by a magic tunic, and Jason’s two children with their throats cut.’

‘Well, Sartine was hoping – since it is his prerogative – to have control over the Parisian part of the celebrations. But Bignon had already engineered it so that the responsibility fell to him. The King didn’t want to antagonise the magistrates of a city he hates and which feels the same way about him.’

‘All the same, Nicolas, we shouldn’t judge the city authorities too harshly before seeing them in action.’

‘I admire your confidence. Provost Bignon, whose motto is Ibi non rem,1 has a reputation for being incompetent, vain and stubborn. Monsieur de Sartine told me that when he was appointed the King’s librarian, his uncle, Monsieur d’Argenson, is supposed to have said, ‘What an excellent opportunity, nephew, now you can learn to read.’ The fact that he’s now a member of the Academy has of course only added to his conceit. But that’s nothing compared with how little thought has gone into the preparations for these festivities.’

‘That’s as may be. But are things so bad that you must get into this terrible state?’

‘Judge for yourself. Firstly, these gentlemen of the city haven’t taken any security measures. The whole thing is potentially like a rush of blood to the heart of the capital. Nobody’s even thought about how the carriages are going to gain access, whereas for the least performance at the Opéra, we carefully regulate the traffic on the approach roads. Remember when the new auditorium was inaugurated? We were there together. Remember all the measures we took to avoid congestion and disorder? The French Guards stationed all the way from Pont Royal to Pont Neuf? Traffic flowed easily all the way up to the immediate vicinity of the building. We had thought it all through, down to the smallest detail.’

Semacgus smiled at this royal ‘we’, encompassing both the Lieutenant of Police and his faithful deputy.

‘And secondly?’

‘Secondly, the architect given the task of building the structure for the fireworks didn’t even bother to level the area, which was a building site not so long ago. In places, there are still trenches in the ground, and that’s very worrying. The crowd could easily fall in. Thirdly, no provision has been made for allowing the distinguished guests – the ambassadors, the aldermen, the city authorities – to gain access. How will they get through this flood of people? And lastly, in defiance of custom, the provost has refused to grant a general bonus of a thousand crowns to the French Guards. So the streets are left to the City Guards, whose one concern over the past few days has been to show off the spruce new uniforms they’ve been given for the occasion by the municipality.’

‘Come now, don’t get so worked up. It may not turn out as badly as you think. The people will probably end the evening making merry on the victuals and wine provided by the provost.’

‘Alas, no! That’s another thing. According to my sources, the city authorities, in their anxiety to put on a firework display even more lavish than the King’s at Versailles, first tried to skimp on the food and drink and finally decided to do away with it altogether.’

‘No food and drink for the people! How stupid can they be?’

‘Instead, there’s to be a fair on the boulevards, but the stallholders have had to pay dearly for their pitches in order to meet some of the cost of the fireworks. You know how expensive such displays are. In short, the omens are not good. What annoys me is that I’m powerless to do anything. I’m here to report on what I see, nothing more.’

‘What on earth is the provost for, anyway?’

‘Not very much. Ever since His Majesty’s grandfather created the post of Lieutenant of Police, he has lost most of his prerogatives. He has a few trifles left, above all managing city property and taking out loans. He also cuts a decorative figure at ceremonies, with his red satin robe, his split gown – half red, half tan – and matching hat.’

‘I see!’ Semacgus said. ‘He’s like one of those pins or nails that are considered absolutely essential for holding together the parts of a building, but which in themselves are probably worth precisely nothing.’

Nicolas laughed heartily at this jibe. A long silence ensued, during which the noise of the carriages, the cries of the coachmen and the shuffling of the advancing crowd filled the carriage like the sound of rising waves in a storm at sea.

‘You haven’t said anything about the past two weeks, Nicolas. Nor have you told me what impression our future queen made on you.’

‘I accompanied His Majesty to Pont de Berne, in the forest of Compiègne, to greet the Dauphine.’ He lifted his head somewhat boastfully. ‘I rode beside the royal coach, and even received an amused smile from the princess when my horse reared and I almost fell. The King cried, “Steady, Ranreuil, steady!” as if we were out hunting.’

Semacgus smiled at his friend’s youthful enthusiasm. ‘Hard to find anyone more in favour than you!’

‘On the evening of the wedding, there was gambling in the King’s apartments, and the firework display was postponed until the following Saturday because of the storm. It was a great success, a dazzling sight. Two thousand giant rockets and an equal number of bombs. The whole park was lit up, all the way to the Grand Canal. There, a structure a hundred feet high representing the Temple of the Sun, exploded into a thousand extravaganzas. There was an enormous number of spectators, and the official responsible for the ambassadors had to settle endless quarrels of precedence among the notable guests on the balconies of the palace.’

‘And what of the Dauphine?’

‘She’s still a child. Beautiful, yes, but unformed. A graceful gait. Lovely blonde hair. Rather a long face with blue eyes and a magnificent porcelain complexion. I’m less fond of her mouth: her lower lip is too thick and droops. Monsieur de la Borde claims she is quite slovenly and that the Dauphin is rather uncomfortable with that …’

‘All very courtly of you, Nicolas!’ Semacgus laughed. ‘I sense the policeman in you rather than the private man. And the Dauphin?’

‘Berry is a very tall, gangly young man, quite abrupt in his manner. He sways as he walks and gives the impression that he hears and sees nothing, or that everything is strange to him. On the wedding night, the King strongly advised him to … well, to think of the succession …’

‘First Minister Choiseul does not spare our future king,’ Semacgus observed. ‘According to him he’s incompetent. And they say the Dauphin won’t even speak to Choiseul because of an offensive remark he once made to his late father.’

‘A remark amounting almost to lese-majesty: Choiseul begged heaven to spare him from having to obey the future king!’

The carriage stopped suddenly, pitching them forward. Straightening up, Nicolas opened the door and jumped out. A traffic jam, he thought. What had happened, in fact, was that a berlin emerging from Rue de Bellechasse had tried to join the long line of vehicles in Rue de Bourbon. With some difficulty, Nicolas made his way through the gathered onlookers. If only he had listened to the wise counsel offered by Semacgus, who had suggested crossing Pont de Sèvres and reaching Place Louis XV via the right bank of the Seine. He had insisted on taking a more direct route via the left bank and Pont Royal. He finally broke through a circle of onlookers who were looking down at a distressing sight on the ground.

An old man, who must have been knocked down by the berlin, was lying in his own blood, his face white and his eyes rolled upwards. His wig and hat had slipped off to reveal a smooth skull the colour of ivory. An old woman in bourgeois clothes was kneeling by the body, her cape in disarray, weeping silently and trying to lift the wounded man’s head. Unable to do so, she began gently stroking his cheek. The crowd stood motionless, contemplating the scene. Before long, voices rose in anger, followed immediately by threats and insults to the coachman who had tried to enter Rue de Bourbon. From inside the carriage, an arrogant voice gave the order to push the rabble aside and carry on regardless. The coachman was already urging the horses forward when Nicolas seized one of them by the bit to stop its progress and said something in its ear, a method he often used with his own mounts. With his finger, he massaged the animal’s gum, and the horse quivered and moved back. Turning his head, he saw Semacgus leaning over the wounded man, feeling his neck and holding a small pocket mirror in front of his lips. The surgeon helped the old lady to her feet and looked around for help. Two men appeared, carrying a table on which they carefully laid the victim. A man dressed all in black brought up the rear. Semacgus said something in his ear, and he took charge of the old woman.

Nicolas felt a blow on his shoulder. The horse shied in fright and almost fell backwards. He turned to discover a glittering mass of bright gold stripes, and recognised the blue and red uniform of an officer of the City Guards. A broad, crimson face with cold little eyes, the very image of rage. It was the passenger from the carriage, who had got out and angrily struck Nicolas with the flat of his sword.

‘At the King’s service, Monsieur,’ Nicolas said. ‘You have just struck a magistrate, a commissioner of police at the Châtelet.’

The crowd had moved closer and was following the scene with noticeable annoyance.

‘At the city’s service,’ the officer replied. ‘Move aside. My name is Major Langlumé, of the City Guards. I am on my way to the Place Louis XV to make sure that the festivities organised by the provost are proceeding in an orderly fashion. In accordance with the King’s decision, Monsieur Sartine’s people are not involved.’

The regulations were categorical: it was out of the question for Nicolas to cross swords with this brute, even though he was itching to do so. He suddenly saw the onlookers closest to them, including some with especially sinister faces, gathering stones. What followed happened so quickly that nothing and nobody could have prevented it. A hail of stones, even a piece of rubble from a house under construction, fell on the carriage and horses. The major was hit on the temple, resulting in a gash. Shouting and swearing, he quickly got back into the carriage and resigned himself to having it move back into Rue de Bellechasse. Through the broken window, he waved a vengeful fist at Nicolas.

‘I admire your capacity for making friends,’ said Semacgus, who had approached. ‘Our victim will be fine with a plaster. He’d only fainted from a cut to the head, but he lost a lot of blood, which is always dramatic! I handed him and his wife over to an apothecary, who will do what’s necessary. What were they thinking of, at their age, running around the streets like youngsters, with all this upheaval going on? I’ve seen some pretty dubious-looking characters here, and my watch nearly ended up in someone else’s hands.’

‘I’d have got it back for you!’ Nicolas said. ‘The day before yesterday, at a grand supper given by the Emperor’s ambassador at Petit Luxembourg, I unmasked a criminal who had somehow wormed his way into the party and was trying to steal a watch from the Graf von Starhenberg, Maria Theresa’s former ambassador in Paris. The Graf was kind enough to write to Monsieur de Sartine and compliment him on the excellence of his police force, “the finest in Europe”, as you called it just now. I’ve also seen some doubtful behaviour here. It makes me worry about what’s going to happen next. What a coincidence – the person responsible for security at the festivities is that same jumped-up individual who was just now trying to pick a quarrel with me.’

‘Bah! Those people aren’t professionals. They’re a bourgeois guard who can buy their way in.’

‘And there’s a great deal of competition between them and the men of the watch. One day we’ll have to do something about it. The divisions between these various forces have rendered them powerless, and they’re more interested in scoring points off each other than in serving the public. But I’m wandering from the point. Think of it – the man in charge isn’t even in position yet to keep order in this great throng of people!’

Nicolas sank back into his thoughts. Their carriage finally managed to get onto Pont Royal, where a motley mixture of pedestrians and a tangle of vehicles gave the impression of an army in flight. The Quai des Tuileries was no easier to negotiate than the rest of the route. Two turbulent streams – one coming from the left bank and another, just as large and just as disorderly, emerging from the Quai des Galeries du Louvre – came together and tried, with a great deal of pushing and shoving, to share the roadway.

‘The road seems to be blocked at Pont Saint-Nicolas.’

That was enough to set Semacgus off again. ‘There’s not even a vessel of the line to delight the Parisians. When I was a child – the Duc d’Orléans was still regent – my father took me to see a Dutch ship with eight cannon moored there.’

Nicolas was becoming impatient, tapping with his fingers on the window. It was almost completely dark by now, and the coachmen were stopping to light lanterns, which merely added to the chaos and slowness of the convoy. When they reached Terrasse des Feuillants, Nicolas gestured to his friend that they should abandon their carriage. He ordered the coachman to go back to the Châtelet: they would find their own way back after the festivities, and, besides, they were supposed to be having supper at the Dauphin Couronné in Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré, the house run by their old acquaintance La Paulet. Their progress through the crowd, which was getting denser all the time, was something of a miracle. Several times, Semacgus drew Nicolas’s attention to a number of threatening-looking characters mingling with the throng in little groups. Nicolas shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of powerlessness. They found themselves sucked into an eddy of people. Jostled, crushed, half-carried, they somehow managed to reach Place Louis XV. Here, too, two swollen streams of people and carriages met, one coming from the Quai des Tuileries and the other from the Cours-la-Reine promenade. Standing on tiptoe, Nicolas noticed that more and more carriages had parked on the quai, unchecked by any representative of authority.

Pushed as they were in opposing directions, they found it a real struggle to get to the ambassadors’ mansion. What made Nicolas especially anxious was the realisation that there were no guards to be seen anywhere. Fortunately, he thought, no member of the royal family was due to be present at the display. They made their way, not without difficulty, past the structure that had been built in front of the statue of Louis XV: a Temple of Hymen with a magnificent colonnade. A kind of parapet ran all the way round it, at the four corners of which were dolphins ready to spew forth whirls of fire. The four sides of the temple were covered with symbols of rivers, also destined to spurt fire in sheets and cascades. The whole structure was surmounted by a pyramid with a globe on top. Semacgus criticised the proportions, finding them deeply flawed. Nicolas noted that most of the initial elements of the display had been placed around this structure, while behind the statue, on the side closest to the river, was a bastion from which the grand finale would be launched.

At the ambassadors’ mansion, they were greeted by Monsieur de La Briche, secretary to Monsieur de Séqueville, and the man responsible for presenting the ambassadors to the king. He seemed to be beside himself and was finding it hard to catch his breath.

‘Ah, Monsieur Le Floch, you see me under constant attack by harpies … I mean, by the ministers accredited to His Majesty. Despite my pleas, the city authorities have distributed more reserved places than actually exist. The ambassadors’ bench is overflowing. As for the chargés d’affaires, I’m going to have to seat them on each other’s knees. Monsieur de Séqueville had the same problem at Versailles during the wedding celebrations …’

He paused to scold two pages who were banging a newly painted wall with the bench they were carrying.

‘I keep adding more benches. How can I be of help to you, Monsieur Le Floch – where is my head? – Monsieur le Marquis?’

‘Le Floch will suffice,’ Nicolas said with a smile.

‘Madame Adélaïde2 calls you nothing else, Monsieur, and you are her favourite hunting companion. I don’t know where I’m going to put you and Monsieur, Monsieur …?’

‘Dr Guillaume Semacgus.’

‘Dr Semacgus. Your humble servant, Monsieur. Any privilege sets these people off. The least little minister or hospodar from the Ottoman court would prefer to be chopped to pieces on the spot rather than give up the place he thinks is due his rank. And Monsieur Bignon has thoughtlessly scattered invitations to every last alderman, official, monk, professor and God knows who else!’

A fat man in a grey and gold coat suddenly interrupted them and began speaking very loudly to Monsieur de La Briche, who responded with an abundance of promises. The man strutted off.

‘Can you imagine? That plenipotentiary, who represents the Palatine Elector, keeps yelling at me that he can’t accept this insult to his sovereign and that he will be in trouble back in his court when it becomes known. I ask you, is it my custom to insult a sovereign?’ He shook his head. ‘They simply won’t listen to reason.’

‘I don’t want to overburden you,’ Nicolas said, ‘but if it were at all possible to have a general view of the square …’

‘Say no more. Monsieur de Sartine would never forgive me if I did not make every attempt to satisfy you.’

‘If it came to that, I would plead your case; you can count on it.’

‘You’re most kind. Would it be convenient for you to go up on the roof? It looks like being a fine evening, you’d have a perfect view from up there and … you would get me out of a spot, for I really don’t know where else I could fit you in.’

He called a footman, and handed him a large key.

‘Take these friends of mine up to the roof by the small staircase. Leave the door open and the key in it, in case I have to put anyone else there. Oh, Lord, I must go, here comes the Conde de Fuentes, the Spanish ambassador. I can’t deal with his arrogance any longer – he can find his own seat!’

La Briche did an about-turn and skipped off. Nicolas and Semacgus followed the footman through a series of crowded drawing rooms. Major Langlumé, a piece of taffeta on his temple, was holding forth in the midst of an admiring circle of women. He looked daggers at the commissioner as he passed. After climbing several staircases, they at last reached the attic and then the roof.

The sky had grown darker and the first stars were out. The spectacle unfolding before their eyes left them speechless. In the distance, towards Suresnes, the last rays of the setting sun bathed the horizon in purple, the outlines of the hills around the capital drawn against the sky as if on a length of Chinese silk. The city lights glittered on the waters of the Seine. They were struck by the number of spectators gathered in Place Louis XV. A space had been cleared around the central monument, but it was overrun every time the crowd pushed forward. The gaps that appeared here and there corresponded to trenches that had not yet been filled with stones. Nicolas, always alert to the revealing detail, noted anxiously that the number of carriages and horses on the Quai des Tuileries and in the immediate surroundings was still increasing.

Semacgus was the first to speak. ‘It’s going to be a long and difficult process, dispersing all these people after the display. They all came at different times, but they’ll want to leave together. There’s bound to be congestion.’

‘Guillaume, I admire your sagacity and I’m grateful for the unofficial zeal that makes you aware of the dangers. I pray to heaven that Monsieur Bignon has thought of all this and has a specific evacuation plan in mind. I think our friend Monsieur de La Briche will have a few problems with all Their Excellencies in a hurry to get home.’

Nicolas walked over to the right-hand corner of the roof, stepped across the balustrade, much to Semacgus’s consternation, climbed onto the ledge and, supporting himself with one hand, leant over to look down at Rue Royale, which was so crowded that no one seemed able to advance.

‘Don’t stay there,’ Semacgus said. ‘One false move and there’s nothing to stop you falling. My legs are shaking just to see you.’

He held out his hand. Nicolas grasped it and jumped nimbly over the low columns.

‘When I was a child, I loved to scare myself by playing on the ochre cliff of Pénestin in a high wind. That was much more dangerous than this.’

‘You Bretons will never cease to amaze me.’

They fell silent again, captivated once more by the grandeur of the spectacle, which, as darkness fell, was concentrated on Place Louis XV.

‘Have you seen the Dauphine’s coaches? All of Paris is talking about them. It’s said that they do credit to the taste of Monsieur de Choiseul, who ordered them and took a close interest in their manufacture.’

‘Yes, I’ve seen them. Their splendour is somewhat calculated for my taste, but the present is at least as good as the future.’3

‘Ah!’ Semacgus said. ‘I shall remember that one.’

‘They’re four-seater berlins, one covered in crimson velvet with the four seasons embroidered in gold, the other in blue velvet with the four elements, also in gold. All extremely fine and exquisite, and topped off with gold flowers painted in different colours, which sway at the slightest movement.’

‘They must have been expensive.’

‘You know what the comptroller replied when the King asked him anxiously how much the celebrations would cost.’

‘Not a bit. What did the Abbé Terray reply?’

‘“Priceless, Sire.”’

They were laughing at that when a muffled explosion announced the beginning of the display, followed by a joyous cry. The King’s statue in the centre of the square was surrounded by girandoles, and further explosions startled the sleeping pigeons, making them rise in a great mass from the Tuileries and the Garde-Meuble. But these were not followed by the dazzling sights that were expected, and when the failure was repeated several times, the crowd gradually passed from cries of admiration to murmurs of disappointment. Some of the rockets rose into the air without exploding: with faltering trajectories they fell back to earth or else fizzled out with a dry crackle. There was a moment’s silence, during which Ruggieri’s pyrotechnicians could be heard with unusual clarity, shouting orders, then their cries were smothered by the sharp whistle of a rocket, which also came to nothing. This unfortunate attempt was forgotten when a fan shaped like a peacock’s tail, studded with gold and silver, hung over the vast assembly and seemed to restore some impetus to the spectacle. The crowd applauded wildly. Semacgus, though, was grumbling: Nicolas knew that, like many elderly Parisians, he was easy to please, but equally quick to criticise.

‘Launches badly synchronised, no rhythm, a performance that doesn’t build. If there were music, it would be out of time. The people are complaining, and they’re right. They can’t be deceived by sham; they feel swindled.’

‘Yet according to last Monday’s Gazette de France, Ruggieri has been preparing the display for a long time, and connoisseurs have been comparing him favourably with his rival, Torre, at Versailles.’

The launches continued, alternating successes, false starts and fireworks that fizzled out. A rocket rose into the air, followed by a plume of light. It seemed to stop, then tipped over, nosedived, and exploded on the pyrotechnicians’ bastion. At first nothing happened, then wreaths of black smoke appeared, and immediately afterwards, flames began to shoot up. The crowd surrounding the monument recoiled instantly, a movement that spread like a wave through the rest of the spectators. There followed a series of ever louder explosions. Then the bastion appeared to split in half and fire spewed out.

‘The reserves and the pieces for the grand finale have caught fire prematurely,’ Semacgus observed.

Place Louis XV was lit up by a cold white light, as if it were the middle of the day. The Seine was transformed into a frozen mirror, reflecting this luminous stream that fell as silver rain. Startled by what was happening, the crowd looked on, unsure about what to do or where to go, as the fire transformed the Temple of Hymen into a huge inferno, from which a few weary rockets still rose. Minutes went by as they watched. The spectators’ uncertainty was palpable: heads turned in all directions as they questioned each other incredulously. The fire was spreading. The display had come to an end with all the convulsions of a dying organism. Leaning over the balustrade, Nicolas peered down into the square with an expression of anguish on his face that scared Semacgus.

‘Nothing is being done about the fire,’ he said.

‘I fear the people may think this is a new kind of display, and that its unexpected end was all part of the festivities.’

All of a sudden, everything seemed to start moving, as if some perverse genie had fermented disorder in the crowd. To the noise of the explosions and the cracking sound as the structure collapsed were now added cries of anguish and calls for help.

‘Look, Guillaume, here come the pump wagons. But the percherons are panicking at the noise and bolting!’

Several wagons had indeed appeared from the two streets that ran parallel to Rue Royale – Rue de l’Orangerie on the Tuileries side, and Rue de la Bonne-Morue on the Champs-Élysées side – but the heavy horses that drew them had broken into a gallop and were trampling everything in their path. What followed would remain forever in Nicolas’s memory, and he would often relive the successive stages of the tragedy. The sight reminded him of an old painting he had once seen in the King’s collections at Versailles, showing a battlefield on which thousands of figures moved, the face, uniform, armour, actions and expressions of each one clearly detailed. He had observed that by isolating a small area of the painting, he could pick out hundreds of perfect miniature pictures. From the roof of the ambassadors’ mansion, no episode of the tragedy was lost on him. The situation was evolving with every minute that passed. Groups of spectators had been forced back by the horses, and some had already fallen into the unfilled trenches. Nicolas recalled that the site had only been cleared on 13 April of that year. Semacgus pointed to another area, where the guests who had watched the display were starting to leave the building. Their carriages, which had been waiting in a disorderly mass on the Quai des Tuileries, were now flooding onto the square, and the coachmen were laying about them with their whips to force a way through the crowd. Caught between the pumps and the coaches, many spectators stumbled and fell into the trenches. To add to this, a number of dubious characters bearing swords were attacking the terrified citizens and relieving them of their belongings.

‘Look, Nicolas, the crooks have come out of the faubourgs.’

‘Right now, I’m more worried by the fact that no one can get to the Quai des Tuileries, and that Pont du Corps-de-Garde, which leads to the Tuileries gardens, is closed. The only way out is through Rue Royale. The stage is set for a massive collision.’

‘But look at all the people trying to get onto the quais! The only way to avoid being crushed is by river. My God, I’ve just seen at least a dozen people fall in! The net at Saint-Cloud4 will be full tomorrow, and the Basse-Geôle, too.’

Panic had spread. There was a terrified surge away from the centre of the disaster. Those members of the crowd at the perimeter of the square did not seem to grasp the seriousness of the situation and were advancing calmly, inexorably, towards Rue Royale, thinking they would get through that way to the boulevards to enjoy the illuminations and the attractions of the fair. Meanwhile, those who had been in the middle of the square, unable to move, were now converging on the same street, unaware of the trap closing on them. Their way was obstructed by carriages, and Nicolas could already hear screams, but these premonitory signs of the disaster to come were drowned by the noise of several tens of thousands of spectators.

Nicolas, still at the corner of the building, leaned over once again to look down at Rue Royale, and what he saw there was worse than anything he might have feared. He shouted to Semacgus, who was holding back from the edge, ‘If nothing stops the crowd moving, disaster is inevitable. There’s no room to circulate. Everyone who’s trying to leave the square is coming into this one street. It’s packed with people all the way to the Marché Daguesseau. The crowds on the boulevards are trying to get back to the square.’

At that moment they heard a long chorus of screams and cries. Horrified, Nicolas watched the two contrary movements growing in volume and increasing in speed like two opposing groundswells. Those who found themselves stuck in the middle of the roadway could neither advance nor retreat, because the street narrowed at this point, forming a kind of tunnel where houses that had not yet been demolished jutted out. As if the unfilled trenches were not bad enough, freestones lying on the ground made the road even more difficult to negotiate. Nicolas now saw bodies sliding into the trenches, immediately covered by others. By the light of lanterns, he could see open mouths crying out in terror. Men, women, children, squeezed and jostled, stumbled and fell and were instantly trampled by those who followed. Some people, crushed standing up, had blood spurting from their nostrils. The trenches were soon as full as communal graves. Like a Moloch, Rue Royale was devouring the people of Paris. The King’s statue in the middle of the square seemed to be sailing on a sea of lava: the still-glowing embers of what was left of the festivities.

‘We have to get help to those people,’ Nicolas said.

Followed by Semacgus, he rushed to the small door that led to the attic. It resisted their efforts. The evidence was incontrovertible: it had been locked from the other side.

‘What are we going to do?’ Semacgus asked. ‘It’s well known that you can climb walls like a cat, but don’t count on me to follow you.’

‘Don’t worry, I don’t think I’d be able to get down the wall except with a rope. But I have other strings to my bow.’

He searched in his pocket and took out a small instrument equipped with several blades. He introduced one into the lock and tried to move the bolt, but it hit an obstacle. He kicked the door frame angrily, then stopped for a moment to think.

‘If that’s how it is, I’ll have to use the chimney – there’s no other way out. But there, too, I’d need a rope. Let’s have a look all the same.’

They went back up onto the roof and Nicolas climbed a castiron ladder to the top of one of the monumental stone chimneys. He struck a light and, with a sheet from his notebook, made a small torch which he dropped into the void. The shaft descended vertically and then seemed to become almost horizontal.

‘There are clamps in the stone; I’m going down. At worst, if I can’t get through, I’ll come back up. Guillaume, you stay here.’

‘What else could I do? My paunch wouldn’t let me get down that thing.’

The noise rising from the square was increasingly punctuated by cries and moans. Nicolas quickly took off his coat and shoes.

‘I don’t want to get snagged. Keep these. It makes me sick to feel so powerless with all that’s happening down there …’

Before giving his coat to Semacgus, he took from the pocket – the surgeon, wondering what on earth would come out next, was greatly amused – a short candle, which he placed between his teeth. The clamps, put there to help the work of the chimney sweeps, made the descent easy enough, but Nicolas thought anxiously of what lay ahead. He was no longer a child, but a man in his thirties, and with quite a full figure. Catherine and Marion’s cooking had left its mark, as had the meals in taverns with his deputy, Bourdeau, who like him loved good, cheap food. He reached the bottom of the shaft. There were two pipes to choose from, the opening of one hidden inside the entrance to the other. He chose to take the less steep of the two, judging that it would take him to one of the fireplaces on the upper floors of the building. Unable to hold the candle in his hand, he lit it and fixed it between one of the clamps and the wall. He would have to plunge blindly into the darkness.

The risk of getting stuck in the narrow passage made him sick with apprehension. It suddenly occurred to him that the folds of his shirt might hinder his progress, and he took it off. From somewhere above his head, Semacgus was dispensing advice in a voice ashen with anxiety, which echoed down to him, distorted. He caught his breath and thrust his legs forward. He felt as though he were sliding into some kind of greasy material, and for a moment he lost all notion of time and space, before making a painful return to reality. Too bulky for the space, he had got stuck and could descend no further. For several minutes he stretched like a cat, lifting first one shoulder then the other. He remembered the grotesque movements of a contortionist he had seen at the last Saint-Germain fair. At last he managed to force his way through and continue his descent. He felt as if he were being sucked down into a vacuum. Almost immediately, he fell onto a pyramid of logs in a huge fireplace. The pyramid collapsed noisily under his weight, and his head hit a bronze plaque which bore the arms of France. He was surprised not to be knocked senseless. He got up carefully and checked the condition of his joints. Apart from a few grazes, he was unharmed. He looked at himself in a huge pier glass crowned with floral decorations in stucco: a stranger, black with soot, face like a scarecrow’s, britches torn and tattered. He walked across an unfinished, undecorated room which looked as if it belonged in a barracks rather than a palace. He opened a door and found that he had come out on the floor where the drawing rooms were. Here, the guests were crowded around the balconies. There was as much bustle as in an overturned hive. Some people had gathered at the windows, where they jostled for a view of the square, others were holding forth. Nicolas had the feeling that he was watching some absurd spectacle, a comedy or ballet in which automata endlessly repeated the same gestures. Nobody paid him any heed, even though his filthy appearance should have attracted notice.

He got back to the staircase leading to the attic. As he climbed it, he heard Semacgus’s solemn tones alternating with the sharper voice of Monsieur de La Briche. They were both coming downstairs so quickly that they almost fell into Nicolas’s arms. With the disaster on the square increasing in scale, Monsieur de La Briche had tried to send for Nicolas, only to find the lock of the door that led to the roof obstructed by a mysterious object in gilded metal, a kind of spindle, which he now gave to the commissioner. The key itself was lying on the ground. Clearly, someone had been playing a practical joke on the spectators on the roof. He would see to it that the culprit was found – probably an insolent footman, or else one of those pages in blue who, in spite of their youth, considered themselves entitled to do anything because they were close to the throne.

‘Commissioner,’ said Monsieur de La Briche, ‘you must help me to restore a little order. The crush is terrible, and we have so many injured we don’t know what to do with them. They’re being brought in all the time. The City Guards are nowhere to be found. When things started to go wrong, their leader, Major Langlumé, went off to give orders to his men, and that’s the last anyone saw of him. On top of that, I keep hearing that there are bandits among the crowd attacking honest citizens.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Many of our guests have been drawing their swords to force their way through the crowd. A lot of people have been killed that way, not to mention those run down by carriages. The envoy from Parma, the Conte di Argental, has had his shoulder dislocated, and the Abbé de Raze, minister to the prince-bishop of Basle, was knocked down and is in a terrible state.’

‘Has Monsieur de Sartine been informed of what is happening?’ Nicolas asked.

‘I dispatched a messenger to him. By now he should be acquainted with the gravity of the situation.’

Two men entered, carrying an unconscious woman in a frilly dress, one of whose legs was hanging at an odd angle. Her bloodstained face had been so flattened that it no longer looked human. Semacgus rushed to her, but after a brief examination he rose and shook his head. Other bodies were arriving, equally devoid of breath. For a while, they helped to receive the injured with the meagre means at their disposal. Nicolas was waiting for the return of the emissary who had been sent to Sartine. When he did not reappear, Nicolas retrieved his coat and went outside in order to get a clearer picture of the disaster. He took Semacgus with him.

After making their way through the crowds of people coming in and out of the building – some of them, they were annoyed to observe, mere idle onlookers – they emerged on Place Louis XV. The great noise of the festivities had died down, but cries and moans rose on all sides. Nicolas ran straight into Inspector Bourdeau, his deputy, who was giving orders to some men of the watch.

‘Ah, Nicolas!’ he exclaimed. ‘We don’t know if we’re coming or going! The fire has been contained, the water pumps from La Madeleine and Saint-Honoré market have seen to that. Most of the criminals have scattered, although some are still trying to strip the dead of their belongings. The victims are being removed, and those bodies that have been identified have been taken to the boulevard.’

Bourdeau seemed overwhelmed. The vast esplanade looked like a battlefield at night. An acrid black smoke rose into the air, whirled about, then, blown back down by the wind, fell again, shrouding the lights beneath a lugubrious veil. In the middle of the square, the remains of the triumphal structure stood like a sinister scaffold. Wreathed in smoke, the bronze monarch looked down at the scene, unruffled and indifferent. Semacgus, who had noticed Nicolas looking at the statue, murmured, ‘The Horseman of the Apocalypse!’ To their right, in Rue Royale, people had started to lay out the dead against the wall of the Garde-Meuble and were searching them in order to determine their identities and putting labels on them so that they could be recognised more easily by their families. Bourdeau and his men had restored a semblance of order. The area had been cordoned off with some difficulty and groups of volunteers were going down into the trenches on Rue Royale. A chain was starting to form. As soon as the victims had been brought out, an attempt was made to determine which of them were still alive so that they could be taken to the improvised emergency posts. There, doctors and apothecaries who had come running did whatever they could to treat them. Nicolas noted with horror that it was no easy task to bring up the bodies; those who lay at the bottom were crushed beneath the weight of those on top, and it was difficult to disentangle the various layers. He noted, too, that most of the dead belonged to the humblest classes. Some of them had wounds which could only have been caused by deliberate blows from canes or swords.

‘The street was claimed by the strongest and richest,’ Bourdeau muttered.

‘The criminals will get the blame,’ Nicolas replied. ‘But the cabs and carriages played their part in the slaughter, and those who forced their bloody way through even more so!’

They worked all night, helping to sort the dead and injured. As the sun was rising, Semacgus drew the commissioner and Bourdeau to a corner of La Madeleine cemetery where a number of bodies had been gathered. He had a puzzled look on his face. He pointed to a young girl lying between two old men. He knelt and uncovered the upper part of her neck. On each side were bluish marks that appeared to have been left by fingers. He moved the dead girl’s head. Her mouth was twisted and half open, and let out a sound like sand.

Nicolas looked at Semacgus. ‘That’s quite a strange injury for someone who’s supposed to have been crushed.’

‘That’s my impression, too,’ the surgeon agreed. ‘She wasn’t crushed; she was strangled.’

‘Have the body put to one side and taken to the Basse-Geôle, Bourdeau, we’ll have to tell our friend Sanson.’ Nicolas turned to Semacgus. ‘You know, he’s the only person I’d trust with an operation like that – apart from you, of course.’

He made a preliminary search of the body. The victim had nothing on her except her clothes – of high quality, he noted. No bag or reticule, no jewellery. One of her hands was clenched: he prised it open to reveal a small pierced pearl, of jade or obsidian. He wrapped it in his handkerchief. Bourdeau returned with two porters and a stretcher.

As they stared at the young victim’s distorted face, they were overcome with exhaustion. It was out of the question that they would go to La Paulet’s and eat now. The sun rising on this grim, bloodstained morning could not dissipate the damp mist which presaged a storm. Paris was shapeless and colourless, apparently finding it hard to awaken from a tragedy that would gradually spread to city and court, districts and faubourgs, and, when it reached Versailles, would cast a shadow over the waking moments of an old King and a young couple.