Читать книгу The Châtelet Apprentice: Nicolas Le Floch Investigation #1 - Jean-Francois Parot - Страница 12

The barge glided along the grey river. Patches of fog rose up from the water, swathing the banks and refusing to yield to the pale light of day. The anchor, weighed one hour before dawn as the regulation required, had had to be dropped again because the darkness was still impenetrable. Already Orléans was receding into the distance and the currents of the River Loire in spate carried the heavy craft swiftly along. Despite the gusts of wind that swept across the deck, a cloying smell of fish and salt filled the air. It was transporting a large cargo of salted cod, as well as some casks of Ancenis wine.

Two silhouettes stood out at the prow of the boat. The first belonged to a member of the crew, his features tense with concentration, peering at the murky surface of the water. In his left hand he held a horn similar to those used by postilions: in the event of danger he would sound the alarm to the skipper, who was holding the tiller at the stern.

The other was that of a young man, booted and dressed in black, with a tricorn in his hand. Despite his youth there was something both military and ecclesiastical about him. With his head held high, his dark hair swept back and his intense stillness, he looked impatient and noble, like the figurehead of the boat. His expressionless gaze was fixed upon the left bank, staring at the bulk of Notre-Dame de Cléry, the grey prow of which parted the white clouds along the shore and seemed to want to join with the Loire.

This young man, whose resolute attitude would have impressed anyone other than the bargee, was called Nicolas Le Floch.

Nicolas was rapt in contemplation. A little more than a year earlier, he had followed the same route in the opposite direction towards Paris. How quickly everything had happened! Now, on his way back to Brittany, he recalled the events of the past two days. He had taken the fast mail-coach to Orléans, where he planned to board the barge. As far as the Loire, the journey had been marked by none of those colourful incidents that normally relieve the boredom of travel. His travelling companions, a priest and two elderly couples, had watched him all the time in silence. Nicolas, accustomed to the open air, suffered from the confined space and the mixture of smells inside the carriage. Five disapproving looks soon put an end to his attempt to open a window. The priest had even made the sign of the cross, presumably on the assumption that this desire for freedom was the work of the devil. The young man had taken the hint and settled back into his corner. Gradually lulled by the monotony of the journey he had drifted off into a daydream. Now the same reverie came over him on the barge and, once again, he saw and heard nothing more.

Everything really had happened too quickly. After receiving a solid classical education from the Jesuits in Vannes, he had been working as a notary’s clerk in Rennes when suddenly he had been summoned back to Guérande by his guardian, Canon Le Floch. Without further explanation he had been fitted out, given a pair of boots and a few louis d’or, as well as plenty of advice and blessings. He had taken leave of his godfather, the Marquis de Ranreuil, who had given him a letter of recommendation for Monsieur de Sartine, one of his friends, who was a magistrate in Paris. The marquis had seemed to Nicolas both moved and embarrassed and the young man had not been able to say goodbye to his godfather’s daughter, Isabelle, his childhood friend, who had just left for Nantes to stay with her aunt, Madame de Guénouel.

With a heavy heart he had left the old walled town behind him, his sense of abandonment and separation intensified by his guardian’s visible emotion and the heartrending cries of Fine, the canon’s housekeeper. He had felt lost during the long journey over land and water that was taking him to his new destiny.

As Paris had drawn near he had become aware of his surroundings again. He could still remember how scared he had felt when he first reached the capital. Until then, Paris had been little more than a dot on the map of France hanging on the schoolroom wall in Vannes. Astounded by the noise and bustle of the faubourgs, he had felt bewildered and vaguely uneasy before this enormous plain covered by countless windmills. The movement of their sails had reminded him of a group of gesticulating giants straight out of that novel by Cervantes which he had read several times. He had been struck by the crowds in rags that constantly came and went through the toll-gates.

Even today he could remember when he’d first entered the great city: its narrow streets and enormously tall houses, its dirty, muddy thoroughfares and multitudes of riders and carriages, the shouts and those unspeakable smells …

On arrival he had wandered around lost for hours, often ending up in gardens at the bottom of dead-ends or finding himself back at the river. Eventually a pleasant young man with eyes of differing colours had taken him to the church of Saint-Sulpice and then to Rue de Vaugirard and the monastery of the Discalced Carmelites. There he was given an effusive welcome by a portly monk, Père Grégoire, a friend of his guardian, who was in charge of the dispensary. It was late and he was given a bed in the garret straight away.

Taking comfort from this welcome, he had sunk into a dreamless sleep. It was only in the morning that he discovered his guide had relieved him of his silver watch, a gift from his godfather. He resolved to be more wary of strangers. Fortunately the purse containing his modest savings was still safe inside a secret pocket that Fine had sewn into his bag the day before he left Guérande.

Nicolas found the regular pattern of life in the monastery reassuring. He took his meals with the community, in the great refectory. He had begun to venture out into the city equipped with a rudimentary street map on which he marked in pencil his tentative explorations so as to be sure of finding his way back. There were many aspects of life in the capital which he disliked, but its charm was beginning to work on him. He found the constant bustle of the streets both appealing and disconcerting; on several occasions he had almost been run over by carriages. He was always surprised by how fast they went and how they suddenly appeared from nowhere. He quickly learnt not to daydream, and to protect himself against other dangers: stinking muck that splashed his clothes, water from the gutters that poured down on passers-by, and streets transformed into raging torrents by a few drops of rain. He jumped, dodged and leapt aside, like a Parisian born and bred, in the midst of all the filth and a thousand other hazards. After each outing he had to brush his clothes and wash his stockings: he only had two pairs and was saving the other for his meeting with Monsieur de Sartine.

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 with 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.

Nicolas took the same route as he had the day before, but this time there was a spring in his step. As he passed the Châtelet, he went over his interview with Monsieur de Sartine, a conversation in which he had hardly said a word. So, he was about to enter ‘the King’s service’ … Until then, he had not understood the full significance of these words. On reflection they had no meaning for him.

His schoolmasters and the marquis had mentioned the King, but all that seemed to belong to another world. He had seen engravings and a head on coins and he had mumbled his way through the unending list of sovereigns, which had meant no more to him than the succession of kings and prophets in the Old Testament. In the collegiate church of Guérande he had sung the Salve fac regum on 25 August, Saint Louis’s day. His intellect made no connection between the King, a figure in stained glass, the symbol of faith and fidelity, and the man of flesh and blood who ruled the State.

This thought occupied him until he reached Rue de Gesvres. There, aware once more of his surroundings, he was astonished to discover a street that crossed the Seine. When he came out on Quai Pelletier, he realised that it was a bridge lined with houses on either side. A young Savoyard chimney sweep waiting for custom, with a marmot on his shoulders, told him it was Pont-Marie. Looking back at this marvel several times, he reached Place de Grève. He recognised it from a print he had once seen, bought from a street hawker, which showed the torture and execution of Cartouche the highwayman before a large gathering of people in November 1721. As a child, he had daydreamed in front of it and imagined being part of the scene, lost in the crowd and caught up in endless adventures. With a shock he realised that his dream had become a reality: he was walking the stage where famous criminal executions had taken place.

Leaving the grain-port behind him to his right, he entered the heart of old Paris through the Saint-Jean arch at the Hôtel de Ville. When giving him directions, Père Grégoire had particularly warned him about this spot: ‘It’s a grim and dangerous place,’ he said, clasping his hands, ‘with everyone from Rue Saint-Antoine and the faubourg passing through.’ The archway was the favourite haunt of thieves and fake beggars who lay in wait for passers-by under its solitary vault. He entered it cautiously, but only came across a water carrier and some day labourers going towards Place de Grève to find work.

He reached the market of Saint-Jean via Rue de la Tissanderie and Place Baudoyer. It was, so his mentor had told him, the largest in Paris after Les Halles; he would recognise it by the fountain in its centre, near the guardhouse, and by the many people who came to collect water from the Seine.

Accustomed to the good-natured orderliness of provincial markets, here Nicolas had to force his way through total chaos. All the goods were piled higgledy-piggledy on the ground, except for the meat, which was on special slabs. In the warm autumn air the smells were strong, foul even, around the fish stalls. He found it hard to believe that there could be markets bigger or busier than this one. The space for the stallholders was very cramped and it was almost impossible to move around, but this did not prevent horse-drawn vehicles from driving through, threatening to crush anything in their path. People were haggling and arguing and from the accents and the clothes he realised that many peasants from the nearby countryside came here to sell their produce.

Carried first one way then the other by the crowd, Nicolas went around the market three or four times before finding Rue Sainte-Croix-de-la-Bretonnerie. This street led him without mishap to Rue des Blancs-Manteaux where, between Rue du Puits and Rue du Singe, he found Commissioner Lardin’s residence.

He hesitated and gazed at the three-storey house, bordered on either side by gardens protected by high walls. He raised the knocker, which produced a dull echo inside as it struck the door. The door half opened to reveal the face of a woman wearing a white mob cap, a face so wide and chubby that it seemed to be the continuation of a huge body, the top half of which was squeezed into a red jacket. This was framed by two arms, similarly proportioned to the rest, which dripped with washing suds.

‘What do you want?’ asked the woman, with a strange accent that Nicolas had never heard before.

‘I’ve come to deliver a letter from Monsieur de Sartine to Commissioner Lardin,’ said Nicolas, who immediately bit his lip, realising he had played his trump card rather too soon.

‘Give me.’

‘I must give it in person.’

‘No one at home. Wait.’

She slammed the door shut. All that remained for Nicolas was to show the patience that, as his own experience had confirmed, was the main virtue needed in Paris. Without daring to move away from the house he walked up and down, examining the surroundings. On the opposite side of the road, where there was an occasional passer-by, he glimpsed buildings, a monastery or a church, hidden amidst tall, bare trees.

He sat down on the front steps of the house, tired out by his morning’s expedition. His arm was numb from carrying his bag and he was hungry, since all he had eaten that morning in the refectory of the Carmelites was some bread dipped in soup. A nearby bell was chiming three o’clock when a sturdily built man, wearing a grey wig and leaning on a cane very like a cudgel, curtly asked him to make way. Guessing who this was, Nicolas stepped aside, bowed and began to speak:

‘I beg your pardon, Monsieur, but I’m waiting for Commissioner Lardin.’

Two blue eyes stared at him intently.

‘You’re waiting for Commissioner Lardin? Well, I’ve been waiting for a certain Nicolas Le Floch since yesterday. Would you know him by any chance?’

‘That’s me, Monsieur. As you can see …’

‘No explanations …’

‘But …’ stammered Nicolas, holding out Sartine’s letter.

‘I know better than you do what orders the Lieutenant General of Police gave you. I have no use for this letter. You may keep it as a souvenir. It will tell me nothing I don’t already know and merely confirms that you did not comply with the instructions given.’

Lardin knocked and the woman reappeared in the doorway.

‘Monsieur, I did not want …’

‘I know, Catherine.’

He motioned impatiently, as much to interrupt his servant as to invite Nicolas inside. He took off his coat to reveal a sleeveless, thick-leather doublet and, removing his wig, uncovered a closely shaven head. They entered a library, and Nicolas was stunned by its beauty and tranquillity: the dying embers in the carved marble fireplace, a black and gold desk, the bergères upholstered in Utrecht velvet, the light-coloured panelling on the walls, the framed prints and the richly bound books lining the shelves all helped to create an atmosphere that someone more worldly than Nicolas would have described as voluptuous. He vaguely sensed that these refined surroundings were somewhat at odds with the boorish appearance of his host. The main drawing room at Château de Ranreuil, though still half medieval, had been until then his only point of reference in such matters.

Lardin remained standing.

‘Monsieur, this is a very odd way to begin a career in which exact-ness is of the essence. Monsieur de Sartine entrusts you to my charge and I don’t know to what I owe this honour.’

With a wry smile Lardin made his finger joints crack.

‘But I obey and you must do the same,’ he continued. ‘Catherine will take you to the third floor. I can only offer you a meagre attic room. You will take your meals with the servants or out of the house, as you wish. Each morning you will appear before me at seven o’clock. You must, I am told, learn the law. For that you will go for two hours each day to Monsieur de Noblecourt, a former magistrate, who will assess your abilities. I expect you to be perfectly assiduous and unfailingly obedient. Tonight, to celebrate your arrival, we shall dine together as a family. You may go.’

Nicolas bowed and left. He followed Catherine, who settled him into a small attic room. To reach it he had to cross a cluttered loft. He was pleasantly surprised by the size of the room and by the presence of a window which overlooked the garden. It was sparsely furnished with a small bed, a table, a chair and a chest of drawers cum washstand with its basin and ewer and a mirror above it. The wooden floor was covered with a threadbare rug. He put his few possessions away in the drawers, removed his shoes and went to sleep.

When he woke it was already dark. After quickly washing his face and combing his hair, he went downstairs. The door to the library where he had been received by Lardin was now shut, but those to other rooms along the corridor were still open. This enabled him to cautiously satisfy his curiosity. First he saw a drawing room decorated in pastel colours, compared to which the library suddenly seemed positively austere. In another room a table had been laid for three. At the end of the corridor another door led to what had to be the kitchen, judging by the smells coming from it. He went closer. The heat in the room was intense and Catherine kept having to wipe her brow with a cloth. When Nicolas entered she was opening oysters and, to the surprise of the young Breton who was used to swallowing them live, she was removing the contents of the shells and placing them on an earthenware plate.

‘May I ask what you are preparing, Madame?’

She turned around in surprise.

‘Don’t call me Madame. Call me Catherine.’

‘Very well,’ he said, ‘and my name’s Nicolas.’

She looked at him, her unprepossessing face lighting up and becoming more attractive. She showed him two capons she had boned.

‘I’m making capon and oyster soup.’

As a child Nicolas had enjoyed watching Fine prepare delicacies, the canon’s one weakness. Gradually he had even learnt how to make certain Breton specialities, such as far, kuign aman or lobster in cider. Nor was his godfather, the marquis, averse to turning his hand to this noble activity which, to the canon’s great disgust, he described as one of the seven ‘lively’ sins.

‘Cooked oysters!’ exclaimed Nicolas. ‘Where I come from we eat them raw.’

‘What! Living creatures?’

‘And how exactly do you make this soup?’

Going on his experience with Fine, whom he had needed to spy on for a long time in order to discover her recipes, Nicolas was expecting to be thrown out of the kitchen.

‘You so good that I tell you. I take two nice capons and bone them. I stuff one with flesh of other and add bacon, egg yolks, salt, pepper, nutmeg, bouquet garni and spices. I tie it all with string and poach in stock gently. Then I roll my oysters in flour and I fry them in butter with mushrooms. I cut up the capon and lay out the oysters, pour on the stock and serve with a trickle of lemon and some spring onion, piping hot.’

Nicolas could not contain his enthusiasm and it showed; listening to Catherine had made his mouth water and he felt even hungrier. So it was that he won over Catherine Gauss, a native of Colmar, a former canteen-keeper at the battle of Fontenoy, the widow of a French guard and now cook to Commissioner Lardin. The formidable servant had adopted Nicolas for good. Now he had one ally in the household and he felt reassured by his ability to charm.

Nicolas was left with confused memories of the dinner. The splendour of the table with its crystal, silverware and sparkling damask tablecloth gave him a feeling of well-being. The warmth of the room with its gilded grey panelling and the shadows cast by the gleam of the candles created a cocoon-like atmosphere. This, added to his already weak state, made Nicolas feel languid, and the first glass of wine went straight to his head. The commissioner was not present; only his wife and daughter kept Nicolas company. They seemed of about the same age and he soon gathered that Louise Lardin was not Marie’s mother but her stepmother, and that there was little love lost between the two women. Whereas Louise seemed anxious to come across as assertive and rather flirtatious, Marie remained reserved, observing her guest out of the corner of her eye. One was tall and blonde, the other slight and dark-haired.

Nicolas was surprised by the delicacy of the dishes served. The capon and oyster soup was followed by marbled eggs, partridge hash, blancmange and jam fritters. Nicolas, who was well versed on the subject, identified the wine as a Loire vintage, probably a Bourgueil, because of its blackcurrant colour.

Madame Lardin questioned him discreetly about his past. He had the feeling that she particularly wanted to clarify the origin and nature of his relations with Monsieur de Sartine. Had the commissioner given his wife the task of getting Nicolas to talk? She filled his glass so generously that the idea did cross his mind but he thought no more of it. He spoke a great deal about his native Brittany, giving them a thousand and one details that made them smile. Did they take him for an object of curiosity, some exotic foreigner?

It was only later, after he had got back to his garret, that he began to have his doubts: he wondered whether he had been too talkative. In fact he was so unclear as to why Monsieur de Sartine should have taken an interest in him that he easily convinced himself that he could not have let slip anything compromising. Madame Lardin must have been disappointed. He recollected also the irritable expression on Catherine’s face when she served or listened to Louise Lardin, who was herself very distant towards the servant. The cook muttered under her breath, looking furious. When, on the other hand, she served Marie, the expression on her face mellowed almost to the point of adoration. It was with these observations that the young man ended his first day in Rue des Blancs-Manteaux.

This was the start of a new life for Nicolas, one arranged around a regular sequence of tasks. Rising early, he had a good wash in a garden lean-to which Catherine agreed to let him use.

He had extended his modest wardrobe of clothes at Vachon’s, where the mere mention of Monsieur de Sartine’s name had opened all doors as well as the credit book, and the tailor even went slightly beyond the original order, much to Nicolas’s embarrassment. From now on, when he looked in a mirror, he saw the reflection of a dashing young man soberly but elegantly dressed and the lingering looks Marie gave him were confirmation of his changed appearance.

At seven o’clock he appeared before Commissioner Lardin, who informed him of his timetable. His lessons with the magistrate Monsieur de Noblecourt, a small kindly old man, and a keen chess player and flautist, were enjoyable moments of relaxation. Thanks to his teacher’s knowledgeable advice he became a keen concert-goer.

Nicolas continued to explore Paris and the faubourgs. Never, not even in Guérande, had he walked so much.

On Sundays, he went to concerts of sacred music that were given then in the great hall of the Louvre. One day he found himself sitting next to a young seminarist. Pierre Pigneau, a native of Origny in the diocese of Laon, longed to join the Society of Foreign Missionaries. He explained to an admiring Nicolas his vow to dispel the darkness of idolatry with the light of the Gospels. He wished to join the mission in Cochin China, which for the past few years had been subject to terrible persecution. The young man, a tall, ruddy-faced lad with a sharp sense of humour, agreed with Nicolas about the poor performance of an Exaudi Deus given by the celebrated Madame Philidor. So indignant were they at the audience’s applause that they got up together and left. Nicolas accompanied his new-found friend to the Seminary of the Thirty-Three. After arranging to meet up again the following week, they went their separate ways

The two young men soon took to ending their outings at Stohrer’s, pastry-cook to the King. His shop in Rue Montorgueil had been a fashionable meeting place ever since its owner had supplied the court with cakes of his own creation that were especially to the liking of the Queen, Marie Leszczyn´ska. Nicolas greatly enjoyed the young priest’s company.

In the beginning, Lardin, whose duties were not confined to a particular district, instructed him to accompany him on his assignments. Nicolas experienced the early morning routine of sealing up property, confiscating goods, making reports or merely settling the disputes between neighbours that were so common in faubourg tenements where the poorest people crowded together. He made the acquaintance of inspectors, men of the watch, guards on the ramparts, gaolers and even executioners. He had to steel himself for the horrendous spectacles of the torture chamber and the great morgue. Nothing was kept from him and he soon learnt that in order to function properly the police had to rely on a host of informers, spies and prostitutes, a twilight world that enabled the Lieutenant General of Police to know more about the secrets of the capital than anyone else in France. Nicolas also realised that, through his control of the postal service and all private correspondence, Monsieur de Sartine had at his disposal a precious network for penetrating people’s innermost thoughts. As a result, he himself was suitably cautious and remained guarded in the letters he regularly sent to Brittany.

Nicolas’s relations with the commissioner had barely changed, either for better or for worse. Lardin’s cold, authoritarian manner was met by the young man’s silent obedience. For lengthy periods, the policeman seemed to forget all about him. Monsieur de Sartine, on the other hand, did not hesitate to remind Nicolas of his existence. From time to time a little Savoyard chimney sweep would bring him a laconic note summoning him to the Châtelet or to Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin. These encounters were brief affairs. The Lieutenant General would question Nicolas, who noticed that certain questions revolved oddly around Lardin. Sartine made him describe in minute detail the commissioner’s house and the family’s habits, even going so far as to ask about what they ate. Nicolas was sometimes a little embarrassed at being interrogated in this way and puzzled as to the meaning of it.

The Lieutenant General of Police ordered him to attend criminal hearings and to give him a written summary of the sessions. One day, he instructed him to report back on the arrest of a man who had circulated letters of exchange with disputed signatures. Nicolas saw the officers of the watch grab an individual in the middle of the street. He had bright eyes and a striking face, and he spoke French with a strong Italian accent. The man called out to him:

‘Monsieur, you look like an honest person, look how they treat a citizen of Venice. They are seizing the noble Casanova. Bear witness to the injustice being done. It’s a crime against someone who lives and writes as a philosopher.’

Nicolas followed him as far as For-l’Evêque prison. When he gave Sartine his report the Lieutenant General began to swear under his breath and exclaimed:

‘He’ll be free by tomorrow: Monsieur de Choiseul protects this scoundrel. He’s an agreeable fellow, for all that.’

The apprentice policeman drew various conclusions from this episode.

On another occasion he had to offer to purchase some jewellery from a dealer in clocks and watches. The man was awaiting delivery of a large number of precious items before reselling them but he was also expected to go bankrupt. Nicolas was to pass himself off as an envoy of Monsieur Dudoit, a police commissioner from the district of Sainte-Marguerite, whom Monsieur de Sartine suspected of being in league with the dealer. The Paris Chief of Police kept his staff closely in check, wishing to avoid a repeat of the popular unrest of 1750, when there had been protests against the dishonesty of some commissioners. Even the world of gambling was no longer a mystery to Nicolas and he was soon able to distinguish between its recruiters, procurers, keepers, touts and lottery receivers, and the whole world of betting and card sharps.

Everything in Paris, in the world of crime, revolved around gaming, prostitution and theft, and these three worlds were interconnected in countless ways.

*

In fifteen months Nicolas learnt his trade. He knew the price of silence and of secrecy. He had matured and was now better able to control his feelings by restraining his imagination, which was still too wild for his liking. He was no longer the adolescent whom Père Grégoire had welcomed on his arrival in Paris. It was a different Nicolas who received a letter from Guérande informing him of the desperate state of health of his guardian. The sombre and stern silhouette standing at the prow of the barge, facing the raging Loire, on this cold January morning in 1761 was already that of a man.