The Baker's Blood

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  The next day, desiring a little time alone, they dispersed, each according to his preference. Nicolas hurried to attend mass at St Stephen’s Cathedral while Semacgus, in spite of the snow, immediately proceeded to Schönbrunn to visit the gardens and greenhouses. Monsieur de Lastire preferred to sprawl beneath a feathered eiderdown, smoking a pipe and staring dreamily up at the joists of the ceiling. Last but not least, Rabouine occupied himself in finding a carriage to hire. Nicolas had wandered the city for the rest of the day until he had been drawn to the modest entrance to the tomb of the Capuchins …

  Night was falling over the square, and the cold was becoming more intense. He walked back to the hotel, which was only a few streets away. His companions all seemed exhausted, as if the accumulated fatigue of the journey had suddenly overwhelmed them. They had a dinner of pea soup and a plate of cold meats accompanied by strongly flavoured black bread and amber beer, then silently retired to their rooms without further ado.

  Friday 3 March 1775

  Early in the morning, Nicolas left the Golden Bull and proceeded to the residence of the King’s ambassador to Vienna. His carriage was a fine one, and Rabouine stood proudly at the back in full livery. The majesty of the building reflected the luxury that had been a hallmark of Prince Louis’s tenure as ambassador. Nicolas was immediately admitted to the Baron de Breteuil’s presence, in a vast office hung with red damask. In the midst of gilded furniture and lacquers and vases from China, a man in a russet coat and a large, old-fashioned wig was awaiting him. He was of medium height and corpulent, with a firm, energetic face, big, alert eyes, a strong nose, and a thin mouth curiously turned up at the sides and ending in two deep furrows. Nicolas was aware that his easy-going air was deceptive. They had met some years earlier, in the presence of the late King, and he had gained a strong idea of the man’s character. Time had done its work, and Breteuil seemed to have aged considerably. No sooner had they exchanged ceremonial bows than the ambassador put one finger to his mouth to intimate silence. Taking Nicolas by the arm, he led him through a concealed door into a small, dark corridor. They passed through several more doors, each of which Breteuil locked carefully behind him, before finally coming to what appeared to Nicolas to be a small wardrobe room, without any other furniture than a worn Spanish leather chair, a stool and a silver fountain. The ambassador sat down and motioned to his guest to do the same. There was a half-smile on his stern face.

  ‘Forgive this welcome, Marquis. I know it’s strange, to say the least, but one can never be too careful. In my current situation, I can be sure of neither the servants my predecessor left me nor those I strive to recruit myself. My people talk, and I can do nothing about it. Let us speak of your mission, about which I have been well informed. We can converse safely here; I’ve made sure there are no prying ears. Did I not meet you once during a dinner in the King’s apartments?’

  ‘Indeed you did, Ambassador. We spoke about your collection of chinoiseries with Monsieur de La Borde.’

  Breteuil smiled, which made him look younger. Nicolas was reminded of Sartine.

  ‘The late King was fond of you,’ said the ambassador, with a sigh, and paused. ‘Our secrets, as you know, are intercepted, and have been for months. Although our new master seems quite reluctant to resume communications …’ Another moment’s silence. ‘What do you know of Abbé Georgel?’

  In measured terms, Nicolas summarised what Vergennes had told him.

  ‘That will do for the broad strokes; you still need to know the details. As soon as I arrived I handed the abbé – assuring him, of course, of my goodwill – a letter from the minister urging him to reveal to me the identity of his informant. Immediately, he raised objections. This intermediary would not confide in me, he said, it was an affair of honour. It was as if I had asked him to break the seal of the confessional!’

  ‘I assume that such was not your design?’

  ‘Certainly not! I had no intention of consulting the man in question! Why should I, Breteuil, have any dealings with such a rascal? But it was the duty of Georgel, as a servant of the King, to do nothing to conceal from me, the new ambassador, either his name or the means of communication that had been established with him. It was no use. All I got from Georgel was quibbling and weak excuses. He claimed not to know the man’s true identity, the channels through which he had first been approached by him no longer existed, and God knows what else! After all my entreaties, he finally said that he would soon be in a position to arrange things so that all could be revealed to me. I let some days pass, but when I reminded him of his promise he asked for more time.’

  ‘Did you grant it?’

  ‘Certainly not! I assume that, like me, you consider his conduct intolerable. I confess I would never have believed it could occur to a man employed by the King to think that he has a right to keep silent about an aspect of his service when he has been commanded to speak up. Such obstinacy is suspicious, to say the least.’

  ‘How do you explain this reticence?’

  ‘The man has neither honour nor principles. The little pedant was thrown very young into a perverse world. That hostess to philosophers, Madame Geoffrin, undertook his upbringing. It’s from his time in her house that he derives that artful self-confidence that can only be acquired at Court or–’ he smiled again and looked straight at Nicolas – ‘by birth. Since the departure of Prince Louis …’

  A scornful, almost hate-filled grimace crossed Breteuil’s face. Nicolas recalled that the ambassadorship in Vienna had previously escaped his grasp on the fall of Choiseul and that d’Aiguillon had appointed Rohan instead.

  ‘… he has considered himself to be influential and has let himself be swayed by self-delusion. He’s convinced that he’s the man best suited for the task. The Emperor and Kaunitz support this claim, but the man’s pretensions do not impress me. I’ve dismissed him: he’s leaving in a few days, on the seventh or eighth. I don’t know if that gives you sufficient time to get to the bottom of this affair. I have to say, though, that I’ve tried everything, yes, everything to convince him!’

  The tone persuaded Nicolas that Breteuil had used all his authority, and more. But he knew from experience that neither cajoling nor threats, nor an appeal to the duty of State, had any effect on people like that when their passions had to be satisfied. Clearly, Georgel was driven by other interests: as a Jesuit, he might even be working for the greater glory of his order. Things had taken a nasty turn, and Breteuil’s dismissal of Georgel would not make them any easier. There was nothing and nobody to fall back on, and yet, as Monsieur de Noblecourt often said, it was precisely at moments like these that exceptional assistance was most needed.

  ‘Do you wish to stay here with me, Marquis? Along with your … entourage, of course. By the way, have you brought the Sèvres bust for the Empress?’

  ‘Yes, and it’s an excellent likeness of its illustrious model. I am also the bearer of a letter from Her Majesty to her august mother.’

  Breteuil’s face lit up and he put his hands together in a theatrical gesture of adoration, as if in gratitude to fate. ‘So, thanks to your zeal and savoir-faire, we will have another audience at the palace. Have you been presented to the Queen?’

  ‘Yes, when she arrived in France in 1770 and I accompanied the King and the Dauphin to Compiègne.’

  That was all Breteuil would learn: Nicolas deliberately refrained from adding any further details. When dealing with members of the Court, he had learnt to keep an air of mystery about him. Intriguing his interlocutor with his terseness and never replying to unasked questions had often served him as a shield. He modestly lowered his eyes, inwardly laughing at his own mischievousness. He had scored a point, and against a clever sparring partner. As Monsieur de Breteuil was savouring all this good news open-mouthed, Nicolas thought it a good moment to tackle the other aspect of his mission to Vienna.

  ‘May I count, Ambassador, on your help in drawing up a report for Monsieur de Vergennes on the extensions to the empire,
which he hopes to receive through a less exposed channel?’

  Breteuil gave him a stern look: the question encroached on a territory of which he considered himself the master. ‘Apart from what the minister is demanding, we are already preparing a dispatch on Moldavia and another on the unrest in Bohemia, news of which has reached Vienna. There remains the problem of getting them back to France without the risk of interception. A simple letter will be of no use. These people have no hesitation in opening and searching bags, or in confiscating them. We protest, and Prince von Kaunitz casually blames the tactlessness of his agents. Not that he’s one to ever apologise profusely, according to the ministers of the other foreign courts. In the meantime, the damage has been done! How do you plan to proceed?’

  ‘Allow me to keep silent on that matter.’

  ‘The papers will be in code, but we know, alas, what happens to our codes.’

  Suddenly, he rushed to the door facing the one through which they had entered and pulled it open. There was a lively exchange of words, and when the ambassador came back into the room he was red in the face.

  ‘What did I tell you? You see how I’m surrounded by spies. That scoundrel of a valet was trying to eavesdrop. Dismiss him, I hear you say. Alas, the next one would only be worse! Fortunately, the door is padded. Prince Louis used to receive his mistresses here disguised as priests … And for whose benefit is all this? Rohan, d’Aiguillon and their entourage, without any doubt, as well as the Austrian cabinet and perhaps even the spies of Frederick II.’

  He paused to catch his breath.

  ‘Marquis, I’m counting on your zeal. You reputation augurs well for the success of our endeavour. I shall immediately request an audience with Her Imperial Majesty, and as soon as I know the day and hour I shall inform you. By the way, you won’t have far to go to find Georgel. Having arrogantly rejected my offer to house him, he’s staying at the Golden Bull.’

  They retraced their steps through the maze of corridors to the ambassador’s office. From there, Breteuil walked him ceremoniously to the staircase, declaiming in a loud voice on the latest gossip about the actresses of Paris and the rigours of the winter.

  Once in his carriage, Nicolas considered the results of this interview. It was quite a success, he thought, to have mollified Breteuil, who was known to be unapproachable. He nevertheless suspected, beneath the diplomat’s honeyed words, an ill-concealed desire to impose his will. Nicolas was useful, and even necessary, to him, the commissioner’s contacts being of such a nature as not to be carelessly disdained. Now he would have to listen to Abbé Georgel, the second instrument in this discordant duo. The task had been made easier for him: he knew where to find the abbé. He foresaw a somewhat more awkward encounter with a man who was willing to risk the disfavour of both the ambassador and the minister. As a servant of the King himself, he found that quite shocking, but he understood that Georgel felt sustained by the reputation of his order and assured of the support of the powerful Rohan family, with all that that entailed.

  Once back at the Golden Bull, finding Abbé Georgel was child’s play. He was enjoying cakes and chocolate in one of the drawing rooms. Thanks to a mirror that covered one whole wall, Nicolas was able to observe him at his leisure before approaching him. He was short, with curly powdered hair, and wore an elegant black coat with a discreet collar that was more reminiscent of a cravat than the adornment of a priest. Clear eyes, a thin mouth between two asymmetrical furrows and a curious involuntary shrug of the shoulders made for a distinctive, if joyless, appearance.

  ‘May I disturb your collation, Father?’ said Nicolas, approaching. ‘Allow me to introduce myself—’

  The man looked at him coldly, his shoulder moving up and down. ‘You are the Marquis de Ranreuil, better known, I think, as Police Commissioner Le Floch of the Châtelet.’

  He was clearly in no way put out by this unexpected encounter, as well as already informed of everything.

  Nicolas felt a kind of threat hovering in the air. ‘Come now,’ he said. ‘You do not think, you know! That simplifies my task.’

  A thin, tense smile played over the abbé’s lips. ‘Take a seat, Marquis. The chocolate here is perfectly whipped – will you take a cup?’

  ‘One could hardly resist such a gracious invitation,’ Nicolas said, sitting down.

  He had chosen the lightest of tones, but would that suffice to allay the abbé’s very obvious mistrust? Georgel had fallen silent. Nicolas needed to find out how much he knew, but as nothing was forthcoming, he forced the issue. ‘I assume you know why I am in Vienna?’

  ‘You assume correctly. I understand you are to hand over a Sèvres bust to the Empress, a present from our Queen, not forgetting that little billet-doux from daughter to mother.’

  Nicolas appreciated neither the tone nor the content, which he considered intolerable, but he restrained himself. ‘You are well informed.’

  He remembered the scene at Versailles, when, apart from himself and the Queen, the ambassador Mercy-Argenteau and a few ladies-in-waiting had been present. There had been every opportunity for the thing to get out. Presumably, Georgel had his information from the Rohans.

  ‘So, Abbé, there is no need for me to waste time on the real aim of my mission: to meet you, and enquire of you, at the behest of Monsieur de Vergennes, the reasons behind your refusal to inform your ambassador about a certain grave matter.’

  Now was not the time to beat about the bush. He had the impression that the blow had struck home.

  ‘Monsieur,’ Georgel replied, ‘how can I possibly believe in your impartiality? You have just come from the French embassy. No doubt its present incumbent has been singing my praises. How could I rival that grandee, whose glitter reminds me of a stone that has no value despite its sheen? Will you believe me? Will you listen to me? Will you lend me a benevolent ear after all you have heard about my good faith?’

  ‘You are judging me very harshly, Monsieur.’

  ‘Let me tell you this: I had hoped to be treated differently, given my position, but I regret my hopes have been dashed. Despite the amenities I have enjoyed in Vienna, I desire nothing more at the moment than to revert to my original state. A diplomatic career had no other attraction for me than the satisfaction of fulfilling my duty. I was not drawn to it by inclination. But is that any reason to be treated like a paid lackey?’

  ‘I understand what you’re saying, but the Baron de Breteuil is upset with your lack of openness towards him.’

  ‘Quite unfairly! I did all that my duty demanded to prepare for his entry at Court, suffering every possible snub along the way! I shan’t even mention the visits I made to ministers and other influential people. I told him everything: my sources, my channels of communication, details of the monarchs’ characters and affections, their prejudices for or against us, and so on and so forth. I instructed him in depth on the secret liaisons of the ministers of Russia, England and Prussia, their tortuous schemes to diminish our influence, and the progress of all private negotiations relating to our interests. What more do you want?’

  ‘And what came of all that? Did he not show you any appreciation or gratitude for such zeal?’

  ‘At first, he appeared to respond in the proper manner. But then he ordered me to reveal the methods I had used so successfully to obtain for His Majesty the secrets of the Austrian cabinet. I couldn’t. His arrival had dried up the source, and how could I possibly have tracked down a masked man glimpsed at night who had warned me that any attempt to identify him and hand him over would not only be futile but would also put me in danger?’

  ‘What I don’t understand is the reason for this reticence now, when everything seemed to work so well under Prince Louis.’

  ‘The ambassador became extremely angry about that, forgetting himself and lashing out at his predecessor, claiming that I had espoused his cause and assuring me that he would one day take his revenge, that he would be Rohan’s minister and make him feel the weight of his authority. I replied, wi
thout going beyond the bounds of the respect I owe him, that I would inform Versailles of his conduct. Would you believe it? After that scene, thinking that I could still be useful to him, he dared to return to the attack.’

  ‘So,’ commented Nicolas, ‘you now consider that you owe him nothing, neither your respect nor your savoir-faire, qualities which, up until now, have allowed our Court to keep the machinations of the Austrian cabinet in check. The fact remains, Abbé, that you should consent to help me, coming as I do in good faith from your minister. It goes without saying that, under these conditions, I would be your most devoted advocate at Versailles.’

  The unfortunate word had escaped him, and he immediately regretted it. The abbé gave a start and threw his spoon into a bowl of whipped cream, spattering his coat in the process.

  ‘Advocate? Advocate? Did I hear correctly? Am I on trial, then, that I need to be defended? Get it into your heads, you and the others, that nothing will emerge from my mouth, that I have nothing to reveal. In four days, I shall take the coach and leave this den of iniquity for ever.’ He raised his eyes to heaven. ‘Thank God! At least our Austrian friends have expressed their sorrow at my departure. The Emperor Joseph granted me a farewell audience! Yes, a farewell audience!’ He rose to his full height, almost drunk with pride. ‘As if I were the ambassador himself! As for Prince von Kaunitz, he lavished on me attentions of all kinds!’

  ‘At least indicate to me how you and your informant proceeded.’

  ‘There is hardly any mystery about it. I’m happy to repeat it for the thousandth time. There would be an anonymous note in neat handwriting. At midnight, a masked man would hand me a bundle comprising dispatches deciphered from our King’s secret communications as well as those of the King of Prussia. This would happen twice a week. A former secretary would copy them, and then I would give them back. With that, Monsieur, draw up your statement for the defence. Your humble servant!’