The Baker's Blood

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  He walked stiffly out of the drawing room, his head held high. It seemed to Nicolas that his efforts had been in vain. They would get nothing from the abbé, at least not with his consent. Hatred combined with wounded vanity always led men of that kind to guilty denials. The confrontation between Prince Louis and Breteuil, with Choiseul lurking in the background, d’Aiguillon outraged by the insults of the Court, and the powerful Rohan family lying in wait: all this had led to ignominious intrigues that threatened the throne and the kingdom. He decided to go for a walk through the city to think about what steps to take.

  Once outside, he felt pleased that he had swapped his ceremonial shoes for a solid pair of boots freshly waxed by Rabouine. The melted snow that spurted at every step would have soiled his white stockings beyond repair. He wandered somewhat aimlessly until he reached the Hofburg, the Empress’s Viennese palace, which struck him as simple, even austere. It was guarded by a small detachment whose oriental uniform intrigued him. He noted that the houses were regularly numbered. Sartine had planned something similar for Paris, but had not been able to bring his plans to fruition. His steps next led him to a large square called Graben. Surrounded by richly decorated houses, this broad rectangle had at its centre a curiously carved kind of tower, adorned with the symbols of the Holy Trinity. Two ornamental ponds surrounded by wrought-iron grilles placed at either end of the square added to the splendour of the place. He was struck by the gutters jutting out from the roofs of the houses, their ends representing the heads of griffons, and spewing the overflow from the thaw. Shops abounded on the perimeter, with wooden canopies to shield them from the winter weather, but also doubtless from the heat of the sun. There was a great deal of bustle everywhere, with carriages, carts, wheelbarrows and a very varied crowd. It did not take him long to discover that, despite the Empress’s professed desire to banish prostitution from her fair city, Graben was swarming with indiscreet courtesans and their customers. At one end of the square, he stopped to gaze at a fresco painted on a blank façade, depicting a caparisoned elephant mounted by a rider holding a hook and wearing a curious conical hat which reminded Nicolas of those worn by the pagans of Asia, as seen in images sent to him by his friend Pigneau de Behaine, now a missionary in the Indies.

  At a small stand made of reeds, he bought a piece of breadcrumbed carp in a fragment of music score. This delicacy was covered in a red powder, spicy to the taste, which he much appreciated. Further on, he entered an establishment shiny with brass to have coffee while observing the customers. It was at this point that he became aware that he had been followed by two men who had not been skilful enough to escape an eye as alert as his. Indeed, so conspicuous had they been that even a child would have noticed them. Nicolas was not surprised by this occurrence. In Paris, Monsieur de Sartine had taken this practice to extremes, and the surveillance of foreigners, particularly in time of war, had attained a kind of perfection. As one of the exits from the café led to an arcade, Nicolas rushed to it as soon as he had paid his bill, then suddenly changed direction and came face to face with the two spies. Both were unwashed, and the stench coming off them was highly noticeable. Nicolas resumed his stroll, paying no further heed to the two men. He spent the rest of the afternoon visiting churches until, weary and chilled to the bone, he decided to return to the fold.

  Each of his companions had a tale to tell, except for Rabouine, who had already begun paying court to a maid in the service of a lady of quality staying at the Golden Bull. After making sure there were no eavesdroppers, Nicolas gathered the group in his room and summarised the situation. They still had four days to unmask the abbé’s informant. It was to be supposed that, whatever Georgel had said, he would make contact with him one last time. They had to discover his identity once and for all. Monsieur de Lastire, although he had joined this war council – Nicolas having been reassured by Sartine that he could be trusted – appeared uninterested in the subject of their conversation and was singing in a low voice. Somewhat irritated by his attitude, Nicolas asked for his opinion.

  ‘I think you’d do better to thank me for going out in this cold weather to buy tickets for the first performance of Haydn’s oratorio The Return of Tobias at the Kärntnertor theatre.’ He performed a little entrechat. ‘Just think! Christian Specht, bass, Carl Friberth, tenor, and Magdalena Friberth, soprano, in the role of Sara! A rare treat, I promise you. And in addition’ – he mimed an instrumentalist scraping his bow – ‘Luigi Tomassini on violin and Franz Xaver Hammer on cello, who will each play a concerto between the two parts of the work. I add, gentlemen, that the libretto is from the pen of Giovanni Gastone Boccherini, the composer’s brother! La la la … la la … la …’

  ‘What date is this performance?’ asked Semacgus.

  ‘The second of April.’

  ‘What? Do you imagine we’ll still be here then?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Lastire, ‘I’m counting on it. We’re waiting for an audience with the Empress, and she’s quite likely to take her time. And with that, gentlemen, I leave you, for I fear that my skills are of no use to you – I don’t see any charge forthcoming! Et vivat Maria Teresa!’

  They quickly made arrangements for that evening. Each of them had become aware that he had been followed. They would have to thwart this surveillance, or it might lead to the failure of their mission. It was decided that Nicolas would go out, wearing Rabouine’s clothes, on the arms of the lady’s maid, who would be softened up with a few florins. He would use the servants’ door, which was less conspicuous. Rabouine, in Nicolas’s cloak, would divert the spies, as would Semacgus. Lastire would remain in the hotel, keeping an eye on Abbé Georgel’s door, and would raise the alarm by lifting a candle at his window to warn Nicolas, who would be concealed in a doorway near the hotel. But the evening passed without incident, and although they kept watch for a good part of the night, they had to admit their failure.

  Saturday 4 March 1775

  It was quite late in the morning by the time they gathered at table. The Chevalier de Lastire was not among them. Rabouine went upstairs to wake him. After a time, he reappeared, pale-faced.

  ‘Monsieur de Lastire has disappeared. His effects are all gone. His room is empty!’

  Notes

  1. Querelle: both the name and the case are genuine.

  2. See The Nicolas Le Floch Affair.

  3. At the time, French was considered the universal language for respectable people in Europe.

  4. Kaunitz: chancellor of the Austrian empire.

  II

  THE TWO-HEADED EAGLE

  From childhood, politics trains kings to dissimulate.

  MACHIAVELLI

  They were so surprised that they all fell silent. Semacgus raised his cup to his lips, put it down, wiped his mouth and only then spoke up.

  ‘Let me abuse the privilege of age and tell you what I think. There are two possible hypotheses, since I immediately rule out the third, which is that of a lack of courage when faced with danger. Either our companion has been abducted, or, for a reason as urgent as it is mysterious, he wished to disappear. But what do we do about it? It is for you, Nicolas, to decide. For my part, I believe that the only reasonable reaction is to ignore the incident. Let us pretend, if not that we arranged it ourselves, at least that we knew of it. And if we are the cause, who could we complain to? Our ambassador? He’s new to the post, so this is hardly the moment. The Austrians? If they are responsible for this abduction, they won’t be surprised by our silence. If it was a voluntary act on the part of the chevalier, it is not for us to report a departure of which we do not know the true cause. Let us remain calm and keep up appearances.’

  Nicolas was listening attentively, but seemed to be thinking a long way beyond the present discussion.

  ‘If he’d been abducted,’ ventured Rabouine, ‘he would have defended himself. He may love embroidery, but he’s a strapping fellow, and there can be no doubting how ardent he would be in a fight. But none of us heard any noise last night, eve
n though we can hear everything …’ He went slightly red, although there was also an element of boasting. ‘I hardly slept last night. My room’s above his. I can assure you there was no noise coming from it.’

  Nicolas at last emerged from his thoughts. ‘Question the grooms. It’s possible he had his luggage removed while we were out. I have no memory of him telling us how he spent the day yesterday.’

  Rabouine was already on his way out.

  ‘Wait, one more thing. See if, by any chance, the tickets for the Haydn oratorio were collected by a messenger. That’s all. Anything else would exceed the limits of reason.’

  He grabbed a little round roll covered in cumin and started mechanically crumbling it. Silence again fell between the two friends until Rabouine returned.

  ‘Well?’ Nicolas asked impatiently.

  ‘No messengers, but I did learn one curious thing. Monsieur de Lastire’s baggage was never taken up to his room.’

  ‘Now that I come to think of it,’ said Semacgus, ‘I was struck by the fact that he hadn’t changed his clothes since our arrival. So he’d been preparing his departure for some time. We were all so tired when we arrived that none of us noticed.’

  ‘He waited until he knew our plan of action before decamping. If that is what he’s done …’

  ‘As for the theatre tickets,’ added Rabouine, ‘the hotel took care of those itself. They just gave them to me. And there are four of them!’ He waved four small squares of ivory paper.

  Nicolas shook his head, as if faced with an insurmountable obstacle.

  ‘That seems to plead in favour of one of my hypotheses,’ said Semacgus, looking relieved. ‘Could it be that by including himself as one of the spectators he was trying to tell us something?’

  ‘But what? To me, that merely adds to the mystery. What are we to tell the Baron de Breteuil?’

  ‘Nothing, unless he asks.’

  ‘The problem is that the chevalier is supposed to be escorting the bust of the Queen and that his presence has been announced.’

  ‘The audience with the Empress hasn’t yet been granted.’

  They were interrupted by Abbé Georgel, who graciously bowed to all of them, then walked up to Nicolas.

  ‘Good day to you, Marquis. May I dare to hope that you don’t hold my vehemence yesterday against me. It was that of an honest heart.’

  Nicolas rose, determined not to give too much away. Semacgus stood aside discreetly, taking Rabouine with him.

  ‘Not at all. I appreciated the fact that you said what you meant.’

  ‘I have come to bring you an invitation to dinner from Prince von Kaunitz, geheimer Hof- und Staatskanzler, the chancellor of the empire and the Nestor of European ministers. Having learnt through myself of your presence in Vienna he asks you to be his guest, in my company. There is one condition. He wishes to know if you are in good health.’

  ‘I think so,’ replied Nicolas, with a laugh. ‘Your question intrigues me.’

  ‘He means no harm by it. It is just that he is of fragile health. Even when he was quite young, it was feared that he would die. He does everything he can to avoid chills. When he was ambassador at Versailles in 1751, he dreaded nothing more than draughts, which, as you know, are common there. He has often had to withdraw from affairs in order to receive treatment. He is terrified of epidemics. He suffers from a number of chronic ailments. The slightest breath of wind makes him faint and excessive heat overwhelms him. And you should see his diet! Most peculiar.’

  ‘My carriage will be at your disposal, Abbé.’

  ‘Then we shall go in a convoy,’ said Georgel, in a sardonic tone. ‘I trust you are aware, Monsieur, what an honour it is to be invited by this great talent, who is so skilled at applying the lessons of the past to the present. His fondness for the manners and customs of the French make him the strongest supporter of an alliance which was partly his work.’

  Nicolas bowed.

  ‘Ah, I must also point out to you that the great man has some peculiarities and strange obsessions. He has no objection to time passing but hates being constantly reminded of it. He therefore has no clocks or watches about him and never calculates how long anything will take him. He goes to bed very late and gets up late. Once he has performed his toilet, he has lunch at four, five or six, after work and entertainment. We will therefore be there at four in the afternoon. Be prepared to wait.’ He looked pointedly at Nicolas’s travelling clothes. ‘Full Court dress, of course, with sword and wig. I shall come for you at three thirty.’

  He disappeared in a cloud of powder and the smell of bergamot.

  Nicolas shut himself in his room for the rest of the day to reflect on why he felt so dissatisfied with himself. First of all, he was angry with himself for not having foreseen the Chevalier de Lastire’s apparent defection. He had trusted him, and now he felt responsible and betrayed. This anguish made him think of his son, and he recalled the unhappy look on the boy’s face when he had returned from Juilly for Christmas. He still had no idea what had transformed a carefree young man into that vision of sadness. The fact that his gaiety had so quickly returned did not reassure Nicolas. What had happened? He found it hard to fathom and feared that he had missed something vital and had let Louis down. He vowed once more to keep a closer eye on him.

  Echoing this commitment, another scruple arose from deep in his heart, prompted by his sense of moral unease. In view of his son’s situation, was he not giving too much of himself to Aimée d’Arranet? Of course, his reflection had nothing to do with commonly observed behaviour. In the society around him, he saw children handled like toys or treated like miniature adults. Parents kept their distance, and affection was artificial and ostentatious. It was quite otherwise among the common people. Bourdeau and his five children were a perfect example of a loving and united family. Even Sanson, the public executioner, devoted an exclusive affection to his offspring which compensated for the forced solitude of a family marked out by society.

  His heart told him that this was the path to follow, even though the combined affections of Canon Le Floch and the Marquis de Ranreuil – not yet revealed as his father – however reserved their expression, had surrounded him with love. He began again to examine himself, just as in the old days when he had taken confession with the Jesuits in Vannes. What object was worth such passion? Could the risk be weighed up, however hard it was to define: a blind, heedless pursuit, a forgetting of others within the fortress of two bodies and two intoxicated souls? What was his son, compared with such agony? He rebuked himself. Was he not falling back, at his age, into old habits by indulging in such futile splitting of hairs? It was certain that he would suffer many more setbacks before passion waned and reason prevailed: that at least was the opinion of Monsieur de Noblecourt, who was so good at seeing beyond appearances. Perhaps all he had to do was take a deep breath, dismiss the heaviness that weighed on him, and stop himself from brooding too much and instinctively following his own bent. These common-sense thoughts relieved him and he began calmly devoting himself to his toilet.

  A mouse-grey coat embroidered with silver thread seemed appropriate. He thought tenderly of the late King, who had been fond of that colour. The King and his father combined in his memory as he kissed the hilt of the Marquis de Ranreuil’s ceremonial sword and buckled it on. After adjusting his wig, he looked at himself critically in the cheval glass. It seemed to him that he had grown both thinner and younger. His regular presence at royal hunts had provided the necessary exercise. Love, too, was making him take better care of his appearance. He put on his cloak.

  The abbé was waiting for him at the appointed time, wearing beneath his cape a silk moiré coat in a dark-purple shade, which gave him an episcopal air. Arriving at the chancellor’s palace, they were greeted in front of the peristyle by a host of lackeys carrying torches: the sky had grown darker and snow was on the way. In the light-filled rooms, the guests were waiting. Georgel took it upon himself to introduce Nicolas to a crowd which include
d some of the greatest names of the empire. The abbé himself was greeted with great, indeed excessive enthusiasm. He moved with ease, bowing to one, replying to the other and joking with all. His affinity with this world was clear to see, the result of his long sojourn in Vienna. His savoir-faire, his wit and his robe all contributed to his skill in flattering these ironic, haughty people. Prince Louis was much asked about, being still remembered as a man of fashion with whom this society had become besotted. It struck Nicolas that the new ambassador would have to work long and hard before he erased that image and prevailed over this nostalgia for past splendours.

  Time passed, and still Prince von Kaunitz had not appeared. Everyone sat down at the gaming tables and began playing animatedly. Nicolas wondered if, in Vienna as in Paris, the income from cards helped to pay the expense of great houses. Every family had its set of hangers-on on whom the maintenance of its way of life depended. To invite people and to divest them of their money was part of the same impulse. There were also gilded rascals here, leaning on the tables, hoping to familiarise themselves with the aristocracy and enrich themselves by cheating at faro.

  It struck Nicolas that all courts resembled one another, in their gestures as in their customs. The same solemn bows, the same greetings revealing a panoply of attitudes ranging all the way from disdain to adulation and from flattery to mockery. Georgel had continued to move from group to group like a fly gathering pollen. Breteuil’s fears were justified. He was alone and isolated, the butt of slanderous jibes from his servant, and his only hope was to see the abbé leave Vienna as soon as possible. Nicolas overheard a number of exchanges. The road to hell was paved with fine words which concealed others that were less affable, and Georgel’s words, circumspect as they were, nevertheless echoed with double meanings for an attentive ear. Whenever he was asked anything about the new ambassador, he immediately claimed to know little about his chief, but his very silence was clearly disparaging. His smooth, measured words seemed to say more than was actually expressed. Alternatively, he poured out a flood of exaggerated epithets that everyone received with cruel, knowing smiles. This indirect manner aroused laughter so insulting that Nicolas had to restrain himself from showing his irritation, for it was the King who was being insulted in the person of his representative. The abbé kept introducing him, exaggerating his qualities and importance. He found himself so overwhelmed with invitations that he gave up declining them: after all, he had no intention of following up on them.