‘Well, now,’ Catherine went on, ‘this turkey, I serenaded him every morning to get him to eat more. Then the terrible day arrives and, to make the flesh particularly delicate, I cut off his food, for one whole day at least. Then I let him loose in the yard so that he tries to run away and I have to run after him!’
She crouched down and pretended to chase an imaginary bird round the table, to the increased delight of her audience.
‘But why all that, my God?’ spluttered Marion, choking with laughter.
‘It’s a way of reducing him to the last degree of exasperation and terror. Because it’s in that state of painful excitement that you grab him, tie him up like a criminal, then make him swallow half a glass of vinegar saturated with salt and ginger. He’s in agony! Then you strangle him. You leave him hung up for two or three days. After that you pluck him, gut him, and put him first in boiling water, then in cold water. You rub him with salt, pepper and ginger, and put strips of bacon in him. Add cinnamon and cloves and then onto the spit with him.’6
In the midst of renewed hilarity, a surprising incident occurred that confirmed Nicolas in his suspicions, if any confirmation was still needed. The first to see Nicolas was Mouchette, who had loved him unconditionally ever since he had found her at the Palais de Cluny. She jumped to the floor and, as usual, came and rubbed her little head against his legs. She was starting to sniff them when suddenly she let out a raucous moan of terror, a shiver went down her spine, her tail swelled like a brush, and she hissed and gave off a musky odour. She was looking at his boots as if they were her sworn enemies. This uncharacteristic display startled the gathering, at last aware that the commissioner had arrived, but he himself was not surprised.
‘What’s wrong with Mouchette, Father? She’s spitting like a demon!’
‘Don’t pay any attention to her, she caught the smell of an enemy species on my boots.’
‘And now she smells just like the maréchal.’
‘Nicolas,’ said Marion, ‘Monsieur is waiting for you. He asked that you go up as soon as you arrive. The maréchal is paying him a visit.’
He took off his tricorn and asked Poitevin to clean his pistol and return it to him discreetly. He had no desire for Louis to handle a weapon whose small size made it all the more dangerous. He went upstairs to see Noblecourt. By the time he was halfway up, he could already hear a high-pitched voice holding forth with great solemnity.
‘Imagine, my friend, in Bordeaux those fur-wrapped fools in the Parlement tried shamelessly to oppose me! I’m accustomed to being obeyed without challenge and for everyone to submit to my will. How dare they attack a provincial governor, a marshal and peer of France? They went so far as to try and ban gambling, yes, gambling, in my house! Well, let me tell you, when I went back to Bordeaux to register the abolition of the Parlement, I treated them with the contempt they deserved.’
‘You have cause for complaint, then, Monseigneur, that in Paris the revived Parlement is trying to pick a quarrel with you in the unfortunate trial of Madame de Saint-Vincent!
‘Go back in your shell, Octave, you complain far too much
You want to be spared, yet no one is free of your touch.’
The maréchal smiled. ‘Instead of concealing my troubles, I’m trying to be candid, and I find a secret sweetness in opening my heart to you.’
‘Fine words,’ declared Nicolas, entering the room. ‘Monseigneur, it is the sage who speaks through your mouth! It is not for nothing that you are one of the forty members of the Académie.’
‘Oh, clever fellow. It took a Breton to recognise a quotation from the author of Gil Blas, Le Diable Boiteux and Turcaret!’
‘Le Sage, born in Sarzeau!’
‘What was I saying? Oh, yes! It must be acknowledged, above and beyond any resentment on my part, that the abolition of the Parlements was the best thing that could have happened to the kingdom. Otherwise, the magistracy, with the exception of a certain procurator …’
Half rising from his armchair, Noblecourt bowed.
‘… would inevitably have taken over every seat of power, and even the most insignificant bailiff, provided he was shrewd and cunning enough, would have become king in his village or his circle. The King has to reign without constraint and without protest. But who will listen to us now? Well, Marquis, what answer can you give me concerning your son? Shall we make him a page?’
‘Maréchal, I am enormously grateful, but we have to ask him.’
‘What do you mean, ask him? What a curious idea! What answer could he give to such an exceptional proposition? Let him take his place uncomplainingly in the line of the Ranreuils and we will take him far. Pah! Since when do we consult children about their future? Do they even have a future? No, merely the continuation of the greatness of their house! Fetch him, I’m going to speak to him; I fear the bonny lad is splitting hairs and needs to be told a few home truths.’
What else was there to do but to obey? The maréchal knew that Louis was in the house. This situation troubled Nicolas, who would have preferred to sound out his son first about the proposal. It made him surprisingly sad. He was being deprived of a privilege that was his by nature. He tried to examine more closely what he was feeling. It was obvious that Louis’s fate was about to be sealed, and the whole process seemed inexorable. In a flash, he recalled the astronomical clock he had seen and admired in the cathedral at Strasbourg during the journey to Vienna. He thought he could hear the mechanical sound of its gears and, with it, there loomed up an inevitable series of consequences. One day, he himself had been thrust off the common path by a sudden decision of his father, the Marquis de Ranreuil. He had felt unhappy and afraid, but had been unable to resist his destiny. Paris had snatched him up, and Sartine and Lardin had set him on a path he had originally neither wanted nor chosen. On the other hand, there was little doubt that the path opening up before Louis corresponded to his deepest desires. As he went to fetch the boy, he sighed: his own childhood had been stolen from him and now he would have to watch, powerless to intervene, as a crucial decision was made regarding his own son.
The interview went much as he had expected. Richelieu embellished his offer with the most enticing privileges. His caressing tone and the extravagant compliments he lavished on the young Ranreuil, added to what the victor of Mahon must represent in the eyes of a child, would have won over even those less innocent. Without too much effort, he inflamed Louis’s imagination and gained his consent to a future that would thrust him into the most brilliant – and most dangerous – of environments: the world of the Court and the aristocracy. In all this, what clearly mattered most to the boy was the prospect of being close to the King and the chance to prepare for the military career for which he yearned.
‘Go now,’ said Richelieu, graciously dismissing the applicant, ‘and do honour to your grandfather and your father …’
He let him withdraw.
‘That boy will go far. He bears himself well, he has a handsome face and an alert air. He needs to make a good marriage, to a girl from an important family.’ He assumed a ribald air which creased his mummified old face. ‘Gentlemen, I am afraid I must leave you. I’m expected in town.’
He waved his hand in a boastful but evasive gesture: he did not need to spell things out. Noblecourt stood up to see his guest out. Nicolas preceded him with a torch to light their descent. The procession thus reached the street in pomp.
‘Nicolas, you seem quite sombre,’ sighed Noblecourt, walking back upstairs to his apartment, leaning on the commissioner’s arm.
‘No … But this has all been so rushed. I fear Louis may have committed himself without much understanding of what he will be obliged to do.’
‘Having known you such a long time, I can read your mind. You would have preferred to speak to Louis first. But ask yourself, would the result have been any different? He’s more mature than you might imagine. You yourself, when I gave you lessons in law at the request of Lardin, seemed lacking in experience, and yet
what force of character was already there! Let him build and strengthen his. Too much earnestness on the part of parents, and fathers in particular, deprives children of their lovable innocence and replaces it with a touch of hypocrisy that makes them odious. Consider his wish to be a good servant to the King. Where do you think this praiseworthy inclination will take him? It comes from the Ranreuils, from you and, I would say, from his mother, an honest woman badly treated by fate. Learn to take it calmly. Don’t give your son the impression that you harbour doubts about his choice. On the contrary, support it and give him as much advice as possible, advice which will be indispensable to him in his new situation. I’m convinced it is good to follow one’s inclination provided the aim is elevated enough.’
‘What do they say,’ asked Nicolas, reassured by the former procurator’s serene philosophy, ‘about the Prince de Conti? You, for whom city and Court hold no secrets, can surely tell me.’
‘It’s strange that you should speak of him now. Just before you came in, Richelieu, the old fox, was complaining about the prince’s collusion with the Parlement. Hence that furious diatribe against the fur-wrapped fools which you caught.’
‘He’s said to be popular.’
‘Pah! He claims to be popular, and many other things, too. He thinks he can lead the Parlement and become a new Duc de Beaufort7 to the common people. But he’s not well thought of by the one and not well known to the other. He’s ready for anything and good for nothing. The most handsome and imposing of men, the idol and example of the freethinkers. A manner and style all of his own, quoting Rabelais and sometimes speaking like him. One passage describes him, and it’s by his mother: “My son has wit. He has a lot, you see a great expanse of it at first, but he’s an obelisk: he gets smaller the more he rises and ends in a point, like a steeple!”’8
‘Will the maréchal ever stop?’
Noblecourt shook his head sadly. ‘There are two ways of being old. One consists of draping oneself in the discomforts of age like a coronation cloak. The other, which Richelieu has chosen, consists of believing and making others believe, through all kinds of expedients, that age doesn’t matter at all.
‘The years of his youth have been very long
So far just eighty and still going strong.’
‘And yours?’
He smiled. ‘Why, do you think I’m old? It’s entirely up to me if I want to be so. To be honest, I combine the two formulas. I proclaim that I’m not old and sometimes it works. One can at least stop oneself from appearing like an old man: one simply doesn’t let oneself go, in body or mind. It’s too bad for those who give up. I also tell myself that I don’t want to die. I still have too much curiosity … I don’t know how well that will work.’
The murmur of voices and the tinkling of glasses and china could be heard from the library: Marion and Catherine were laying the table. Louis peered in shyly. Nicolas looked at him with pride. It was true that he already bore himself well, much more than he himself had done at his age. He had the same way of holding his head high as his grandfather. Catherine scolded them and pushed them into the library. The soup was eaten in silence.
‘Was that affected little man really a great general once, Father?’ ventured Louis.
‘Ah, the stern judgement of youth!’ said Nicolas. ‘Louis, never trust appearances. You know the battle of Fontenoy, in which my father took part. Well, did you know that the famous day very nearly ended in terrible disaster? The reason it didn’t was all due to that little man. Our troops were being driven from the field, and the officers were in a panic. There was an improvised mounted war council before the late King, who was not sure of the decision to take. Richelieu spoke up. He pointed out that they still had one last resource: a battery that could pound the enemy infantry and cause terrible losses, but which the Maréchal de Saxe had forbidden to be used. “The King is well above the maréchal,” cried Richelieu; “he has only to give the order!”’
‘And what happened?’
‘The King followed his advice, which was the right decision. After two or three volleys, the enemy were weakened and it was at that moment that Richelieu charged with the King’s Household and your grandfather, and the enemy were cut to pieces. Thus history is made. Remember that heroic deed, and bear in mind also that the maréchal has always granted me his protection. You will hear much slander about him, for that is the way of the Court. Just remember this: he’s a great soldier and a friend to our house and to Monsieur de Noblecourt.’
The latter bowed solemnly.
‘Ah, my father, how I would love to have such experiences!’
The enthusiasm of sons, thought Nicolas, increased the anxiety of fathers. He himself had doubtless been a source of concern to the Marquis de Ranreuil … God knew that in his career there had been no lack of terrible sights. But nothing in his memory could compare with the accounts of the aftermath of battles described by his father with that cold detachment that concealed, as he now realised, the fact that he was haunted by the many horrors he had seen. Images of stripped and heaped bodies crowded into his mind: he tried to dismiss them. Next, Louis questioned his father tirelessly about the functions of a page. His answers were complemented by the advice of Monsieur de Noblecourt, who excelled in drawing useful lessons from the facts. Marion and Catherine had, as always, surpassed themselves. One of the big rabbits that Poitevin raised in a hutch at the bottom of the garden, a practice which obliged him to frequent certain places known to him alone to obtain their food, had been sacrificed and meticulously deboned. Rolled around its own liver and pieces of pig’s throat, it had been seasoned with chopped herbs, then wrapped in a caul as fine as hemstitched lace. Thus adorned, the rabbit, lying on a bed of bacon rashers in an earthenware pot, moistened with veal stock and a glass of white wine, had been steamed in the oven. The slices of this delight had been arranged on a bed of sorrel.
‘After Juilly, this is Christmas!’ cried Louis, who was not easily impressed by food.
‘And you haven’t seen what comes next,’ said Catherine.
There soon appeared a treat, a prodigious stack of omelettes spread with apricot jam, currant jelly and cherry plum compote, covered in sugar and glazed. It was necessary to restrain Noblecourt, who, after sampling the rabbit – his lodger, as he put it – tried to serve himself such a large portion of dessert that it immediately unleashed the censure of the two women, who joined forces to take away his plate, much to his despair.
The evening ended calmly enough, with a discussion of the forthcoming coronation. Louis, his cheeks red with excitement, wondered if he would be able to attend. As yet, there was no answer to the question, but Nicolas promised to take him, as soon as he had time, to see the King’s coach, which was on display. More and more people were going every day to gaze at the decorations and paintings on the coach, which were rumoured to be of a richness, finish and beauty to delight the most demanding of connoisseurs. Many were also rushing to Aubert’s jewellery shop to see the diamond-encrusted crown, including the Régent and the Sancy, valued at more than eighteen million livres. The order of the King’s progress and the ceremonies had just been published. His Majesty would leave Versailles in great pomp, with the Queen, the princes, the Court and the ministers. His aunts would remain in the palace with the Comtesse d’Artois, who was pregnant. The monarch would be received in every town through which he passed with a peal of bells, cannon fire and the cheers of the people. These future cheers brought a smile to Noblecourt’s face: they struck him as a curious touch, as if they could be ordered up like everything else. Louis announced excitedly that, according to the newspaper, twenty thousand post horses would be constantly running between Paris and Reims. And on this detail, it was time for them to retire to their respective rooms.
‘It’s quite late,’ said Nicolas, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece.
‘Pah!’ said Noblecourt. ‘That thing’s stopped, and they forgot to wind it. Not that it matters, it still shows the exact time twice a d
ay with admirable regularity!’
The night was already far advanced when Nicolas was woken from a deep sleep by a heart-rending cry, apparently coming from Louis’s room. He rushed to it and found his son sitting up in bed, wild-eyed, his face dripping with sweat. Nicolas took him in his arms. He was shaking all over.
‘Hush now, it was only a nightmare. Calm down, the dinner was too lavish. This is the normal consequence of bad digestion.’
‘Father, I saw the Capuchin again.’
‘What do you mean? The one from Juilly?’
‘Yes, he was trying to drag me away … I resisted … I was going to … Then I woke up.’ Calmer now, he seemed lost in thought for a moment. ‘Seeing him again in my dream reminded me of a detail that may be of some use to you, Father.’
‘Go on, Louis.’
The Baker's Blood Page 31
