The Saint-Florentin Murders

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  Maurepas continued to hold forth while the King listened in open-eyed wonder and his servants attended to him. Nicolas compared the minister to Noblecourt. More or less the same age, they had once attended the festivities of Regency Paris together. One seemed to have endured without learning anything, while the other belonged to ‘that small, select number of excellent men who, having been endowed with a fine and particular natural strength, have carefully honed it, through study and by skill, and have brought it to the highest point of wisdom it can reach’. Montaigne’s words had come spontaneously to his mind, a vestige of his adolescent reading in the library of the chateau at Ranreuil. His basic feelings about d’Aiguillon’s successor echoed the public’s judgement: Maurepas, well shaven, well powdered, well rejuvenated, gave the impression of thinking deeply about nothing.

  The noise of the arms carried by the guards, announcing the departure of the King, brought him back to reality. He hastened to follow, along the same route he had taken during his first visit to Versailles. Reaching his apartments, the King turned and signalled to Nicolas to come with him to another, even more private domain. From the little gallery overlooking the Cour des Cerfs, there was a dark, narrow spiral staircase. This led them to a wide door, which opened into a large attic room dominated, from the first, by a strong smell of filings, leather and rope. From there, it was possible to reach a small belvedere with a view over the roofs of the palace, the gardens and the park. At a glance, Nicolas saw model ships, navigational instruments, clocks either intact or dismantled, locks and various mechanisms. Books and maps were scattered everywhere, along with other objects which all pointed to their owner’s curiosity. Clearly this was a personal hideaway, a place for the King to relax. Of course, he had known his visitor for a long time.

  ‘Will you be with us at tomorrow’s shoot?’ asked Louis XVI.

  ‘Yes, Sire. I have brought the rifles you know to Versailles with me.’

  ‘We like the fact that these memories of our grandfather are still in the hands of his most loyal servants. What’s the latest about the investigation in the house of the Duc de La Vrillière?’

  So he already knew. How could it have been otherwise?

  ‘The elements are falling into place.’

  ‘You’re clever, you’ll get there.’

  He seemed embarrassed suddenly, like a child caught doing something wrong. He motioned to Nicolas to sit down. The commissioner bowed but did not move. He felt that he ought to help the King to express himself.

  ‘Your Majesty knows my loyalty. What can I do to serve you?’

  His interlocutor appeared to take the plunge. ‘Monsieur, you must get me out of trouble … From time to time, from the belvedere, I fire at the cats that swarm on the roofs. They disturb us at night …’

  A strange pastime, thought Nicolas, remembering dear Mouchette.

  ‘Alas,’ continued the King, ‘I shot one that must have been Madame de Maurepas’s angora cat. What do you advise me to do?’

  ‘Sire, I fear that the only acceptable thing to do is to tell the truth. Your ancestor once dismissed a page who had tormented his cat. However …’

  ‘However?’ said the King.

  ‘However,’ said Nicolas, ‘if Your Majesty will allow me to speak on his behalf, I will be his ambassador to Madame de Maurepas. I will go to the trenches to withstand the first attack. Of course, she will have to listen to reason and realise that what happened was an accident. The King was simply shooting at pigeons, and a cat got in the way …’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Louis XVI approvingly, ‘that’s it exactly.’

  He pushed the hand of a clock, and listened with delight as it rang. He rubbed his hands, filled with a satisfaction that he could not conceal. He changed the subject and began speaking with surprising fluency.

  ‘Are you aware, Ranreuil, of the disputes over the northern passage? I am turning to my advantage the works that scholars send me. One of my correspondents, a native of the Swiss cantons, has called me “a delight of the human race”.’ He laughed. ‘He stresses my principles of fairness, justice and humanity. Which Roman emperor was called that?’

  ‘Titus, Sire.’

  ‘That’s it. I’d really like to send these newspapers and extracts from this friend’s letters to Monsieur La Harpe,2 who denounced the work of my predecessors in Le Mercure.’

  The King was becoming increasingly heated, and his face turning redder and redder.

  ‘The man has no respect for anything. Anyway, attacking the government of kings is small beer for him, it’s religion this philosopher really attacks! If the people are constantly subjected to a flood of writings and ungodly lampoons, he’ll end up destroying their ancient beliefs and their loyalty to both divine and royal majesty.’

  Calmer now, he tapped a little morocco-bound book.

  ‘My Swiss friend assures me that Monsieur de Bougainville, with whom he is in correspondence, is trying to find the best way to get to the pole and that this work partly deals with it.’

  The King approached a window. He again appeared ill at ease and embarrassed. He walked towards a small forge, which had gone out, and worked the bellows.

  ‘Have you asked to see the Queen?’

  ‘Not yet, Sire. I was about to. My presence at Versailles …’ He did not finish the sentence.

  ‘Settle this Trianon business as quickly as you can, it’s been going on for far too long. I don’t want anything to trouble my wife’s peace of mind. We have to put paid to these rumours.’

  Nicolas found the tone too bourgeois by far. The King continued walking up and down, looking at various objects without lingering over any of them.

  ‘I’ve not had any news from our Micmac,’3 he resumed, again changing the subject. ‘He’s been going around the tribes, and I hope … But what I have had is a report from one of our naval officers which includes some information about your friend Pigneau.’

  Nicolas gave a start. How did the King know that he was acquainted with the missionary? Sartine had to be somewhere behind it.

  ‘His consecration,’ Louis XVI went on, ‘was deferred for a long time because of the bishop’s absence in Pondicherry. You’ll be pleased to hear that it finally took place in São Tomé, near Madras, last February. My God, how long news takes to reach us, and always by unusual routes!’

  ‘Unusual routes? Well, that’s better than usual routine, which is an inevitable evil!’

  The King laughed, suddenly a young man again. ‘That’s a play on words I’ll repeat. I was merely talking about unusual and roundabout ways.’

  ‘May Your Majesty forgive me,’ said Nicolas, also laughing.

  ‘Not at all, I am grateful to you for this distraction. I understand it was one of the reasons my grandfather appreciated you. Your friend was preparing to go back to Cochinchina, after trying to assert his authority over the Franciscans. We wish him good luck with those people, they want it all for themselves. Is he a man of character at least?’

  ‘Of very sturdy character, Sire, with a sharp, well-stocked mind.’

  ‘Monsieur,’ said the King, slightly hesitantly, ‘I appreciate your judgement and your knowledge of men. Promise me you will always tell us the truth. I need honest men about me. You must help me …’

  With his frank, sensitive nature, Nicolas was touched by this simply expressed appeal. He threw himself at the King’s feet. Moved, the King raised him and led him, with disarming naturalness, back to the small staircase. In his embarrassment, Nicolas tried without success to withdraw backwards as etiquette demanded. He descended the stairs as if in a dream and walked through a maze of corridors until he found himself outside in the gardens. Moving as it was, the monarch’s simplicity did raise a few questions. It elevated the private man in Nicolas’s estimation, but what of the supreme symbol of the State? Could one feel as much respect for a person one knew too well? The love of royalty demanded a boundless respect for the conventions. But there was nothing servile about total obedienc
e and humble submission when they were given to one who, as the representative of God on earth, would very soon be crowned at Reims.

  He was now walking towards Trianon, dreading to return to a place where, a few months earlier, the late King, leaning on his arm, had climbed into his carriage for his last journey back to the palace. The park was suffused with the melancholy of autumn, and the pervasive smell of boxwood rose from the ordered clumps of trees. Coming to the vast steps of the chateau, Nicolas stopped to get his bearings. On his left was a short avenue which ended in a staircase leading to the door of the chapel. There, a man was busy gathering fallen leaves. Nicolas asked him where his chief was, and the man pointed to the greenhouse opposite the chapel. Nicolas walked along the facade of the chateau to the greenhouse, where Louis XV had striven to grow exotic species. Struck as soon as he entered by the damp, suffocating heat of this mass of enclosed vegetation, he saw two men in brown coats leaning over a workbench. Approaching, he recognised the older of the men as Claude Richard, the head gardener, whom he had often seen in the past. The other man must be his son. One thing, though, intrigued him: their attire. He was accustomed to seeing Richard in the red, white and blue livery of the King. As the young Queen now had the Petit Trianon at her disposal, they should have been wearing her livery, which was red and silver. He realised all at once that these two veteran servants were wearing mourning for their master after their fashion. The gardener looked up, annoyed at being disturbed. His son, intent on planting some kind of cutting, ignored the newcomer. Claude Richard looked hard at Nicolas. He had faded grey eyes and a weather-beaten face.

  ‘Monsieur,’ he said, ‘I think I recognise you. I have seen you several times with the King, I mean, our late master …’

  Nicolas was moved by this simple loyalty.

  ‘He used to call you “young Ranreuil”,’ Richard continued with a smile.

  ‘You have a good memory. Forgive me for distracting you from your task. Are you in the middle of some remarkable acclimatisation?’

  ‘I was collecting root sprouts from this plant.’

  He pointed to a shrub. Nicolas gave him a questioning look.

  ‘Root sprouts are suckers that are detached from the mother plant and then replanted.’

  ‘And this shrub?’

  ‘It’s a kind of acacia, a locust tree, which produces bunches of highly scented white flowers and fruit in the form of pods. But to what do I owe the honour of your visit, Marquis?’

  Nicolas waved his hand as if chasing away an importunate fly. ‘It is not the marquis who needs your help, but the police commissioner. His Majesty has told the Lieutenant General of Police how worried he is regarding a strange incident about which the Queen informed him. Those visitors in the gardens whom you also saw and whose presence you reported. Can you tell me what happened, in as much detail as possible?’

  Richard seized a long stick to support himself and led his guest towards a wooden bench, onto which he collapsed heavily.

  ‘Autumn revives my aches and pains, especially when I keep still,’ he began. ‘Now let’s see. Last 10 August, my son and I were crossing the gardens, towards the avenue, when we came across two women. Even if they had not hailed us, we would have been surprised to see them.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Their dress, Marquis, their dress! We may not be up to date with the latest fashions here, but by God, we do see the Queen and her women, and we don’t keep our eyes in our pockets. I had never seen such a costume. Shapeless dresses, quite plain, without bodices, blouses with sleeves swollen like goat’s skins, square hats covered with muslin … Spectacles … And that accent …’

  ‘So they spoke to you?’

  ‘Yes, in an accent that reminded me of the English visitors who’ve been coming here in such numbers since the peace treaty.’

  ‘Can you draw, Monsieur Richard?’

  ‘In my job, you have to.’

  ‘Could you make a sketch of these strange women?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The gardener took a folded sheet of paper and a piece of charcoal from his pocket, and struggled away with them for a few minutes. Nicolas looked in puzzlement at the drawn shapes, which were extremely vivid but resembled nothing in human knowledge. He had certainly not seen anyone dressed like that during his recent stay in London.

  ‘What did they ask you?’

  ‘The way to the palace.’

  ‘Was that all?’

  ‘Yes, and then they disappeared.’

  ‘Disappeared? You mean they withdrew, walked away …’

  ‘Oh no, I mean disappeared. The common people, as you know, have access to the gardens. I am worried sometimes for my flowers and the Queen’s peace of mind. So I wanted to know where the visitors were really going. But when I turned into the avenue … Well, my son can confirm this. Right, Antoine?’

  The young man nodded firmly. ‘My father’s right, Marquis. They just weren’t where they’d been before.’

  ‘In addition,’ the father continued, ‘one of my assistants who was coming in the opposite direction didn’t pass them.’

  ‘Was it hot?’

  Nicolas was thinking of some stories that Semacgus had told him about the phenomenon of mirages in hot dry weather in deserts. But mirages did not speak, and certainly did not ask the way.

  ‘It happened at four o’clock in the afternoon. The sun was still high in the sky.’

  ‘Have you ever seen them again?’ Nicolas asked, after further reflection.

  ‘No, not so far.’

  ‘If anything should happen, please send for me immediately. Thank you for your help. I’ll take your sketch with me.’4

  Nicolas was puzzled. He considered Richard a man of experience and common sense. His testimony was unimpeachable, even if reason could not account for it. Deep down, Nicolas could not help linking this business to the presence of Lord Ashbury in Versailles. Why? He did not know. Of course, there had been peace between the two nations for years, but it was an armed peace, beset with mutual caution and suspicion. The English suspected the French of harbouring thoughts of revenge. This obsession was exacerbated by every new episode in the rebellion of the American colonies. He, of all people, was in a position to know that there was some foundation for this and that Naganda was not constantly travelling the length and breadth of the Indian Territories just to find new places to hunt caribou and beaver.

  The questions were piling up. If these two women had harboured evil intentions towards the Queen, why would they have made themselves so conspicuous by their dress and way of speaking? And how to account for something which made the whole thing even more puzzling, that sudden disappearance, which brought back some very bad memories? He felt again the terror he had once before experienced in the face of the inexplicable and the nagging irritation of having failed to find a rational explanation for such phenomena.

  It was well into the afternoon by now. Nicolas was wandering in the hall of mirrors, undecided whether to visit the Queen or to do what he had to do with Madame de Maurepas. Lost in thought, he bumped into someone, who held him back in a friendly way.

  ‘Come now, Monsieur Le Floch,’ said the newcomer, with a jovial expression, ‘where are you going with such a puzzled air?’

  He recognised Monsieur de Ville d’Avray, the First Groom of the King’s Bedchamber. He had had the good fortune to meet him when he had taken up his post in succession to Monsieur de La Borde.5

  ‘Walk with me,’ he said, taking Nicolas’s arm, ‘and you can tell me your troubles. I’m just off to deliver a note to Monsieur de Maurepas.’

  ‘Gladly. Your kind offer resolves my indecision. I was torn between the Queen and the minister, and now you’ve made up my mind for me!’

  ‘Perfect timing! I’m going to see the Queen next. His Majesty has arranged a surprise for her and has asked me to take care of it. You can accompany me there once you’ve seen to your business with Monsieur de Maurepas. You see, everything works out wi
thout any effort. You just have to meet the right person.’

  ‘Monsieur, I am your humble servant.’

  ‘And I yours. I found the King very calm after he had seen you. Since yesterday, I had been finding him quite dejected. Something about a cat …’

  Nicolas nodded. ‘That’s my business, as it happens. I have to convince Madame de Maurepas that he was shooting at a pigeon and missed.’

  ‘A pigeon? I understand your anxiety. It won’t be easy to get the good lady to swallow that. Do you know her?’

  ‘She hasn’t been at Versailles long, and I haven’t been here very often lately …’

  ‘Come on, you’re here now, and very much in favour! The important thing is not to be put off by her repulsive exterior. In fact, she’s quite open-handed. She acts high and mighty and likes nothing better than to grumble about the ills of her house – all material ones, don’t worry – the failings of the time and the misfortune of being at Versailles. To do so, she persists in using the old language of the Regency period, with a vulgarity that has become second nature to her.’

  ‘I fear the worst,’ said Nicolas, with a smile.

  ‘She has a natural wit which gives her the upper hand over those devoid of it, and, although you might find that she rattles on, she’ll like you. She has a sixth sense about when people are being honest with her.’

  That wasn’t what Nicolas needed to hear. Was his pigeon idea the right one after all? They reached the apartments which the King had given the minister and which were close to his. They were admitted to a drawing room dominated by the harsh voice of an elderly woman of rare ugliness, sitting in a bergère, surrounded by a number of attentive ladies. Leaning on the mantelpiece, Monsieur de Maurepas was conversing with Richelieu. It seemed, however, that the lady’s words were addressed to him.

  ‘You run away from me because I get on your nerves, so you say, and I’m always grumbling. What else do you want? I got into the habit of doing it at Pontchartrain6 for forty years through lettres de cachet and kicking up as much fuss as I could, so why shouldn’t I do it at Versailles? All that time spent paying off your debts, and those of Monsieur de Pontchartrain, who acts like Solomon, and those of Monsieur de La Vrillière, may God confound him! And then those of the Archbishop of Bourges, who builds castles for his stupid brother and even the Marquis of Phélypeaux, who also ended up with debts …’