The Saint-Florentin Murders

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  ‘She’ll mention the whole family,’ Ville d’Avray whispered in Nicolas’s ear.

  ‘The fact is, I paid millions, while being forced to skimp and save. All the same, I had a hundred and thirteen servants.’

  ‘My darling …’ said Maurepas.

  ‘I know what I’m talking about. A hundred and thirteen servants to pay, and a hundred and ten people to see every day that God creates. So don’t go throwing stones at me. That’s right, laugh! You have no heart, no liver, no lungs, no spleen! You drag me to Versailles, and they kill my cat! My God, I must have had a jinx on me to fall for someone like you, who’s always giving me a rough time!’

  She looked long and hard at the new arrivals.

  ‘Here’s the hero of the day!’ said Richelieu, addressing Nicolas. ‘I was recounting your adventures to Maurepas, who was kind enough to enquire about you.’

  What was irritating about the maréchal, thought Nicolas, was that smugness that shone through in everything he said, however well meant. He bowed to the minister.

  ‘Monsieur,’ said Maurepas, ‘what the maréchal has revealed makes me anxious to know you better. My separation from the Court has not given me a chance to … Tell me, do you ever seize lampoons, songs or other seditious material?’

  ‘That is indeed a frequent occurrence.’

  ‘Good, good! Think of me sometimes. One example will suffice for me. I’ve been collecting material of this kind for many years. It’s a mania of mine. Clairambault, the genealogist of the King’s Orders, has already offered me a copy of his song book. If you can help me to enrich it, my collection will constitute the true history of the century.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do, Comte.’

  ‘There he goes, claiming an exclusive right to my visitors!’ cried the duchesse. ‘Approach, young man.’

  This appellation delighted Nicolas, less and less accustomed to being addressed in this way.

  ‘So, Monsieur, to what do we owe your presence?’

  ‘Madame, His Majesty …’

  ‘That’s enough, Monsieur. Not another word.’

  Had she understood? Did she know all about it? She rose, leaned on Nicolas’s arm, waved the other ladies out of her way with an imperious gesture and, walking with a stoop, drew him into a cramped boudoir, where she collapsed into a love seat with a painful sigh. She gave him a stern look and urged him to speak.

  ‘Madame, I shan’t beat about the bush. The King is so unhappy about the loss of your angora cat that he does not dare speak to you himself. He genuinely wants you to know the truth: I admit to my great shame that it was I who suggested to him the excuse that he had been shooting at pigeons.’

  A long silence ensued.

  ‘Monsieur, tell the King that I am much aggrieved at having lost an old companion who guzzled and slept in my lap. But listen to this. I would far rather lose my cat than find out the King had lied. He does not need my forgiveness, I am his servant. He’s a good boy, and so are you. Keep an eye on Monsieur de Maurepas.’

  She held out her hand for him to kiss. Nicolas went back to the other room, and everyone turned to look at him, intrigued. For the second time that day, ‘young Ranreuil’ was creating a stir.

  ‘No outbursts, no yelling,’ said Ville d’Avray. ‘I think I’ve been quite clairvoyant in this matter. He has cast a spell on the lady.’

  ‘I’m an expert at exorcisms,’ said Nicolas wryly. ‘I followed your advice and have done well by it. May I ask you to tell His Majesty that the affair has been settled, truthfully … And without the pigeon. And that Madame de Maurepas is his servant.’

  Ville d’Avray bowed. ‘Thank you for making me the herald of such good news. I hope your mission to the Queen is less delicate.’

  ‘It’s only some information I must pass on to her at the King’s request.’

  They reached the room of the Queen’s guards.

  ‘Don’t hesitate,’ said Ville d’Avray, hurrying on, ‘to call on my services. Your friend La Borde used to lodge you when you stayed at Versailles. Rest assured that there will always be a bed for you. The King has divided the rooms on the mezzanine once occupied by the Comtesse du Barry. He’s given some to Monsieur de Maurepas and the rest, which are above his head, to myself. I’ve been loyal to him since his earliest childhood and he’s always very good to me.’

  ‘I’m grateful to you for your proposal.’

  Nicolas reserved the right to decide later whether this offer had been made because he was now someone to be reckoned with or out of simple kindness.

  ‘As you will have noticed,’ resumed Ville d’Avray, ‘everyone is alike in Madame de Maurepas’s salon. That’s the true Court, the ideal place to talk about politics. All those who matter – especially the ministers – frequent that highly convenient meeting place, and the kingdom is fashioned anew every evening.’

  From the first-floor landing of the marble staircase, he entered the room of the Queen’s guards. A spruce little old man, dressed all in black, was sitting waiting on a window seat, his chin resting on the pommel of his cane. Next to him, two grooms were carrying shapes wrapped in crimson velvet. Nicolas recognised Monsieur de Vaucanson, of the Royal Academy of Sciences, a renowned engineer and a maker of remarkable automata. Sartine, who made it his job to know everything, and at the urging of Madame de Pompadour, had once dispatched Nicolas to see the scientist under some pretext or other to try to discover the secret of his magic dolls. A few louis appropriately distributed to his servants had given him a clearer view of the matter.

  Ville d’Avray told him that the King had sent for this visitor in order for him to show his masterworks to the Queen. It was therefore a kind of procession that entered the Grand Couvert antechamber where the presentation was to take place. The grooms carefully arranged the prodigious mechanisms on the table set up for that purpose. A large armchair awaited the Queen who, announced by the usher, entered surrounded by her women.

  Her incomparable gait aroused Nicolas’s admiration. She seemed to glide across the floor, her whole body swaying gently. This impression was strengthened by the haughty way she held her head. He was reminded of a swan. Since their first encounter, four years earlier, he had only seen her from a distance. She seemed to have broadened out a little; she was no longer a child, not yet a woman. Not very tall, with a dazzling complexion, she dominated the room, turning her slightly heavy but expressive blue eyes on each of her visitors. Her high, domed forehead recalled the portraits of her father, Emperor Franz. The gentleness of her smile countered the disdainful set of her mouth. She was wearing a taffeta dress adorned with flecked gauze, with trimmings of the same fabric and an English-style bonnet. Responding to her guests’ bows, she gracefully inclined her head. Monsieur de Ville d’Avray introduced Monsieur de Vaucanson. At that moment, a woman with a stiff bearing and a severe expression whispered a few words in the Queen’s ear. Her Majesty looked at Nicolas.

  ‘Madame de Noailles7 is intrigued by you, Monsieur,’ she said. ‘She is unaware that we are old friends from the forest of Compiègne.8 Marquis, welcome.’

  ‘Madame,’ resumed Ville d’Avray, ‘His Majesty has deemed it a pleasant idea to have Monsieur de Vaucanson show you two of his automata, which are famous throughout Europe.’

  ‘The King has anticipated my desires. No one was more anxious than I to meet the father of these animated creatures, of which my mother so often spoke in Vienna.’

  ‘Madame, this is too much honour for an old man,’ said Vaucanson, bowing. ‘Allow me to present my children.’

  He struck the floor with his cane. The grooms uncovered the first machine.

  ‘Your Majesty, I have called this first automaton the Flute Player. It is a wooden statue, copied from The Faun by Coysevox, playing the transverse flute. He can play twelve different tunes with extreme precision. The fingers make the required movements. The automaton can modify the wind entering the instrument by increasing or decreasing the speed, following the different tones, varying
the disposition of the lips to do so. The lips work a valve similar to a tongue which makes it possible to imitate everything a man is obliged to do.’

  He approached the automaton and pressed a little button at the base of the mechanism. The musician suddenly came to life; his eyes moved, and he lifted the flute to his lips, while his nimble fingers ran up and down the body of the instrument. The thumb was in exactly the right place to produce the octave, and the raised and slightly tilted head seemed animated by the feeling of the music that now rose.

  The assembly watched and listened, spellbound, to the small living form, born of the genius of its maker, which mimed the appearance of life to such perfection. The tune came to an end, and the flautist winked and resumed his initial position. Her head tilted and resting on her hand, the Queen seemed moved. She clapped, imitated by her women, apart from Madame de Noailles, who was muttering to herself, clearly appalled by this spectacle.

  ‘Monsieur,’ said the Queen, her German accent more noticeable because of her emotion, ‘I thank you for this wonderful moment and for the sensitivity which made you choose an air by Gluck, the Kappellmeister of the Empress in Vienna.’

  Nicolas had also recognised the tune; it was from Iphigenia in Aulis, which Gluck had put on in Paris in April, a performance strongly supported by the Queen. Monsieur de Vaucanson was an experienced courtier. He bowed and again struck the floor. The grooms covered the flautist and unveiled a second mechanism. This object was smaller, and a murmur of surprise rose at the sight of a duck sitting motionless in a porcelain basin, into which the contents of a large flask of water were poured. The animal seemed more real than nature.

  ‘May Her Majesty consider this second example,’ said Vaucanson. ‘This duck, motionless for the moment, will, at my command, rise up on its legs and move about like a farmyard fowl.’

  He set off the mechanism. The duck rose, shook itself, moved its neck right then left, then quacked and splashed about, as if startled at finding itself in such noble company. All the poses of nature were exactly reproduced. Vaucanson took a small packet of grain from his pocket and approached the Queen.

  ‘Would Her Majesty like to feed the bird?’

  The Queen rose with all the enthusiasm of a child delighted with a new toy. Madame de Noailles tried to stop her, and was dismissed with a gesture.

  ‘How should I proceed, Monsieur?’

  ‘I’m going to empty the grain into Your Majesty’s hand, and she will present it to the bird’s beak. I assure you, there is no danger.’

  She approached and held out her hand to the duck, which stretched its neck, seized the offered grain with a little shake and gobbled it up. Delighted, the Queen burst out laughing like a mischievous child. She went back to her seat. Vaucanson waited a few moments, then picked up the duck and placed it on a silver platter. The fowl froze and gave up its perfectly digested meal through the natural channels. Madame de Noailles appeared to be about to faint, but the rest of the gathering was swept by gales of laughter.

  ‘Monsieur,’ said the Queen, trying hard to keep a straight face, ‘I shall never forget this session, and I will tell the King how much it interested and amused me. I am completely astonished by this latest expression of your genius. What is the secret of that perfect digestion?’

  ‘May Your Majesty forgive me, but it’s the secret of life!’

  ‘I see. So you’re a bit of a sorcerer, Monsieur!’ She held out her hand to him, and he kissed it with devotion then withdrew. Ville d’Avray and Nicolas, who was uncertain what to do next, were about to follow him when the Queen made a sign.

  ‘I wish to speak with the Marquis de Ranreuil. Leave us.’

  Madame de Noailles took a step forward, apparently outraged by this decision. With an imperious look, Marie Antoinette silenced her.

  ‘The Queen wishes it, the Queen demands it.’

  The duenna withdrew, subdued. Nicolas approached.

  ‘I believe you have some things to tell me, Monsieur.’

  Nicolas informed her that, at the request of Monsieur Lenoir, he had made enquiries at Trianon and seen the Richards. That such incidents would not recur. That it might perhaps be a good idea to limit the common people’s access to the gardens, and that in any case he would post informers to keep an eye on the area and report to him any suspicious intrusion or disturbing episode occurring on the Queen’s estate.

  ‘Thank you for dealing with this matter,’ the Queen said. ‘I don’t wish access to the gardens to be forbidden. The people have a right to approach their monarchs, and I don’t want to be confined, hiding my amusements behind bars like an animal in a menagerie. Continue, and keep me informed. I don’t want the King to be upset with all this.’ She smiled at him. ‘You know everything. How does that duck of Monsieur de Vaucanson’s digest the grain it is served? It’s beyond me, and I shan’t rest until I know the secret.’

  ‘The Queen may hear a confession,’ said Nicolas with a laugh, ‘but she also knows that she cannot divulge its contents.’

  ‘That may be so, Monsieur. Your conditions are quite tough …’

  ‘Monsieur de Sartine, once questioned about this famous duck by Madame de Pompadour, gave me the task of investigating it and finding an answer. How indeed to explain this reconstruction of the natural functions: swallowing, dissolving, and expelling? In fact, the grain given to the automaton falls into a box placed beneath its belly, a kind of drawer which is emptied every three or four sessions. The material to be evacuated is prepared in advance, a kind of gruel composed of breadcrumbs coloured green. This is forced out by a pump to look as if it has really gone through a digestive process. The rest is a matter of mechanics; of cogs and springs and keys to be wound, a perfect piece of clockwork.’

  ‘Then we shall share a secret … I understand why the King is so interested. Monsieur, have you been at Court for a long time?’

  ‘My duties mainly keep me in Paris. However, Madame, I have often been here since 1762. As well as dealing with special investigations, I had the task of providing security for the King and the royal family.’

  ‘As henchman to the marquise and the comtesse?’

  It was a direct hit, and it seemed pointless to prevaricate. ‘Madame, I was obeying the late King’s orders.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I have been informed of his judgement on your loyalty. Did you know that the Duc de La Vrillière does not like me at all?’

  It was rather the reverse: she could not forgive him for his support for Madame du Barry. It was clear to Nicolas that the Queen of France had not forgotten the offence caused to her as Dauphine.

  ‘I am not in his confidence.’

  ‘May I count on you, Monsieur?’

  ‘I am your servant and the King’s. I hope Your Majesty is convinced of that.’

  Calmer now, she held out her hand. How could he refuse her anything?

  Nicolas was unable to find Monsieur de Ville d’Avray, doubtless on his way to announce to the King that a peace treaty had been signed with Madame de Maurepas. Nicolas felt both pleased and anxious. Pleased that his appearance at Court had been marked by a dazzling return to favour which strengthened his position with both the Duc de La Vrillière and the Lieutenant General of Police, but anxious at the thought that the same favour might earn him many adversaries, the most dangerous not being the most visible. Everyone was turning to him to ensure his loyalty and demand his support and his services. Could he satisfy them all? The King must be served first; that was his motto and his yardstick, as always. After that, he would just have to see how things worked out.

  Lost in thought, he returned to his hotel. The wind, which had continued blowing, had dried up the waters from that dawn’s storm. Angry little gusts sent the dead leaves whirling madly. At the noisy table for guests, where he discouraged his neighbours with his silence, he dined on spit-roasted chicken and a blancmange soaked in cider. He went to bed early and dreamed of Mademoiselle d’Arranet.

  Thursday 6 October 1774

&nbs
p; Nicolas returned at the appointed time to the area between the palace and the park where the King’s carriages were assembled for the day’s hunt. Accustomed for years to the unchanging ceremonial of the hunt, he observed with indulgent curiosity the timidity and awkwardness of those newly presented. It had always seemed to him strange that hunting was chosen to mark this event, and that being presented, for a man, consisted simply of being able to climb into one of the King’s carriages on a day marked down for hunting. It cost ten louis to the first groom who presented the horse and ten louis to the driver of the coach. He dozed as far as the plain of Grenelle, where his position was next to the King’s. Radiant with happiness, the monarch gave him a little wave, which showed that he could see better at a distance than at close quarters. He was surrounded by pages from the large stable who had abandoned their blue costumes covered with crimson and white silk braid for blue twill jackets and gaiters of hide. They would stand behind the King, each with a rifle, and, once the monarch had fired, would provide him with another weapon while the first would be passed from hand to hand until it reached the arquebusier, who would reload it. Meanwhile, the first page would make sure the game was collected, keeping an exact account of it on little slates. The King, a great hunter like his forefathers, killed several hundred animals and birds at every shooting party.

  Suddenly, Nicolas heard, somewhere to his left, a louder explosion than the usual shots. Cries rang out. He saw coachmen running, then returning carrying a body covered in blood. When he got back into his coach after the hunt, his neighbour explained to him what had happened. One of the newcomers being presented that day, a young gentleman from Berry, had brought an old family weapon for the occasion. Long unused, it had exploded, taking away his hand.