The Nicolas Le Floch affair

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  He changed horses at Abbeville, which surprised him with its antiquity, its old, poorly built houses of wood and cob. Night was falling, but he gave orders to continue. He then had to change horses again at Montreuil, where he rode past peat bogs that reminded him of the area around his native Guérande. Here, he had to insist in order to obtain the best horses, which another traveller, generous with his money, was demanding for himself. It was only by invoking the King’s name that Nicolas managed to sway the innkeeper, despite the other man’s threats, but it was an uneasy victory, as Nicolas could see his own anonymity gradually unravelling.

  Friday 14 January 1774

  Boulogne came into sight just before dawn. Nicolas ordered the berlin to be stopped. He had decided to modify his route. He asked the coachman to adopt a more moderate pace from now on and get to Calais, the original destination, without undue haste. This would make it seem as though the traveller was ill or exhausted. The curtains would be drawn and the coachman would have to ask for provisions in order not to attract attention at the last post houses before Calais. Once the carriage reached the port, he would trust the coachman to use his skill to disappear without revealing that his passenger had already gone. Meanwhile, Nicolas would enter Boulogne on foot through the faubourgs, and try to embark on the first boat leaving for Dover. He hoped that this ruse would throw his pursuers off the track.

  Despite the still-bitter cold, Nicolas waited for daylight, leaning against a big tree on the top of an open hill. In this dominant position he could be sure not to be surprised from behind. The sun at last emerged behind him, setting the landscape aflame. It looked like being a fine day. Boulogne lay before him, squashed within its ramparts. Near the city, the River Liane widened as it approached the sea, flooding the low valley, where it shimmered, half-frozen. Flocks of motionless birds indicated the places where the water had turned to ice. The river finally plunged into the sea between two cliffs. In the distance, he made out a vast shore and oyster-coloured waves flecked with foam.

  He walked down towards the city, through the poor faubourgs, and entered a tavern, where he drank a warming bowl of mulled wine heavily laced with brandy. Nicolas won the innkeeper round by offering him a few glasses. The man confirmed that it was possible to take a ship from Boulogne to Dover: the service had existed since the peace treaty of 1763 between the two countries. As well as taking passengers, these ships also transported bottles of French wine to England. Preserved in the cellars of Boulogne, this wine was the property of the British, who had it brought over as and when they needed it. Enquiring as to the reasons for this unusual system, Nicolas was told that, through this arrangement, the English wine lover paid only a percentage proportionate to his consumption of the considerable duty levied on French wine entering the United Kingdom.

  Having obtained clear directions to the place of embarkation, Nicolas entered Boulogne, whose gates had just opened. The sentry on duty was surprised to see someone so well dressed coming on foot, and let him through without hindrance. The ship was due to set sail at about nine o’clock. He decided to go for a stroll. Although he avoided the busier streets, he was struck by the number of English people he passed. It was the difference in costume which distinguished them. He saw high-society women from across the Channel with their fashionable dresses and their little hats, and Boulogne women recognisable by their closed bonnets and full-length cloaks. Something about him attracted the attention of a local citizen standing outside his door taking the air, who proceeded to hold forth about the invasion of the English: Boulogne, he said, had long been a place of refuge for those from the other side of the Channel who, because of business difficulties or scandals aroused by their behaviour, found it more convenient to live abroad than in their own country. Time was passing, and Nicolas walked back to the harbour, where the office selling tickets for the ship to Dover was now open.

  The moment he set foot on board, he felt very moved. It was the first time he had ever left France. He had always entertained the idea of going to sea, and now it was happening without his really having sought it. The ship, the Zéphir, was an old merchant vessel, of which a part of the interior had been converted to sleeping quarters. But there were only makeshift beds for a dozen people, a figure well below the number of possible passengers. The captain greeted Nicolas and informed him that for several days the weather had been stormy and ships of all nationalities had been forced to remain in the English ports. But, in his judgement, the wind was variable and, by following its direction, it should be possible to gain three hours on the duration of the crossing. They would be casting off very soon. A few passengers ran to take shelter in the interior of the ship, but most remained on the poop deck in order to watch the departure without disturbing the vessel’s manoeuvring.

  Nicolas surreptitiously observed his travelling companions. There was a French merchant with his clerk, both talking loudly, and near them, two young Englishmen, whose appearance, words and nonchalant attitude indicated that they had just completed the Grand Tour, which any son of a reasonably well-off family owed it to himself to make in order to get to know Italy, Germany and France, however superficially. The naval officer who had once been a prisoner on parole in the Château de Ranreuil had told him that the new world had to be known in all its variety. He recalled some words of Monsieur de Voltaire’s, from his Essai sur les Mœurs: ‘Everything that is intimately linked to human nature is alike from one end of the universe to the other. All that depends on custom is different and is alike only as a result of chance.’ The other passengers included the young men’s four servants, a stout woman in widow’s weeds whose ceruse make-up reminded him of La Paulet, his old accomplice at the Dauphin Couronné, two other servants and the crew. No one suspicious at first sight.

  Sailors were bustling around the capstan, pulling the hawser to raise the anchor. The ship was advancing on its cable. He heard the boatswain announce that the cable was now vertical and that the anchor was dragging. The decks and catwalks were alive with cries and commands. As the vessel continued to manoeuvre, men scrambled aloft to unfurl the topgallants. Nicolas watched anxiously as they walked along the yards. The sails flapped, making a sound like a whiplash. The ship seemed to tremble. The pulleys squeaked, the sails swelled and the Zéphir set off, close to the wind.

  Nicolas remained on the poop deck, glad to breathe in the sea air and with little inclination to go down into the cramped passenger room. From the pale faces of those he saw coming up again, he deduced that the stench must be unbearable. An hour after casting off, the wind had turned and was now definitely blowing from behind them. After a few minutes’ observation, the captain decided to brail some of the sails in order to allow the front ones to catch the wind more easily. The spanker was lowered first, followed by the mainsail, but that did not suffice to give the ship a decent speed. It became clear that the captain’s calculations were out by nearly four hours. The ship had not made enough headway to catch the tide. A swell moved the Zéphir in every direction. Soon afterwards, within sight of the English coast, whose cliffs could be made out in the distance, the anchor was dropped. They would have to wait for the right moment. The sails were struck and the ship headed into the wind, the prow pointing towards France, which was where the prevailing – and increasingly cold – wind was blowing from.

  The situation became difficult for the passengers below deck, since the movements of the ship, already so noticeable at top speed, were almost more so on a becalmed vessel subject to the caprices of the waves. From the upper deck, Nicolas watched the array of ships, freed now from the English ports, all emerging together and heading across the waters towards the continent. It struck him that there was a strong risk of a collision. Every minute, it seemed, some large vessel would loom up, apparently making straight for the Zéphir. But at the last moment a skilful move of the helm avoided disaster, and shouted greetings were exchanged.

  Night was falling by the time the order to cast off was given. Nicolas, weary of being sp
lashed with sea spray, was standing on the poop gunwale. Suddenly, he felt himself being seized by the legs and thrown into the void. He barely had time to realise that he was falling towards the sea when he hit an obstacle. He found himself lying in a hull that smelt of tar – but never was a smell sweeter. He lay there on his back, bruised and motionless. He could feel a coil of rope beneath him. He understood now what had happened: the little skiff hanging in the stern had broken his fall, but in the darkness his attacker was probably not aware of this. If providence had led him here, then it was probably advisable to stay where he was. He was not worried about his baggage: he had left it locked in a cupboard of which only the captain had the key. It was in this way that he finished the crossing, fearing nothing but seasickness, although he was not prone to it, having often as a child gone out with the fishermen of Le Croisic. Two hours later, the Zéphir entered the port of Dover.

  Nicolas waited a reasonable time, then picked up his tricorn from the bottom of the skiff where it had fallen, put it between his teeth, and, with the help of the cables and the carvings on the poop, he managed, hampered somewhat by his sword, to clamber back on deck, watched by two alarmed sailors. He hurried to get his portmanteau from the captain, who had been waiting impatiently and somewhat anxiously for him. He took the portmanteau without offering any explanation, jumped on to the quay and set foot on the shore of Old England.

  Immediately, a horde of boys and grooms clustered around him, offering him transport, lodgings and all kinds of services. He got away from them quickly enough once they realised that he spoke their language and could answer them. A badly dressed man came up to him and asked to inspect his baggage. Not wishing to plead his status of plenipotentiary, he agreed to the search, which in any case was conducted in a polite manner. He had to pay the customs officer the equivalent of an écu to discharge something called a viscountcy tax. Then he entered the town and searched for an inn where he could eat and sleep. He was struck by the size and highly decorated appearance of the signs outside these establishments. The town was inundated with travellers, and it was only with some difficulty, and jostling, that he managed to obtain – after much haggling and at a high price – an awful bed in a mediocre hostelry. In order to dine, he had to go himself to the servants’ pantry and grab a few pieces of beef from the steaming brazier. Nothing else was available, and the innkeeper seemed to spend all his time blowing on the fire to keep it alight – the coal being half choked with the grease from the meat – and putting new pieces of beef on the fire to replace those which the guests of the establishment had taken.

  As he was about to go to bed fully clothed, Nicolas took off his cloak and noticed some big white marks at thigh level, obviously left by the hands that had grabbed him to throw him into the sea. By the light of the candle, he examined them closely and sniffed them: ceruse. There was no doubt about it: the heavily made-up widow he had noticed when they cast off must have been a man in woman’s clothing, and it was he who had been responsible for this new attempt on his life. He realised with dread that his pursuers had an efficient team at their disposal, that his ruse had failed, and that all of his movements seemed to be anticipated by an invisible enemy. The net was closing in on him and it would not be easy to escape it.

  Saturday 15 and Sunday 16 January 1774

  At about four in the morning, a servant came and shook him awake. He was expected to vacate his bed for a newcomer who was standing at his door, cursing and stamping his feet. But Nicolas refused to budge, and did not leave until six. His back hurt so much, it was not easy to get out of bed. Catherine was not there to administer one of the old wives’ remedies she had brought with her from her native Alsace, which could restore a man or a horse in the twinkling of an eye. He thought nostalgically of the house in Rue Montmartre. Could it be that he was already homesick?

  As he left the inn, he was accosted by a boy who hopped around him and kept crying, ‘One shilling, sir!’ He asked him the quickest way to get to London. The boy grabbed his portmanteau and informed him that London was twenty-eight leagues from Dover and that the best way to get there was to take the mail-coach as far as Gravesend, on the Thames, and from there take a boat along the river. He was immediately urged to reserve his place on one of the coaches: there were so many people travelling, they were sure to fill up quickly. He got a seat beside the postillion: he would be in the open air and have a view of the landscape. The weather looked cold, but fine. He could have hired a carriage, but that would have attracted attention. He would be safer amongst normal passengers, he told himself.

  In the sun, the landscape looked tranquil and surprisingly green compared with France at this time of year. He lunched in Canterbury. Beef seemed to be the staple diet of this nation. At Gravesend, he left the coach. As the tide was again unfavourable and it was impossible to go up the river at night, he decided to take a room in a yellow-brick inn which surprised him by its cleanliness. The washed and waxed floorboards shone. The room he was offered was small but pretty, with furniture of varnished mahogany and fresh linen on the bed. The efficient, discreet service was provided by young people of both sexes who smiled as they bustled about. He dined on a dish of piecrust with beef and pork kidneys in a thick sauce, which he was told was called a steak and kidney pie. He spent a peaceful night and, early in the morning, embarked on a barge heading for London.

  The weather remained fine, and the banks of the river offered many pleasant and varied views. Fine houses appeared on the slopes of the hills, surrounded by ornate gardens. He became aware that the Thames was one of the widest rivers in Europe and that even the largest vessels could enter it. The English capital was near, and the river at this point was so covered in ships that there was only a small lane left for those going upriver. The barge found itself surrounded by a forest of masts through which the wind blew, rustling in the yards and shrouds. The tide being favourable, it took only a few hours to arrive beneath the Tower of London. Disembarking, Nicolas had no difficulty in finding a carriage to take him to the district where he had been instructed to go. Was he still being followed? He no longer trusted his own vigilance: it was too easy to be distracted by incongruous details, unknown faces and new impressions.

  Berkeley Square was a beautiful rectangular square surrounded by residences that were pleasant if a little repetitive in style. These brick buildings had only two or three floors, and all possessed a kind of basement occupied, as far as he could see, by kitchens and pantries. These low rooms opened on to a kind of ditch, some three feet wide, which separated the houses from the street. The pavement was cut off from this ditch by iron railings. He easily found the number he was looking for, and as he raised the knocker he felt a kind of apprehension: he was about to enter a house that was both unknown to him and foreign. After a few moments, the door was opened by an elderly woman. She was austerely dressed in a black dress with a shawl across her chest, and her grey hair, pulled back tightly from her forehead, was covered with a kind of mantilla. There was something of the nun about her, thought Nicolas, an image accentuated by the heavy bunch of keys hanging from her belt. She fixed him with her piercing little eyes set deep in a plump face. Her small, tight mouth contrasted with the folds in her neck, around which she wore a ribbon adorned with a cameo. She was looking at him as if he were a poisonous species which had to be handled with caution. The fact that he introduced himself in her language seemed to surprise her, and she forced a smile.

  ‘I need to ask you a question, sir.’

  ‘Please go ahead, madam.’

  ‘Can you tell me the name of your tailor?’

  ‘Master Vachon,’ replied Nicolas, surprised by the question.

  ‘Where is his shop?’

  ‘Rue Vieille-du-Temple, in Paris.’

  ‘How long have you been his customer?’

  ‘Since 1760, precisely.’

  Nicolas would have sworn that all this was pure Sartine. His answers clearly reassured the woman, and her face gradually brightened.
She made a slight forward movement with her chest which could have been taken for a curtsey.

  ‘Mrs Williams, at your service. If you would be so good as to follow me, I will show you to your rooms.’

  They climbed a carpeted staircase, and she admitted him into a suite of three rooms, comprising a sitting room that doubled as a library, a bedroom and a toilet. He accepted the suggestion of a bath and asked if his clothes could be brushed and ironed. Mrs Williams eagerly seized those he took from his trunk. A few moments later, a butler appeared, carrying some pitchers of hot water. He returned several times, on the last occasion handing him a dressing gown of Indian cotton. Before she withdrew, the woman told him that tea would be served and that ‘the lady’ would pay him a visit at six o’clock.

  With a feeling of voluptuousness, Nicolas stepped into the copper bathtub. The pain of his fall into the skiff on the Zéphir was fading. This, he thought, was what his father, the Marquis de Ranreuil, must have called comfort. He had not previously enjoyed this pleasure except on brief occasions, at the Russian baths in Rue de Bellechasse or in the private rooms of the ‘floating woods’ on the banks of the Seine, all places closely watched by the police on the lookout for licentious behaviour. He fell asleep in the scented steam, only waking when the water had grown cold. He shaved and brushed his hair. In the bedroom, he found his clothes, cleaned and ironed. His waxed boots gleamed in the light from a coal fire burning in a kind of shell in the fireplace. He took the time to admire the silk and cotton pagoda-patterned wall coverings, which reminded him of the fabrics on sale in the fashionable shop in Rue du Roule in Paris that specialised in chinoiserie. Mahogany dominated everywhere. He was struck by the number of framed prints on the walls, depicting pastoral scenes and naval battles. Freshly dressed, he went into the sitting room, and there, set out on a little gaming table, were a pot of tea, butter, bread and several bowls of jam. The bread was unlike anything he had ever eaten before. He found it delicate, white, soft, but not very tasty – and it had no crust. The clock on the mantelpiece struck six, and Nicolas heard a noise on the stairs. His visitor – ‘the lady’ – was on her way up. Her hurried steps, though, struck Nicolas as unlikely to belong to a member of the fair sex. They clumped on to the landing, sharp and heavy at the same time, making the parquet creak. There was no knock. The door opened, and a figure swished into the room and simpered in a rasping voice, ‘Charles Geneviève Louis Auguste André Timothée de Beaumont, Madame d’Éon, wishes to speak with the Marquis de Ranreuil.’