The Nicolas Le Floch affair

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  Nicolas found both this third-person introduction and the ambiguous list of Christian names somewhat outlandish. He was not sure how to behave towards this androgynous and distinctly faded beauty. He would have had to make out the person’s contours and features, but they were far too distorted by an accumulation of artifice. Without waiting for an answer, the figure collapsed into a bergère, and struck hard at all those flounces and ruffles with both filoselle-gloved hands to stop them inflating. The person was wearing a wide-sleeved grey dress from Valenciennes, with a bodice that went all the way up to a thick neck surrounded by a wide black ribbon. Nicolas noted the red cross of Saint-Louis, memento of a brilliant military career under the Maréchal de Broglie. The excessively painted face reminded Nicolas of actors he had seen before they went on stage, their features made to look disproportionately large. The whole was surmounted by a hat of fluted lace. The creature shifted in its seat until it felt comfortable, then stretched its legs, revealing a pair of military boots: the Chevalier d’Éon had been – had never ceased to be – an officer in the dragoons.

  ‘Will you take tea?’ Nicolas asked.

  ‘Oh, no. A stronger beverage would suit me better, but it’s neither the hour nor the moment. Let us be clear with one another. We both know what affairs have brought you here, and there is no need to harp on about them. I shall therefore come straight to the point. I believe you know the background.’

  ‘I can confirm that. Monsieur de Sartine has told me everything.’

  ‘There are two reasons you’ve been sent to London. The first requires urgent action. Everything must be done to rescue a group of wretched incompetents led by an imbecile, who have fallen into every trap laid by our English friends. I understand that you have the powers of a plenipotentiary. It is up to you to be convincing, even if you are not convinced, and above all more skilful than the most skilled …’ Éon gave a forced, high-pitched laugh. ‘You will be up against a tough opponent. I have played my game for you. It wasn’t easy, I can tell you. A representative of Whitehall is to meet you this evening, I don’t know where. A cab will come for you at the ninth hour. Be careful, I’ve been dealing with these people for years; they’re sly and they like to play tricks. How can we struggle against so many merits!’

  The chevalier expanded on this theme at great length, making the conversation heavy and wearying, only occasionally enlivened by bursts of harsh sarcasm and bad taste.

  ‘In short, they will treat you coldly and politely, but they’ll hide their ulterior motives. Our people, or rather, those rogues sent by d’Aiguillon – Captain Béranger, two officers and four archers – are being held at Bow Street police station, watched over by the agents of justice, as well as by the lowest elements of the populace, who would be only too inclined to manhandle a few Frenchmen while the police looked on indifferently. And now I have to talk to you about Morande.’

  ‘Do you know him well?’ asked Nicolas.

  Éon rummaged in his bodice and adjusted his blouse. ‘Every day God makes, the rascal pesters me with letters and appointments. I listen to him and meet him and try my best to make him see reason – so far without success, I have to admit. It’s a waste of breath. The only people the man feels any pity for are his children. Thanks to him, his father died of grief and his mother was nearly hanged. After a long prison term in Armentières, he found a comfortable refuge in England. Mark my words, he’ll end up at Tyburn, where his big feet will give their blessing to the scum of London who’ve come to see him stick out his wicked tongue!’

  ‘How would you describe his character?’

  ‘The man is wholly without qualities, a wicked fellow. He has a hundred debts and doesn’t know which way to turn to improve his lot. At the same time, I repeat, a good father and a good husband. But the mixture of ambition and mediocrity in him has led him to wade in the mire and now he’s drowning in it, and is impervious to all arguments. He never pushes home his attacks, but makes little thrusts, provoking and annoying like a dog with a bitch …’

  Éon stretched out a leg and leant towards it as if trying to see his face in the boot.

  ‘He told me all about the episode of the men who came from Paris to kill him,’ he went on. ‘I told him right out that it didn’t surprise me, that I’d predicted it for a long time and that he himself was the main cause of anything dangerous that occurred. Then I asked him if he couldn’t choose other objects of censure than the King’s official mistress, not to mention the one before her, on which to vent his poisonous slanders.’

  ‘And how did he react?’

  ‘Like a madman, Marquis. I shan’t go into details, you’ll be able to judge for yourself. He dismissed me, telling me to inform the Duc d’Aiguillon and “the whole clique” at Court that he didn’t give a damn about them and all their intrigues and henchmen. I again exhorted him to put an end to this insanity, but he wouldn’t budge an inch. Would you believe, he sent an account of his adventures to the Morning Post and Daily Advertiser, which published it on 11 January. He plans to involve the law to right the wrongs that have been done to him. I was exhausted by the time I left him, and I told his poor wife to beware of the consequences of her husband’s actions, because he seemed to me quite deranged and she should blame him for whatever calamitous repercussions befall her and her children.’

  ‘And what am I supposed to do about this mess?’ asked Nicolas, with a laugh.

  The chevalier’s response was a bawdy slap of the thighs. ‘Just take it easy, and don’t despair. With a character like that, everything remains possible. Not that others haven’t tried, but …’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Despite appearances, the man is far from mad. He can laugh at that lamentable bunch, even though the episode left him shaken and anxious. Talk to him. If you don’t get anything from him straight away, at least you’ll break down his defences in readiness for later offensives. Apart from that, he’s quite aware, because I took it upon myself to tell him, that you are not the Duc d’Aiguillon’s emissary, but the King’s. I have my sources of information, he has his, and sometimes they overlap. According to rumour, Marquis, the hounds are after you. That’ll make him feel sympathetic towards you. But even in England the fox sometimes escapes! That’s what I wish for you. By the way, are you armed?’

  ‘Yes, I have a good sword and a pistol.’

  ‘If not, I would have got you what you needed. My swords are the best in London. Did you know I was the pupil of Dumonchelle and Rousseau, the Parisian fencing masters?’ The chevalier’s small frame proudly straightened. ‘Beware of everyone and everything. Morande will show you respect and be lavish with words, but don’t let yourself be taken in. He’s caught up in a fatal game of dice, and it won’t let go of him, absorbing and blackening all his thoughts.’

  ‘When will I see him?’ asked Nicolas.

  ‘Probably tomorrow. Mrs Williams will let you know. He wanted you to come to his house. Too conspicuous. I’m organising something else on neutral ground.’ Éon gave Nicolas a half-smile full of a kind of friendly pity. ‘Take care of yourself. Fear can be a good counsellor, and it would be dangerous not to feel any. There are not so many of us fighting to help His Majesty, the best of kings, my illustrious and secret protector …’ Nicolas was surprised at this strange character’s visible emotion.

  ‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ said Éon. ‘I’m dealing with another affair which our embassy also has its hands on. If it’s left up to them, I fear the whole thing will be ruined. You’ll see the King when you get back from London. Tell him from me that Mr Flint, who travelled to China in 1736 and crossed the Great Wall in 1759, but was unable to enter Peking and was imprisoned by the Chinese for several years, is still hesitating about our proposal. He’s told me that, since he landed, he hasn’t come across anyone who’s ever heard of the hundred-ton English vessel with a crew of twelve on which he sailed during that expedition.’

  ‘I shan’t fail you,’ replied Nicolas, although he had no idea what this was all
about.

  ‘That’s not all,’ Éon went on. ‘I conclude that the observations which the English were able to gather – observations so vital to our interests – have now been lost apart from what’s in Mr Flint’s head. He claims to have studied that region and those seas even before he embarked on the vessel in question.’

  ‘But what is the object of your negotiation?’ asked Nicolas. ‘Excuse me for pressing you.’

  ‘We need to compensate him for any risks he and his family may run through dealing with us, all the more so if he is unable to avoid exile. The Lords of the Admiralty have their eyes on him. The last time I met him, I impressed upon him that it was right for a great ruler and a government such as ours to seek out men of rare talent or knowledge. In order to convince him, I reminded him of the days of Colbert, when merit was rewarded in whatever nation it was found. You see, my dear fellow, this may be more important for the King’s future reputation than all the Morandes in the world. Marquis, I bid you good day and reiterate my concern: take care of yourself.’

  ‘Mademoiselle,’ said Nicolas, ‘I am grateful to you for your solicitude: the recent past speaks in favour of my heeding your advice.’

  The chevalière held out a hand, and Nicolas shook it. The grip was firm and heartfelt. In a great gathering of fabrics, Éon hurried out.

  Nicolas’s feelings about Éon had gradually changed in the course of their conversation. The way in which the chevalier spoke of the King could not help but move him, nor could his concern for the triumph of the kingdom. Of course, he remained aware that Éon was blackmailing his master, holding on to certain documents as a safeguard. But in his present situation, Nicolas could well understand the extreme measures to which a person could be driven in difficult and unusual circumstances. On balance, he felt favourably disposed towards the chevalier – or chevalière – which was not something he had foreseen. As for the substance of what Éon had told him, it merely confirmed to him the complexity of an affair in which the interests of the State and some very murky intrigues mingled and clashed.

  He knew that he would have to beware of the Englishman he was due to meet, who had already shown his bad faith by allowing Captain Béranger’s men to fall into the trap laid for them. As for Morande, the prospects were decidedly uncertain. If the description given by Éon bore any relation to reality, what could he hope to obtain from such a deeply immoral individual? What kind of pressure could he put on him to move him in the direction desired by the King? Would he have to alternate persuasion and threats in order to break down defences based on lies and slanders?

  Last but not least, Nicolas recalled with a shudder his visitor’s repeated warnings. They were as ambiguous as the man, or woman, who had uttered them. That he was under threat, he had never doubted. The question lay in knowing where the threat was coming from and whether or not this chain of events had a single origin. His confusion centred on that fatal evening of 6 January, when a lovers’ quarrel – a mere domestic tiff – had shattered the course of a life, led Madame de Lastérieux to a terrible death and had plunged him, Nicolas, into the snares of suspicion and the perils of a murderous chase. In his sadness, he had almost forgotten the ambiguous role she had played towards him.

  The clock struck seven thirty. The butler entered, cleared away the tea things, and put a place-setting on the gaming table. Nicolas was sighing with pleasure at the sight of these preparations when Mrs Williams glided into the room like a high-sided ship, with an indignant look on her face.

  ‘Sir, there’s someone downstairs asking to see you. I told him you weren’t here, but he insists. He says you were supposed to meet him at nine, but he wants to bring your meeting forward.’

  ‘What kind of man is he?’ asked Nicolas.

  ‘An honest-looking gentleman.’

  ‘Good. Be so kind as to show him up and bring us two glasses and whatever it is that people drink before dinner in London.’

  She left the room, looking annoyed, and came back accompanied by a short, potbellied man of about sixty without a wig, his bald skull surrounded by a crescent of white hair. He had a pale face, with roughly cut bushy eyebrows, a red, pointed nose and a long chin encased in a white gauze cravat. He wore a green coat that was too tight for his shapeless body, a pair of immaculate white cashmere breeches, black stockings and shoes with silver buckles. The man drew himself up on his little legs, took in both hands a kind of lorgnette hanging on a black ribbon, and looked round the room, seeming to approve its fixtures and fittings, and finally at Nicolas. Without having been invited, he sat down facing Nicolas, looked him up and down once again, then began speaking in an aristocratic English accent.

  ‘Marquis,’ he said at once, ‘did you ever ask yourself if we were happy to receive you?’

  Nicolas had no intention of letting himself be thrown like that. ‘Before anything else,’ he said, ‘to whom do I have the honour of speaking? Although you appear to know who I am, I myself do not have that pleasure.’

  ‘I’m Lord Ashbury, Robert Ashbury. They were supposed to bring you to see me this evening, but I anticipated you. I have no desire for an envoy as distinguished as yourself to be subjected to these frightful obligations. I will add that I am not especially happy for our mutual friend to organise our entertainments for us.’

  He had said all this in a self-satisfied tone, waving his lorgnette. Nicolas got up and went to stoke the fire, amused to recall that this was a habit of Monsieur de Sartine’s when he wanted to give himself time to think. The acrid smell rose to his throat and made him cough. That helped him to gain a few seconds and to calm his mounting irritation.

  ‘My lord, do you have any papers on you that would assure me you are indeed who you say you are?’

  His guest laughed. ‘Commissioner, you will have to take my word for it. I’m not asking you for the letters your monarch signed to accredit you as his plenipotentiary and which, no doubt …’ – he pointed at Nicolas’s chest – ‘… are warming your heart. Affairs such as these, as I’m sure you’ll learn, are a matter of trust – or mistrust, if you so wish.’

  Mrs Williams came in with a bottle of an amber liquid and two glasses, which she placed on the gaming table. Lord Ashbury immediately poured himself a large glass, which he knocked back in one go, clicking his tongue in a manner which Nicolas found quite plebeian.

  ‘Excellent sherry! My compliments to your sponsor.’ He sat back in his bergère, shaking his head sardonically. ‘So, Mr Plenipotentiary, what have you to tell me?’

  ‘I’ll come straight to the point. Your ambassador in Paris, Lord Stormont, gave his assurance that a French police mission could land on British soil and stop Monsieur de Morande doing harm with his indecent writings, which gravely slander His Very Christian Majesty and those closest to him.’

  ‘You mean the ladies closest to him.’

  Nicolas ignored the provocation. ‘And what do we see? This mission – a difficult one, I grant you – found itself from the first hampered by underhand manoeuvres. The members were denounced, the populace were roused against them, and now our people are imprisoned and liable to the full weight of your laws. The commitment made by your government has not been respected. We don’t want this affair to bring about a lasting deterioration in the relations between our two countries, which have been at peace for eleven years. We are faced with a genuine obstacle, a stumbling block, as you call it.’

  Ashbury smiled. ‘Your knowledge of our language is more impressive than the quality of your reasoning. Your argument would be admissible, sir, if your emissaries had displayed the requisite caution and skill for such an unusual procedure and if the laws of the land had been respected.’ He puffed out his cheeks, and breathed out and in again. ‘But what do we in fact see? A bunch of wretches who confide indiscreetly in a certain Madame de Godeville, a Frenchwoman without honour, a common harlot. Thanks to her good graces, everything was revealed, which we – please note – being faithful to our promises, had no wish to see happen. Your men
visited the lampoonist in question, and he set about extorting thirty louis each from them. After which, he sounded the alarm in such a nasty manner that your negotiators – if we can apply that word to such hoi polloi – became the object of a manhunt. The English people, so upright, so just, so attached to their freedoms, became incensed against them after Morande excoriated them in our press, which is free. Your men were besieged in their hotel, and one of them was seized, tarred and thrown in the Thames, then fished out by our police and confined in a lunatic asylum. The others threw themselves into the arms of the law. They are now being protected, but they will be tried and, if the accusations against them prove to be true, convicted.’