The Nicolas Le Floch affair

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  ‘I have a particular job that needs doing, one that requires discretion. I’m a police commissioner at the Châtelet, and I’m investigating a case of forgery. It was Monsieur de Séqueville who pointed me in your direction. I have some serious doubts regarding the authenticity of a will, and he assures me you are the ablest man in this field.’

  The man did not say a word, but looked at Nicolas through narrowed eyes.

  ‘Our mutual friend,’ the commissioner went on, ‘gave me this to give to you.’

  He handed him the little square of paper. One glance was enough for Rodollet, which confirmed Nicolas’s impression that this was indeed a recommendation. The paper was immediately placed in a candle flame and burnt, as if it was important not to leave any trace of it. The little seal sputtered, giving off black smoke, and a smell of resin filled the room.

  Rodollet turned to Nicolas. ‘Now then, Commissioner, what can I do for you?’

  Nicolas took out Julie’s letters and the will and gave them to Rodollet, who examined them for a long time through a magnifying glass. Then he arranged a number of candlesticks in a row and placed the will over one of the letters. He repeated the operation with all the correspondence, then examined the documents again. Nicolas was biting his lips with impatience and annoyance: it was humiliating to see his private life scrutinised by a stranger. But then he told himself it was a reasonable price to pay if it led to his mistress’s killer, and he calmed down.

  ‘Hmmm …’ grunted Rodollet, and he took off his bonnet, revealing a bald patch surrounded by a fine weave of white hair. ‘Of course, I may be wrong, but here are my conclusions. Handwriting, even uneducated handwriting, is an instructive thing. Of all the movements of the body, there is none as varied and diverse as those of the hand and the fingers. Imagine, Monsieur, a hundred identical copies of a master painting by a hundred different painters. They would all resemble the original, and yet they would each have, to the eyes of an enlightened art lover, a particular character, a nuance, a touch which would make them distinctive.’

  ‘So, for you …’

  ‘For me, each and every one of us possesses his own handwriting, which is individual and inimitable, or which can only be counterfeited imperfectly and with great difficulty. There are very few exceptions, and they merely prove the rule. Another thing: a person’s handwriting can change, under the influence of different states of mind. We write differently if we’re penning a love letter or a solemn document such as a will. In writing, as in other things, there is a physiognomy of the emotions.’

  ‘And in this particular case?’

  Rodollet looked at Nicolas with a kind of commiseration. ‘In this particular case, I don’t understand how letters burning with the fires of passion – please forgive me – where the thought naturally runs faster than the quill, could be so similar to a legal text such as this will. In short, I believe this will is a forgery, closely modelled on the person’s genuine handwriting.’

  ‘And the signature?’

  ‘Forged, too, I’m sure of it. There are several signatures on the document, and they are identical and can be superimposed one on top of the other, which is scarcely credible. That, Commissioner, is all I can tell you.’

  Nicolas had kept to the end the letter that had been posted to him on the night of the murder. Rodollet took one quick look at it and confirmed that it, too, was a forgery.

  ‘If I’ve understood correctly,’ he said, ‘my conclusions have resolved your doubts. Do you suspect anyone of these forgeries?’

  ‘For the moment,’ said Nicolas, ‘all options are open.’

  ‘Well, if this can be of any help … It’s only a vague impression, mind you, but I think I should pass it on to you. It’s something I came across in a previous case, an observation I made on the way a writer started a line … It may not make any sense and I’m reluctant to trouble you with it …’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, go on.’

  ‘Well, the person responsible for this forgery could – and I repeat could – be a musician, or rather, someone who composes or copies music. When you place notes on a stave, you end up acquiring certain habits that come through in your handwriting. Give my regards to Monsieur de Séqueville.’

  The man bowed and politely refused the money Nicolas tried to give him for the consultation. ‘A thousand pardons, Commissioner. Monsieur de Séqueville and I are quits.’

  Alone in his carriage, Nicolas was thinking so intensely that the blood hammered in his temples. So the will and Julie’s letter were both false. That confirmed that a malevolent force was at his heels, striving by every available means to throw suspicion on him. Another, more insidious idea crossed his mind. Monsieur Rodollet’s last remarks meant that the forger might have a musical connection. His first thought was of Balbastre, whose daily occupation was music, but Müvala was also something of a musician, and his disappearance after the murder was undoubtedly suspicious. A chill came over him: he had just remembered Monsieur de La Borde, a man of eclectic talents who had even composed operas. He recalled Madame de Lastérieux’s indulgent attitude towards the First Groom of the King’s Bedchamber. He alone, of all his friends, enjoyed her wholehearted – and flirtatious – attention. He had long assumed this was due to his mistress’s desire to one day take her place at Court. But he doubted now that she could ever have harboured such an ambition, being in the dishonourable position of a police agent. Could there have been something between his friend, whose womanising was notorious, and the pretty widow from the West Indies? And wasn’t Monsieur de La Borde the person best placed to know every detail of Nicolas’s activities, including his secret missions? He dismissed the idea: after all, hadn’t Monsieur de La Borde been at Monsieur de Noblecourt’s house on the fateful night? It was all terribly confused, and Nicolas felt trapped in the snares of a plot against his life and honour that could surely only have been set in motion by an organisation with many ramifications.

  By the time he got to Monsieur de Noblecourt’s house, darkness was falling. He found the master of the house sitting in a large straight-backed armchair, reading a volume of Ovid which he had placed on the flap of his writing desk. Monsieur de Noblecourt claimed it was the only way he could read, as if such a strict habit expressed all the respect he had for books and the gentleness of the treatment he reserved for them.

  ‘You seem very thoughtful,’ he said, looking at Nicolas’s inscrutable face through his spectacles.

  He listened to the commissioner’s account of his visit to Monsieur Rodollet without manifesting the slightest emotion. The candle sputtered, and went out. Monsieur de Noblecourt carefully closed his book and said, after a silence, ‘Haven’t you ever wondered, my dear boy, what led you to become an officer in the King’s police?’

  ‘A series of chance events and a recommendation from the Marquis de Ranreuil to Monsieur de Sartine.’

  ‘Not at all! Listen to an old sceptic. You may be surprised by his words. It was providence that wished to make life difficult for criminals by confronting them with an honest man whom she trusted to carry out her arrests.’

  ‘That’s all well and good,’ said Nicolas, cheering up, ‘but it doesn’t tell me the name of the man who’s orchestrating this conspiracy against me.’

  ‘Remember that the elements always come together in the end to reveal the truth. Sometimes in very mysterious ways.’

  ‘Is it the twilight hour that has made you so pious, or your reading …’ – he leant towards the book and managed to read the title – ‘of Ovid. Oh, I see, nostalgia for lost loves …’

  Monsieur de Noblecourt nodded. ‘See how accurately you aim. Just before you came in, I was thinking about my wife, that noble, loyal heart. How heavy a burden my life would have been without her love, and how heavy it would be now without my friends, above all without you. I don’t mind telling you that you have taken the place of the child I long desired and never had.’

  This was an unexpected declaration: the former procurator
had never before opened his heart like that. Was it merely a result of the darkness surrounding them? This confidence released the pain Nicolas had so long held in. His voice muffled by emotion – although sufficiently in control of himself to omit the fact that he had been in London – he poured out to his old friend the whole story of his love for La Satin, and the question of paternity that now hung over him. He expressed his fears and his indecisiveness about this child who had dropped out of the sky, unaware of his origins.

  ‘I understand your emotion,’ said Monsieur de Noblecourt, gently. ‘But don’t worry. As someone who did not discover his own father until after his death, you are best placed to make the right decision. The fault lies more in your lack of confidence than in the spontaneity of an impulse which, I feel, is urging you to reach out to this son you do not know. Take your time, think carefully, and when you have made your decision, give this son a father and yourself a son. Offer him, while there is still time, the love and support he is entitled to expect from you. Reject the prejudices of birth in his case as you did in yours. I can foresee a day when such things no longer mean anything. Give this child what Canon Le Floch, the Marquis de Ranreuil and, dare I say it, I myself gave you. Act boldly. But I’m starting to feel moved … We’ll talk about it another time.’

  He stood up and groped in the writing desk.

  ‘A letter arrived for you from Court this afternoon.’

  Nicolas took the letter, which was sealed with the arms of France. He opened it after relighting the candle.

  ‘His Majesty’s secretary of commands has sent me an invitation to the King’s shooting party at the Satory ponds tomorrow morning. I’ll have to get my green coat ready, as that’s the only thing allowed for hunting with rifles. When the weather’s cold, the wildfowl fly over the ornamental lakes.’

  ‘Now that is a skill,’ said Monsieur de Noblecourt, ‘which denotes a born gentleman, a fine tradition to be handed down from father to son.’

  Nicolas thought it was high time he initiated his son. The conversation took a peaceful course, and they talked about different models of flute, an instrument Monsieur de Noblecourt played occasionally. Nicolas went up to his apartment early, anxious to get some rest: he would have to leave well before dawn in order to be on time for the King’s hunt at Versailles.

  Friday 21 January 1774

  The sun was rising when the carriage emerged from Avenue de Paris on to the Place d’Armes. The light was cold and bright, promising a calm day. Frost and ice were everywhere. Stalactites hung from the golden gate of the last courtyard. Beneath Nicolas’s boots, the cobbles slid and cracked. When he got to the park, he saw a long line of coaches outside the Princes’ wing, waiting to take the King and his hunting guests to Satory and the flooded fields over which the migrating birds flew. Nicolas paced up and down to keep warm, exchanging greetings and friendly words with his acquaintances amongst the courtiers. He threw an indulgent glance at a few newcomers, looking stiff and starchy in their beginner’s costumes, their young faces red with cold and emotion. A page from the small stables tugged at his sleeve and told him that it was time for him to be at the door of the King’s coach, as the King had just finished his daily mass. This order was given loudly enough for a number of people to turn and look at him, intrigued, and whisper comments to each other. He greeted the bodyguards who would escort the coach and waited.

  A noise on the gravel told him the King had arrived. Louis was in his hunting costume, with a matching fur-collared cloak. He was leaning on a lanky young man a good head taller than him, whom Nicolas recognised as the Dauphin. Monsieur de La Borde gave him a friendly wave. The King smiled, got in the coach and sat down heavily. The Dauphin was about to join him, when the King intimated that he was to give up his seat to Nicolas.

  ‘Berry, take your carriage, I need to speak to young Ranreuil.’

  The Dauphin went red, nodded to Nicolas, and waddled to his coach. Nicolas sat down facing the King. The procession set off for the great park. The King was silent, his chin in his hand, watching the landscape pass by. Nicolas studied him through half-closed eyes. He was looking older than ever: the great eyebrows were turning white, the nose was getting narrower, and the jowls more and more noticeable, destroying the balance of what had long been a harmonious whole. The dark, infinitely melancholy eyes had lost their sheen, and the bluish bags beneath them made them look larger.

  ‘It’s cold and sharp,’ the King said at last. ‘We’ll see the wildfowl clearly. Did you shoot wildfowl with the marquis, at Ranreuil?’

  ‘Yes, Sire, in the Brière marshes.’

  ‘What kind of dogs did Ranreuil use?’

  ‘Setters, Sire. Rustic water spaniels that were good at swimming and withstanding cold.’

  ‘A good choice. I’ve been told many wildfowl fly over the Somme. Did you see any on the way to London?’

  ‘I was trying hard not to be the prey, Sire.’

  The King laughed. ‘Tell me about it, it’ll distract me.’

  Nicolas adorned his account with a number of outlandish or extravagant details. He described the appearance of the Comtesse du Barry as if it were an episode from a fairy tale. The King burst out laughing. Everything was expressed lightly and without excess. It was Nicolas’s great skill as a storyteller to avoid heaviness. He did not hesitate to mock himself and, knowing the King’s irritation with the growing Anglomania, he described England and the English somewhat unfairly, having no words of admiration for London and its buildings. What a career he might have had as a courtier if his circumstances had been different, he thought as he spoke. He told his story in a succession of scenes that were so vivid and witty, they cheered the King up, and he even laughed uproariously at various points, making him seem younger. The procession was approaching the Satory ponds. At last the caravan came to a halt in the middle of an area of heathland surrounded by birches and poplars. The King lowered his window and called one of the officers.

  ‘I haven’t finished with young Ranreuil. Tell the Dauphin to start without me.’ He turned back to Nicolas. ‘I am sorry, Monsieur, that I exposed you to so many dangers. They might have deprived me of a good and devoted servant.’

  ‘Your Majesty knows it was to save me from a greater danger.’

  ‘Has that been averted now?’

  ‘It’s hard to say for sure. But what I can tell Your Majesty is that so much effort has been put into throwing suspicion on me that the very excess of it can only confirm my innocence.’

  After a moment’s thought, the King murmured, ‘Troubling indeed, this accumulation of malign actions directed against you. Could there be a connection between your case and the mission with which I entrusted you?’

  Nicolas nodded, assuming it was a rhetorical question that did not require an answer. Shots were beginning to ring out on all sides.

  ‘The wildfowl have arrived,’ said the King in his hoarse voice. ‘I’ll have to thank Mesnard for the accuracy of his predictions. He never seems to grow old. The Duc de Penthièvre knew him as a child! What knowledge of birds he has! Almost as good as Louis XIII, my grandfather’s father … And what about the chevalier? Tell me what you think.’

  ‘The Chevalier d’Éon was perfectly polite to me as your envoy. And if I may be so bold, I think I can tell Your Majesty that he does not have a more affectionate or more loyal servant.’

  The King gave a little laugh. ‘Affectionate, certainly! As for loyal … If disobeying my orders is a mark of that virtue, then yes. However, for all his faults, I think he is genuinely anxious to serve me and would be delighted to place his knowledge and contacts at our disposal. They were certainly useful in the affair you resolved so happily. You actually managed to convince this Morande to agree to our conditions. We are grateful to you, Ranreuil.’

  Nicolas had the feeling that this royal ‘we’ included Madame du Barry.

  ‘You have shown once again that nothing is too difficult or too risky for your talent. Sartine is lucky to have you!’ />
  ‘Sire, the Chevalier d’Éon asked me to speak to you about the matter of Mr Flint.’

  The King did not reply immediately. Every time they met, it was borne in on him just how resilient the man was: a monarch who could trust no one, or only a few handpicked individuals, plagued by scruples, dealing coolly with a hundred different matters without ever allowing himself to seem moody or impatient, and always extremely open towards those with whom he was on intimate terms. Why did his people so misjudge him, and why had appearances been against him for so many years?

  ‘In your opinion,’ said the King, ‘can we trust this Englishman?’

  Nicolas replied with his usual spontaneity – surely a constant surprise to a man accustomed to the cautiousness and guile of the Court. ‘What trust can we have in a man who betrays his King and his nation? I think it is wrong to put ourselves in his hands without a guarantee and without having confirmed his information, or at least pretended that we can do so.’

  ‘Well, that sounds wise to me! I’ll see to it.’ The King lowered his window. ‘Let young Ranreuil be given my rifles. Call La Borde. Go hunting, Ranreuil, and talk to the Dauphin about Mr Flint. I want him to like you. One day, he’ll need you.’

  He held out his hand to Nicolas, who bowed and kissed it before stepping backwards out of the carriage. The King seemed to have recovered his serenity. A page walked Nicolas to the spot where the Dauphin was shooting. The birds were not flying over so frequently now, and the prince did not seem to mind Nicolas’s intrusion.

  ‘Fine weather, Monsieur!’

  Nicolas was racking his brains about how to begin. ‘His Majesty wishes me to report to you about a matter I dealt with secretly in London.’

  The young man could not help reacting with pleasure and interest, a reaction which did not escape Nicolas.