The Nicolas Le Floch affair

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  ‘The progress of the investigation! How much more of this nonsense do I have to hear, Commissioner? The only crime I see here is that, thanks to your irrational liaison, you dragged us into this infernal affair in the first place!’

  Outraged by his chief’s bad faith, Nicolas tried to protest. ‘Would I have become involved in that liaison if you yourself, knowing everything you did, had dissuaded me?’

  Monsieur de Sartine, who was now by the fireplace, picked up the tongs and struck a pyramid of logs, which collapsed noisily. ‘Be quiet! And, as is your unfortunate custom, now you’re strewing corpses in your wake! Not only is your mistress murdered, but her servant, an unknown young man, and who else besides? You are wreaking havoc in the city, which makes me question how right I have been to extend my protection to you thus far.’ He caught his breath. ‘What is it you imagine? You should be well placed, Monsieur, to know exactly what you have escaped. In this kingdom, whether one likes it or not – and I was, don’t forget, Criminal Lieutenant, at a time when you were still causing mischief at the Jesuit school in Vannes, no doubt wreaking havoc there, too … What was I saying? Oh, yes, the fact is that the aim of our procedures is to ensure the success of an accusation, whether true or false. And although we take meticulous care to establish the smallest piece of evidence, and are constantly concerned to observe the rules and gather as much proof as possible, we know that the judge always approaches a case with the idea that the person brought before him is guilty and that the aim of the procedure is above all to deliver a prey to be condemned by him and to impress the people with an example. Whatever the integrity, sensitivity and intelligence of the magistrates, that is their inclination. Do you understand? Do you?’

  ‘But what does that have to do with—’

  ‘My God, the man’s a fool!’ cried Sartine. ‘Let us suppose, Monsieur, since you insist on appearing stupid, that a citizen has a dangerous enemy, who wishes to destroy him by accusing him of a capital offence, can’t you see what a terrible predicament this poor innocent will find himself in? According to our edict of 1670, he is placed under the criminal procedure known as extraordinary, reserved for the most serious crimes. Have you no idea how difficult it will be for him to prove his innocence? First of all, his enemy denounces him in secret, and he has no way of discovering the person’s identity. The Criminal Lieutenant produces witnesses, but naturally, only those provided by the denouncer. They are heard in the greatest secrecy by a single judge, for fear of being contradicted: a judge who may in addition – I don’t like to think this, but there we are – be biased or corrupt. Where does that leave our poor innocent? The procedure takes its course, and our unfortunate innocent is taken to prison amidst public scandal or – which is worse – in secret, put in irons and sometimes thrown in a horrible dungeon where he is fed on bread and water and sleeps on straw, unable to communicate with the outside world.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No buts. He is dragged from his cell to face interrogation. He is expressly forbidden to have a counsel present. The judge puts pressure on the accused, in accordance with the law, which presumes him to be guilty. He tries by every means – and I mean every means – to extract a confession to the crime which has been imputed to him. The more dangerous the crime, the fewer the facilities the law gives the accused to present his case. In addition, when the accused is confronted with the witnesses, he cannot even question them directly. Such, Monsieur, is the procedure which has already aroused many protests in favour of more humane treatment, has more than once led to fatal misunderstandings and has often compromised the interests of justice. And such is the procedure from which the trust placed in you and the power that protects you have allowed you to escape. Consider how lucky you have been, and then tell me if you really want to tempt fate by continuing doggedly on your present course.’

  ‘Monsieur,’ protested Nicolas, ‘I am only trying to get at the truth, as you taught me to do.’

  ‘Ah, the good disciple! But don’t you understand that justice can only be exercised in so far as another force, in whose hands it resides, authorises it?’

  ‘His Majesty wouldn’t allow—’

  ‘Don’t involve the King in all this! Since you seem determined not to understand what I’m saying, I must tell you that this morning I was duly summoned by the Duc d’Aiguillon, who informed me, in that tone of his with which you are familiar, that Monsieur Balbastre is under his protection, that it is his wish that the man be left in peace, that to disregard these instructions would be to oppose him, and that he would never tolerate the Lieutenant General of Police protecting, and I quote, “a little bastard of a commissioner with whom the King has become besotted”. Such were his words, and I’m sorry to have to repeat them to you. I’m also sorry to have to order you to abandon this case.’

  Nicolas could not believe what he was hearing. For a moment, he said nothing, then ventured, ‘Nevertheless, Monsieur, without Monsieur Balbastre’s testimony and an understanding of his actions, our investigation has reached a dead end, and I think Monsieur de Saint-Florentin—’

  ‘Don’t think! Above all, don’t think! Do you have a hat pulled down over your head that stops you hearing and remembering that Monsieur de Saint-Florentin, whom I command you to call the Duc de La Vrillière, is the uncle of the Duc d’Aiguillon’s wife? I would also add that your Monsieur Balbastre, around whom you are strewing corpses, is not only a highly regarded musician, a talented composer, the organist of both Notre Dame and the royal chapel at Versailles, but is also our Dauphine’s harpsichord teacher. So you want to carry on, do you? Go on, then, carry on! No, no, let’s be serious, go about your business as commissioner at the Châtelet and be glad about the turn this affair has not taken.’

  Sartine slowly walked back to his armchair. Without a word, Nicolas bowed to him and turned to go out. When he was at the door, his chief almost shouted after him, ‘It’s not you I’m angry with. In truth, I’m not proud of myself …’

  Nicolas closed the door behind him, half joyful, half alarmed at what he had just heard. As he descended the staircase, he recalled the first lessons Sartine had taught him, in particular Colbert’s definition, so often repeated, of the eminent office of Lieutenant General of Police: ‘He must be a man both of the cloak and of the sword. If the learned ermine of the scholar covers his shoulders, the spurs of the knight must jangle at his feet. He must be as impassive as a judge or an intrepid soldier, he must not pale before flooded rivers or raging plagues, nor before popular uprisings or the threats of courtiers.’

  It seemed to Nicolas – and the thought was a melancholy one – that times had changed and that the King’s power no longer supported the Lieutenant General as much as it had in the past.

  Notes – CHAPTER 9

  1. An oblong beetle, green and gold in colour. Its dried powder was used externally as a vesicatory, and, in pastille form, as an aphrodisiac with remarkable health benefits.

  X

  THE KING

  Here lies our much loved King

  Who always looked so neat

  And paid for everything

  With what he gained on the wheat.

  ANONYMOUS

  Thursday 28 April 1774

  Three months had passed, three months of everyday routine. Monsieur de Sartine, having regained his usual composure, had been treating Nicolas with particular thoughtfulness, as if hoping to be forgiven for having been forced to break off the investigation into the murder in Rue de Verneuil. Nicolas pretended that he had come to terms with the situation, while secretly hoping that one day, in more favourable circumstances, the law would resume its normal course. One thing cheered him and made him forget this failure: the King was inviting him more and more frequently to Versailles. Apart from his presence at hunts, his repeated attendance at intimate gatherings showed the degree of favour he was in, a favour strengthened by Madame du Barry’s benevolent attitude towards him. She had been happy to listen to Monsieur de La Borde, who had sugge
sted to her that young Ranreuil was better equipped than anyone else to distract the King and that his presence guaranteed a few smiles.

  It was true that this seemed increasingly necessary. The King was now in his sixty-third year. He had gained weight and was less able to withstand excess of any kind. More and more frequently, his mind would go blank for short periods, as if he were intoxicated, thus fuelling much speculation at foreign courts. As had happened during his grandfather’s last days, they were beginning to lay bets in London on how much longer his reign would last. He often fell from his horse, but refused to give up riding despite his doctor’s repeated pleas. Always a lover of women and food, he had nevertheless finally agreed to a diet, drinking Vichy water and doing without dinner almost completely. He had always been obsessed with death, and now a series of sudden deaths amongst his entourage filled him with gloom. His every word was reported, and much comment was elicited by his vague desire to return to religious practice. It was noted that he was paying increasingly frequent visits to his daughter, Madame Louise, who was a Carmelite at Saint-Denis.

  The Abbé de Beauvais, Bishop of Senez, had preached at Versailles on Maundy Thursday. Nicolas still remembered a terrifying moment which had struck all those present. The bishop had chosen death as the theme of his sermon. He began by destroying the illusion that the century had seen an increase in human longevity compared with previous centuries. He painted an eloquent picture of the miseries of the common people whose love for their monarch was diminishing. He then attacked the King in the transparent guise of Solomon. Nicolas remembered his words: ‘Finally Solomon, sated with sensuality, tired of having exhausted every kind of pleasure surrounding the throne in his attempts to revive his withered senses, finished by seeking a new pleasure in the vile dregs of public licentiousness.’ The prelate’s final peroration had made the King turn pale and dismayed the courtiers. ‘Another forty days and Nineveh will be destroyed.’ As for Madame du Barry, cruelly hurt and full of sombre presentiments, she was unable to conceal her anxiety: ever since the clandestinely distributed Almanach de Liège had predicted the imminent fall ‘of a great lady playing a role in a foreign court’, she had been wishing for this ‘damnable month of April’ to pass.

  Nicolas had arrived the day before, summoned to Versailles by a message from Monsieur de La Borde, who had mentioned, without going into details, that he had a surprise for him. During the hunt, though, La Borde had remained silent. The King, complaining that he felt cold despite the mild weather, had not left his carriage. He did not look well: he was suffering with his gums, which his dentist had examined a few days earlier. Nicolas had slept in La Borde’s apartment. The next day, returning at about three to the Petit Trianon, he learnt that the King had felt unwell, had taken a few mild remedies without feeling any relief and, after a game of cards, had gone to bed, counting on sleep to ease his discomfort.

  While waiting for news, La Borde and Nicolas went for a walk in the little French garden beyond the hothouses where the King was attempting to acclimatise coffee, fig and pineapple trees. They were approaching the little pavilion of Gabriel, where the King often stopped to classify his herbariums or to take a collation of milk and strawberries, when suddenly the commissioner spied a figure at the top of the steps leading up to the pavilion and stopped dead. He could not believe his eyes. It was Naganda who stood there, smiling at him.

  Monsieur de La Borde left them to enjoy their reunion. They had not seen each other since the summer of 1770, when Nicolas had accompanied the young Micmac chief to Nantes, from where he had set sail for Canada. They talked of the memories they shared, and the Indian asked for news of Bourdeau and Semacgus. He recounted the conditions in which he had succeeded his father at the head of his people, and told Nicolas that the sheer volume of information he had gathered, not only from the Indian tribes, but also from the American colonists, had led the administration at Versailles to ask him to come and explain everything in person, especially the sketch maps and strategic summaries he had been able to draw up. A fishing boat, tricking the English fleet, had secretly picked him up on the banks of the Saint Lawrence and taken him to Saint-Pierre-et-Miquelon, where a French vessel had been waiting for him. Proudly, he showed Nicolas the officer’s uniform in which he was dressed. What he said about the American situation confirmed what Nicolas already knew from his recent conversation with the Dauphin. He would not be staying long: once he had been received by the King and the Minister for the Navy, he would set sail again with new instructions. He was staying in Versailles, at the Hôtel de la Belle Image on Place Dauphine. Nicolas suggested they go to Paris together: Monsieur de Noblecourt had always regretted never having met ‘the man of the New World’. Their conversation was interrupted by an officer who had come to look for Naganda, and by La Borde, who, once Naganda had gone, told Nicolas what he had just learnt.

  ‘The King had a very bad night,’ he said. ‘Headaches complicated by back pains. Monsieur Le Monnier, the First Doctor Ordinary, was woken up. He found the King in a fever. On the King’s orders, Madame du Barry was sent for. Le Monnier, accustomed to his patient’s squeamishness, is not unduly concerned by the symptoms. According to him, it’s merely indigestion. The gentlemen in attendance have also made light of this indisposition.’

  ‘And the comtesse?’ asked Nicolas.

  ‘She knows how scared the King gets at the slightest thing, and she’s worried he’ll ask for his confessor. She leans in the same direction as the others. She wants to be the only one to watch over the King and has asked that no one in the palace be told.’

  ‘But everything soon gets known about at Court.’

  ‘Precisely, my dear Nicolas. As you can well imagine, His Majesty’s family were immediately worried. Not daring to appear, they sent La Martinière, his First Surgeon. He’s just arrived. Let’s hurry back to the new palace.’

  La Borde had taken Nicolas by the arm. On the staircase leading to the first floor, where the reception rooms were, the servants were waiting. In the antechamber, leaning on one of the porcelain stoves, Gaspard the page greeted them. Several courtiers were waiting there, too, amongst whom Nicolas recognised Monsieur de Boisgelin, with whom he and his father, the Marquis de Ranreuil, had gone hunting in the forest of La Bretesche, near Guérande. The King’s apartment was situated in the attic. A little staircase, at the foot of which he was in the habit of taking his coffee, gave him direct access to his bedroom. The two windows could be sealed at night by an ingenious system of moving sheets of glass that rose from the ground floor. A clock struck five in an adjoining room. The Prince de Condé appeared, coming down from the King’s apartment.

  ‘Monsieur,’ he said to La Borde, ‘the surgeon has told the King that he cannot stay at the Petit Trianon, and that if he’s going to be ill it’ll have to be at Versailles. The Duc d’Aiguillon has urged His Majesty, who has just given his orders. Let the carriages be called at once!’

  Everyone started running in all directions. La Borde rushed up to the attic. Soon, the din of horses and coaches echoed on the cobbles outside, putting an end to the heavy silence which had fallen after the first orders had been given. Everyone was in a hurry. Standing at the foot of the stairs, Nicolas saw the First Minister coming down towards him, throwing him a sharp look as he did so, followed by a man in plain black clothes whom he took to be La Martinière. Almost immediately after them came the King, leaning on La Borde for support. He was wearing a dressing gown under a hunting cloak that had been thrown hurriedly over his shoulders. His face was red and puffy. Reaching the bottom, he gave Nicolas such an imploring look that, without thinking, the commissioner held out his arm. The King’s hand rested on his wrist: it was burning hot, indicative of a high fever. The King walked to his carriage, supported by La Borde and Nicolas. He got in and cried out in a cracked voice, ‘Make it quick!’ He had not let go of Nicolas’s arm, and Nicolas found himself obliged to follow him, just like La Borde. The carriage set off amidst a great commotion: cries, the
cracking of whips, the creaking of wheels. The King, shivering with cold, pulled his cloak tighter about his body. For a moment, he stared at Nicolas as if he had never seen him before. His head nodded every time the carriage hit a bump in the road. In three minutes, travelling at breakneck speed, they were at the palace.

  The carriage came to a halt beneath the archway of Madame Adélaïde’s apartments. The two friends helped the King all the way to his daughter’s drawing room, where he sat down. He had not been expected to return from the Petit Trianon that evening, and had to wait for his bed to be made up. The news spread rapidly that the King was ill. The princes and the most important officials came running. As soon as the King had been put to bed, the royal family were admitted, but only remained for a moment. Only the Comtesse du Barry and the Duc d’Aiguillon had the privilege of remaining and watching over him. Madame du Barry was still stubbornly insisting that it was only indigestion. At nine o’clock, the King received the cabinet, the Comte de Lusace, and the ambassadors of Naples and Spain, and gave the watchword as usual. La Borde went to find out what was happening, and reported that the fever had risen still further and that the headaches were getting stronger.