Nicolas took the same route as he had the day before, but this time there was a spring in his step. As he passed the Châtelet, he went over his interview with Monsieur de Sartine, a conversation in which he had hardly said a word. So, he was about to enter ‘the King’s service’ … Until then, he had not understood the full significance of these words. On reflection they had no meaning for him.
His schoolmasters and the marquis had mentioned the King, but all that seemed to belong to another world. He had seen engravings and a head on coins and he had mumbled his way through the unending list of sovereigns, which had meant no more to him than the succession of kings and prophets in the Old Testament. In the collegiate church of Guérande he had sung the Salve fac regum on 25 August, Saint Louis’s day. His intellect made no connection between the King, a figure in stained glass, the symbol of faith and fidelity, and the man of flesh and blood who ruled the State.
This thought occupied him until he reached Rue de Gesvres. There, aware once more of his surroundings, he was astonished to discover a street that crossed the Seine. When he came out on Quai Pelletier, he realised that it was a bridge lined with houses on either side. A young Savoyard chimney sweep waiting for custom, with a marmot on his shoulders, told him it was Pont-Marie. Looking back at this marvel several times, he reached Place de Grève. He recognised it from a print he had once seen, bought from a street hawker, which showed the torture and execution of Cartouche the highwayman before a large gathering of people in November 1721. As a child, he had daydreamed in front of it and imagined being part of the scene, lost in the crowd and caught up in endless adventures. With a shock he realised that his dream had become a reality: he was walking the stage where famous criminal executions had taken place.
Leaving the grain-port behind him to his right, he entered the heart of old Paris through the Saint-Jean arch at the Hôtel de Ville. When giving him directions, Père Grégoire had particularly warned him about this spot: ‘It’s a grim and dangerous place,’ he said, clasping his hands, ‘with everyone from Rue Saint-Antoine and the faubourg passing through.’ The archway was the favourite haunt of thieves and fake beggars who lay in wait for passers-by under its solitary vault. He entered it cautiously, but only came across a water carrier and some day labourers going towards Place de Grève to find work.
He reached the market of Saint-Jean via Rue de la Tissanderie and Place Baudoyer. It was, so his mentor had told him, the largest in Paris after Les Halles; he would recognise it by the fountain in its centre, near the guardhouse, and by the many people who came to collect water from the Seine.
Accustomed to the good-natured orderliness of provincial markets, here Nicolas had to force his way through total chaos. All the goods were piled higgledy-piggledy on the ground, except for the meat, which was on special slabs. In the warm autumn air the smells were strong, foul even, around the fish stalls. He found it hard to believe that there could be markets bigger or busier than this one. The space for the stallholders was very cramped and it was almost impossible to move around, but this did not prevent horse-drawn vehicles from driving through, threatening to crush anything in their path. People were haggling and arguing and from the accents and the clothes he realised that many peasants from the nearby countryside came here to sell their produce.
Carried first one way then the other by the crowd, Nicolas went around the market three or four times before finding Rue Sainte-Croix-de-la-Bretonnerie. This street led him without mishap to Rue des Blancs-Manteaux where, between Rue du Puits and Rue du Singe, he found Commissioner Lardin’s residence.
He hesitated and gazed at the three-storey house, bordered on either side by gardens protected by high walls. He raised the knocker, which produced a dull echo inside as it struck the door. The door half opened to reveal the face of a woman wearing a white mob cap, a face so wide and chubby that it seemed to be the continuation of a huge body, the top half of which was squeezed into a red jacket. This was framed by two arms, similarly proportioned to the rest, which dripped with washing suds.
‘What do you want?’ asked the woman, with a strange accent that Nicolas had never heard before.
‘I’ve come to deliver a letter from Monsieur de Sartine to Commissioner Lardin,’ said Nicolas, who immediately bit his lip, realising he had played his trump card rather too soon.
‘Give me.’
‘I must give it in person.’
‘No one at home. Wait.’
She slammed the door shut. All that remained for Nicolas was to show the patience that, as his own experience had confirmed, was the main virtue needed in Paris. Without daring to move away from the house he walked up and down, examining the surroundings. On the opposite side of the road, where there was an occasional passer-by, he glimpsed buildings, a monastery or a church, hidden amidst tall, bare trees.
He sat down on the front steps of the house, tired out by his morning’s expedition. His arm was numb from carrying his bag and he was hungry, since all he had eaten that morning in the refectory of the Carmelites was some bread dipped in soup. A nearby bell was chiming three o’clock when a sturdily built man, wearing a grey wig and leaning on a cane very like a cudgel, curtly asked him to make way. Guessing who this was, Nicolas stepped aside, bowed and began to speak:
‘I beg your pardon, Monsieur, but I’m waiting for Commissioner Lardin.’
Two blue eyes stared at him intently.
‘You’re waiting for Commissioner Lardin? Well, I’ve been waiting for a certain Nicolas Le Floch since yesterday. Would you know him by any chance?’
‘That’s me, Monsieur. As you can see …’
‘No explanations …’
‘But …’ stammered Nicolas, holding out Sartine’s letter.
‘I know better than you do what orders the Lieutenant General of Police gave you. I have no use for this letter. You may keep it as a souvenir. It will tell me nothing I don’t already know and merely confirms that you did not comply with the instructions given.’
Lardin knocked and the woman reappeared in the doorway.
‘Monsieur, I did not want …’
‘I know, Catherine.’
He motioned impatiently, as much to interrupt his servant as to invite Nicolas inside. He took off his coat to reveal a sleeveless, thick-leather doublet and, removing his wig, uncovered a closely shaven head. They entered a library, and Nicolas was stunned by its beauty and tranquillity: the dying embers in the carved marble fireplace, a black and gold desk, the bergères upholstered in Utrecht velvet, the light-coloured panelling on the walls, the framed prints and the richly bound books lining the shelves all helped to create an atmosphere that someone more worldly than Nicolas would have described as voluptuous. He vaguely sensed that these refined surroundings were somewhat at odds with the boorish appearance of his host. The main drawing room at Château de Ranreuil, though still half medieval, had been until then his only point of reference in such matters.
Lardin remained standing.
‘Monsieur, this is a very odd way to begin a career in which exact-ness is of the essence. Monsieur de Sartine entrusts you to my charge and I don’t know to what I owe this honour.’
With a wry smile Lardin made his finger joints crack.
‘But I obey and you must do the same,’ he continued. ‘Catherine will take you to the third floor. I can only offer you a meagre attic room. You will take your meals with the servants or out of the house, as you wish. Each morning you will appear before me at seven o’clock. You must, I am told, learn the law. For that you will go for two hours each day to Monsieur de Noblecourt, a former magistrate, who will assess your abilities. I expect you to be perfectly assiduous and unfailingly obedient. Tonight, to celebrate your arrival, we shall dine together as a family. You may go.’
Nicolas bowed and left. He followed Catherine, who settled him into a small attic room. To reach it he had to cross a cluttered loft. He was pleasantly surprised by the size of the room and by the presence of a window which overloo
ked the garden. It was sparsely furnished with a small bed, a table, a chair and a chest of drawers cum washstand with its basin and ewer and a mirror above it. The wooden floor was covered with a threadbare rug. He put his few possessions away in the drawers, removed his shoes and went to sleep.
When he woke it was already dark. After quickly washing his face and combing his hair, he went downstairs. The door to the library where he had been received by Lardin was now shut, but those to other rooms along the corridor were still open. This enabled him to cautiously satisfy his curiosity. First he saw a drawing room decorated in pastel colours, compared to which the library suddenly seemed positively austere. In another room a table had been laid for three. At the end of the corridor another door led to what had to be the kitchen, judging by the smells coming from it. He went closer. The heat in the room was intense and Catherine kept having to wipe her brow with a cloth. When Nicolas entered she was opening oysters and, to the surprise of the young Breton who was used to swallowing them live, she was removing the contents of the shells and placing them on an earthenware plate.
‘May I ask what you are preparing, Madame?’
She turned around in surprise.
‘Don’t call me Madame. Call me Catherine.’
‘Very well,’ he said, ‘and my name’s Nicolas.’
She looked at him, her unprepossessing face lighting up and becoming more attractive. She showed him two capons she had boned.
‘I’m making capon and oyster soup.’
As a child Nicolas had enjoyed watching Fine prepare delicacies, the canon’s one weakness. Gradually he had even learnt how to make certain Breton specialities, such as far, kuign aman or lobster in cider. Nor was his godfather, the marquis, averse to turning his hand to this noble activity which, to the canon’s great disgust, he described as one of the seven ‘lively’ sins.
‘Cooked oysters!’ exclaimed Nicolas. ‘Where I come from we eat them raw.’
‘What! Living creatures?’
‘And how exactly do you make this soup?’
Going on his experience with Fine, whom he had needed to spy on for a long time in order to discover her recipes, Nicolas was expecting to be thrown out of the kitchen.
‘You so good that I tell you. I take two nice capons and bone them. I stuff one with flesh of other and add bacon, egg yolks, salt, pepper, nutmeg, bouquet garni and spices. I tie it all with string and poach in stock gently. Then I roll my oysters in flour and I fry them in butter with mushrooms. I cut up the capon and lay out the oysters, pour on the stock and serve with a trickle of lemon and some spring onion, piping hot.’
Nicolas could not contain his enthusiasm and it showed; listening to Catherine had made his mouth water and he felt even hungrier. So it was that he won over Catherine Gauss, a native of Colmar, a former canteen-keeper at the battle of Fontenoy, the widow of a French guard and now cook to Commissioner Lardin. The formidable servant had adopted Nicolas for good. Now he had one ally in the household and he felt reassured by his ability to charm.
Nicolas was left with confused memories of the dinner. The splendour of the table with its crystal, silverware and sparkling damask tablecloth gave him a feeling of well-being. The warmth of the room with its gilded grey panelling and the shadows cast by the gleam of the candles created a cocoon-like atmosphere. This, added to his already weak state, made Nicolas feel languid, and the first glass of wine went straight to his head. The commissioner was not present; only his wife and daughter kept Nicolas company. They seemed of about the same age and he soon gathered that Louise Lardin was not Marie’s mother but her stepmother, and that there was little love lost between the two women. Whereas Louise seemed anxious to come across as assertive and rather flirtatious, Marie remained reserved, observing her guest out of the corner of her eye. One was tall and blonde, the other slight and dark-haired.
Nicolas was surprised by the delicacy of the dishes served. The capon and oyster soup was followed by marbled eggs, partridge hash, blancmange and jam fritters. Nicolas, who was well versed on the subject, identified the wine as a Loire vintage, probably a Bourgueil, because of its blackcurrant colour.
Madame Lardin questioned him discreetly about his past. He had the feeling that she particularly wanted to clarify the origin and nature of his relations with Monsieur de Sartine. Had the commissioner given his wife the task of getting Nicolas to talk? She filled his glass so generously that the idea did cross his mind but he thought no more of it. He spoke a great deal about his native Brittany, giving them a thousand and one details that made them smile. Did they take him for an object of curiosity, some exotic foreigner?
It was only later, after he had got back to his garret, that he began to have his doubts: he wondered whether he had been too talkative. In fact he was so unclear as to why Monsieur de Sartine should have taken an interest in him that he easily convinced himself that he could not have let slip anything compromising. Madame Lardin must have been disappointed. He recollected also the irritable expression on Catherine’s face when she served or listened to Louise Lardin, who was herself very distant towards the servant. The cook muttered under her breath, looking furious. When, on the other hand, she served Marie, the expression on her face mellowed almost to the point of adoration. It was with these observations that the young man ended his first day in Rue des Blancs-Manteaux.
This was the start of a new life for Nicolas, one arranged around a regular sequence of tasks. Rising early, he had a good wash in a garden lean-to which Catherine agreed to let him use.
He had extended his modest wardrobe of clothes at Vachon’s, where the mere mention of Monsieur de Sartine’s name had opened all doors as well as the credit book, and the tailor even went slightly beyond the original order, much to Nicolas’s embarrassment. From now on, when he looked in a mirror, he saw the reflection of a dashing young man soberly but elegantly dressed and the lingering looks Marie gave him were confirmation of his changed appearance.
At seven o’clock he appeared before Commissioner Lardin, who informed him of his timetable. His lessons with the magistrate Monsieur de Noblecourt, a small kindly old man, and a keen chess player and flautist, were enjoyable moments of relaxation. Thanks to his teacher’s knowledgeable advice he became a keen concert-goer.
Nicolas continued to explore Paris and the faubourgs. Never, not even in Guérande, had he walked so much.
On Sundays, he went to concerts of sacred music that were given then in the great hall of the Louvre. One day he found himself sitting next to a young seminarist. Pierre Pigneau, a native of Origny in the diocese of Laon, longed to join the Society of Foreign Missionaries. He explained to an admiring Nicolas his vow to dispel the darkness of idolatry with the light of the Gospels. He wished to join the mission in Cochin China, which for the past few years had been subject to terrible persecution. The young man, a tall, ruddy-faced lad with a sharp sense of humour, agreed with Nicolas about the poor performance of an Exaudi Deus given by the celebrated Madame Philidor. So indignant were they at the audience’s applause that they got up together and left. Nicolas accompanied his new-found friend to the Seminary of the Thirty-Three. After arranging to meet up again the following week, they went their separate ways
The two young men soon took to ending their outings at Stohrer’s, pastry-cook to the King. His shop in Rue Montorgueil had been a fashionable meeting place ever since its owner had supplied the court with cakes of his own creation that were especially to the liking of the Queen, Marie Leszczyn´ska. Nicolas greatly enjoyed the young priest’s company.
In the beginning, Lardin, whose duties were not confined to a particular district, instructed him to accompany him on his assignments. Nicolas experienced the early morning routine of sealing up property, confiscating goods, making reports or merely settling the disputes between neighbours that were so common in faubourg tenements where the poorest people crowded together. He made the acquaintance of inspectors, men of the watch, guards on the ramparts, gaolers and even execu
tioners. He had to steel himself for the horrendous spectacles of the torture chamber and the great morgue. Nothing was kept from him and he soon learnt that in order to function properly the police had to rely on a host of informers, spies and prostitutes, a twilight world that enabled the Lieutenant General of Police to know more about the secrets of the capital than anyone else in France. Nicolas also realised that, through his control of the postal service and all private correspondence, Monsieur de Sartine had at his disposal a precious network for penetrating people’s innermost thoughts. As a result, he himself was suitably cautious and remained guarded in the letters he regularly sent to Brittany.
Nicolas’s relations with the commissioner had barely changed, either for better or for worse. Lardin’s cold, authoritarian manner was met by the young man’s silent obedience. For lengthy periods, the policeman seemed to forget all about him. Monsieur de Sartine, on the other hand, did not hesitate to remind Nicolas of his existence. From time to time a little Savoyard chimney sweep would bring him a laconic note summoning him to the Châtelet or to Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin. These encounters were brief affairs. The Lieutenant General would question Nicolas, who noticed that certain questions revolved oddly around Lardin. Sartine made him describe in minute detail the commissioner’s house and the family’s habits, even going so far as to ask about what they ate. Nicolas was sometimes a little embarrassed at being interrogated in this way and puzzled as to the meaning of it.
The Lieutenant General of Police ordered him to attend criminal hearings and to give him a written summary of the sessions. One day, he instructed him to report back on the arrest of a man who had circulated letters of exchange with disputed signatures. Nicolas saw the officers of the watch grab an individual in the middle of the street. He had bright eyes and a striking face, and he spoke French with a strong Italian accent. The man called out to him:
The Châtelet Apprentice Page 3
