The Baker's Blood

  More historical fiction from Gallic

  Praise for Jean-François Parot

  ‘The period detail is marvellously evocative, Le Floch is brave and engaging …’ Economist

  ‘Parot succeeds brilliantly in his reconstruction of pre-revolutionary Paris, in splendid period detail.’ The Times

  ‘A solid and detailed evocation of pre-revolutionary France – the poverty and squalor, side by side with the wealth and splendour, are brought lovingly to life. And the plot has all the twists, turns and surprises the genre demands.’ Independent on Sunday

  ‘Jean-François Parot’s evocation of eighteenth-century Paris is richly imagined and full of fascinating historical snippets.’ Financial Times

  ‘Parot’s clever plotting and sharp eye for detail are, as ever, first rate.’ Mail on Sunday

  THE

  BAKER’S BLOOD

  JEAN-FRANÇOIS PAROT

  Translated from the French by Howard Curtis

  For André and Théia Ross

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Dramatis Personae

  I: SECRECY

  II: THE TWO-HEADED EAGLE

  III: STORMS

  IV: DISTURBANCES

  V: THE BAKEHOUSE

  VI: A TWENTY-YEAR-OLD KING

  VII: FEVER

  VIII: APPEARANCES

  IX: VINCENNES

  X: URGENCY

  XI: ON THE ATTACK

  XII: THE VICE

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  NICOLAS LE FLOCH: a police commissioner at the Châtelet

  LOUIS LE FLOCH: his son, a schoolboy

  MONSIEUR DE SARTINE: Secretary of State for the Navy

  MONSIEUR LENOIR: Lieutenant General of Police in Paris

  MONSIEUR ALBERT: his successor

  PIERRE BOURDEAU: a police inspector

  MONSIEUR DE SAINT-FLORENTIN, DUC DE LA VRILLIÈRE: Minister of the King’s Household

  COMTE DE VERGENNES: Minister of Foreign Affairs

  BARO N DE BRETEUIL: French Ambassador in Vienna

  MONSIEUR TESTARD DU LYS: Criminal Lieutenant of Police

  ABBÉ GEORGEL: Secretary of the French Embassy in Vienna

  CHEVALIER DE LAST IRE: a lieutenant-colonel

  JACQUES MOURUT: a master baker

  CÉLESTE MOURUT: his wife

  EULALIE, known as LA BABINE: their maid

  HUGUES PARNAUX: an apprentice

  DENIS CAMINET: an apprentice

  ANNE FRIOPE: an apprentice

  LE PRÉVOT DE BEAUMONT: former secretary to the Clergy of France

  MATISSET: a former grain merchant

  OLD MARIE: an usher at the Châtelet

  TIREPOT: a police spy

  RABOUINE: a police spy

  AIMÉ DE NOBLECOURT: a former procurator

  MARION: his cook

  POITEVIN: his servant

  CATHERINE GAUSS: a former canteen-keeper, Nicolas Le Floch’s maid

  GUILLAUME SEMACGUS: a navy surgeon

  AWA: his cook

  COMTE D’ARRANET: Lieutenant General of the Naval Forces

  AIMÉE D’ARRANET: his daughter

  TRIBORD: their major-domo

  MONSIEUR DE GÉVIGLAND: a doctor

  THIERRY DE VILLE D’AVRAY: First Groom of the King’s Bedchamber

  MONSIEUR DE LA BORDE: his predecessor, now Farmer General

  CHARLES HENRI SANSON: the public executioner

  NICOLAS RESTIF DE LA BRETONNE: a pamphleteer

  MASTER VACHON: a tailor

  JACQUES NIVERNAIS: a cobbler

  JUSTIN BELHOME: archivist of the French East India Company

  LA PAULET: a brothel-keeper

  LA GOURDA N: a brothel-keeper

  COLETTE: her maid

  I

  SECRECY

  For all that fog now spread before your eyes

  blurs your sight and raises thick vapours all around.

  VIRGIL

  Thursday 2 March 1775

  Nicolas looked with astonishment at the accumulation of sarcophagi cluttering the floor of the Capuchin crypt. This grim tableau of metals, some rusty, others still bright, struck him as resembling a shipwreck. Lead, zinc and silver dominated, their blackened hues dappled in places by the blue-green light that came in through narrow openings. Everywhere were ghastly depictions of heads and bones, faded crowns and sceptres, and a damp odour of mildew and cold candles. It was a Capuchin monk, buried deep in his cowl, who had admitted him to the pantheon of the Habsburgs, an obligatory stop for all foreign visitors to Vienna. It was all very different, he thought, from the tomb of the Bourbons at Saint-Denis. Since the death of Louis XV, he had visited it twice, the first time alone, to pay his last respects to his master, and the second time accompanying Madame Adélaïde, who had wished to meditate before the small brick construction that contained her father’s coffin. He had wandered down the long hall where the austere coffins of the princes lay decorously on iron trestles. There was a tranquil, domestic atmosphere about that august place, whereas here it was as if you were being observed by figures out of a nightmare, an impression made all the stronger by the haphazard manner in which the remains seemed to have been laid out. Leaning against a pillar, he recalled the events of the past few months. The successful outcome of his last investigation, in which he had extricated the Duc de La Vrillière, Minister of the King’s Household, from a difficult situation, had returned him to Monsieur Lenoir’s favour. There was now an atmosphere of complete trust and openness between him and the new Lieutenant General of Police.

  At the beginning of the year, he had been given the task of accompanying Archduke Maximilian of Austria – who had travelled incognito under the name Count Burgau – from Brussels to Paris. He had not only had to ensure the archduke’s safety, but also to make sure that he was received everywhere he went with the military honours due to a brother of the Queen. The young archduke had grown fond of Nicolas, and had requested his company on the various visits he paid while in the capital. It was during one of these that Nicolas had been witness to a scene that still delighted all of Paris. Monsieur de Buffon, receiving the illustrious visitor, had presented him with a volume of his Histoire Naturelle which the young man had politely refused, saying that he had no wish to deprive him of it, a piece of naive ignorance that had occasioned much mirth. Her brother’s visit had led the Queen into a blunder which earned her the first signs of unpopularity: because of the archduke’s incognito status, the princes of royal blood, Orléans, Condé and Conti, had claimed that he owed them the first visit. There was a heated exchange on the subject between the Queen and the Duc d’Orléans, who refused to budge. During the celebrations at Versailles from which they had excluded themselves, the princes elected to go to Paris to show themselves off in public, to much – indeed excessive – acclaim from the common people.

  Nicolas had also been required to travel to the Île Sainte-Marguerite to fetch a prisoner named Querelle,1 a former archer in the constabulary of France, who was to be confined in a padded cell at Bicêtre. Accompanied by two mounted constables, he sped to the south of the kingdom and took delivery of the prisoner. The man’s complaints had come to the attention of Monsieur de Vergennes, the Minister for Foreign Affairs. Nicolas discovered that Monsieur de Laurens, provost general at Aix, had been so taken in by the trustworthy appearance of this Querelle, and the apparent genuineness of his words, that he had happily granted him a significant advance in louis. When Querelle had tried to play a similar trick on the treasurer of the constabulary, he was curtly informed that, as he had long since abdicated his functions,
he should not even still be wearing the uniform. Pursuing his enquiries, Nicolas further discovered that, having already been sentenced seven years earlier in Montpellier, Querelle had also been accused of extracting four hundred livres from the King’s consul in Parma, an offence that might have resulted in his being hanged. Not content with all this, he had in addition – according to Cardinal de Bernis, the ambassador in Rome – specialised in high-quality forgeries of orders, passports and edicts.

  On his return to Paris, Nicolas was surprised to see Monsieur de Sartine at police headquarters. It transpired that, in addition to his duties at the Department of the Navy, Sartine had temporarily taken over the Lieutenancy General of Police, Monsieur Lenoir having been struck down with a skin disease.

  At the Noblecourt household in Rue Montmartre, all was calm and steady. At Christmas, father and son had been reunited. Delighted to receive Louis Le Floch, Monsieur de Noblecourt made sure that every possible attention was lavished on the boy during those few days, setting aside a bedroom and study on the top floor for him, and plying him with books and delicacies. The young man did not seem to have suffered too much from the regime at his school, but Nicolas, with all the perceptiveness of a father’s love, noted that his son seemed to be brooding about something. However hard Louis tried to allay suspicion and express his joy at their reunion, Nicolas, although in no way doubting his genuine sincerity, sensed that the boy was suffering from some secret wound. He tried as tactfully as possible to make him talk, having first assumed that it was his mother’s exile in London that was making him so sad. Louis rejected the suggestion, either because he wished to conceal his deeper feelings on the subject, or because it was something else that preoccupied him. But when Nicolas saw his son having long, friendly conversations with Monsieur de Noblecourt, or responding with delight to the mouthwatering treats prepared for him by Marion and Catherine – treats intended to make him forget, if only for a time, the unappetising gruel he was given at school – he became convinced that he must have been mistaken and decided to cast the matter from his mind.

  On the first Sunday in January, he took his son to Versailles for high mass. The boy watched spellbound as the King’s cortège passed through the great gallery on its way to the chapel. He felt a sense of pride on seeing the friendly wave the monarch gave his father, and again when the Queen, with a pretty movement of her head, threw him a smile. On the return journey, he bombarded his father with questions, and Nicolas, relieved to see Louis so happy, answered them all without tiring of them. Louis was elated and captivated by the majestic spectacle he had witnessed, and on his return to Rue Montmartre immediately launched into a breathless account, to which the entranced household listened open-mouthed. Everyone noted that his narrative sense and eye for the telling detail resembled his father’s. Chess games, fencing and riding lessons and other distractions took up the rest of this interlude. By the time Louis set off back to school, laden with packages, words of advice and a large supply of quince preserve, he seemed quite serene. Although reassured, Nicolas nevertheless vowed to keep a closer eye on him. He would go to Juilly as soon as possible to find out what he could from the Oratorians.

  In point of fact, the commissioner’s life was dominated by his new-found love, into which he had thrown himself body and soul. His unusual situation as an aristocrat who was nevertheless close to the common people, the existence of an illegitimate son, and the nature of his position: all these might have encouraged him to exercise discretion. But in fact he was conducting his liaison with Aimée d’Arranet relatively openly, less concerned with the niceties than might have been supposed. At the beginning, admittedly, he had found it hard to drop a certain reserve, anxious more for the young woman’s reputation than his own. But when, after some hesitation, he had opened his heart to his mistress, she had laughed and scolded him, covered him with caresses and closed his mouth with a kiss. As for Admiral d’Arranet, busy with his new role at the Department of the Navy, he still received Nicolas with the same paternal benevolence, revealing none of his feelings about what would have seemed obvious even to the most trusting of fathers. Having long ago consented to give free rein to a daughter who tenderly but imperiously imposed her will on him, he had evidently come to terms with the situation. Besides, wasn’t Nicolas the son of the Marquis de Ranreuil, and didn’t everyone he knew, starting with Sartine, sing his praises? What more could he wish for his daughter? His old heart, which had been through much suffering, melted at the sight of these children who seemed so happy together and surrounded him with their gaiety.

  As for the coterie in Rue Montmartre – Noblecourt, Semacgus, Bourdeau and La Borde, who had known her as a child – they had all succumbed to her charm. Whenever she paid a visit, Monsieur de Noblecourt adorned himself with a large Regency wig, leading Semacgus to tease him with the observation that he reminded him of the ageing Louis XIV flirting with the young Duchesse de Bourgogne. She had subjugated animals and people alike, including – and this was a true measure of her success – Marion, Catherine and Poitevin. As for Cyrus and Mouchette, they followed her everywhere and would lie at her feet when she sat down. At one and the same time learned, serious, impish and lively, she always held her own, with an appetite for knowledge and good food that had conquered this all-male society. Secretly, they were all pleased to see this impudent young woman at last erase the baleful memory of Madame de Lastérieux.2 Even Bourdeau, so touchy about anything concerning Nicolas, had lowered his defences and was increasingly attentive to her. The commissioner was becoming more secure in his happiness. Their reunions in discreet country inns were no less passionate than the encounters that preceded their separations: every stolen moment was relished by the two lovers. Nicolas, aware of how uncertain their future was and unable to envisage anything beyond the present situation, placed himself in the hands of fate, savouring the happiness of possessing a woman he could love and respect wholeheartedly.

  Suddenly, he was drawn from this lengthy reflection by a shadow that fell between him and the declining light filtering into the vault through the narrow openings. A thin man in civilian clothes and a powdered wig, holding a hat under his arm, was looking at him with an expression that was at once inquisitive and ironic. Although the man was standing with his back to the light, Nicolas could see his clear eyes, tight, somewhat cruel mouth and air of controlled sadness.

  ‘Monsieur,’ he said in slightly accented French,3 ‘you are a foreigner and you seem to find this place inspiring.’

  ‘I am indeed,’ replied Nicolas, bowing with the natural courtesy that this polite approach called for. ‘It leads one to meditate on the mystery of time and the frailty of human life.’

  Somewhat theatrically and with an almost military stiffness, the stranger rose to his full height. ‘I see you are a philosopher, which must mean that you are French! What are they saying in Paris about the new Queen?’

  ‘Her subjects are enchanted with her.’

  ‘Enchained, rather, it is said here in Vienna: enchained to the sleds she has been using so often during this harsh winter to get to her Opéra balls and other entertainments.’

  ‘The Queen’s sleds are acclaimed by the people, who are grateful to her for her boundless charity.’

  ‘Truly, Monsieur?’ the man replied in a somewhat ironic tone. ‘I know the French are given to excessive compliments, and just as given to reversals of mood. In your country, any success lasts only as long as the common people see fit to maintain it. Few nations are as changeable as yours. Wasn’t your late King called “the well loved”? And yet his convoy was booed and jeered by the populace during his last journey.’

  ‘He was able to count on his loyal followers. They all mourn a good master.’

  ‘Were you one of them, Monsieur?’

  ‘I had the honour to serve him.’

  ‘Does the new monarch benefit from their allegiance?’

  ‘Of course, Monsieur. The French are monarchists through and through. Our loyalty is our
honour, you can rest assured of that.’

  ‘Well, Monsieur, far be it from me to offend you. It was just my manner of speaking.’

  They stood in silence for a moment, then the man bowed and withdrew. On his way out, Nicolas questioned the Capuchin as to whether he knew the stranger. The monk raised his head, revealing a moth-eaten beard. He understood not a word of French. Nicolas tried Latin, and the monk, startled by the question, bowed and said, ‘Imperator, rex romanorum.’

  It was only then that Commissioner Le Floch realised he had been speaking to Marie Antoinette’s brother, Emperor Joseph II of Austria. Had it been a chance encounter, or did the Emperor know who Nicolas was? That was highly unlikely. But he was angry with himself for not recognising him. All he had at his disposal was a note from one of Monsieur de Vergennes’s clerks indicating that Joseph II exercised power jointly with Maria Theresa, but that, although she consulted him, she did not yield the slightest authority to him. The Emperor was said to be unhappy with this subordinate position and, in order to shake off a feeling of futility, spent time travelling through his future States. Having little taste for luxury or outward display, he liked to divest himself somewhat of the burden of his regality and appear as a private individual, the guise in which he had presented himself to Nicolas. He was said to be charming in conversation, skilful at encouraging the clash of ideas, from which, in his opinion, there often emerged flashes of truth. But this delight in open debate did not mean that he would tolerate too much familiarity. However much he might wish to act without constraint, the autocrat soon peered through the mask of the honest citizen.

  Nicolas walked out into the cold air, still wintry despite the date, but welcome after the crypt. After brushing away the snow, he sat down on the steps of the Donnerbrunnen, a fountain surmounted by the figure of Providence, its pedestal surrounded by putti. An impromptu guide, sensing a foreigner, informed him – after making sure that nobody was eavesdropping – that four statues representing the tributaries of the Danube, considered immodest in their nakedness, had been withdrawn on the orders of the Empress. The stranger was rewarded with a few coins before Nicolas plunged back into his reverie. He was still surprised to be in Vienna, and he recalled the strange combination of circumstances that had led him here …