The Nicolas Le Floch affair Page 12

  ‘Sire, there are several forms of—’

  ‘The one I refer to is the most agreeable. The other evening, to amuse me, my grandsons the princes introduced me to a strange fellow, an English Jew named Jonas, who arrived in Paris four months ago—’

  ‘Four and a half months,’ said Sartine, with a smile.

  ‘If you say so! He quickly became fashionable by deploying his talents for performing conjuring tricks and today there is not a single elegant dinner in Paris to which he is not summoned to serve up one of his own dishes. He earns a fair living, so they say.’

  ‘Your Majesty is right, he takes four louis per session.’

  ‘He is said to be superior to his colleagues,’ the King went on. ‘Especially Comus. He is finer, while the other is simply a quack. The fellow has an oafish air and a plump figure, which makes the distance between his appearance and the wonderful vanishing tricks he performs all the more impressive. You see where my train of thought is leading me. Marquis, you will have to vanish for a while. I am counting on your intelligence and devotion.’

  The King took a document from a tortoiseshell writing case.

  ‘Take this safe-conduct, it will be useful to you. It makes you my plenipotentiary. Sartine will tell you the rest. I wish you good hunting. A lady friend of mine who knows you well will be grateful to you …’

  He held out his hand, and Nicolas pressed his lips to it respectfully.

  Despite the cold, gloomy weather, Sartine had drawn Nicolas into the deserted park, and they had walked as far as the border of the Orangerie. Here, near the basin, the view was so open that no one could have approached them without immediately drawing their attention. The gravel crunched beneath their feet. With an inscrutable expression on his face, the Lieutenant General of Police was pondering his opening gambit, while Nicolas looked at him closely.

  ‘I hope you are aware, Commissioner,’ he said at last, ‘that you enjoy His Majesty’s particular trust and belong to that select group who are privy to his most confidential activities. I say this to impress upon you that the words I am about to utter must be consigned to the innermost recesses of your mind.’

  Nicolas agreed.

  ‘You know the impossible, constantly renewed struggle we wage against all those who try to weaken the King and the State with their endless slanders, all those pamphlets and lampoons we keep pursuing. For every one destroyed, how many others are widely distributed!’

  All that was well and good, thought Nicolas, but he wasn’t the one who turned fifty printing works upside down to find just one of those rags that had so obsessed Madame de Pompadour and now also angered the current royal mistress. At the beginning of her influence, Madame du Barry had suspected Sartine, who was a friend of Choiseul, of not moving energetically enough against these writings, and he had had to justify his actions.

  ‘When they are printed in Paris,’ Sartine went on, ‘it’s fairly easy.’ He noticed his assistant’s doubtful expression. ‘Or at least, possible … We have the means to deal with them. On the other hand, what tricks we are obliged to resort to when these slanders are brought in to the country clandestinely! I am coming to the point. An adventurer who has long been known to the service, a refugee in England, publishes a scandal sheet by the name of Le Gazetier cuirassé. He calls himself, quite fraudulently, the Chevalier de Morande. His real name is Théveneau, and his father was an honest doctor from Burgundy who died of sorrow at his son’s misdemeanours.’

  ‘But if he’s in England, Monsieur—’

  ‘I’m coming to that, don’t interrupt me, otherwise we’ll catch our deaths in this high wind!’ He folded the tails of his old-style wig over his throat. ‘Encouraged by the success of his lampoons, this modern Aretino, has thought up an easier and less dangerous way to earn money. He chooses his victims, preferably rich. He makes it known that he’s in possession of scandalous information about them, and that he believes it his duty to warn them and to find out if they would be upset to have these things revealed to the light of day and public opinion. He adds that, for a certain sum, he will spare them this unpleasantness by not publishing the information.’

  ‘That’s pure blackmail!’ exclaimed Nicolas.

  ‘The word hardly suffices. The shameless fellow, not content with applying to private citizens in this country, is now attacking the famous. For example, he dared to write to the Marquis de Marigny, until recently the director of the King’s buildings and brother of the late Marquise de Pompadour, threatening to distribute a scurrilous lampoon about his sister. Then, to make matters worse, he made contact with Madame du Barry and threatened to publish what he describes as her secret memoirs. Imagine the King’s indignation at the thought that not only may the reputation of a woman whose memory is dear to him be tarnished, but at the same time his current mistress is threatened with slander.’

  ‘That’s truly disgraceful! To attack a dead woman!’

  ‘Finally he wrote directly to Madame du Barry, to try and get as much as he could from her. She complained to the Duc d’Aiguillon, the First Minister. D’Aiguillon consulted secretly with the English ambassador, who sent word to his own Court. His Britannic Majesty raised no objection, apparently, to this monster, this plague on society and scourge of the human race, being abducted from his territory. Albion would shut her eyes, provided everything was done in the greatest secrecy, without openly infringing the rights of the British nation. In consequence of which, the King gave his friend every latitude to act on her own initiative, which she did, unfortunately rather in haste.’

  ‘Were you involved, Monsieur?’ asked Nicolas.

  ‘I wasn’t even consulted! A man named Marie-Félix Dormoy, a bankrupt horse and cattle dealer, who’d fled across the Channel to escape his creditors, offered his services. With that, and in accordance with the agreement reached with the English, Monsieur d’Aiguillon, urged on by the comtesse and anxious to please her, organised an armed expedition to England of a group of officers led by a self-styled infantry captain named Béranger, who’s actually a police spy and informer and was recommended to him without my opinion being sought and without my being involved in any way. As I’m sure you know, the Duc de La Vrillière, Monsieur de Saint-Florentin, is a relative by marriage of the Duc d’Aiguillon.’

  ‘If I may be permitted to advance an opinion, I’m not sure it’s a good idea to trust the English!’

  ‘Spoken like a true Breton! But I fear you’re right. A letter arrived two days ago. Nothing is going as planned in London. A series of traps laid by this demon Morande have ensnared our men led by that idiot incompetent Béranger. Great causes cannot be defended with small means. We have to find a solution urgently. At my suggestion, the King has chosen you for this mission. It has the added advantage that it will keep you out of Paris for a while, at a time when there’s an ill wind blowing for you. These, then, are the King’s instructions. Primo, shroud your mission in the utmost secrecy and try to settle the situation without causing a scandal. Secundo, bring back the members of our expeditionary force safe and sound. The prestige of the Crown and the maintenance of peace are at stake. In order to do this, you have his full authority to negotiate on equal terms with a representative of the Court of St James. Tertio, make contact with Morande, even if you obtain nothing from him …’

  ‘It’s always worth a try. I promise I’ll do the best I can.’

  Sartine smiled. ‘Where that rogue’s concerned, making a promise and keeping it are two different things! Now listen to me carefully. I need to warn you. Many people are interested in this business, for many reasons. It will be in all their interests to try and intercept you, including the English, who are skilful at playing a double game, negotiating with you in public while secretly trying to get rid of you. Above all – and I think you will understand me without my having to spell it out – great interests are at play within France. The King is getting older, you’ve seen as well as I have how tired he seems. The young lady with him distracts and … exhau
sts him. Be careful and come back to us.’

  Nicolas, following up a thought that had occurred to him, asked, ‘Has the Duc de La Vrillière been informed of the mission with which His Majesty has entrusted me?’

  The response was an eloquent silence. Sartine took a few steps to the side, looking anxiously at the damp clouds lowering over the surrounding countryside.

  ‘Well … The thing is … The possibility of a rescue mission was brought up, at least in its broad outlines. What does it matter if it’s you or someone else? The important thing is that you’re covered by the King and by me.’

  It was a clumsy reply, and Sartine was being shamelessly evasive. It could mean only one thing: that the Minister of the King’s Household was not in on this audacious plan. And that was not all.

  ‘I must also tell you,’ Sartine went on solemnly, ‘that there is reason to believe that the writings in question, those concerning the lady of Louveciennes,3 may interest many people. D’Aiguillon of course, for the reasons I’ve given you, but others too. You know I have a relationship of trust with Choiseul: it does not override my concern for the State. Behind his pagoda at Chanteloup, I am not unaware that he remains ever alert to the circumstances that might put an end to his removal from office. As for the parliamentarians, anything that threatens the throne and avenges them for their exile is fair means to them. That makes many beasts of prey prowling around the innocents. Oh, and another thing. The reason Madame de Lastérieux was given the task of sounding you out, unbeknown to her, was that His Majesty intended including you amongst his few faithful servants handpicked to deal with his most secret affairs. That necessitates, as I’m sure you can understand, certain precautions.’

  ‘No doubt,’ said Nicolas, not very convinced. ‘I await, Monsieur, specific and detailed instructions.’

  Sartine suddenly perked up. ‘Now that’s the kind of language I like to hear, the language of action, not the hot air of council chambers. You are to go back to Paris and spend the night at home. Pack your bags. Find an excuse to justify your absence, ten days at the most. Disguise it with a few gestures towards the truth. A one-horse carriage will come and pick you up at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. No one would imagine that you were leaving on a long journey in such a vehicle.’

  ‘All the same, it seems a bit risky. If I’m being watched—’

  ‘Let me finish. The carriage will take you to the Palais-Royal district. You’re always telling me how congested with vehicles the area is in the morning! And you’re right: Paris is a large city in which six thousand carriages circulate every day in the streets and squares. You urged me to remedy the situation, and I listened to you and posted sentries and guards on Place Louis-le-Grand and Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs to make sure the traffic flows smoothly. But tomorrow, I’m going to make sure it doesn’t flow smoothly and that your carriage gets into a spot of congestion. You’ll take your baggage and jump out of the one-horse carriage and straight into a travelling berlin. One of my men will take your place. No one will see a thing in the middle of all those coachmen, carters, rubble removers, chair carriers and barrow boys.’

  He was rubbing his hands at the thought of the trick about to be played.

  ‘Come now, Monsieur,’ he went on, ‘take that disapproving look off your face! You’ll travel to Calais, where you’ll take a ship. In London, you will go to No. 4 Berkeley Square, where you will find the instructions for your mission. What a relief it will be for me to know you are there!’

  ‘And the King’s minister in London?’

  ‘Our ambassador, the Comte de Guines? He’s at odds with His Majesty for the terrible job he’s been doing, and his total lack of skill and finesse. You won’t be troubled by the level of his talents: his vanity is equalled only by his vacuity.’

  Nicolas recalled the rumours of a scandalous quarrel between the ambassador and his secretary, who accused his chief of stock-market speculation based on confidential information. It was also rumoured at Court that the ambassador had been challenged to a duel by Lord Crewen, who had imprisoned his own wife. Monsieur de Guines had contracted the pox in a house of ill repute in London and had seduced the mistress of the cuckolded husband, in order to pass the poison on to him. The poor confined woman, informed of the adventure, had taken her revenge by proclaiming out loud that she was being kept prisoner in her tower to avoid her talking about the illness with which her husband was afflicted.

  ‘And who is to give me my instructions?’

  ‘The Chevalier d’Éon.’ Sartine grinned. ‘I don’t know if he’ll be doing so in a coat or a dress.’

  Nicolas remembered that this strange character’s gender was just as ambiguous as the role he played in the King’s secret diplomacy. Those in the know claimed that he, too, had indulged in a little blackmail concerning a document, the divulging of which might have harmed Anglo-French relations. The chevalier was holding out on his master, changing position constantly while never quite severing his allegiance. His attitude swung between open revolt and conditional loyalty.

  ‘And what should I tell Inspector Bourdeau?’ asked Nicolas.

  ‘So many questions! You don’t tell Bourdeau any more than you tell the others. In any case, there’s no reason for you to see him before you leave and, if you do, you must observe the most total discretion. This is a secret mission, and no one must know. I myself will put up a smokescreen of nonsense to keep him quiet.’ Sartine tapped his feet on the ground, either from impatience at the questions he was being asked, or more likely, discomfort at the cold and damp gradually enveloping them, leaving them chilled to the marrow.

  ‘Ah! One more thing; and this is important.’

  He rummaged inside his coat and took out a crimson velvet purse and a bundle of papers which he handed to Nicolas.

  ‘Here they are, the sinews of war! It’s a tidy sum in guineas and in gold louis for your travel expenses. Use it wisely and sparingly. Exchange the gold for currency as soon as you can, in order not to draw attention to yourself. As for the papers, they are bills of exchange for an unlimited sum, negotiable in every bank in London. I want to provide for every eventuality and not leave you without means. Make sure Morande doesn’t try to extort an exorbitant sum from you, should you conclude negotiations. Dangle bait in front of a bird of prey like that and he’ll cling to you and never let go. He’ll eat you alive, asking for larger and larger amounts. Let’s leave it there, you have to get back to Paris now and pack your bags. A royal carriage is waiting for you in the last courtyard. Don’t forget to arm yourself when you go. I will see you soon.’

  Nicolas walked off, and Sartine watched him, pensively. He made a little gesture of farewell, and the wind snatched his last words.

  ‘Beware of tricks, mirrors that are too reflective, open doors, and the fortunes of the sea. Come back to us, the King needs you, and …’

  Nicolas was now too far away to hear his chief ’s final words, but he thought he heard him say, ‘… and so do I.’ It mattered little if it had really been said, all that mattered was that he thought it had, and he valued the man’s esteem so highly that it filled him with a fierce joy.

  Monday 10 January 1774

  Without the inconvenience of travelling in one of the King’s coaches, Nicolas’s satisfaction would have been complete when he had returned to Paris the previous evening. But bad habits continued to prevail at Court, and the privileged users of these official vehicles never hesitated to relieve their bladders on the bodywork or to soil the velvet padding. And so it was surrounded by a pervasive odour of urine that Nicolas, with all the windows down, had travelled the few leagues separating Versailles from Rue Montmartre. He made an effort not to think of what awaited him, but he was shaken by an almost wild feeling of jubilation at the prospect of the mission with which he had been entrusted. Just as a horse left in the field shakes itself and prances, his mind was already wandering beyond the sea. This feeling accompanied him all the way to Monsieur de Noblecourt’s house, where he arr
ived numb with cold, his heart thumping, his stomach empty. His last meal seemed like a childhood memory. He had a look in the servants’ pantry and discovered an earthenware plate containing a pork stew preserved in aspic by the layer of congealed fat over it. He cut himself some long slices of bread, sprinkled them with thick grains of salt, and spread them with fat. He then attacked the meat in its tremulous amber casing. This impromptu feast was washed down with what was left of a bottle of cider and finished off with a few spoonfuls of quince jam from the latest batch.

  He went up to his room and prepared his portmanteau, putting in it a spare coat, two shirts, a few pairs of breeches, two pairs of stockings, a pair of buckled shoes, a portable translation of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, a small bottle of Carmelite water – a souvenir of Père Grégoire – and his miniature pistol, small enough to be fitted into the wing of his hat, a useful gift from Bourdeau. He cleaned his sword and carefully waxed his boots. Finally, he brushed his fine black woollen coat and his travelling cloak. He added some gloves and placed everything on a chair. Nor did he forget to sharpen his razor so that he did not need to bother with a strop, or to add a spare bar of soap in case he did not find any during the journey. Then he recited his childhood prayers and, trying not to think, fell asleep.

  His departure went off without too many tears. He told everyone he was leaving for the provinces for about ten days. Monsieur de Noblecourt was clearly not taken in by this. Nicolas got into the one-horse carriage he had been promised, the driver cracked his whip, and the horse set off at a jog trot. When they reached the Palais-Royal district, Nicolas became aware that some subtle manoeuvring was going on around him and that his carriage had been surrounded by others. The faces of the drivers were not unfamiliar to him. They were the faces of informers, officers and other police agents, all working for the Lieutenant General.

  It was as if the whole of the police force and its cohorts had arranged to meet in these narrow, animated streets in order to create a chaotic merry-go-round. A heavy carriage, a shiny dark green in colour and edged in gold, stopped right up against Nicolas’s frail vehicle. The door opened a little and a figure slipped out, jumped lightly to the ground, and made a sign to Nicolas to open his door. Nicolas took his portmanteau and slipped out, not without difficulty as there was barely any room between the two carriages. Once on the ground, he recognised Rabouine, dressed so like him that the two could easily be confused. This was clearly becoming a habit. He got into the berlin. The window curtains were half drawn. A letter bearing Monsieur de Sartine’s seal of three sardines was clearly visible on the bench. A note on the front of it said that Monsieur Le Floch was to read it, absorb the contents, and burn it at the earliest opportunity. He put the document against his chest, between his shirt and his coat: he would read it later, once he had passed the city limits.