The Baker's Blood Read online

  ‘Not at all! On the road from Linz to Munich, I was trapped by a band of men in black, accompanied by a large troop of hussars. Their threatening demeanour, their weapons aimed at me, the solitude of a place where anything could happen, and the fact that it was getting dark, all led me to exercise caution for the moment. But when I bent over my saddlebags, pretending to look for my passports, I took them by surprise and came out with pistols blazing. I put two of those scoundrels out of commission, gave my horse a good whack and set off at full tilt. My escape was followed by a volley of shots. A bullet tore my horse’s ear off, and it bolted. As we sped away, another bullet ripped across the top of my skull. Blood starting pouring down my face and I couldn’t see anything. Holding on for dear life, the reins wrapped around my arms, I abandoned myself to that wild flight, soon losing consciousness of what was happening to me. Weeks went by—’

  ‘Weeks?’

  ‘On its last legs, my poor horse sought out a final resting place and rode into an isolated farm, where a peasant found me unconscious. Unconcerned about the reason for my being there, he took devoted care of me. It was not until I woke up that I discovered what had happened. I realised how much time had passed, and also that the man had assumed that my injuries were caused by broken branches, which are a constant hazard for riders. Of course, I didn’t disabuse him of that idea. He had religiously kept him hands off my luggage. I thanked my saviour and set off again, painful as it was for me to ride. From this point on, I could not go too long between halts. Thank God, there were no more alarms, apart from – and this seemed to me the last straw – those threatening gatherings on the outskirts of Paris. But you yourself have returned very belatedly. Why is that?’

  Nicolas told him why, recounting how he and his companions had also been intercepted.

  ‘We let them get on with it, having nothing compromising on us.’

  ‘That’s true, but don’t forget that in my case I had letters and an urgent mission to carry out. I almost didn’t make it. Here I am with a turban on my head, not for the first time!’

  They clinked glasses and set about demolishing the lamb, whose crisp skin concealed some wonderfully tender and flavoursome meat.

  ‘Chevalier, I was very pleased with the journey we took together, even though I am sorry about what happened to you later. Your presence got me out of a tight corner. It’s a pity we no longer have a task to accomplish together.’

  Lastire joyfully struck the table. ‘Don’t celebrate too soon. You’re wrong, as a matter of fact. Monsieur de Sartine wants me to remain at your side during this period of unrest, especially at a time when family worries are much on your mind.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that,’ said Nicolas. ‘But …’

  He did not finish the sentence, and a long silence fell, which they filled by devoting themselves to the meal with almost meticulous attention. What was the reason for the irritation that Nicolas felt? Accustomed to examining his own conscience, he realised that, although he was pleased that Lastire would remain at his side, he regretted that Sartine had imposed his presence, using as a pretext a situation he had himself downplayed when his former commissioner had talked of the risk of unrest in Paris. That was all part and parcel of Sartine’s tortuous way of doing things. He loved working on several fronts simultaneously, thus justifying his reputation as a ‘universal spider’. His webs crossed and intertwined, sometimes becoming so tangled that they snapped. It seemed, too, that poor Monsieur Lenoir was being kept in the dark. Nicolas would just have to accept this state of affairs, even though it rankled with him that Sartine had revealed his personal affairs to a stranger without saying a word to an anxious father. Deciding to carry on regardless, he picked up the threads of the conversation.

  He talked of the situation in Rue Montmartre, which was especially troubling in that the dead man was a master baker. Lastire found the details of the investigation fascinating, as if discovering a scene that was new to him. They decided to meet again the following evening at Monsieur de Noblecourt’s house, as Nicolas had to take part in the royal hunt. The chevalier was so talkative, and so attentive to his needs, that Nicolas felt his misgivings vanish away. The journey to Vienna had created a bond between these two servants of the King. His one worry was Bourdeau’s predictable reaction to such an intrusion into their habitual way of doing things. He decided to think no more about it for the moment: he would sort things out as they went along.

  Their conversation continued as they walked in the street. Like the commissioner, Lastire had pondered the reasons for the current unrest. He put the blame firmly on the summary way in which Turgot was pushing through his reforms, particularly the establishment of a free trade in grain. When they reached the main square, he bade farewell to Nicolas without indicating where he himself was lodging: he knew where to reach the commissioner in Paris. At the d’Arranet mansion, Tribord and a stable groom were waiting for Nicolas. He entrusted the mare to them, asking them not to feed her: in harnessing her, he had noticed how fat she was – too many little treats at the royal stables, no doubt. He went up to his room, where he pondered the events of the day, which had left him with mixed feelings. It took him a long time to get to sleep, plagued as he was by dire thoughts of the risks his missing son might be running.

  Tuesday 2 May 1775

  Truly, people always did as they liked with him! He hated being woken suddenly. The knocking at his door had not stopped. He got up, lit the candle, glanced at his watch, which showed that it was six o’clock, and told whoever was out there to come in. Tribord, fully dressed, grim-faced, launched straight into an unsettling speech.

  ‘It’s getting colder, Monsieur. I wager we’ll soon have some more rough weather. Gaspard, one of the footmen, who lives over by the Saint-Germain road, has seen increasingly large groups of people on their way to the market. Others coming from Paris have been right past this house. I wanted to warn you. I don’t think you’ll get to the palace safe and sound wearing a hunting coat. We’d best do something about it.’

  Nicolas thought for a moment. He knew only too well how impulsive the common people could be, how they used everything as an excuse for excess. They had no ears, and shouted without listening. Their ideas were a mixture of truth and falsehood, informed by rumours which took on a life of their own and grew as they were repeated. Everything contributed to this agitation: tall stories, posters, inscriptions on walls, the exhortations of impromptu orators in gardens and cafés. Tribord was right: to appear in the midst of this wave of demonstrators in a royal hunting coat would surely be seen as a provocation and could well lead to an unfortunate incident. Nevertheless, in the current situation, he deemed it essential to see the King, and he asked the major-domo to find him some clothes which would make it possible for him to merge into the crowd. Tribord immediately set about his task. Nicolas gazed at his rifles, gifts from the young King, the same rifles which Louis XV had once entrusted to him. He felt a sudden sense of regret. His master having died too soon, the crown had passed to a man who was little more than a child. Times were harsh and history was rushing ahead, urged on by fierce new interests. Even though the coronation had not yet taken place, there seemed to be a growing feeling of dissatisfaction with the young monarch, in whom so much hope had been vested. Nicolas had barely finished washing when Tribord reappeared, his arms laden with old clothes. Worn ratine breeches, an unbleached linen shirt, a brown panne-velvet waistcoat, down-at-heel shoes and an old tricorn: this would certainly have the desired effect. Last but not least, Tribord handed him a dagger, its blade somewhat diminished with use, which he would be able to conceal. He advised Nicolas to plunge his hands in the cold ashes of the hearth and rub his face with them to avoid looking too clean. Still anxious, Tribord also advised him to take care when leaving the avenue leading from the house to the road. It would be better to go through the neighbouring wood, which led straight to the road. He could emerge from the trees pretending to straighten his clothes as if he had just passed wa
ter. There was a kind of mounting excitement in the former sailor, doubtless the same that seized him when the fusiliers’ drums and the ship’s bell called the crew to action stations, and berths and bulkheads came crashing down to make way for the cannons.

  Nicolas followed his advice and cautiously came out onto the road to Versailles. It was lit here and there by lanterns, the long stretches of darkness between them gradually lightening as day broke. All around, men and women were walking quickly. Some were carrying torches. Only the pounding of shoes on the road and the occasional cry broke the silence of this advance. He had fallen into step with the others, making sure he remained an equal distance from everyone. The closer the column got to the palace, the larger it grew, swollen by others joining it from side roads. Twice, riders appeared and stopped beside one of the groups. He assumed they were here to pass on orders. At no time did any soldiers or policemen appear. If there were any police present, he knew from experience that it would be in the form of spies hidden among the crowd. He could not stop two men from joining him and hastening to start a conversation with him.

  They told him they were from Puteaux and Bougival respectively. Informed that the people were marching on Versailles, they had decided to join in. One was a wigmaker and the other a mason. Nicolas was forced to walk along with them, and as he did so he tried to understand what was driving them. They appeared innocent enough, and genuinely upset at the rise in the price of bread. This foodstuff was, as they kept reminding him, their one means of subsistence.

  ‘The thing is,’ said the mason, a strapping fellow of about thirty, ‘when you don’t have anything any more, only bread saves you. Or else you die, or beg. It mustn’t go higher than two sous a pound, and even that’s too much!’

  ‘And don’t forget,’ said the wigmaker, a short, sickly-looking young man with a pointed nose, ‘for that price all you get is a brown loaf full of bran. That’s pure discrimination. The rich, the aristos, get to eat white bread! But we who work have to be content with the less nutritious kind. Is that fair, eh? What do you say, friend?’

  Nicolas remembered how, as a child, he had sunk his little hand into a loaf of black bread. He had loved the acidity of the dough. He did not think that pointing this out would be appropriate in the present situation, so he nodded without replying.

  ‘You have to admit,’ said the wigmaker, ‘that the Parisian doesn’t eat his fill. The roof tiler up there on the tops of houses, the errand boy, those who carry huge loads, they’re all at the mercy of the monopolists and crushed like gnats as soon as they try to raise their voices. This lousy bread that doesn’t even provide us with the means of subsistence, we earn by the sweat of our brow. So if they take even that out of our mouths … The young King has to know this. What about you, friend, what are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m a printer’s assistant,’ said Nicolas, modestly lowering his eyes. ‘Out of work, for the moment.’

  The man stared at him. Suddenly, a nasty glint came into his eyes, and he grabbed Nicolas’s hands and looked at them carefully. After a long examination, he seemed satisfied. Nicolas had thought for a moment that he had been discovered and that they would see him for what he was: a policeman. But luckily, the charcoal had made his nails so black that, in the dim light of early morning, it was easy to make a mistake and confuse the blackness with the indelible stains of printer’s ink.

  ‘You’re like us. No work and no bread.’

  The crowd, which had grown like a river swollen with streams and tributaries, was now moving towards the market in Versailles. Breaking free would have been a risky proposition: it was better to wait and see how the situation developed in order to be able to report on it later at the palace. His companions told him that emissaries had gone around giving the meeting point. So far the march had been, if not orderly, at least calm and peaceful. Everything changed when they reached the royal town and a group of agitators led a few of the more hot-headed to a bakery that had the misfortune to be situated there. In no time at all, it was completely ransacked. When the human tide reached the market, its full fury was unleashed. Nicolas saw his two tranquil companions suddenly come to life and lend their hands to unchecked plunder. Frenzied women tore open sacks of flour from the stalls and put handfuls of it in the hollow of their aprons then turned, with fierce, provocative expressions on their faces, ready to fight tooth and nail to protect the little they had. Nicolas realised that some were actually men in disguise. Peasants could be heard proclaiming with conviction that in acting in this way, they were fulfilling the wishes of the King, a new Henri IV, and that, anyway, their quarrel was with the monopolists who were starving the people. Others, respectably dressed and shod, brandished mouldy bread which, they screamed, was intended to poison the people. Once the word ‘poison’ had been uttered, it spread, unleashing boos, cries and insults.

  False rumours passed from one person to the next, fuelling further waves of rage. A half-naked harpy displayed the contents of her apron, filled with spoilt flour, and proclaimed, wild-eyed, that she wanted to take it to the Queen. The riot looked set to continue when troops appeared, led by the Prince de Beauvau, the captain of the guard. Swiss Guards, French Guards and cavalry advanced on the crowd. There was a first eddy of panic, with people pushing and shoving in different directions. Then some of the demonstrators, bolder than the others, and encouraged by the insults heaped on the prince, started to throw handfuls of flour at him. His horse reared amid a white cloud. Leading these hotheads, Nicolas was surprised to see Monsieur Carré, director of the kitchens to the Comte d’Artois, the King’s brother, who was goading the mob in word and gesture. Infuriated beyond measure, one of the French Guards set about him and ran him through with his bayonet. The man collapsed, gushing blood. Beauvau at last managed to rise above the mounting clamour and asked the people what they wanted. The answer was unanimous.

  ‘All right!’ he cried. ‘Bread at two sols a pound.’

  This announcement was well received. The rioting stopped and everyone set off for the bakeries to get bread at the agreed rate.

  As if by magic, order was restored. Nicolas took advantage of this lull to slip away, anxious to get to the palace as soon as possible. As he did so, he passed more groups of men whom he judged to be onlookers rather than rioters. When he got to the Place d’Armes, he was unable to pass through the gates, which had been hurriedly closed. An official informed him that the King had set off for the hunt but, seeing a highly threatening crowd advancing along the Saint-Germain road, had had his coachman do an about-turn and ordered the gates to be shut. Nicolas had to make a large detour and enter the palace through a door known only to himself, at the corner of Rue de l’Orangerie and Rue de la Surintendance. From there, he walked to the ministers’ wing, managed with some difficulty to be admitted by the ushers, and went straight up to the roof, in order to obtain a panoramic view of the situation from the terraces.

  From up here, he could see below him the junction of the three great avenues that converged on the palace, Avenue de Saint-Cloud on the left, Avenue de Paris in the middle and Avenue de Sceaux on the right. No particular agitation was noticeable in the last two. Only the Avenue de Saint-Cloud was still filled with people who, from a distance, looked like columns of caterpillars unwinding and slowly changing shape. There were still a few onlookers near the Réservoirs, in Rue de l’Abreuvoir, to the right of the main gate. There was nothing to suggest that the palace itself was under threat. Nicolas went back down to ‘the Louvre’.3 From there, he walked to the marble staircase that would take him to the guardroom and the King’s antechamber. On the way, he came across Monsieur Thierry, First Groom of the King’s Bedchamber, who burst out laughing at the sight of his face and clothes. Throwing caution to the winds, Nicolas told him that he had to speak to the King immediately. Thierry, who knew and liked him, refrained from asking too many questions and led him through the Bull’s Eye salon into the Council chamber. The King was in shirt and breeches, having taken off his hun
ting coat, and was walking up and down, his head bowed, between this room and the neighbouring bedchamber, where his grandfather had died a year earlier. In the absence of his ministers, most of whom, including Maurepas and Turgot, were in Paris, he was holding a kind of permanent council. There was much bustle around him, but he himself was calm. He stopped pacing and watched as Nicolas approached. It was clear that he did not recognise him, until Thierry whispered in his ear.

  ‘Ranreuil,’ he said with a smile, ‘we didn’t recognise you. Your outfit!’

  ‘Sire, I beg Your Majesty to forgive me for appearing in his presence in this disguise. It was necessary to gain an idea of the degrees of unrest among the people. I’ve just come from the market and—’

  ‘Ah, at last someone who can inform me. I don’t know where my ministers are. Turgot and Maurepas are in Paris, but the others …’ He did not finish the sentence, but instead stared myopically at Nicolas.

  ‘Sire, the market has been turned upside down and a few bakeries looted. The captain of the guard, the Prince de Beauvau, was insulted and covered with flour. It was only when he announced to the crowd that the price of bread was now two sols a pound that calm was restored.’

  The young King’s face turned red. ‘What?’ he said. ‘The prince took that upon himself?’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  At that moment, an officer entered and handed the monarch a message. He put on his spectacles and read it.

  ‘Ranreuil is right. Beauvau informs me that he did indeed take this ridiculous step. He claims there was no middle course between letting them have bread at the price they demanded or forcing them to buy it at the current price at the point of a bayonet. All this is contrary to my orders: all he had to do was restore the peace while totally forbidding my soldiers from using their weapons.’

  Something, Nicolas thought, which was much easier said than done.