The Baker's Blood Read online

  ‘It seems to be the general opinion that the Mouruts were not a happy couple. The lady is not liked: the customers complain of her arrogance. The husband is said to have been harsh to the poor, shrewd at increasing their debts and ferocious when it came to recovering the interest. He’s also said to have been a cuckold, although there is nothing as yet to confirm that. The wife has supposedly been lifting her petticoats for the apprentice, who in turn throws his money away in brothels.’

  ‘And our two baker’s boys?’

  ‘Opinions on them are mixed. Some pity them, others vilify them. There’s much gossip about their morals and the nature of their friendship. The older one is considered a little too affectionate towards the younger. It wouldn’t take much, a word out of place to the authorities, and they’d end up at the stake.’

  ‘There’s a world of difference,’ said Semacgus, waxing indignant, ‘between the unnatural creatures who haunt the terraces of the Tuileries and are hounded by Monsieur Lenoir, and two poor boys crushed by hard work and life in the city who come together for mutual support. It’s true they risk the stake. An apprentice was sentenced to it in the 1720s.’

  ‘For practices that are tolerated so openly at Court, where catamites are everywhere to be seen!’ said Bourdeau. ‘Unfortunately, what is said about these baker’s boys rather throws suspicion on them in this case. Fear makes people do bad things. What if they were being threatened by their master with being thrown out on the street?’

  ‘In fact it was the other apprentice who looked down his nose at them. Where the devil is he? Has he returned?’

  ‘There’s still no sign of him. All our spies are on the lookout. As for the paper found on Mourut, Rabouine assures us that “La G.” refers to La Gourdan, known as La Comtesse, the well-known brothel-keeper, whose new premises are in Rue des Deux-Ponts-Saint-Sauveur.’

  ‘In the old days,’ said Semacgus in a ribald tone, ‘a distinguished clientele used to be well catered for in her old establishment in Rue Sainte-Anne. There was nothing to find fault with, although of course Venus took her revenge from time to time, if you know what I mean!’

  ‘Don’t stir up painful memories,’ said Nicolas ironically.

  ‘Not at all, Monsieur. I have all I need at home, a diet without pepper, but quite spicy enough for my taste.’

  ‘I think, Nicolas,’ said Bourdeau, ‘that before confronting La Comtesse, a preliminary visit to our old Paulet would be useful. She knows that world well, and has its secrets at her fingertips.’

  ‘I’m not very happy at the idea. Why don’t you go?’

  Nicolas did not have a pleasant memory of their last encounter, when she had blamed him for La Satin’s departure for London, making the remorse he had been feeling even worse.

  ‘I’m sure,’ insisted Bourdeau, inscrutably, ‘that she’ll talk more openly to you, having known you for so long. She won’t say a word to me.’

  ‘All right, I’ll go. Reluctantly. With age, our old friend has become more prickly than ever. I hope she’ll at least offer me ratafia! That’s always of high quality in her house. And what of Madame Mourut?’

  ‘Still confined to her room.’

  ‘We need to convince her that the confinement will last until she tells the truth. As for the apprentice, issue his description. I want him found at all costs. Gentlemen, it’s getting late …’

  Bourdeau and Semacgus grinned, both at the same time, much to Nicolas’s astonishment.

  ‘We must confess, dear Nicolas,’ said Semacgus, ‘that we have mounted a plot.’

  ‘Yes, we were planning to help you forget your troubles for a while.’

  ‘Monsieur de La Borde, whose taste for anything relating to the arts you know, has offered us tickets—’

  ‘I don’t trust our friend’s taste. Where are you taking me? To La Gourdan’s?’

  ‘Pierre,’ said Semacgus, ‘don’t you find that his character has soured with time? He sees only the bad in people. Is it right to cast doubt on the intentions of friends like us? What an insult! Come, my dear fellow, let’s leave him to his bad mood.’

  Laughing quietly to himself, he took Bourdeau by the arm.

  ‘Come now, gentlemen, tell me what you have to say. Don’t take my word amiss. Knowing you so well, I may occasionally tease you a little.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ said Bourdeau. ‘Here I was being called a libertine. Me, a family man and a model husband!’

  ‘What of me?’ said Semacgus. ‘A hermit at Vaugirard, a lay brother entirely devoted to botany and the relief of our fellow men, I feel highly offended and almost ready never to say another word to this acerbic and mocking magistrate.’

  ‘Enough! I surrender to your friendship.’

  ‘At last, a reasonable statement. Very well, then. Tonight we’re invited to the Opéra for the first performance there of Céphale et Procris by Monsieur Grétry, to a libretto by Monsieur Marmontel. A piece that was originally performed at Versailles for the wedding of the Comte d’Artois and Maria Theresa of Savoy.’

  ‘Now Guillaume has turned into Mercury!’ said Nicolas.

  ‘There he goes again! Come, Céphale, Procris, Monsieur de La Borde, the Court and the city all await us.’

  It struck Nicolas that the house was on fire, and yet the Court and the city were still running to the Opéra. To what purpose? He spruced himself up a little in the duty office, where he kept a spare coat, and then the three men caught a cab to take them along Rue Saint-Honoré. He did not ask Bourdeau if there was any news about Louis: if there had been, it would have been the first thing he would have said on his return from Versailles. There was, however, another delicate question that could not be avoided.

  ‘Pierre, we are going to benefit from some valuable help.’

  His tone was unconvincing, but he had been unable to find a more skilful way of broaching the subject.

  ‘What help are you talking about?’

  ‘From the Chevalier de Lastire. Sartine wants him to join us for this case and also as regards the current unrest.’

  The reaction was immediate. ‘What has Sartine to do with this? Are we helping him to hold the capstan and empty the bilges on his ships?’

  ‘The chevalier’s the liveliest companion in the world,’ said Semacgus, a statement that could not have come at a worse time. ‘Not to mention the fact that he saved Nicolas for us. Without him we’d all be in mourning now.’

  ‘When it comes to that,’ said Nicolas, ‘Pierre has quite a head start on the chevalier.’

  Despite these last words, intended to moderate the inspector’s possessiveness, the harm was done and Bourdeau was clearly upset, although he said nothing more. To insist would only make matters worse. The rest of the brief journey was punctuated by various jovial remarks by Semacgus, who could not understand his companions’ silence. As usual, they had to force their way through a great throng outside the Opéra. Nothing ever changed, neither the bustle of footmen opening carriage doors, nor the brandished torches dripping wax. They quickly climbed the steps, in a hurry to get in out of the chaos. A surprise awaited Nicolas in a corner of the foyer: Monsieur de Noblecourt, leaning on Monsieur de La Borde’s arm and smiling at them. He was wearing a magnificent Regency wig that Sartine himself would have envied, a russet coat with silver trimmings and a cravat of blonde lace from Valenciennes. There ensued a tumult of congratulations.

  ‘Here we have Jupiter supported by Mercury!’ cried Semacgus.

  ‘Do I have wings on my shoes?’ said La Borde.

  ‘Have I ever released a thunderbolt?’ said Noblecourt in the tone of a noble father in a tragedy.

  A man in a black coat came up to La Borde and embraced him. ‘What an honour, my dear colleague, to know that you are in the audience this evening! I can rest assured that at least one master will hear my work and understand it.’

  ‘Don’t trust him, Grétry,’ said Noblecourt. ‘He’s a follower of Gluck!’

  The composer’s smile changed to a
grimace. He was about to reply when a kind of Fury in a robe appeared, hands on hips, and began haranguing him.

  ‘Ah, there you are, you heartless monster, you—’

  ‘What’s the meaning of this, Mademoiselle? Go back to your box immediately.’

  ‘Certainly not! You make me laugh with your question. You should know, Monsieur, that a rebellion is brewing in your orchestra!’

  ‘What, Mademoiselle? Rebellion in the orchestra of the Royal Academy of Music? What’s the meaning of this? We are all in the King’s service and must serve him with zeal.’

  ‘Monsieur, I should like to serve him too, but your orchestra constantly interrupts me and stops me singing.’

  ‘And yet we keep time.’

  ‘Time? What kind of beast is that? You should follow me, Monsieur, and realise that your music should be the humble servant of the performer in the recitatives.’

  ‘When you perform a recitative, I follow you, Mademoiselle, but when you sing an aria in strict time, it’s up to you to follow me.’ He stamped his foot. ‘Now be quiet and go!’

  He took a vast scarf from his pocket and mopped his face with it, while the woman withdrew, her face red with passion, in a great rustling of fabric.

  ‘The silly girl wears me out!’

  They settled in La Borde’s box beside the Queen’s. Familiar with the customs of the place, Nicolas looked down at the audience. Maurepas was there, accompanied by his wife, whose guttural voice could be heard throughout the auditorium. The Prince de Conti sat enthroned in his brilliantly lit box. La Borde had seen where his friend was looking.

  ‘The prince is in his element, posing as the arbiter of taste. That’s quite risky for the performers, because his opinion is crucial. A word from him can mean the difference between success and failure, and there is no appeal. The work’s fate is then sealed at his Monday dinners at the Temple.’

  ‘Nothing too daring tonight, though. Grétry and Marmontel are a perfectly reliable team.’

  ‘Don’t believe it. This opera will revive the controversy. Grétry is in the tradition of Rameau, a French overture, recitatives, ballets and entractes.’ With a smile, La Borde turned to Noblecourt, who was looking at the auditorium through his opera glasses. ‘It’s sure to please our friend who clings to old-style opera as he clings to old-style cooking!’

  ‘I shan’t respond to your teasing … If the piece fails, Marmontel will abandon his partner. Remember what he was telling us, before Nicolas arrived, about his first encounter with the composer: “I was asked to hold out my hand to a desperate young man who was about to drown himself if I didn’t save him!” He won’t hold out his hand twice.’

  The performance proceeded, to a reception that was neither one of great enthusiasm nor one of outright rejection. The subject was entirely conventional: Céphale, husband of Procris, expresses his passion to Aurore, who convinces him to chase away his wife. Diane reconciles the spouses, but Procris is accidentally killed by her husband while out hunting. La Borde, as an attentive host, had made sure that everything was as it should be: slices of cold chicken in jelly were brought in, as well as champagne, macaroons and sugared almonds. Semacgus had to intervene to temper Noblecourt’s ardour and stop him helping himself greedily to all these sweet things.

  The opera ended to polite applause from the audience. On the way out, tongues were already wagging. Most of the connoisseurs declared themselves dissatisfied, asserting that the worst of the composer’s comic operas at the Comédie Italienne was better than this attempt at the lyric. The most indulgent praised the ballets, the most pleasing part of the work for their expressiveness and picturesque qualities. Grétry was going from group to group, looking distraught and saying that Gluck had stifled him. Nicolas noticed a tall, beautiful woman holding forth. La Borde nudged him with his elbow.

  ‘That’s Sophie Arnould, who sang in Iphigénie en Aulide. She’s fallen out with Gluck and is on the verge of being replaced by Rosalie Levasseur, who’s ugly but a schemer, as well as the mistress of the Austrian ambassador, Mercy-Argenteau, who’s supporting her in her career.’

  The singer, who held her head with pride, greeted the Prince de Conti and suddenly raised her voice to pronounce the last word on that evening’s entertainment.

  ‘This music by a Belgian is much more French than the words of this opera!’

  Notes

  1. Grandig: in a bad mood. A provincial Austrian term known to have been used by Marie Antoinette. The word used today would be grantig.

  2. Monsieur de Vaucanson: see The Saint-Florentin Murders.

  3. ‘The Louvre’: the last fenced enclosure of the palace.

  4. This is a translation of the actual text of the King’s letter.

  VII

  FEVER

  Count, you are called for,

  You really must come and see,

  The people are at the gates.

  That’s nothing to do with me,

  The Opéra awaits.

  ANONYMOUS, 3 May 1774

  Wednesday 3 May 1775

  Unusually, Monsieur de Noblecourt was up before Nicolas, and was already sipping his morning sage warily. Cyrus and Mouchette sat up and lifted their noses expectantly: the commissioner’s arrival usually meant brioches and a few other choice morsels. But only the chocolatière appeared, brought in by Catherine. Mouchette miaowed with disappointment, arched her back and fell asleep, while Cyrus sighed and lowered his hoary muzzle onto his old paws.

  ‘What a bother!’ said Monsieur de Noblecourt. ‘We’ll have to find another baker for the moment, and perhaps even another tenant.’

  He did not seem at all affected by his night at the Opéra and hastened to demand a detailed account of the journey to Versailles. Nicolas was only too happy to oblige.

  ‘Our masters seem quite relaxed about all this, from what you’re saying. Believe me, Paris won’t escape the storm. Everything begins and ends here.’ He thought for a moment. ‘And what of our case? I say “our case”, since crime has had the audacity to pursue me into my retreat and disturb my daily routine.’

  ‘So you also think this was a murder?’

  ‘Oh, appearances are only appearances, which means they are nothing, or rather that they reveal what someone wants us to believe or what we expect ourselves. They are contradictory and yet, thanks to their very obscurity, help to enlighten us. We must swim against the tide. You see, the desire to find the guilty party drives us to subject the accused to the torture of isolation. We mortify them, we weaken them, and we end up with the opposite of what we hoped for …’

  Nicolas was accustomed to these pompous pronouncements, having gradually discovered, to his surprise, that they often concealed a grain of truth.

  ‘I am all the more convinced that, as always, you need to examine the past. But whose past? That is the question. Nothing more, nothing less. We must lift the heavy veil …’

  He suddenly jumped to another subject entirely.

  ‘As for Louis, don’t worry, I am certain the conclusion is near. You must never despair. From one minute to the next, we go from misfortune to joy! Have you seen Aimée?’

  Noblecourt could read Nicolas like a book.

  ‘To be honest, my long absence has vexed her. For now, she’s avoiding me.’

  ‘Oh, have no fear, she’ll come back. We complain about women who bewitch us with their charms, enslave us with their favours and ruin us with their whims. Their spells are well known and it is the lover himself who provides them with the weapons to subjugate him. Don’t insist – she may have taken offence, but she’ll return soon enough! It’s a passing sorrow whose insignificance is its only strength.’

  With this somewhat cynical philosophy ringing in his ears, Nicolas left Rue Montmartre. He was hoping to catch La Paulet recently risen from her bed, at a time of day when the Dauphin Couronné, liberated from the night’s immoral deeds, was waking to be tidied and cleaned, just like an honest house. He had no news of the Chevalier de Lastire, who w
as doubtless detained by other matters. He would show himself soon enough. His absence was not unwelcome: at least Bourdeau, whose sensitivity worried Nicolas, could not take umbrage. It was starting to rain, and he jumped into a passing cab, sank into the seat, and withdrew into himself.

  The city was deceptively calm. Was unrest expected? Accustomed as he was to noticing the slightest details of a scene, he immediately spotted, much to his surprise, the fact that the brothel in Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré was surrounded by a cordon of police spies. He recognised them without much difficulty, even though they pretended to ignore him. What was the reason for this surveillance? Who had given the orders? He would have to look into it, mention it to Bourdeau.

  Wrapped in multicoloured cotton, the black girl, whom he had known since she was very young, greeted him warmly. Her saucy, mischievous air led him to assume that the mistress of the house had launched her on a career of prostitution. Madame, she told him, was at her ablutions. She led him to the back part of the house. La Paulet, hearing someone enter her room, did not turn away from the delicate labour that kept her in front of her swing mirror and began inveighing against her supposed visitor.

  ‘Just who I need to see, La Présidente! Oh, how I miss La Satin! With you, everything is going to rack and ruin. I haven’t entrusted this house to you only to hear – and not from you – that the two new girls, Adèle and La Mitonnette, started simpering and coming over all prudish last night, not only refusing to go along with the customers’ wishes, but actually rebuking them. And these were customers who’d demanded our best specimens. If you, La Présidente, aren’t capable of choosing the right girls, well! The first rule is that they meekly accept whatever strange tastes a man might have. If a customer wants to do something with them that they can’t tolerate, they’re entitled to leave him as long as they immediately give their reasons either to me or you. If their complaint isn’t considered admissible, they forfeit three days’ pay and have to service only old men for two weeks. What do you have to say to that, eh?’