The Baker's Blood Read online

‘Misfortune to the house and ruin on its trade,’ cried the apprentices in loud voices.

  Vachon swivelled round, saw Nicolas and bowed his tall frame. ‘Ah, the man of the moment! Everyone’s talking about you, Marquis! Greetings!’

  Yet again, thought Nicolas, the news reached Vachon’s ears with incredible speed: the tailor really was one of the best-informed men in Paris.

  ‘How’s business?’

  ‘Excellent, once the flour dust has settled … The forthcoming coronation has meant an increase in orders. Although a great many of the costumes for the ceremony will be produced by Bocquet and Delaistre, respectively painter and tailor to His Majesty’s Entertainments, they won’t make everything. I can’t complain, even though the work has changed a lot. A new reign means new fashions. Elegance, shapeliness, in a word, style, are giving way inexorably to ease, not to say slovenliness. All that matters is licence and fantasy. I shall say no more!’

  He had seized his cane and was beating the floor repeatedly. His assistants’ heads bent again with admirable unanimity over their tasks, kept in check by their irascible master’s frowns.

  ‘Yes, licence,’ he went on. ‘Now we are in the days of the jacket, the waistcoat – double-breasted, too. How can such a thing be suitable for a man worthy of the name? It’s a fashion fit only for young dandies. Just think! The breeches are all crooked, and held in place under the knees with garters! Then you have the trousers, Monsieur, the ratine or twill tailcoat, the black taffeta cravat and the plaited hair embellished by a comb. Velvet winter and summer, thick linen, camelhair and nankeen. Away with embroidery! In the name of simplicity everything is coming apart. It’s London that’s been setting the fashion since the peace treaty!’

  He bowed his head despondently, while his subordinates had a quiet laugh. Then he looked up again, and there was a mocking gleam in his eye.

  ‘As for the ladies, fortunately that’s not my business. One of my noble customers described to me the other day what his wife wore to the Opéra: “a flowing dress adorned with superfluous regrets, with a waist of perfect candour. Shoes in the shape of the Queen’s hair embroidered with diamonds as acts of treachery and bagatelles of emeralds, curled into elevated sentiments, with a bonnet of assured conquest filled with inconstant feathers. With a fur like a beggar’s cloak on the shoulders, behind a Medicis set in decorum, with an opal of despair and a muff of momentary agitation!” A whole sentimental novel in itself! And the madness is spreading. Luxury has ceased to be the vice of the aristocracy. They are not the only ones who need lessons in modesty, the common people are just the same these days!’

  Nicolas found that Vachon was exaggerating. Surely he was increasing his income with this unbridled taste? He could not remember it ever diminishing.

  ‘And do you follow this fashion?’

  ‘What else can I do? I follow it and moderate it. I take it and leave it. I preserve what is becoming; the coat, for example, which I provide with a little straight collar, flattening the folds so that they cover the small of the back. Similarly with the sleeves, which no longer flare and whose facing barely shows.’

  ‘Anyway, whatever we say, the common people are still a long way from such nonsense. Look at how restless they are.’

  Master Vachon was looking at him with an inscrutable expression. Then he threw an angry and discouraging look at his minions as they sat embroidering and overcasting, took Nicolas by the arm, drew him into a small sitting room adorned with two swing mirrors, and abruptly closed the door behind them.

  ‘Marquis, do you know the reason for all this disturbance, this disorder beating at our walls, and this hullabaloo which is stirring people up from the provinces to Versailles, and from Versailles to Paris?’

  ‘Ever since I’ve known you, you’ve always been well informed and an excellent listener. Your talent, nay, your genius, is not limited to cutting and hemming. You are one of those inquisitive minds able to go beyond appearances and get at the underlying causes of events.’

  Blissfully, Master Vachon drank in these words, leaning on his cane like a monarch adopting a pose, multiplied to infinity by the two mirrors facing each other. ‘Ah, there’s some truth in what you say, even though your words are excessively flattering,’ he said, in a sanctimonious tone of false modesty. ‘If I dared tell you …’

  Nicolas’s silence was intended to encourage him, but still he hesitated.

  ‘You know how discreet I am, and why,’ said the commissioner. ‘I make only one exception …’

  The tailor’s face clouded over in an expression of shocked seriousness: the face of an inquisitor confronted with a stubborn heretic falling back into error. ‘Monsieur! An exception?’

  ‘Yes, as I was saying only the other day to His Majesty: that good old Monsieur Vachon …’

  ‘That good old Monsieur Vachon. To His Majesty?’

  ‘Yes, of course. You know in what high esteem and gratitude I have held you since a certain green coat contributed to my gaining favour with the late King and Madame de Pompadour.’

  Moved, Master Vachon wiped away a tear. ‘How fortunate!’ he said quickly. ‘Well, what I’m about to tell you may interest the King. You know of course that the highest levels of the nobility frequent my shop?’

  ‘Of course, and with good reason.’

  ‘That some of these powerful nobles – very few, I only accommodate the highest – request my presence in their houses?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘That they have to beg and entreat me for me to consent?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘That only a prince of royal blood has the right to benefit from the privilege of a home visit from me?’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘You have always understood me. In short, I was at the Temple, at the house of Monseigneur the Prince de Conti. We had just done the fitting, which showed how perfectly my masterpiece suited him. Magnificent!’

  Nicolas, barely able to contain his giggles, almost exploded at these words. ‘Yes, and …?’

  ‘You’re right, I’m wandering from the point. Well, there I was, folding the costume, making sure the pins did not fall out. The prince had gone into the next room, leaving the door open. Without wanting to, as you can imagine, I overheard the words exchanged … You know how careless the aristocracy can be, not hesitating to talk of secret matters without any heed to who might hear them.’

  ‘What day did this prestigious fitting take place?’

  ‘Why, yesterday, late in the afternoon! My carriage was almost caught up in the disturbances. What an adventure!’

  ‘So the Prince de Conti was talking. To whom?’

  ‘That’s still a bit unclear in my head. I was very upset because my box of pins had spilled. When I’m dealing with the aristocracy, they’re made of gold, and very expensive. So I was kneeling on the carpet trying to pick them up. From what I could gather, the prince was conversing with an abbé who was talking about his master. The names Rohan, Choiseul and others were mentioned several times, Sartine too. The prince was complaining that Sartine was resisting his advances despite his hatred for the comptroller general. Nothing was going right. He lost his temper. He wasn’t interested any more in this famine business, from which he had never expected anything good to come. He himself was suffering the consequences, his estates having seen some disturbances among the peasants. His wish was to see the back of Turgot. The current wave of unrest, badly organised and prepared, was failing. What he wanted was to preserve his income of fifty thousand livres from the franchises in the Temple enclosure. If Turgot persevered with his reforms, that lucrative privilege would fall by the wayside. Naturally, I didn’t understand a word of this!’

  ‘You know these aristocrats,’ said Nicolas, who had understood it all and found it fascinating, although he was certainly not going to say so. ‘Was that all?’

  ‘A third man arrived, bringing some unfortunate news. Things had fallen through in Versailles, it was the same in Paris and moreo
ver … This part I really didn’t understand.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘He said something about a hunting dog that had been running after the prey for too long, a dog they would have to keep an eye on … The prince refused to hear any more, simply saying that it was up to others to deal with the inconvenience and that these trivial details were extremely irksome to him. Then they talked about Choiseul, who was going to see the Queen at Reims and try to speak to the King. The coronation was the last opportunity they would have. But the Prince de Conti said that the future of the former minister was extremely uncertain: time was passing, extinguishing his last hopes, and the King’s loathing for him showed no sign of diminishing.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘That was all. Having picked up my pins, I discreetly left the prince’s apartment. All I wanted to do was to make sure they hadn’t seen or heard me. I hope you will inform His Majesty. “Good old Monsieur Vachon!” Who would have thought it?’ Leaning on his cane, he performed a little entrechat.

  ‘You can depend on me,’ said Nicolas. ‘His Majesty will appreciate your information and show the greatest interest in it. May I now call on your knowledge regarding another subject of concern to me?’

  ‘Marquis, I am all yours.’

  Nicolas took from his pocket the small fragment of fabric saved from the flames in the Hénéfiance house and held it out to Master Vachon. ‘Where could this fabric have come from? I’ve never seen anything quite like it.’

  The tailor took it, smelt it, rubbed it between his palms, sniffed it again, and nimbly took out a thread, which he held over the flame of a candle. He looked at it again and then, like an oracle, delivered his judgement.

  ‘Hmm … An unusual fabric … from the East … a weft of cotton and a warp of silk, with gold thread running through it … Hmm! I’ve seen it before, on an envoy of the Ottomans. It’s from the Indies. Probably the south of India. Or even further, from the Dutch trading posts in Java. I’m positive.’

  ‘I’m grateful to you.’

  ‘Are you going to Reims for the coronation?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet.’

  ‘I’m going to make you a white coat, you’ll be amazed! A memento from me. “Good old Monsieur Vachon!” My name mentioned by the King. The King!’

  Contrary to the rules of his trade, he supplied his customers with fabrics, assured that his reputation and connections would spare him the problems that anyone else would have faced over such a serious lapse. Nicolas had difficulty extricating himself from the tailor’s onslaught of compliments. Much to the amazement of his assistants, Master Vachon walked him to his carriage, bowing constantly as he did so.

  Huddled, as was his habit, in the corner of the upholstered seat, Nicolas stared out absently at the bustle of the streets and tried to draw together the threads of the past few days’ events. One thought continued to haunt him: it was clear that a mysterious adversary, informed that the house in Rue du Poirier would be subject to investigation, was taking pleasure in playing cat and mouse with him. How did he know the commissioner’s movements in advance? Nicolas had no illusions about La Gourdan’s trustworthiness. A sly, dangerous woman to whom betrayal was second nature, she was quite capable of having divulged to a third party the content of her interrogation by the police. Faced with this threat, the unknown party was doing his utmost to distract the commissioner’s attention with those painted inscriptions, which were sufficiently obscure to intrigue and sufficiently easy to decipher, thus serving their purpose. Nicolas blamed himself for having facilitated this tactic by not going immediately to the Hénéfiance house. The identification of Master Mourut’s body by La Gourdan’s maid had delayed the investigation and given the adversary time to stage this diversion and, no doubt, to escape. He had somehow to find a way of drawing this unknown individual into a trap. For the moment, he did not rate very highly Bourdeau’s chances of finding the Grand Hiver.

  It would serve no purpose to harass La Gourdan: she would not talk twice. It must have cost her a great deal to speak to the commissioner. What clues did he still have with which to get back on the trail? A wretched piece of fabric from the Indies, the mystery of the rabbits and the past history of the Hénéfiance family, not to mention the various suspects at the Mourut bakery. His intuition told him, as did Noblecourt’s counsel, to look into the past. He already knew that there was a link between the murdered baker and the younger Hénéfiance. The past often held the key to the present. He could not think of a single case that had not been illumined by a backwards look. Convinced, too, that the solution often emerged after you had lost interest in the problem, Nicolas decided to think no more about it.

  The fact remained that Master Vachon’s words cast a new and disturbing light on the matter. For years, the common people had been talking about the famine pact. The current plot, if indeed there was one, depended on the widespread discontent. There were parties who were using it, taking advantage of the situation to advance their secret intrigues. Nicolas carefully thought over the Prince de Conti’s words. The freedom of trade in grain was a matter of indifference to the prince, but it was a useful pretext for getting rid of the comptroller general. What Conti feared was, in fact, the continuation of the reforms and, above all, the abolition of the guilds. This measure would ruin the Temple enclosure, a privileged place where various trades and business were conducted freely, much to the prince’s advantage. Further reflection indicated that it was important not to confuse those who were merely stoking a fire with those who had lit it in the first place through a concerted effort.

  As for the hunting dog, however unpleasant the term, Nicolas could not help but assume that he himself was the person thus referred to by the prince’s mysterious interlocutor. Who else, in fact, besides the King, had, since Vienna, been trying to thwart intrigues harmful to the kingdom? As for the abbé mentioned by Vachon, it was highly likely to have been Georgel. His name, along with that of Rohan, who had been mentioned during the conversation, established a connection between what had happened in Austria and events in Versailles and Paris. Even if there was as yet no plot, all the requirements for there to be one had been met. The motley coalition against Turgot might well give rise to a powerful party supported by the Parlements. The only reassuring thing about all this – or so he hoped – was the diversity of the motives driving the various protagonists, which were unlikely to result in general agreement.

  There was one thing, however, that overjoyed him. When Sartine’s name had first been mentioned, he had felt a certain dismay. He knew Sartine’s distaste for Turgot. Yet Conti’s disillusioned remarks suggested that Sartine had nevertheless remained his own man and was still loyal to his King.

  Outside the Grand Châtelet, a coach was blocking the way. A liveried footman stood by the door of the coach, receiving orders. Nicolas watched from his carriage, with the window down, as the footman approached him. Was he Monsieur Le Floch? If he was, would he please follow him to the coach, as his master wished to speak with him? Nicolas asked who this master was, to be met only with a dispiriting silence. He put Bourdeau’s miniature pistol in his pocket. You never knew, and, since Vienna, he had been suspicious of everyone, even though the idea of being abducted at the doors of a building dedicated to the law seemed inconceivable. The coach door opened, pushed by a nervous hand. The commissioner got in and discovered Monsieur de Sartine sitting there in a dapple-grey coat, with a taut expression on his face. The whip cracked and the coach set off.

  ‘So, Monsieur, you force me to run all over Paris to find you. Never where you ought to be. Never available when we need you. I run and you’re elsewhere!’

  ‘And never tired of serving you, Monseigneur,’ retorted Nicolas, who had heard all this many times before from his former chief.

  ‘And to cap it all, he tries to be clever! For the time being, I demand an explanation from you.’

  Nicolas was unsure whether this sour introduction was part of Sartine’s usual play-acting or
the manifestation of a genuine irritation. ‘I am your very humble and obedient servant.’

  Sartine slapped his thighs with both hands. ‘And what’s worse, he mocks me! Humble remains to be seen, obedient perhaps, although you always seem to do exactly as you like. Including enquiring into affairs of State and stirring long-buried memories.’

  Here we are, thought Nicolas. He’s talking about Vincennes.

  ‘I presume you mean my visit to La Gourdan?’ he said innocently.

  ‘La Gourdan! What has she got to do with all this? I’m not talking about brothels, I’m talking, Commissioner, about a visit with neither rhyme nor reason to the royal prison at Vincennes. Using Lord knows what subterfuge, you managed to circumvent Rougemont. What did you imagine? That he would remain silent and conceal your misdeeds?’

  Nicolas understood from this that the governor of Vincennes had talked, but had prudently neglected to mention Lenoir’s letter.

  ‘I imagined, Monseigneur, that as a good servant, Monsieur de Rougemont would report the matter to his superiors and that, knowing everything as you always do, you would want to have this conversation with me. If the events of the last few days had allowed it, I would certainly have kept you informed of the progress of my enquiries.’

  ‘Who is he trying to fool? Now he doesn’t even have time to see me! And besides, what has made you so aware all of a sudden of an affair of State buried deep in a few people’s memories for many years? I’ve asked Lenoir, and he claims not to know anything about it. Well, are you going to answer me?’

  So, thought Nicolas, everyone, at this level of power, manages his affairs in his own interests. Whenever these clashed with loyalty, they usually prevailed, in a complex conflict of chance, risk and good faith.

  ‘You seem lost in thought, Monsieur! I await your answer.’

  ‘What can I say, except that when a name cropped up in the course of a criminal investigation, I was led to consult the police archives, which are the best kept in Europe. We can find anything we’re looking for. Our search may be laborious, but it’s always fruitful. With such information under our belt, we do our best to comprehend the whys and wherefores of a case. We hear, from various sources, that certain people, towards whom our loyalty and gratitude are boundless, are being whispered about, the subject of accusations which their opposition to certain policies might appear to justify. We pursue our investigation, which is linked in a thousand ways to both a domestic crime and a State plot. We also try to help these worthy individuals by paying them the tribute of our modest discoveries, which they are entitled to expect as good and loyal servants of the King.’