The Baker's Blood Page 32

  ‘Do you know how these monks dress?’

  ‘Of course. A pointed hood, a cloak and bare feet …’

  ‘… in leather sandals.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘An image came back into my mind. The Capuchin’s ankles looked burnt.’

  ‘Burnt?’

  ‘He had a pinkish scar on each leg.’

  ‘Did you notice anything about his face? Did your dream enlighten you at all?’

  ‘No … At Juilly, he kept his head bowed, with his hood pulled down low. I only saw the top of his beard. Everything was vague, just like in the dream.’

  For the second night in a row, Nicolas watched over his son’s sleep. After much thought, he too dozed off, and his restless slumber was full of the strange details Louis had just revealed.

  Notes

  1. Isle de France: Mauritius.

  2. Gittani: gypsies, who were believed at the time to come from Egypt.

  3. Bastille: see The Châtelet Apprentice.

  4. I am indebted to Philippe Jarnoux and his fine work Survivre au bagne de Brest (2003) for these details.

  5. Pineapples: see The Saint-Florentin Murders.

  6. This recipe is taken from the book L’Ancienne Alsace (1877) by Charles Gérard.

  7. Duc de Beaufort: François de Bourbon, grandson of Henri IV, dubbed ‘the king of the markets’ during the rebellion known as the Fronde.

  8. See the Memoirs of the Prince de Ligne.

  XI

  ON THE ATTACK

  I do not know where we get the confidence

  that we can put a stop to this agitation.

  If I am not mistaken, such riots have

  always preceded revolutions.

  LETTER FROM THE BAILLI DE MIRABEAU TO THE DUC DE LA VRILLIÈRE, 1775

  Friday 5 May 1775

  The next day, Monsieur de La Borde appeared in Rue Montmartre at dawn. He had been sent on the orders of the Duc de La Vrillière to fetch Nicolas. The former servant of Louis XV did not know the reason for this summons. He had received a letter from the Minister of the King’s Household during the night to the effect that he was to fetch the commissioner as soon as he was out of bed. The old Court was stirring itself, strengthened by that secret complicity among those who had been present at Louis XV’s death. In the carriage, the two friends tried at first to make conversation, but it soon petered out. Nicolas was lost in thought. What could La Vrillière, with whom he shared a burdensome private secret1 but who since then had seemed to keep him at a distance, possibly want with him now?

  When they reached the Saint-Florentin mansion, the carriage stopped in the courtyard. La Borde did not get out and Nicolas climbed alone to the minister’s apartments, not without sadness at the sight of this place which had been the scene of such horrific events. Provence, the valet, received him in a friendly manner, like an old acquaintance. Admitted to the study, where the inner shutters were still closed, he recognised, in the shadows tempered by the light of the dying fire, the figure of the Duc de La Vrillière, huddled in an armchair, a dressing gown wrapped round his shoulders. Nicolas was struck by the change in him: he was thinner, with drawn features and trembling hands, his eyes sunk deep in their sockets. He threw the visitor an expressionless look, and with a weary gesture motioned him to sit down.

  He sighed. ‘It seems you’re not going to get away now! His Majesty mentioned the Marquis de Ranreuil yesterday at his levee in front of everyone. He was presenting you! Although of course you’ve long been part of the King’s hunt. He added that he would like it if Louis de Ranreuil, your son, was admitted to the pages. That’s true recognition!’

  Nicolas suddenly understood the reason for Richelieu’s insistence. There could be no refusal: the decision had already been taken.

  ‘Monseigneur, I’ve never at any moment—’

  ‘Do you think I’ve forgotten how you feel about the title? I remember you expressing your opinion openly to the late King. Madame de Pompadour spoke of it to me a few days before she died. But you must act as if it mattered to you, Monsieur. If only for your son’s sake. Especially for your son’s sake’ – his voice cracked – ‘because at least you can show yours!’

  Nicolas remained silent, respecting the minister’s sorrow.

  ‘Oh, I know how discreet you are. I should have realised that from the start. You are loyal and brave, the late King knew that, and the new King, too, is convinced of it. That’s why I wanted to see you. Don’t interrupt. I have two or three things to tell you.’

  With difficulty, he rose from his chair and moved it closer to Nicolas.

  ‘My days as a minister are numbered. No, no, it’s true! I am no longer at Court, even though recent events have drawn me a little closer to the King. But what cause do I have to complain? So many years in power2 are a source of amazement. Can I not aspire to rest? Maurepas, my relative, will support me as long as it does not harm him. What we have just witnessed was serious, and could easily have degenerated even further. Despicable posters are stuck to the walls every night, even to the door of the King’s study at Versailles! Look, here’s last night’s harvest.’

  He took some crumpled papers lying on a pedestal table.

  ‘Listen to this: “Louis XVI will be crowned on 11 June and slaughtered on 12 June.” Or this one: “If bread does not come down, we will exterminate the King and all the Bourbons and set fire to the palace.”3 At least in the old days it was the King’s mistress who aroused the anger of the mob.’

  He’s forgetting the long-standing rumours about the famine pact, thought Nicolas, affected nevertheless by the minister’s vehemence. ‘Loyal citizens are shocked by such things!’

  ‘Do you understand what’s going on? This whole wave of unrest has apparently been organised by leaders who have stayed in the shadows, the whole intention being somehow to threaten the throne. Who do we dare suspect? Those who are above suspicion!’

  His voice became almost inaudible.

  ‘Yes, those who are above suspicion. There are plenty of lampoons and pamphlets in circulation, published in England, filled with nonsensical tales and accusing, among others, Madame Adélaïde, Sartine, Lenoir and Abbé Terray. But curiously, the people who are not named are the very ones who could profit from this unrest. Those who are most opposed to royal authority … One of them, anyway … His Majesty was particularly anxious about that. “I hope,” he said to me, “for the sake of my name, that these are just baseless slanders.”

  That simpleton is obviously the one under suspicion.’ The minister, who was known not to mince his words, had become himself again in his anger. For all his circumlocution in this case, he was clearly pointing the finger at the Prince de Conti. The King’s confidential aside was easily explained: he might not like La Vrillière but, in the heat of the situation, the minister nevertheless remained the late King’s last confidant, someone to whom he could confide his innermost thoughts.

  ‘The thing is,’ La Vrillière went on, ‘bread has often been just as expensive and just as mouldy as today without arousing such anger from the people. There have been greater grievances in the past. There is no famine, no shortage, and yet what do we see? People who, in order to get enough to eat, throw in the river all the corn and flour they can find!4 Not to mention the gold lavishly distributed and discovered in the pockets of those arrested!’

  ‘That is in fact the opinion of the Lieutenant General of Police. I mean, of Monsieur Lenoir …’

  ‘Ah, let’s not talk about him! I was highly critical of the way you were disgraced on the death of the King, our late master. I have impressed upon Lenoir’s successor Albert that such a thing is not to happen again. For now, and for as long as you are under my protection, and the King’s, he will not dare to pick a quarrel with you. You should be aware, though, that he considers you Sartine’s creature and won’t hesitate, when he think it opportune, to thwart your activities. Changing the subject, who killed Mourut the baker?’

  The question caught Nicol
as unawares. So the minister was as well informed as ever, almost certainly thanks to Sartine.

  ‘The answer is more complicated than the question and, to be honest, somewhat premature.’

  ‘Just as I thought. Go now, Marquis, and don’t weaken! You once taught me never to despair. Remember, if our young King needs our help, we must give it.’

  Nicolas withdrew. He had been deeply moved by this interview. The duc was better than his reputation. An expression of real kindness had crossed his haggard face several times, and, as long as he was in power, he would protect Nicolas. When his vices and virtues came to be weighed on the Day of Judgement, his loyalty might well save him.

  La Borde was still in his carriage, and apparently in no hurry. He offered to take Nicolas wherever he had to go. The next stop was the office of the French East India Company, located in a former annexe of the Palais Mazarin on the corner of Rue Vivienne and Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs. La Borde, who had only recently gone into business, remarked that there was more money in that district than in the whole of the rest of Paris. Bankers and brokers and all those who dealt in money could be seen there, hurrying on their way to the Stock Exchange. He added, with a laugh, that even the harlots were more financial there than anywhere else, and that they could easily spot someone with a lot of money. Nicolas was prepared to take his word for it.

  The activities of the Company, a vast commercial empire, had been in abeyance since the loss of most of its possessions in the Indies in 1763. It was no easy task for the commissioner to be admitted to the offices, especially as, not knowing what he was looking for, his request came across as quite vague.

  He was passed from arrogant clerks to mistrustful directors. In the end, an usher led him, cane in hand, to the attic, where he was invited to rummage at his leisure through mountains of papers. As he hesitated, unsure where to start, he became aware of a strange noise that grew increasingly distinct as it came nearer. He was immediately on his guard. The noise was a kind of scraping, followed by a rubbing, the whole accompanied by irregular panting. The large room was dimly illumined by the murky daylight falling through window panes grey with dust.

  Nicolas put his hand on the grip of the miniature pistol lodged in a wing of his tricorn and gently cocked the hammer. He moved so that he was against the light, at the base of a window protected on either side by large cupboards. Silence had returned, but now he could hear breathing somewhere close. Slowly his eyes came to rest on the corner of a pile of yellowed files. A dark shape had appeared on the floor, which proved to be a huge shoe at the end of a short leg. A misshapen creature followed this strange apparition, dressed in black, hunchbacked, with a huge head on a short torso and disproportionately long arms. Two large, soft black eyes gave a touch of humanity to a bloated face. With a heave, the creature swung his leg and thrust his club foot forward, then straightened up and nodded his head.

  ‘I fear that I scared you, Monsieur,’ he said in a solemn voice. ‘Please forgive me, that wasn’t my intention. God has made me in such a way that my appearance usually creates an unfavourable impression.’ He completed this introduction with a slow, complicated bow.

  Nicolas took his hand off the grip of his pistol, releasing the hammer, and put it back in the protective wing of his tricorn. ‘I am sorry, Monsieur, to have appeared to be on my guard. I am Nicolas Le Floch, police commissioner at the Châtelet. Experience has taught me to be cautious at all times.’

  ‘Justin Belhome,’ the man said, with a smile that made his mouth go horribly slack. ‘Yes, Monsieur, that’s my name. I am the Company’s archivist, the lord of the attic. If you have come this far, it means you have been authorised, and so I am your humble servant.’

  ‘Alas, I’m looking for a needle in a haystack! A passenger returning from the Indies. I don’t know exactly when he got back to France. Two or three years ago, most likely … It’s all a bit vague.’

  Suddenly, Belhome clambered onto a cupboard that had no doors. He swung his foot as if to balance himself and, clinging to heaps of files that swayed dangerously, managed to get to the top. With one hand, he seized three bundles of papers, then did an about-turn and slid noisily to the floor until he was once again face to face with Nicolas.

  ‘Let’s see,’ he said. ‘Toulon, 1772, 1773 and 1774. The first thing you need to know is that all you will find here are the lists of ships that touched land, as well as any perils they encountered on the sea.’

  Nicolas reflected for a brief moment. ‘With these lists, how much can I expect to find?’

  ‘If you have the authority and the means, you’d be able to obtain the passenger lists, too. But for that, you have to consult the offices at Lorient or Port-Louis.’

  ‘How long does it take to look through your lists?’

  ‘Hours … It’s all mixed up, Africa and America. I can do it if you like; my other tasks are not especially difficult or time-consuming.’

  ‘Monsieur, I would be embarrassed to burden you with this extra work. But in return, if I can be useful to you in any way …’

  ‘Not at all, Monsieur. If you want to come back tomorrow morning, I’ll have finished by then.’

  Nicolas left the friendly archivist already absorbed in his registers, following the minute annotations with a ruler. He found La Borde reading and in no way upset at all the time he had been waiting. Nicolas reported the results of his efforts, and informed him that he now had to go to the Department of the Navy in Versailles. La Borde offered to take him there. He seemed so happy to stay with Nicolas that the commissioner agreed. Their conversation led to confidences. Nicolas spoke about Aimée d’Arranet, while La Borde claimed to be very much in love with his young wife. But the difference in age and experience, and perhaps his own demands, had antagonised a spouse who was plagued with illness. Her nervous melancholy firmly resisted all potions and cures. La Borde had come to think that if she had a position at Court, in the Queen’s household or in those of the princesses, she would find an outlet that might moderate and gradually dispel this prolonged moral irritation. He begged Nicolas to forgive him for burdening him with his worries, and asked him about Louis.

  Learning of his acceptance among the pages of the Grand Stables, he advised his friend to keep an eye on his son, even if only from a distance. It could be the beginning of a brilliant career, but there was much disorder in those circles. It was possible to learn good manners there, yes, but also the worst tone. It was certainly not the place to go for decorum and morality. The young nobles were left very much to their own devices. If a page did not resist the example set by his elders, he could become a thoroughly bad lot.

  Once they had crossed the Seine, their conversation centred on the recent events.

  ‘You know our countrymen,’ said La Borde. ‘The bourgeois and those of private means got a fright, but, as ever, now that calm has been restored, they are starting to blame the government and to excuse the insurrectionists. It is considered quite inappropriate at a time like this for Monsieur Turgot to have committed funds to equipping the troops assembled around Paris. It’s all going to cost from thirty to forty million. Now the women of fashion have taken to wearing revolutionary bonnets! There will be songs about it next! A sad first anniversary for the present reign.’

  In Versailles, the offices of the navy occupied the same building as Foreign Affairs. Nicolas was about to see if there was a possibility that Sartine would receive him when he saw Admiral d’Arranet coming towards him. He was just back from a mission of inspection and enquired as to what it was that brought Nicolas to the ministry. It seemed to Nicolas that there was a new-found awkwardness between them.

  Neither man mentioned Aimée, although she hovered over their words. The admiral led him through the offices and placed him in the hands of a clerk who dealt with the penal colony at Brest. He was bidding farewell to Monsieur d’Arranet when the latter seized him by the hands.

  ‘Do not despair. You brought her back to me once, I’ll do the same for you. She
’s temperamental.’

  He muttered a few more indistinct words with a pleasant smile and left Nicolas feeling both happy and perplexed. The clerk admitted him to his office and bent over backwards to please someone who came so highly recommended. He explained in a scholarly fashion what being sentenced to the penal colony meant, and how difficult it was to escape.

  ‘During the day, the convicts are chained to each other by their feet, two by two. At night, they are attached to a wooden table, where they sleep. You also have to remember that it is not easy for them to conceal who they are, as they are branded on the shoulder.’

  It was possible, Nicolas thought, that, not having been officially sentenced, Hénéfiance did not have that terrible mark on the shoulder. On the other hand, he remembered Louis’s dream and the Capuchin with the scars on his ankles.

  ‘An escapee needs to find other clothes that are less conspicuous than his prison uniform. He has a shaved head. It isn’t easy to get out of Brest. The guards are constantly patrolling. The arsenal is surrounded by a perimeter wall, and the city is walled, too. The gates are heavily guarded. As soon as the cannon sounds, the soldiers set off in pursuit. Rewards are offered to anyone helping to recover the fugitive, and the mounted constabulary scour the countryside. You have to remember, Monsieur, that there aren’t many ways off the peninsula. The only major road is the one from Morlaix to Rennes. The port of Landerneau is under constant surveillance. If you escaped by sea, you’d have to get to Crozon and from there take the Quimper road. But it’s impossible to get around if you don’t speak Breton.’

  For the information Nicolas wanted, the clerk consulted an archive that rivalled that of the Lieutenancy General of Police. Hénéfiance, who had arrived in Brest with other prisoners in 1768, had disappeared in 1769. Considered intelligent but a bit of a rebel, he had, like many convicts, worked outside the prison. A short note mentioned that while doing so he had learnt Breton. It had not been possible to establish if he had perished in his attempt to escape by sea. There was not even any proof that he had taken the rowing boat that had been found adrift.