The Baker's Blood Page 7

  He found his companions on a war footing: Abbé Georgel had ordered a carriage for seven in the evening. Rabouine, now fully in cahoots with the servants at the hotel, had been informed immediately. He had gleaned other details that were just as interesting and filled out the picture: the abbé had ordered his boots to be waxed, from which it was easy to deduce that this would be no indoor meeting but that he was expecting to trudge through the snow and mud – a detail that was all the more intriguing as darkness had long since fallen.

  This new situation had to be dealt with urgently and the necessary arrangements made. The first plan of action they had sketched out had been rendered out of date by Monsieur de Lastire’s defection. A new version was now constructed. Just before seven, Semacgus would take their carriage, lie in wait at one end of Seilergasse, and follow Georgel if he went in that direction. Nicolas and Rabouine would again swap clothes. Rabouine would also leave the hotel a few moments before the fateful hour, making a great show of being cautious, which would arouse the suspicions of the Austrian police and distract their attention. Meanwhile, Nicolas, disguised as Rabouine, would go out the back way arm in arm with a chambermaid paid for her help. He would proceed to the other end of the street, where a few carriages for hire were always parked, and would thus be in a position to follow Georgel. In his room, he took off his fine grey coat and donned Rabouine’s livery and ratine cloak, while Rabouine himself, having put on wig and tricorn, wrapped himself in his chief’s fur-collared cloak. They looked at themselves in the cheval glass: the light was dim enough to make it possible to confuse them. Their plan fell down on one delicate point: they would have to rely on the discretion of coachmen who could only be persuaded to obey the curious instructions of a foreign customer if a handful of silver thalers were flashed at them.

  Without encountering any opposition, the operation got under way at seven o’clock when Georgel, clearly nervous, walked out into the street and, after a few steps and a suspicious glance around at the surroundings, climbed into his carriage. A few moments earlier, Nicolas, Rabouine and Semacgus had applied the instructions to the letter. As luck would have it, the abbé headed for the end of the street where Nicolas was waiting. At a reasonable distance, the commissioner’s carriage, all lights extinguished, set off in pursuit.

  He was not yet familiar enough with the city to have a clear idea of the route they were taking, although he did recognise a few monuments. Snow began falling again and he was afraid he would lose the trail, especially as Vienna did not have the same quality of public lighting as Paris. They were advancing now through a less populated area. He realised that they were approaching the ramparts of the old city. He made out massive shapes covered in snow, doubtless the bastions and curtain walls they had briefly glimpsed on their arrival in the Austrian capital. They stopped, and he leant out of the window. The coachman pointed to the abbé getting out of his carriage some two hundred yards ahead. Fortunately, that carriage was brilliantly lit. Nicolas advanced cautiously in the darkness. Having gone some distance, he heard a brief whistle and realised from the noise that followed that his own carriage had made an about-turn. He should never have paid the coachman in advance. He consoled himself with the thought that without that money the man would have refused to participate in such a risky enterprise in the first place. The fact remained that the noise of that incautious departure risked alerting Georgel and putting him on his guard. He decided to continue, still guided by the lights of Georgel’s carriage, sure that he was invisible in the darkness. For a moment he stopped, his heart pounding: it had seemed to him that he could hear wet footsteps behind him. He turned, but was unable to make out anything because his eyes were dazzled by an approaching light. The wind had risen in gusts and the snow was falling in increasingly thick flakes: he was simultaneously blinded and deafened.

  Suddenly, he was aware of the sound of lights being struck. He found himself surrounded by four or five strangers with lighted lanterns at their feet. Then the abbé loomed up in front of him, taller than usual and somehow unrecognisable. As in a dream, he saw him take off his cape and brandish a sword. He took stock of the situation: men behind him, and Georgel, doubtless accompanied by other hired assassins, facing him. It took him only a moment to understand how dangerous was this trap into which he had fallen. He had to keep a cool head. He calmly took off his cape, rolled it around his left arm and nimbly unsheathed his sword. He soon realised that the only direction in which he could escape was towards the rampart. He recalled the height of the fortifications. He could not jump off them into the void: he would break his legs. He would have to confront these men with his back to the parapet. He did not rate his chances at the end of such an unequal fight. But if they were to slaughter him, he intended to make them pay a high price for the satisfaction. Screaming like a man possessed, he thrust his sword at the nearest of his attackers, who, in stumbling back, knocked over his lantern and extinguished it. That’s a good thing, thought Nicolas, for it showed him the course to follow. He thought of the Horatii, of old Corneille, and his famous ‘Let him die! Or let a fine despair take him!’ Capable of irony in the midst of the greatest danger, he mocked himself for mixing theatre and reality. This was a matter of life and death, and he was betting all he had on an unequal match.

  He could hear Georgel, but was it really the abbé who was giving these angry, guttural orders? He assumed that his attackers were Austrians. A second thrust on his part was crowned with the same success: he even hit the lantern himself and knocked it over. He heard a sudden sharp crack and at that instant something lashed his legs and wrapped around them, and he fell. The abbé’s coachman had used his whip. He lay for a moment with his ankles hobbled. Barely had he freed himself and risen than four strapping fellows swooped on him, their swords held high. He fell to his knees, still crossing swords with the men, but in this position his situation was becoming untenable. He had just managed to get to his feet again when the braided epaulette of his livery was pierced by a blade. At the same time, his own sword hit something, bending slightly, and went in. He heard a stifled cry and the sound of a body collapsing in the mud.

  The fact remained that the number of his assailants seemed constantly to be increasing: doubtless, reinforcements had come running. He could not resist much longer. He felt that he was on the point of being overwhelmed. Jumping off the ramparts was still his last chance, whatever the risk. Just as he was about to yield to this suicidal temptation, he heard what sounded like a rumble of thunder. Even the attackers appeared to hesitate. He realised that a carriage and horses were heading towards them at a fast trot. The attackers scattered, lashed by a whip as they did so. He saw two horses rear up in front of him. A voice yelled at him to get in. He seized the door handle, and placed his foot on the step. He almost fell when the carriage tilted onto its side wheels, but was then thrown against the bodywork. The horses broke into a gallop. He clung on and finally managed to get inside and collapse on the seat, panting with exhaustion. A hail of bullets, some of which hit the carriage, greeted his retreat.

  Notes

  1. Duke of Rifferda (1690–1737): a Dutchman in the service of the King of Spain. Disgraced in 1726.

  2. Mesdames: the daughters of Louis XV.

  III

  STORMS

  I love peasants: they are not learned enough

  to think crookedly.

  MONTESQUIEU

  Nicolas was getting his breath back. He touched his shoulder: the gilded braid of his epaulette hung wretchedly down his arm. A few inches more, and his chest would have been run through. A thousand questions were jostling in his head. What an incredible sequence of events! How to make sense of such a confused situation? Had he followed Georgel or his simulacrum? Their operation had been meticulously organised, so what exactly had gone wrong? Clearly their own stratagem had been turned against him and his companions. That could only mean that the adversary had known their plan. Who had he got it from? What was the reason for such a patent and dete
rmined attempt to kill him? Last but not least, who was the mysterious coachman who had materialised out of nowhere like a ghost, and what had motivated him to save Nicolas’s life? He had mislaid his sword in the course of the rescue. He sighed, pleased that it was not his father’s: he would not have forgiven himself for that loss. The carriage had at last slowed down and eventually came to a halt. He was still on his guard: anything could yet happen. The door opened and, there, divested of his coachman’s uniform, stood the figure of Monsieur de Lastire, with a finger on his lips and a glint in his eye.

  ‘Not a word, Marquis. Get out of the carriage and walk back to the Golden Bull without stopping: it’s not far from here. In a quarter of an hour, I’ll join you with my luggage.’

  Nicolas tried to speak, but in vain: Lastire was already leaping onto his seat, whip in hand. He knew his way now and, once back at the hotel, went straight up to his room. He hastened to change and waited for the return of Rabouine and Semacgus. He was curious to hear the chevalier’s explanations. He was reflecting on his surprising reappearance when the man himself, now in his everyday clothes, opened the door and, with a great sigh, collapsed into an armchair and smiled roguishly at Nicolas.

  ‘Monsieur,’ Nicolas said, ‘rest assured that I am indebted to you. I owe you my life and will be for ever grateful. But for heaven’s sake tell me how you manage to disappear and appear like the gods in a Rameau opera! We were worried about you and couldn’t stop speculating about your fate!’

  Lastire laughed and stamped on the floor with his boots. ‘It’s true I owe you an explanation. The most crucial fact is this: you mustn’t think that Monsieur de Sartine let you go without a second thought. Good Lord, no! He cares too much about you. Part of him is still in the Châtelet, especially now that he’s standing in for Monsieur Lenoir. He was worried about how you would fare in distant climes. My basic role was not to escort a porcelain effigy and embroider knick-knacks. It was to be your bodyguard, but I had a free hand as to how I was to exercise that function.’

  It was Nicolas’s turn to smile. But immediately his mood turned serious again. ‘That’s as may be, but I have to say that your logic is not mine; in fact it’s even beyond me. What would you have said – and been justified in saying – if I had left you out and concealed our plan of action? Without upsetting your sensitivity, I would have appreciated more honesty from you on the true nature of your activities. I realise that you were probably not in a position to be so honest, and that you did not think it of great importance.’

  ‘If it had been up to me alone, I would have granted you what you ask, but I had my orders. Be that as it may, Marquis, I dare to hope that our relations will continue as amicably as they began. And I observe with relief that your duel with the Grim Reaper, far from diminishing you, has made you all the more animated!’

  Nicolas held out his hand. ‘Forgive the passion with which I express myself, Chevalier. It is due to the shock caused to our friendship, and the anxiety we felt as to your fate. But perhaps some explanation now would—’

  ‘In that case, I will make an effort to justify my conduct. I concede that it may have seemed strange to you. I belong to a phalanx recently created by Monsieur de Sartine, whose task it is to thwart the machinations of foreign courts both within our kingdom and outside …’

  ‘The minister told me something about its origins a few months ago.’1

  ‘Using police methods without being part of the police, this phalanx is also concerned with keeping an eye on the factions at Court, who, as you know, are often exploited by our enemies. Its work must, however, be carried out in the most absolute secrecy, without disturbing any of the intimacy that exists between the Crowns. It was extremely important that such be the case with Austria, which is supposed to be our ally. I therefore had to disappear, without compromising myself, the better to protect you. There was a very delicate balance to be struck in this affair.’

  ‘May I venture a question?’

  ‘In so far as it is possible, I will gladly answer it.’

  ‘Apart from your decisive appearance on the scene tonight, like a genie in an opera, did you previously try to warn me of imminent danger?’

  ‘I sense that you were much taken with the charms of that masked lady.’

  ‘So that was you?’

  ‘Indeed it was! Forgive the stratagem, but what better way to approach you without being found out than such a disguise?’

  ‘And what of the message? Why was it in Latin?’

  ‘I knew that you had a Jesuit education. And it wasn’t vulgar Latin. It was Cicero!’

  So Semacgus had been right, thought Nicolas. ‘What significance did you attach to the double message – double in every sense of the word?’

  ‘I knew your reputation for fearlessness, so I hoped it would convince you to exercise the greatest caution. Alas, I bet on the wrong card!’

  ‘It wasn’t the easiest message to understand. Why make it so obscure?’

  ‘Monsieur, you must stop all this quibbling, which can only be excused by this evening’s events … Imagine what would have happened if the note had fallen, been picked up by one of those spies so common in this country, and then been examined by hostile eyes? Where would we be then, you and I, with your clarity and your words of condemnation?’

  By now, he was stamping his boots wildly on the floor.

  ‘I enjoy quibbling,’ replied Nicolas, ‘and I shan’t abandon my tendency to be curious, even if it does try your patience. I understood the first message well enough, but couldn’t make head or tail of the second. It seemed to be about disturbances at the castle …’

  ‘It was about the supposed link between our abbé and those at Court and in the kingdom who are stirring up the factions against those in power. It’s something that Monsieur de Sartine is well aware of and is following closely.’

  It was no great surprise to Nicolas that Monsieur de Sartine, whose nostalgia for the days of Choiseul was a barely concealed secret, was well informed of whatever was being plotted against Turgot, the comptroller general of finances, and the spirit of reform. Having, in addition, great plans for his department, which he regarded as vital to the security of the country, he found it hard to bear Turgot’s endless objections to his constant requests for credit. But the opposition to Turgot was much wider than that. For the moment, concerned as Nicolas was to calm the chevalier’s visible irritation, he revealed the result of the search in Georgel’s room.

  ‘What did I say?’ exclaimed Lastire after a moment’s reflection. ‘The hare has come out into the open. For all his attempts to play hide and seek with us, he has been unmasked! It’s the clique of the Rohans, the Choiseuls and the Marsans. It’s all becoming clear.’

  That was not how Nicolas would have described the situation, which seemed to him increasingly confused. He realised suddenly that Lastire was still taking the false Georgel for the true.

  ‘Your prey covered his tracks well,’ he said, with a little smile. ‘It was not the abbé who was thrusting and parrying in that shadow theatre. You were deceived by appearances, as I was.’

  Lastire was unable to conceal his surprise. ‘Really? Then you have lost the trail, and as he’s leaving Vienna soon … And yet … He definitely left the hotel! I was right behind him and there’s no question I saw him.’

  ‘Then it must have been his brother! Because I can assure you that the man who attacked me wasn’t Georgel. But Semacgus may have recognised and followed the right one. That’s our last chance.’

  ‘What are you saying, Marquis?’

  Nicolas realised, not without a degree of satisfaction, that the chevalier was still thinking of the plan they had decided upon before he disappeared. He now revealed the inner workings of their last strategy.

  For a time, Lastire was pensive. ‘Then all we can do,’ he said at last, ‘is wait for our friends to return.’

  Silence fell, and for a while both men were lost in thought. Lastire took out his pipe, put his leg
s up on a stool, and with his head back, started forming wreaths of smoke. Nicolas felt ill at ease, both physically and, above all, emotionally. His confused mood found an outlet in endless reflections, one thought leading to another with implacable logic. Each question gave rise to a series of propositions which invariably took him back to his starting point. This inability to move forward led to further questions and the same mental process was repeated, made all the worse by the fatigue he felt after the evening’s events.

  It went without saying that if the chevalier belonged to this secret phalanx, discretion must be his first and most absolute obligation. The commissioner was part of the family, and yet … He recalled that Sartine was well accustomed to keeping information to himself. He liked to conceal part of what he knew, even from those closest to him, including Nicolas. He always preserved an element of secrecy which he could use at the right moment, not only to his own advantage but also to the advantage of the case in progress.

  As for the conversation he had just had with Lastire, he was surprised that it had taken on something of the feel of a duel, a verbal one certainly, but one in which the man’s changeable personality – which involved an element of contained violence – had been given free rein. Beneath the idle officer doing his embroidery, Nicolas had caught a glimpse of a man of action and decision with an almost volatile temperament: the speed and suddenness with which he had rescued him bore witness to that. He finally realised that this uncertainty as to the chevalier’s true nature must reflect his own disappointment at not having discerned his character from the start, of having been completely deceived by appearances. He had always prided himself on his instinctive insight into other human beings, and yet in this instance he had failed to perceive the truth. He still believed that the first impression was often the right one, but the fact remained that Lastire had, from the start, deliberately contrived to appear pleasant and even somewhat foolish because that was the image he wished to present of himself.