The Baker's Blood Page 9

  Nicolas attended a gala performance of an Italian opera in the presence of the Court at the Burgtheater on Michaelerplatz opposite the Hofburg. He had been struck by the architecture of the building, with its large stained-glass windows and promenade balcony. The multitude and splendour of the immense chandeliers were such that the auditorium seemed to be bathed in sunlight. The three men were dazzled spectators of the premiere of The Return of Tobias conducted by Haydn at the Kärntnertor theatre. The whole of Viennese society had turned out to attend this new work by the Kapellmeister of the Esterházys. The oratorio itself and its superb performers were greeted with unanimous applause. Expressiveness and simplicity were so intimately combined that the listeners could not help being moved. As for the choruses, they demonstrated a passion to rival the best of Handel. Nicolas was astonished at the vocal prowess of the soprano, Magdalena Friberth.

  At last, a call from Monsieur de Breteuil put an end to their wait. Nicolas hastened to the embassy, where the ambassador handed over, with a great many instructions, the medallion and the letter with the imperial seal intended for the Queen. A few friendly words of farewell, and Nicolas went back to his friends. Preparations for departure did not take long. Only Rabouine pulled a long face, as it would mean bidding a heart-rending farewell to the local girls. Nicolas had virtually to tear him away when they were finally ready to set out on the morning of Tuesday 11 April.

  Even though spring should have appeared long before now, the winter continued, as severe as ever, making their return journey especially difficult. The alternation of ice and snow with milder periods of heavy rain transformed the roads into potholes, and several times a day Nicolas and his companions had to get out of their carriage and help the coachman and postilion to get the wheels out of furrows filled with frozen mud. The weather became so bad that for several days they had to stop in Augsburg. Fortunately, the town’s inn, the Golden Grapes, took them in while the storm was raging. The innkeeper, an exceedingly affable man named Johann Sigmund Mayr, turned out to be a charming host and a tireless storyteller. At Semacgus’s prompting, he regaled them with a thousand anecdotes that enlivened evenings spent around the huge fireplace in the main room. So it was that Nicolas heard again of an adventurer by the name of Casanova who had stayed at this inn, where his good humour and appetite for food, notably for macaroni cheese, had remained legendary. As an apprentice police officer, Nicolas had been present at his arrest in Paris over a question of debt.5 Thanks to Choiseul’s leniency, his forced sojourn at Fort-Lévêque had lasted only a few days.

  Between Augsburg and Munich, they were intercepted in open country by a troop of hussars. It was a worrying situation. They were far from anywhere, poorly armed and in no position to put up any resistance. They were forced to get out of the carriage, stand in line and endure an incomprehensible speech from the civilian leader of the detachment, who accused them of being spies. Nicolas showed his lettre de courrier bearing the French arms, but this did not seem to impress their interlocutor, who told them they would be searched and their luggage inspected. The letter from the Empress was handled with more circumspection, the ruffian not daring this time to carry out the final outrage: Nicolas had warned him that opening it would be tantamount to a crime of lèse-majesté that would involve the two Crowns. The package that contained the medallion depicting Maria Theresa was treated with less respect. The soldiers looked through their effects, without finding anything untoward, while their leader watched with increasing frustration. At last, without a further word or glance, the troop withdrew, leaving the travellers’ things scattered in the snow. It took them more than an hour to get them back into some kind of order. Nicolas noticed that Rabouine was constantly glancing towards the misty slope of a hill. What was it he thought he could see there? When questioned, he remained silent.

  Night was coming by the time they set off again. It was freezing cold and the falling snow immediately turned to ice. What had those hussars been looking for? Their leader had examined everything, even Semacgus’s chamber pot. Nicolas was pleased that he had used a stratagem to convey the ambassador’s dispatches. He had even memorised the list of numbers that gave him the beginning of each paragraph: the key to his system. Even if it had been written down and they had found it, they would have struggled to understand it – except that its discovery would doubtless have made things worse, prolonged the search and justified an arrest. In any case, the episode was just one more in the sequence of extraordinary events that had befallen them since their arrival in Vienna.

  Their return to France coincided with a worsening of the travel conditions. It became harder and harder to use the roads, and the masters of the staging posts were increasingly reluctant to risk their horses. The storm was so fierce that at times they were unable to move even at a walking pace. The terrible winter showed no sign of relaxing its grip. Outside the towns, snow accumulated in the depressions, forming great edifices that soon turned to ice before collapsing. From time to time, they all had to join in the hard labour of shovelling away the ice and snow. In places, the freezing rain covered the soil with a sheet of ice three inches thick, which, added to the previous layers, constituted a treacherous expanse on which it was impossible to place your feet and which creaked in a sinister fashion beneath the wheels of the carriage. When the thaw came, the ground was transformed into a muddy tide.

  At the staging posts, where they stopped, exhausted, Nicolas had to use all his authority to obtain the best horses. Rumour was rife, and the grim-faced drinkers at the tables lowered their voices at their approach. Several, when questioned, replied reluctantly that this year was likely to be a disastrous one for them. The harshness of the autumn and winter combined, and the fact that there was still so much snow and ice in March and April, hampered the natural cycle of agricultural toil. The earth was sick, and nothing emerged from it. How could wheat grow in such conditions? The superstitious fears that had been aroused did not help. Northern lights had been observed, at night the cracking of the ice awoke the countryside as if the earth had trembled, there had been storms of bloody hailstones, and the sky would blaze like a fire at night and grow dark during the day. To sensitive minds, these all seemed like grim omens, harbingers of calamities still to come. The almanacs distributed by pedlars throughout the kingdom announced to the panic-stricken population that there would be several eclipses in the year 1775, which added still further to the widely felt sense of terror.

  The closer they got to Paris, the more overwhelmed they were by contradictory and threatening news. During a halt near Chalons, an anxious Nicolas dispatched Rabouine to take a look at a gathering of hostile peasants. His complicity with the common people would facilitate contact. He returned just as their carriage was about to tip over. Nicolas noted his air of consternation.

  ‘The people are angry,’ he said. ‘They’re talking again about a famine pact, just like under the late King. They weren’t very inclined to talk to me, but they finally opened their hearts and told me everything. In a nearby village, there has been a rising against a rich miller—’

  ‘That’s curious,’ remarked Semacgus. ‘I’ve never heard of a poor miller. It’s one of the most privileged positions in these times of ours!’

  ‘And quite rightly so! This one was accused of being the person behind the increase in the price of grain. Informed of this riot, the police arrived, but their threats fell on deaf ears and they were forced to withdraw under a hail of stones. In less than an hour, the mill and its outbuildings were razed to the ground. So great was the people’s anger that some even started to dismember the poultry alive.6 Coaches found in a shed were smashed with lead bars.’

  ‘The villains!’ cried Nicolas. ‘And was there no reaction from the authorities?’

  ‘Indeed there was. A detachment of gunners arrived, and more than two hundred rioters were arrested. The Criminal Lieutenant of Chalons has announced that there will be grave repercussions. But there is worse yet. Along with the unrest there is
a great deal of fear. Old wives’ tales are being relayed from village to village, spreading panic among the people.’

  ‘Come now!’ said Semacgus. ‘Don’t tell me it’s all the fault of the beast of Gévaudan! That was slaughtered a long time ago.’

  ‘You may laugh, Monsieur, but this is just as bad. They say that in the surrounding forests a woman with a serpent’s head has been seen, howling at the moon. It’s claimed that her return coincides with events that are disastrous for the kingdom. Her first appearance is said to date from 1740.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Nicolas. ‘Why 1740?’

  ‘A young man’s remark,’ retorted Semacgus. ‘That was a terrible year, the worst of the century. The winter would never end, just like this one. In May, the wheat barely covered the fields. People resorted to public prayer and processions of relics. The heat and drought were terrible. Tens of thousands died. The memory of that time lives on.’

  ‘Everyone’s of the belief,’ said Rabouine, ‘that every seven years since 1740, terrible things have happened.’

  ‘Let’s see,’ said Nicolas counting on his fingers. ‘In 1747?’

  ‘The beginning of the War of the Austrian Succession,’ said Semacgus.

  ‘And 1754?’

  ‘Take your pick: the birth of Louis XVI, the exile of the archbishop of Paris.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t really work for that year! What about 1761?’

  ‘Choiseul went to war and … Nicolas Le Floch was made commissioner!’

  They all laughed.

  ‘And 1768?’

  ‘A new mistress for the King: Madame du Barry!’

  ‘And 1775 is this year. If I’ve understood correctly, we’ll have to be careful in 1782 and 1789!’

  ‘As for your woman with a serpent’s head,’ said Semacgus, ‘I’m reminded of an old story. Lusignan, in the Poitou, was famous for the periodic apparition of the fairy Mélusine, whose body ended in a dragon’s tail. She would appear at night and let out three mysterious cries. This happened every seven years, whenever France was on the verge of a disaster. No doubt your serpent woman is the granddaughter of that fairy. The story has spread from the Poitou to Champagne and has changed, depending on individual imagination and ancestral fears.’

  As they approached Paris, they passed groups of peasants and others walking by the sides of the road. Some had their heads bowed, others threw glances full of hatred at their fine carriage, laden as it was with luggage. During one of their halts, Rabouine had learnt that the disturbances were spreading. They had reached Meaux, where disorder and banditry were rife and merchants and millers were being forced by raging bands to give up their stocks below the current price. Unrest and pillaging were gaining ground, overwhelming the mounted constabulary. The authorities had tried being honest and reasonable but nothing seemed to appease the people’s anger.

  Worried by this news, Nicolas and his companions entered Paris on the afternoon of Sunday 30 April through Faubourg Saint-Martin. This marshy district was not the pleasantest approach to the capital of the kingdom, remarked Nicolas. They were stopped at the tollgate. He introduced himself to the official and their luggage was immediately allowed in. Their carriage had to make its way through the crowd of innkeepers who always stood there making fantastic promises to entice foreigners and provincials to their ‘palaces’: a vulgar ploy in which the representatives of reputable hotels, sure of their reputation and the effectiveness of the travellers’ guides, did not indulge. These sinister-looking individuals all swore on their consciences that one could not find better fare anywhere else and that their competitors were merely rogues, without honour or integrity, who sought only to fleece any innocent customer who might lend an ear to their fallacious descriptions. Under the impassive gaze of Louis XIV, depicted as Hercules on the monumental gate, a few cracks of the whip dispersed the noisy crowd and the carriage proceeded through the insalubrious streets.

  The bells of Saint-Eustache were tolling three o’clock by the time they reached the Noblecourt house in Rue Montmartre. Nicolas’s luggage was taken down and Semacgus kept the carriage, impatient to get back to Vaugirard and see Awa again. The commissioner was struck by the sense of lethargy that enveloped the house: it seemed to have been abandoned. There was no fire in the oven in the servants’ pantry, and no sign of Marion, Catherine or Poitevin. What grave event could have upset their habits? He climbed the stairs four by four and discovered Monsieur de Noblecourt writing at the rosewood desk in the drawing room, with a sad, intent look on his face. Cyrus and Mouchette, huddled under his armchair, made no noise, but merely turned to look anxiously at Nicolas, with none of the joy they usually showed on seeing him again, although the dog did wag his tail slowly while the cat let out a weak groan. To break this terrifying silence, Nicolas cleared his throat.

  Monsieur de Noblecourt raised his head. With a gesture that did not escape Nicolas, he folded the piece of paper on which he had been writing and covered it with his hand. He sighed, and a weak smile crossed his lined face.

  ‘God be praised, there you are!’ He put down his pen. ‘We were waiting for you.’

  ‘What’s happened? I suspect some sad occurrence.’

  ‘How could we ever hope to hide anything from you? You must keep a cool head when you hear what I’m about to tell you.’

  Nicolas felt a kind of icy wave go through his body. ‘Is it something to do with my son?’

  ‘Don’t be too alarmed, there’s nothing irreparable. The superior at Juilly informed me that Louis was missing. The likeliest supposition is that he ran away from school.’

  ‘The likeliest …’

  The coldness was followed by a wave of heat and a pain that cut him in half and took his breath away.

  Monsieur de Noblecourt stood up in great haste and made Nicolas sit down in a bergère. As quickly as he could, he walked towards a sideboard and took out a glass and a decanter.

  ‘Here, drink this. You’ve often mentioned that cordial dispensed by Old Marie at the Châtelet. This liqueur from Arquebuse is of the same kind. It’s a well-known antidote for an emotion of this nature.’

  He sat down and waved the paper on which he had been working when Nicolas arrived. ‘Don’t think that we merely lamented without doing anything. Let me tell you all that has so far been accomplished.’

  Nicolas stood up. ‘I’m leaving for Juilly immediately.’

  ‘Out of the question,’ Monsieur de Noblecourt said firmly. ‘Just listen to me. As soon as I was told what had happened, I informed Monsieur Lenoir.’

  ‘Monsieur Lenoir?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur Lenoir. He has recovered from his illness and resumed his functions as Lieutenant General of Police. I also referred the case to Monsieur de Sartine. They conferred and decided to dispatch Bourdeau to Juilly to investigate. Who better could they have chosen than our friend? He is due back today, and I have no doubt he will be in possession of some useful information. Wait for him, and rest until he comes. You will decide together on what needs to be done. You trust him, quite rightly, and I am sure he will have acted just as you would have done yourself. There is no point debating the matter until we have more of the facts. I was just writing a letter to the Criminal Lieutenant to inform him of this disappearance. It is surely just a childish escapade … You don’t seem convinced.’

  ‘It’s just that when he was here at Christmas I found him in a strange mood, as if there was something upsetting him. You should also know that during my mission to Vienna, there was an attempt on my life, from which I only narrowly escaped …’

  ‘Again!’

  ‘… and I wonder if Louis’s disappearance might not have some connection with that.’

  Monsieur de Noblecourt was thinking hard, with his chin on his hand. ‘Try to keep calm. I know, that’s an easy thing to say to a father. We all make many mistakes before we catch up with reason. Reason runs away from us because it thinks it is worth being run after. It does everything it can to test us. You will laugh one
day about this trial.’

  Nicolas did not feel in a fit state to appreciate the wisdom of the comment. Wounded deep in his soul, he also felt his anguish physically, as a painful knot in his stomach.

  ‘Needless to say, Lenoir has given instructions for the road to London to be carefully watched, as well as the embarkation points for boats to England in the Channel ports. It’s quite possible that, on a whim, Louis decided to go and see his mother.’

  ‘That is indeed a useful precaution.’

  ‘Did he have any money with him?’

  ‘None at all. The annual fee for Juilly is nine hundred livres and I paid it when he started there. It covers almost everything. In addition I also gave him a small sum to buy any little things he needed and to pay for his return trips to Paris. Not much, to be honest. Certainly not enough for a journey to England.’

  There came the sound of hurried footsteps ascending the stairs. Bourdeau appeared, wearing a brown frock coat and riding boots. He was out of breath and his face was flushed. He glanced anxiously at Nicolas, who was still seated, and had to stop himself from taking him in his arms. He turned towards Monsieur de Noblecourt, who, anticipating his question, nodded.

  ‘I’m sorry. Who could have expected such a thing?’

  ‘I could,’ said Nicolas, ‘since Christmas. I noticed certain things which should not have deceived a father …’

  ‘What is bound to happen, happens,’ remarked Noblecourt. ‘There are strange inevitabilities which drive a person to act according to his own nature and the pressing demands of the moment.’

  ‘We will have to clarify all this eventually. Bourdeau, I’m pleased to see you again, I missed you …’

  The inspector’s eyes lit up. That Nicolas should think of saying that to him at such a moment filled him with unparalleled joy. He had to make an effort to recover his self-control.

  ‘I met the principal, the teachers, the servants, and his schoolfriends. They all praise your son’s intelligence, politeness and loyalty. True, his results had been slightly less good since Christmas. Something was preying on his mind. There was a quarrel with an arrogant classmate, followed by a kind of childish duel, with compasses, in the attic of the school. They were soon separated. The reason for the quarrel? Silence on the matter. No one wanted to speak about it. Louis ran away, leaving all his things except for his seal and the copy of Ovid’s Metamorphoses that Monsieur de Noblecourt gave him as a gift.’