The Phantom of Rue Royale (15 page)

Nicolas listened with a smile. He knew that Sartine was trying to purge himself of his own anxieties with this flood of words.

‘Monsieur—’

‘No! May I remind you, Monsieur Commissioner at the Châtelet, secretary to the King in his counsels, that your office demands taste, an aptitude for work, precision, uprightness, fairness of mind, equanimity of character, propriety in conduct … Who do you think I’m describing, Monsieur?’

‘Why … you yourself, Monsieur.’

Sartine turned to Nicolas, and only a slight pursing of the lips revealed that he could barely contain his laughter. ‘And what’s more, he makes fun of me! But you’re not mistaken, Nicolas. That was the description of a good policeman, for which I, being the chief, am indeed the model.’

At Porte de la Conférence, beside the Tuileries Gardens, they were brought to a halt by an angry gathering. A wagon had spilt its load, blocking the roadway.

‘Look at these people,’ said Sartine pensively. ‘The most amiable in the world, but the quickest to become aroused. We need to know our territory – as indeed you do – the better to contain any disorder into which they could all too easily be led. Above all, we mustn’t show weakness where we need to display energy. But we must always act with tact and caution, taking care not to offend public opinion, knowing how to defuse and restrain human passions, which are so harmful to society as a whole.’

With these powerful words the Lieutenant General offered his snuffbox to Nicolas, who declined. He only used snuff during autopsies at the Basse-Geôle. Semacgus, as a former naval surgeon, was amused by this habit, borrowed from the officers on galleys who were sickened, up on their ‘coach’,
4
by the heavy stench rising from the rows of oarsmen. Nicolas had noted at a glance that the snuffbox was a gem, with a portrait of the King set in a circle of diamonds. A series of sneezes followed, which seemed to procure Monsieur de Sartine the greatest pleasure. They rode in silence as far as Sèvres. These silences were also marks of confidence, and Nicolas took them as such. They crossed the Seine, and as they passed beneath the hill on which the Château de Bellevue stood. He remembered Madame de
Pompadour, as he always did at that point. The same thought had occurred to Sartine.

‘Many unpleasant things were said when our beautiful friend died … If you ever hear them, don’t let them go without comment. The King is a good master – we have to defend him.’

‘I assume, Monsieur, that you are referring to the accusations of indifference made against him when the marquise’s body was transferred to the church of the Capucines in Paris. Her cortege passed within sight of the chateau …’

‘You assume correctly. In fact, the King was very affected by her death, although he made an effort to conceal his grief from everyone. But that evening, when your friend La Borde went to close the shutters, he found the King with his other groom, Champlot, who told me that the King had stood in the rain, watching the cortege until the last carriage had disappeared. He had come back into the room, his face covered in tears – tears, not rain – and murmured, “These were the only respects I could pay her! … A friend of twenty years!”’

With this confidence, Sartine turned away and did not break the silence again until they reached Versailles. It struck Nicolas that he would never know all there was to know about this man.

No sooner had their coach entered the first courtyard than a page rushed forward to hand a sealed envelope to the Lieutenant General. It was a summons to see Monsieur de Saint Florentin, Minister of the King’s Household, without delay. He enjoined Nicolas to wait for him at the entrance to the apartments and
hurried off towards the ministers’ wing. Nicolas was pacing up and down, idly studying the curious architectural features of the façade, when he felt a tug on the tail of his coat. He was surprised to see his spy Rabouine, a sword at his side, his thin face contorted in a grimace to attract attention.

‘What are you doing here, Rabouine? And carrying a sword, what’s more!’

‘Don’t talk to me about that – I had to hire one. They wouldn’t let me in without a sword. Apparently around here it makes you look noble. I was furious at having to argue with them, because I didn’t want to miss you when I saw you pass with Monsieur de Sartine. Monsieur Bourdeau has sent me with an urgent message. I galloped here as fast as I could on a nag that almost threw me off twenty times!’

Nicolas opened his deputy’s note. All it said was:
Rabouine will tell you everything
. He cast a questioning look at the party concerned.

‘Strange things have been happening at the Deux Castors, the place you’re investigating at the moment,’ Rabouine began. ‘At the stroke of three this morning, the household was woken by terrible noises – not just the household, the whole
neighbourhood
. People gathered outside the Galaine house. They even rang the alarm bell in a nearby chapel. The door of the shop was forced, and those who went in found the family on their knees praying, and the maid, stark naked, dancing a jig and jumping up to the ceiling, with strange lights around her body. The onlookers all fled in terror. Finally, the priest came and calmed the family down, and everyone hailed it as a miracle. It was like the Jansenists of Saint-Médard all over again. The watch dispersed
the crowd, and your colleague in the district posted French Guards outside the shop. And that’s the story!’

Nicolas thought for a moment, then sat down on a boundary stone and wrote a short note, which he sealed with his signet ring bearing the Ranreuil arms, topped with a marquis’s crown.

‘Rabouine, go back to Bourdeau and give him this. But have something to eat first.’ He tossed him a coin, which the other caught in mid-air. ‘I’m staying here with Monsieur de Sartine. I should be back some time this evening. If not, I’ll be with Monsieur de La Borde, First Groom of the King’s Bedchamber.’

He had barely finished writing down the surprising
development
in his little black notebook when he was drawn by a crimson-faced Sartine towards ‘the Louvre’ and the entrance to the apartments. He opened his mouth to speak, but his chief silenced him with a look. He gave up and followed him into the maze of the palace. They climbed a half-spiral staircase and came to a large hall. Sartine, always eager to show off his knowledge of places, from which he drew some pride, but also conscious of his responsibilities as mentor, commented volubly, ‘We’re going up to the King’s private rooms, which used to be Madame Adélaïde’s apartments.’
5
He lowered his voice. ‘When Madame du Barry established herself, the King transferred his daughter to the ground floor and took this apartment for himself.’

They walked along narrow corridors, from which windows occasionally allowed vertiginous views of large drawing rooms and small shaded courtyards. They came to a bare room with window seats, which the Lieutenant General indicated as the bathers’ room, without going into any further details. On their left, a few steps led to another room, from which came the sounds
of swirling water and conversation. They stopped and waited in silence. A page came out, looked at them with a mocking air and disappeared again, without seeing a discreet signal from Sartine. A few moments later Monsieur de La Borde appeared, smiling. He put a finger to his mouth and nodded at them to follow him. They climbed the steps and found themselves enveloped in scented steam. They were in a rectangular room, rounded at one end, which contained two parallel metal bathtubs. Servants in white piqué were bustling around one of the tubs, in which a man, his head wrapped in a knotted madras, was being washed. One of the aides approached with huge towels.
6

Assuming a solemn air, Monsieur de La Borde cried, ‘Gentlemen, the King is leaving his bath!’

Sartine and Nicolas lowered their heads. Louis XV was quickly wrapped in the towels and almost dragged to the second tub.

In a low voice, La Borde explained that His Majesty was to be rinsed in clean water. The King, who had so far not taken any notice of his visitors, now looked up and saw Sartine.

‘I’m sorry, Sartine, to have summoned you so early in the morning, but I couldn’t wait to see you. Did you follow my instructions? I don’t see young Ranreuil.’

‘Sire, he’s here, behind me. At Your Majesty’s orders.’

The King’s black eyes peered at Nicolas through the steam. ‘Good, good. La Borde, take them where I told you.’

Nicolas always felt the same emotion when he found himself in the King’s presence. The strangeness of the place, the rapidity of the scene and the monarch’s unusual attire did not allow for lengthy examination. The King was said to have aged: Nicolas
promised himself to take a closer look at him. They followed Monsieur de La Borde down a long corridor, then turned right and entered a gilded room, named as Madame Adélaïde’s former music room. They then passed a staircase and entered a narrow room lit by a single window. Beyond it was a tiny corridor leading to a wardrobe. Nicolas was immediately struck by the intimacy of the small room. Its lack of light was compensated for by the white, gold-embellished woodwork, the painted pier glasses and a large mirror. The furniture consisted of a writing desk, a
bergère
, some chairs and stools, and a display cabinet filled with
chinoiseries
. There were
layettes
7
on shelves and in cupboards discreetly built into the walls. They waited in silence. A concealed door opposite them opened and the King appeared to emerge from the wall, wearing a light grey coat and a wig. Nicolas thought he looked very stooped. He had lost that haughty bearing which made him recognisable at a hundred paces: with his stooped back, he now resembled prints of his old adversary, Frederick of Prussia. His features, although still regular, had been encroached upon by the ravages of old age, and there were harsh rings beneath his eyes. He collapsed into the
bergère.
After a moment, he addressed La Borde.

‘Make sure no one disturbs us. And I mean no one, not even …’

He left the sentence hanging. Who could possibly disturb the King? The Dauphin, so timid and petrified in his grandfather’s presence? The mischievous Marie-Antoinette, still such a child? His daughters? They were much too respectful of their father to allow themselves such unseemly behaviour. There remained Madame du Barry, and if this hypothesis was correct, it was a
significant piece of information. In spite of her influence over the ageing King, she was not party to certain affairs. Although he could not have said why, Nicolas found this reassuring. To his amazement, the King next addressed him.

‘Ranreuil, do you know how to break a rabbit’s legs without a knife?’

Nicolas bowed. ‘Yes, Sire, by tearing off only the small bones.’

‘Sartine, he’s as good as Lasmatartes, my first whipper-in.’ The King reflected for a moment. ‘One day, when I was a child, I wanted to visit the Infanta, but they couldn’t find the key to the great gallery. I made representations to the marshal,
8
who had the door broken down. There was much muttering about it. What do you think of that?’

‘That we are all under Your Majesty’s orders.’

The King seemed to retreat into himself, his head sunk onto his chest. With his right hand, he twisted a button on his left sleeve.

‘Let them take my silences for orders! How goes the city, my Lieutenant General of Police?’

His voice still a little hoarse, the King had insisted on the possessive.

‘The city,’ said Sartine, ‘is still coming to terms with its misfortune. It has wept a great deal. It has somewhat shouted down your servant and …’

‘The wind has turned, as it always does.’

‘Yes, Sire, and more quickly than might have been expected. The presence of Monsieur Bignon in his box at the Opéra last night caused a scandal. He was hissed at, and his words
condemned
him in the eyes of the public.’

‘What did he say?’

‘That the reason there were so many victims was because there were many spectators, which meant that the festivities were a success.’

‘He’ll never be any different; his uncle was right! But as far as the causes of the disaster go, I’d like to hear young Ranreuil.’

In the cramped dimensions of the room, Sartine had to move aside to leave Nicolas face to face with the King.

He started speaking without any particular emotion. He had begun his career at court by telling a story, and he felt bound to the King, who had always displayed great benevolence towards him. There had been winks from the monarch at court ceremonies, showing that he had recognized him, regular
invitations
to the hunt, where his experience of hunting and his skills on horseback were admired, and now access to the King’s secret affairs, the symbol of which was his admittance to this remote room. There was also the solicitous friendship of Monsieur de La Borde. Everything combined to make him feel that he was appreciated by a man who, in his private life, liked nothing better than discretion, loyalty, a pleasant manner and the ability to amuse. Without exaggerating, he put the necessary vigour and pace into his narration of the tragic event. He went into detail, but did not insist on apportioning blame. The King, at once fascinated and horrified by the description of the disaster,
nevertheless
wanted to know more about the real causes. To know more, thought Nicolas, or to confirm what he already suspected about the part that he himself, by his decision to leave the provost free to do as he pleased, might have played in the causes of the catastrophe.

‘Sire,’ he replied, ‘it appears to me, in all good faith, and
notwithstanding
my position, that the negligence must be attributed to Monsieur Bignon and the aldermen, who claimed that they alone had the right to police the areas adjacent to the centre of the festivities.’

‘And why would they make such a claim?’

Sartine threw him an anxious glance, but Nicolas avoided the trap.

‘Their argument was that the festivities were being paid for by the city.’