The Châtelet Apprentice (2 page)

The barge glided along the grey river. Patches of fog rose up from the water, swathing the banks and refusing to yield to the pale light of day. The anchor, weighed one hour before dawn as the regulation required, had had to be dropped again because the darkness was still impenetrable. Already Orléans was receding into the distance and the currents of the River Loire in spate carried the heavy craft swiftly along. Despite the gusts of wind that swept across the deck, a cloying smell of fish and salt filled the air. It was transporting a large cargo of salted cod, as well as some casks of Ancenis wine.

Two silhouettes stood out at the prow of the boat. The first belonged to a member of the crew, his features tense with concentration, peering at the murky surface of the water. In his left hand he held a horn similar to those used by postilions: in the event of danger he would sound the alarm to the skipper, who was holding the tiller at the stern.

The other was that of a young man, booted and dressed in
black, with a tricorn in his hand. Despite his youth there was something both military and ecclesiastical about him. With his head held high, his dark hair swept back and his intense stillness, he looked impatient and noble, like the figurehead of the boat. His expressionless gaze was fixed upon the left bank, staring at the bulk of Notre-Dame de Cléry, the grey prow of which parted the white clouds along the shore and seemed to want to join with the Loire.

This young man, whose resolute attitude would have impressed anyone other than the bargee, was called Nicolas Le Floch.

Nicolas was rapt in contemplation. A little more than a year earlier, he had followed the same route in the opposite direction towards Paris. How quickly everything had happened! Now, on his way back to Brittany, he recalled the events of the past two days. He had taken the fast mail-coach to Orléans, where he planned to board the barge. As far as the Loire, the journey had been marked by none of those colourful incidents that normally relieve the boredom of travel. His travelling companions, a priest and two elderly couples, had watched him all the time in silence. Nicolas, accustomed to the open air, suffered from the confined space and the mixture of smells inside the carriage. Five disapproving looks soon put an end to his attempt to open a window. The priest had even made the sign of the cross, presumably on the assumption that this desire for freedom was the work of the devil. The young man had taken the hint and settled back into his corner. Gradually lulled by the monotony of the journey he had drifted off into a daydream. Now the same reverie came over him on the barge and, once again, he saw and heard nothing more.

Everything really had happened too quickly. After receiving a solid classical education from the Jesuits in Vannes, he had been working as a notary's clerk in Rennes when suddenly he had been summoned back to Guérande by his guardian, Canon Le Floch. Without further explanation he had been fitted out, given a pair of boots and a few
louis d'or
, as well as plenty of advice and blessings. He had taken leave of his godfather, the Marquis de Ranreuil, who had given him a letter of recommendation for Monsieur de Sartine, one of his friends, who was a magistrate in Paris. The marquis had seemed to Nicolas both moved and embarrassed and the young man had not been able to say goodbye to his godfather's daughter, Isabelle, his childhood friend, who had just left for Nantes to stay with her aunt, Madame de Guénouel.

With a heavy heart he had left the old walled town behind him, his sense of abandonment and separation intensified by his guardian's visible emotion and the heartrending cries of Fine, the canon's housekeeper. He had felt lost during the long journey over land and water that was taking him to his new destiny.

As Paris had drawn near he had become aware of his surroundings again. He could still remember how scared he had felt when he first reached the capital. Until then, Paris had been little more than a dot on the map of France hanging on the schoolroom wall in Vannes. Astounded by the noise and bustle of the
faubourgs
, he had felt bewildered and vaguely uneasy before this enormous plain covered by countless windmills. The movement of their sails had reminded him of a group of gesticulating giants straight out of that novel by Cervantes which he had read several times. He had been struck by the
crowds in rags that constantly came and went through the
toll-gates
.

Even today he could remember when he'd first entered the great city: its narrow streets and enormously tall houses, its dirty, muddy thoroughfares and multitudes of riders and carriages, the shouts and those unspeakable smells …

On arrival he had wandered around lost for hours, often ending up in gardens at the bottom of dead-ends or finding himself back at the river. Eventually a pleasant young man with eyes of differing colours had taken him to the church of
Saint-Sulpice
and then to Rue de Vaugirard and the monastery of the Discalced Carmelites. There he was given an effusive welcome by a portly monk, Père Grégoire, a friend of his guardian, who was in charge of the dispensary. It was late and he was given a bed in the garret straight away.

Taking comfort from this welcome, he had sunk into a dreamless sleep. It was only in the morning that he discovered his guide had relieved him of his silver watch, a gift from his godfather. He resolved to be more wary of strangers. Fortunately the purse containing his modest savings was still safe inside a secret pocket that Fine had sewn into his bag the day before he left Guérande.

Nicolas found the regular pattern of life in the monastery reassuring. He took his meals with the community, in the great refectory. He had begun to venture out into the city equipped with a rudimentary street map on which he marked in pencil his tentative explorations so as to be sure of finding his way back. There were many aspects of life in the capital which he disliked, but its charm was beginning to work on him. He found the constant bustle of the streets both appealing and disconcerting;
on several occasions he had almost been run over by carriages. He was always surprised by how fast they went and how they suddenly appeared from nowhere. He quickly learnt not to daydream, and to protect himself against other dangers: stinking muck that splashed his clothes, water from the gutters that poured down on passers-by, and streets transformed into raging torrents by a few drops of rain. He jumped, dodged and leapt aside, like a Parisian born and bred, in the midst of all the filth and a thousand other hazards. After each outing he had to brush his clothes and wash his stockings: he only had two pairs and was saving the other for his meeting with Monsieur de Sartine.

On that front there was no progress. On several occasions he had gone to the address written on the Marquis de Ranreuil's letter. He had greased the palm of a suspicious doorkeeper only to be ushered off the premises by an equally disdainful footman. The weeks went by slowly. Seeing how unhappy he was and wanting to give him something to do, Père Grégoire suggested that the young man work alongside him. Since 1611 the monastery of the Discalced Carmelites had been producing a medicinal brew sold throughout the kingdom, made from a recipe that the monks kept a closely guarded secret. Nicolas's task was to crush the herbs. He learnt to recognise balm, angelica, cress, coriander, cloves and cinnamon, and discovered strange and exotic fruits. The long days spent using the mortar and pestle and breathing the fumes of the stills befuddled him so much that his mentor noticed and asked what was on his mind. Père Grégoire immediately promised that he would inquire about Monsieur de Sartine. He obtained a letter of introduction from the prior that would smooth Nicolas's path. Monsieur de Sartine had just been appointed Lieutenant General of Police,
replacing Monsieur Bertin. Père Grégoire accompanied this good news with a stream of comments so detailed that it was obvious the information had only recently been acquired.

‘Nicolas, my son, here you are about to encounter a man who might influence the course of your life, providing you know how to please him. The Lieutenant General of Police is the absolute head of the service to which His Majesty has appointed the task of maintaining law and order, not only in the streets but also in the daily lives of all his subjects. As criminal lieutenant of the Châtelet prison, Monsieur de Sartine already had considerable power. Just think what he will be able to do from now on. Rumour has it that he will not refrain from making arbitrary decisions … And to think that he's only just turned thirty!'

Père Grégoire lowered his naturally loud voice somewhat and made sure that no indiscreet ear could catch what he was saying.

‘The abbot told me in confidence that the King has given Monsieur de Sartine authority, in the last resort and when the situation is critical, to decide matters alone, outside the court and with the utmost secrecy. But you know nothing of this, Nicolas,' he said, putting a finger to his lips. ‘Remember that this great office was created by our present King's grandfather – God be with that great Bourbon. The people still remember his predecessor Monsieur d'Argenson, who they called “the creature from hell” because of his twisted face and body.'

He suddenly threw a pitcher of water over a brazier, which sizzled, giving off acrid smoke.

‘But enough of all this. I'm talking too much. Take this letter. Tomorrow morning go down Rue de Seine and follow the river as far as Pont-Neuf. You know Île de la Cité, so you can't go
wrong. Cross the bridge there and follow the Quai de la Mégisserie on the right-hand side. It will take you to the Châtelet.'

Nicolas got little sleep that night. His head was buzzing with Père Grégoire's words and he was only too aware of his own insignificance. How could he, alone in Paris, cut off from those he loved and twice orphaned, have the audacity to face such a powerful man who had direct access to the King and who, Nicolas sensed, would have a decisive effect on his future?

He tried unsuccessfully to banish the restless images haunting him and sought to conjure up a more soothing picture to calm his mind. Isabelle's delicate features appeared before him, causing him further uncertainty. Why, when she knew that he would be gone from Guérande for some time, had his godfather's daughter left without saying goodbye?

He saw again in his mind's eye the dyke amid the marshes where they had sworn their eternal love. How could he have believed her and been foolish enough even to dream that a child found in a cemetery might so much as look upon the daughter of the noble and powerful Marquis de Ranreuil? And yet his godfather had always been so kind to him … This bittersweet thought finally carried him off to sleep at about five in the morning.

It was Père Grégoire who woke him one hour later. He washed and dressed, carefully combed his hair and, with the monk urging him on, stepped out into the cold of the street.

This time he did not lose his way, despite the dark. In front of Palais Mazarin, buildings were gradually emerging from the
gloom as day was breaking. The banks of the river, like muddy beaches, were already a hive of activity. Here and there groups of people huddled around fires. The first cries of the Paris day were ringing out everywhere, signs that the city was rousing itself from slumber.

Suddenly a young drinks seller bumped into him. After almost dropping his tray of Bavarian tea the boy went off, swearing under his breath. Nicolas had tasted this drink, made fashionable some time ago by the Palatine princess, the Regent's mother. It was, as Père Grégoire had explained to him, a hot beverage, sweetened with syrup of maidenhair.

By the time he reached Pont-Neuf, it was already thick with people. He admired the statue of Henry IV and the pump of La Samaritaine. The workshops along the Quai de la Mégisserie were beginning to open, the tanners settling down to their day's work now that the sun had risen. He walked along this
foul-smelling
bank with a handkerchief held to his nose.

The mighty prison of the Châtelet rose up before him, dour and gloomy. He had never set eyes on it but guessed what it was. Uncertain how to proceed, he entered an archway dimly lit by oil lanterns. A man wearing a long dark gown passed him, and Nicolas called out:

‘Monsieur, I would like your help. I'm looking for the offices of the Lieutenant General of Police.'

The man looked him up and down and, after an apparently thorough examination, answered him with a self-important air:

‘The Lieutenant General of Police is holding a private audience. Normally he sends someone to represent him, but Monsieur de Sartine is taking up office today and is presiding in person. Presumably you know that his department is to be found
in Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, near Place Vendôme, but he still has an office in the Châtelet. Go and see his staff on the first floor. There's an usher at the door, you cannot mistake it. Do you have the necessary introduction?'

Wisely, Nicolas was careful not to reply. He took his leave politely and went off towards the staircase. At the end of the gallery, beyond a glass-panelled door, he found himself in an immense room with bare walls. A man was seated at a deal desk and looked as if he were nibbling his hands. As he approached, Nicolas realised that in fact it was one of those hard, dry biscuits that sailors ate.

‘Good day to you, Monsieur. I would like to know whether Monsieur de Sartine will receive me.'

‘The audacity! Monsieur de Sartine does not receive visitors.'

‘I must insist.' (Nicolas sensed that everything depended on his insistence and he attempted to make his voice sound more assertive.) ‘I have, Monsieur, an audience this morning.'

With instinctive quick-wittedness Nicolas waved before the usher the great missive bearing the armorial seal of the Marquis de Ranreuil. If he had presented the little note from the prior, he would doubtless have been shown the door immediately. This bold stroke shut the man up and, muttering something under his breath, he respectfully took possession of the letter and showed him a seat.