very well aware of it,’ replied Nicolas. ‘The monks are reluctant to pay for a decent pavement out of their own pockets.’
Nicolas could still hear Monsieur de Sartine, a Freemason and a Voltairean, ranting against the Priests of the Mission, who were immensely rich, owned some twenty streets in Paris and nearly twenty-five villages in the suburbs and, it was said, ‘begrudged their écus without charity or any sense of the public good’.
As he was thinking this, Sanson’s servant was lifting the heavy knocker at the carriage entrance of an opulent-looking house. It opened and they entered a cobbled courtyard. Sanson beckoned to him to climb the few steps leading to the front door of his residence. Entering the house, Nicolas felt, for the first time in two days, a sensation of well-being, as if someone sympathetic had hugged him. The place had a pleasant smell of wax and wood. Paris and its crimes were suddenly a long way away. Two children, the elder barely more than eight, were standing by the staircase. The elder was holding his brother close round the shoulders and scowling, as if ready to defend him against the intrusion of a stranger, clearly a rare occurrence in this house. Sanson took off his cloak, and burst out laughing when he finally got a good look at his guest’s costume.
‘In that disguise, you’re going to scare away my sons!’ he said. ‘Children, I want to introduce a friend. Don’t let his appearance mislead you about his station. It was absolutely essential that he pass unnoticed. Don’t worry, he’ll get changed. Monsieur, I present to you Henri and Gabriel. Now, come give your father a hug.’
Still intimidated, they bowed to Nicolas, then rushed to Sanson and clambered all over him, covering him with kisses.
‘Come on now, behave yourselves! Run and tell your mother we have a guest. In the meantime, I’ll show him his room.’
He led Nicolas up the stairs and into his quarters, a room redolent of rustic comfort and reminding the commissioner of his childhood.
Sanson left him for a moment, then returned with a shirt, stockings, a lace cravat and a grey cloak which, although a little large for him, made Nicolas look more like his usual self. One of Sanson’s servants brought him a pitcher of hot water, which he poured into the porcelain bowl on the washstand. Beside the stand stood a swing mirror on wheels. The face which confronted Nicolas, once he had removed the layer of dust disguising his features, struck him like a sudden shock. It was no longer a young man’s face. The ordeal he was living through had given his countenance a tragic cast, accentuating the increasing number of lines, and bringing out all the marks left by his open-air childhood and his eventful life as a man.
Sanson returned and they went down to the dining room together. In the doorway, a woman wearing an immaculate lace bonnet and a dark-red serge dress protected by a starched apron gave him a kind of curtsey. She was plump, slightly older than her husband, and with a welcoming air that did not conceal a real sense of authority. Nicolas soon realised that it was she who laid down the law to the members of the household, beginning with her husband. Nevertheless, there was a real look of kindness on her benevolent face.
‘Marie-Anne,’ said Sanson, ‘this is you-know-who. Madame Sanson, my wife …’
‘Monsieur,’ she said, ‘please believe me when I tell you how honoured I am to receive you in this house. I trust you’ll forgive our simple family fare. We were somewhat taken by surprise.’ She threw a stern look at her husband, who bowed his head. ‘Monsieur Sanson should have warned me you would be coming this evening. He’s told me so much about you over the years …’
She gave him a gracious smile, which made dimples in her round cheeks.
‘Madame,’ said Nicolas, ‘I’m terribly sorry to impose on you in this way. However, I thank the circumstances that have given me the opportunity to meet you. It is a privilege for me to be received by my friend Sanson in the bosom of his family.’
He emphasised the word privilege and Marie-Anne blushed with pleasure.
‘Well now, shall we sit down?’
Sanson took his place at the head of the rectangular table, with Nicolas to his right and his wife on his left, and the children on either side. Marie-Anne hesitated for a moment, then stood up, looked Nicolas straight in the eyes, and asked him if he would like to say grace. They all rose. Nicolas, moved to rediscover a custom of his youth in Guérande, recalled the words he had so often heard spoken by Canon Le Floch. This memory revived the shades of the past: his father the marquis, his half-sister Isabelle, Père Grégoire, the apothecary of the Decalced Carmelites – now recalled to God – and all his scattered friends.
‘Benedic, Domine nos et haec tua dona quae de tua largitate sumus sumpturi. Per Christum Dominum nostrum.’
‘Amen,’ they all replied.
Madame Sanson again favoured him with a smile. ‘It’s a sacred custom in our family,’ she said. ‘I find it surprising that at tables where everything is in abundance, and where there is such a great variety of meats, people refuse to pay due homage to the Lord, from whom they have received all these things and to whom they should be indebted.’
The two servants brought in a steaming tureen, and the master of the house set about serving its contents.
‘This is a soup made with capons, knuckle of veal and white onions,’ said his wife. ‘I spent the afternoon skimming it to make sure it would be thin enough.’ She turned to one of the servants. ‘Bernard, serve our guest some of my father’s cider. I remember hearing that he likes it.’
Nicolas thanked her for her kindness. He knew that Madame Sanson’s father was a farmer in Montmartre, and that it was while he was out hunting that Sanson had made the acquaintance of his future wife. Clearly, he was well known in this friendly house. After a moment’s embarrassment, the conversation turned to matters of cooking. Madame Sanson told Nicolas that she knew his good taste and knowledge in this field. The soup was followed by eggs à la Tartufe. The name intrigued Nicolas.
Marie-Anne laughed. ‘It’s because the white conceals the black just as false devotion conceals hypocrisy!’
‘And how on earth do you make this dish?’
‘Oh, it’s simplicity itself! I cut bacon into thin slices and cook it with a little water in a saucepan over a low flame. Then I throw away the juice, to get rid of the salt and the slightly rancid taste. I put it on an ordinary clay plate and add a little wine from a good bottle of red which I’ve first steamed. Over the whole thing, I crack a dozen well-chosen eggs and, for seasoning, add salt, thick pepper and grated nutmeg. The whole thing must be cooked over a low flame, taking great care not to over-cook the yolks, which should be eaten soft.’
‘It’s delicious,’ said Nicolas. ‘I love the combination of flavour and consistency.’
The meal continued peacefully. Nicolas observed that the host did not say much, but that his wife, who never lost her good humour, had an answer for everything. A dish of puréed peas accompanied by a braised pork loin chop was served next, followed by what was left of a huge Twelfth Night cake, and a pot of jam.
‘Forgive the modesty of this dessert,’ said Sanson, ‘but—’
‘But Monsieur Sanson will warn me in future when we have an important guest …’
Nicolas was intrigued by the jam. It was clearly made from cherries, but there was another
