number of bombs. The whole park was lit up, all the way to the Grand Canal. There, a structure a hundred feet high representing the Temple of the Sun, exploded into a thousand extravaganzas. There was an enormous number of spectators, and the official responsible for the ambassadors had to settle endless quarrels of precedence among the notable guests on the balconies of the palace.’
‘And what of the Dauphine?’
‘She’s still a child. Beautiful, yes, but unformed. A graceful gait. Lovely blonde hair. Rather a long face with blue eyes and a magnificent porcelain complexion. I’m less fond of her mouth: her lower lip is too thick and droops. Monsieur de la Borde claims she is quite slovenly and that the Dauphin is rather uncomfortable with that …’
‘All very courtly of you, Nicolas!’ Semacgus laughed. ‘I sense the policeman in you rather than the private man. And the Dauphin?’
‘Berry is a very tall, gangly young man, quite abrupt in his manner. He sways as he walks and gives the impression that he hears and sees nothing, or that everything is strange to him. On the wedding night, the King strongly advised him to … well, to think of the succession …’
‘First Minister Choiseul does not spare our future king,’ Semacgus observed. ‘According to him he’s incompetent. And they say the Dauphin won’t even speak to Choiseul because of an offensive remark he once made to his late father.’
‘A remark amounting almost to lese-majesty: Choiseul begged heaven to spare him from having to obey the future king!’
The carriage stopped suddenly, pitching them forward. Straightening up, Nicolas opened the door and jumped out. A traffic jam, he thought. What had happened, in fact, was that a berlin emerging from Rue de Bellechasse had tried to join the long line of vehicles in Rue de Bourbon. With some difficulty, Nicolas made his way through the gathered onlookers. If only he had listened to the wise counsel offered by Semacgus, who had suggested crossing Pont de Sèvres and reaching Place Louis XV via the right bank of the Seine. He had insisted on taking a more direct route via the left bank and Pont Royal. He finally broke through a circle of onlookers who were looking down at a distressing sight on the ground.
An old man, who must have been knocked down by the berlin, was lying in his own blood, his face white and his eyes rolled upwards. His wig and hat had slipped off to reveal a smooth skull the colour of ivory. An old woman in bourgeois clothes was kneeling by the body, her cape in disarray, weeping silently and trying to lift the wounded man’s head. Unable to do so, she began gently stroking his cheek. The crowd stood motionless, contemplating the scene. Before long, voices rose in anger, followed immediately by threats and insults to the coachman who had tried to enter Rue de Bourbon. From inside the carriage, an arrogant voice gave the order to push the rabble aside and carry on regardless. The coachman was already urging the horses forward when Nicolas seized one of them by the bit to stop its progress and said something in its ear, a method he often used with his own mounts. With his finger, he massaged the animal’s gum, and the horse quivered and moved back. Turning his head, he saw Semacgus leaning over the wounded man, feeling his neck and holding a small pocket mirror in front of his lips. The surgeon helped the old lady to her feet and looked around for help. Two men appeared, carrying a table on which they carefully laid the victim. A man dressed all in black brought up the rear. Semacgus said something in his ear, and he took charge of the old woman.
Nicolas felt a blow on his shoulder. The horse shied in fright and almost fell backwards. He turned to discover a glittering mass of bright gold stripes, and recognised the blue and red uniform of an officer of the City Guards. A broad, crimson face with cold little eyes, the very image of rage. It was the passenger from the carriage, who had got out and angrily struck Nicolas with the flat of his sword.
‘At the King’s service, Monsieur,’ Nicolas said. ‘You have just struck a magistrate, a commissioner of police at the Châtelet.’
The crowd had moved closer and was following the scene with noticeable annoyance.
‘At the city’s service,’ the officer replied. ‘Move aside. My name is Major Langlumé, of the City Guards. I am on my way to the Place Louis XV to make sure that the festivities organised by the provost are proceeding in an orderly fashion. In accordance with the King’s decision, Monsieur Sartine’s people are not involved.’
The regulations were categorical: it was out of the question for Nicolas to cross swords with this brute, even though he was itching to do so. He suddenly saw the onlookers closest to them, including some with especially sinister faces, gathering stones. What followed happened so quickly that nothing and nobody could have prevented it. A hail of stones, even a piece of rubble from a house under construction, fell on the carriage and horses. The major was hit on the temple, resulting in a gash. Shouting and swearing, he quickly got back into the carriage and resigned himself to having it move back into Rue de Bellechasse. Through the broken window, he waved a vengeful fist at Nicolas.
‘I admire your capacity for making friends,’ said Semacgus, who had approached. ‘Our victim will be fine with a plaster. He’d only fainted from a cut to the head, but he lost a lot of blood, which is always dramatic! I handed him and his wife over to an apothecary, who will do what’s necessary. What were they thinking of, at their age, running around the streets like youngsters, with all this upheaval going on? I’ve seen some pretty dubious-looking characters here, and my watch nearly ended up in someone else’s hands.’
‘I’d have got it back for you!’ Nicolas said. ‘The day before yesterday, at a grand supper given by the Emperor’s ambassador at Petit Luxembourg, I unmasked a criminal who had somehow wormed his way into the party and was trying to steal a watch from the Graf von Starhenberg, Maria Theresa’s former ambassador in Paris. The Graf was kind enough to write to Monsieur de Sartine and compliment him on the excellence of his police force, “the finest in Europe”, as you called it just now. I’ve also seen some doubtful behaviour here. It makes me worry about what’s going to happen next. What a coincidence – the person responsible for security at the festivities is that same jumped-up individual who was just now trying to pick a quarrel with me.’
‘Bah! Those people aren’t professionals. They’re a bourgeois guard who can buy their way in.’
‘And there’s a great deal of competition between them and the men of the watch. One day we’ll have to do something about it. The divisions between these various forces have rendered them powerless, and they’re more interested in scoring points off each other than in serving the public. But I’m wandering from the point. Think of it – the man in charge isn’t even in position yet to keep order in this great throng of people!’
Nicolas sank back into his thoughts. Their carriage finally managed to get onto Pont Royal, where a motley mixture of pedestrians and a tangle of vehicles gave the impression of an army in flight. The Quai des Tuileries was no easier to negotiate than the rest of the route. Two turbulent streams – one coming from the left bank and another, just as large and just as disorderly, emerging from the Quai des Galeries du Louvre – came together and tried, with a great deal of pushing and shoving, to share the roadway.
‘The road seems to be blocked at Pont Saint-Nicolas.’
That was enough to set Semacgus off again. ‘There’s not even a vessel of the line to delight the Parisians. When I was a child – the Duc d’Orléans was still regent – my father took me to see a Dutch ship with eight cannon moored there.’
Nicolas was becoming impatient, tapping with his fingers on the window. It was almost completely dark by now, and the coachmen were stopping to light lanterns, which merely added to the chaos and slowness of the convoy. When they reached Terrasse des Feuillants, Nicolas gestured to his friend
