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.
‘As you wish, but you’ll have to wait.’
The usher lit his pipe and then withdrew into a silence that Nicolas would dearly have liked to break in order to allay his anxiety. He was reduced to contemplating the wall. Towards eleven o’clock, the room filled with people. A small man entered, to the accompaniment of polite whisperings. He was dressed in magistrate’s robes with a leather portfolio under his arm, and he disappeared through a door that had been left ajar, allowing a glimpse of a brightly lit drawing room. A few moments later the usher rapped on the door and he, too, disappeared. When he came back, he beckoned Nicolas to go in.
The magistrate’s gown lay on the floor and the Lieutenant General of Police, dressed in a black coat, stood in front of a desk made of rare wood with gleaming bronze ornaments. He was reading the Marquis de Ranreuil’s letter with intense concentration. The office was an ill-proportioned room, the bareness of the stone and the tiled floor contrasting with the luxury of the furniture and the rugs. The light from several candelabra added to the weak rays of the winter sun and to the red glow from the Gothic fireplace, illuminating Monsieur de Sartine’s pale face. He looked older than he was. His most striking feature was his high, bare forehead. His already greying natural hair was carefully combed and powdered. A pointed nose sharpened the features of a face lit from within by two steel-grey eyes that sparkled with irony. Though short of stature, his erect bearing emphasised his slenderness without detracting from his air of authority and dignity. Nicolas felt the beginnings of panic, but he remembered what he had been taught at school and controlled his trembling hands. Sartine was now fanning himself with the letter, examining his visitor inquisitively. The minutes seemed unending.
‘What is your name?’ he asked suddenly.
‘Nicolas Le Floch, at your service, Monsieur.’
‘At my service, at my service … That remains to be seen. Your godfather gives a very favourable account of you. You can ride, you are a skilled swordsman, you have a basic knowledge of the law … These are considerable attainments for a notary’s clerk.’
Hands on hips, he slowly began to walk around Nicolas, who blushed at this inspection
