indeed, upon my word, it may well be true …’ continued the Lieutenant General.
Sartine examined the letter thoughtfully, then went up to the fireplace and threw it in. It flared up with a yellow flame.
‘May we depend on you, Monsieur? No, don’t reply. You don’t know what this will mean for you. I have plans for you and Ranreuil is handing you to me. Do you understand? No, you understand nothing, nothing at all.’
He went behind his desk and sat down, pinched his nose, then examined Nicolas once more, who was sweltering as he stood with his back to the roaring fire.
‘Monsieur, you are very young and I am taking a considerable risk by speaking to you as openly as I do. The King’s police needs honest people and I myself need faithful servants who will blindly obey me. Do you follow me?’
Nicolas was careful not to agree.
‘Ah! I see you are quick to understand.’
Sartine went towards the casement window and seemed fascinated by what he saw.
‘So much cleaning-up to do …’ he mumbled. ‘With meagre means at our disposal. No more, no less. Don’t you agree?’
Nicolas had turned to face the Lieutenant General.
‘You will need to improve your knowledge of the law, Monsieur. You will devote some hours each day to this, as a form of diversion. You will have to work hard, indeed you will.’
He hurried across to his desk and grabbed a sheet of paper. He motioned to Nicolas to sit down in the great red damask armchair.
‘Write. I want to see whether you have a good hand.’
Nicolas, frightened out of his wits, concentrated as best he could. Sartine thought for a few moments, removed a small gold snuff-box from his coat pocket and took out a pinch of snuff which he delicately placed on the back of his hand. He sniffed first with one nostril and then the other, closed his eyes in contentment and sneezed loudly, sending black particles flying all around him and onto Nicolas, who withstood the storm. The Lieutenant gasped with pleasure as he blew his nose.
‘Come, write: “Monsieur, I think it appropriate for the King’s service and my own that as from today you should take as your personal secretary Nicolas Le Floch, to be paid from my account. I should be obliged if you would provide him with board and lodging and submit a detailed account of his work to me.” Take down the address: “To M. Lardin, Commissioner of Police at the Châtelet, at his residence, Rue des Blancs-Manteaux.”’
Then, swiftly taking hold of the letter, he held it up to his face and examined it.
‘So, a somewhat bastard hand, yes, somewhat bastard,’ he declared, laughing. ‘But it will do for a beginner. It has flourish, it has movement.’
He returned to the armchair that Nicolas had vacated, signed the missive, sanded it, folded it, lit a piece of wax from embers left in a brass pot, rubbed it over the paper and impressed his seal on it, all in the twinkling of an eye.
‘Monsieur, the functions I wish you to perform with Commissioner Lardin require integrity. Do you know what integrity is?’
For once Nicolas dived straight in.
‘It is, Monsieur, scrupulously fulfilling the duties of an honest man and …’
‘So he can speak! Good. He still sounds rather schoolboyish but he’s not wrong. You will need to be discreet and cautious, be able to learn things and to forget things, and be capable of drawing secrets out of people. You will need to learn to write reports about the cases assigned to you, and in an elegant style. You will have to pick up on what you’re told and guess what you’re not told and, finally, to follow up the slightest lead you may have.’
He emphasised his words by raising his forefinger.
‘That is not all: you must also be a fair and faithful witness to all you see, without weakening its significance or altering it one jot. Bear in mind, Monsieur, that on your exactness will depend the life and honour of men who, even if they may be the lowest of the low, must be treated according to the rules. You really are very young. I wonder … But then again so was your godfather when at your age he crossed the lines under enemy fire at the siege of Philipsbourg. He was with Marshal Berwick, who lost his life in the action. And I myself …’
He seemed deep in thought and, for the first time, Nicolas saw a flicker of compassion light up his face.
‘You will need to be vigilant, swift, active, incorruptible. Yes, above all incorruptible.’ (Here he hit the precious marquetry of the desk with the palm of his hand). ‘Go, Monsieur,’ concluded Sartine, rising to his feet, ‘from now on you are in the King’s service. Ensure we are always satisfied with you.’
Nicolas bowed and took the letter that was held out to him. He was near the door when the mocking little voice stopped him with a laugh:
‘Really, Monsieur, you are admirably dressed for someone from Lower Brittany but you’re in Paris now. Go to Vachon, my tailor in Rue Vieille-du-Temple. Get him to make you some coats, undergarments and accessories.’
‘I do not …’
‘On my account, Monsieur, on my account. Let it not be said that I left the godson of my friend Ranreuil in rags. A handsome godson, to tell the truth. Be off with you and always be at the ready.’
Nicolas was relieved when he reached the river again. He took in a deep breath of the cold air. He felt he had survived this first ordeal, even if some of what Sartine had said was bound to worry him a little. He rushed back to the monastery of the Discalced Carmelites, where the good monk was waiting for him whilst furiously pounding some innocent plants.
Grégoire had to temper Nicolas’s enthusiasm and managed to dissuade him from going off to Commissioner Lardin’s residence that very evening. Although the watchmen did their rounds the streets were dangerous; he was afraid that Nicolas might lose his way and attract trouble, especially in the dark.
He tried to dampen the young man’s eagerness by asking for a blow-by-blow account of his audience with the Lieutenant General of Police. He made Nicolas go over the smallest detail and drew out the proceedings by adding his own comments and asking more questions. He constantly alighted on points requiring further explanation.
Inwardly, and despite his original foreboding, Père Grégoire marvelled at how Monsieur de Sartine had so quickly been able to turn this unknown provincial boy, still overawed by the great city, into an instrument of his police force. He rightly assumed that beneath this near miracle, performed with such speed, there lurked a mystery whose complexities he did not understand. He therefore looked on Nicolas with amazement, as if he were a creature of his own making who was now suddenly beyond his control. It made him feel sad, but not bitter, and he punctuated his remarks with ‘God have mercy’ and ‘This is beyond me’, repeated ad infinitum.
By now it was time for supper, so the pair of them hurried off to the refectory. Then Nicolas prepared himself for a night’s sleep that proved no more refreshing than the previous one. He had to try to restrain his imagination. It was often feverish and unbridled and played unfortunate tricks on him, either by making the future look bleak or, on the contrary, by putting out of his mind what should have been a reason for caution or concern. He resolved
