his familiar anxiety soon returned with the thought that the following day he would be starting a new life that he had to avoid conjuring up in his imagination. On several occasions this idea gripped him just as he was dozing off, and it was very late by the time he finally fell into a deep sleep.
*
In the morning, after he had listened to Père Grégoire’s final words of advice, Nicolas said goodbye and they promised to see each other again. The monk had indeed grown fond of the young man and would have been happy to continue to instruct him in the science of medicinal herbs. As the weeks had gone by his pupil’s considerable qualities of observation and reflection had not escaped his notice. He made him write two letters, one to his guardian and the other to the marquis, and promised to have them sent. Nicolas did not dare add a message for Isabelle, vowing that he would make good use of his new-found freedom to do so a little later.
Almost as soon as Nicolas had stepped out of the doors of the monastery, Père Grégoire went to the altar of the Blessed Virgin and began to pray for him.
Nicolas took the same route as he had the day before, but this time there was a spring in his step. As he passed the Châtelet, he went over his interview with Monsieur de Sartine, a conversation in which he had hardly said a word. So, he was about to enter ‘the King’s service’ … Until then, he had not understood the full significance of these words. On reflection they had no meaning for him.
His schoolmasters and the marquis had mentioned the King, but all that seemed to belong to another world. He had seen engravings and a head on coins and he had mumbled his way through the unending list of sovereigns, which had meant no more to him than the succession of kings and prophets in the Old Testament. In the collegiate church of Guérande he had sung the Salve fac regum on 25 August, Saint Louis’s day. His intellect made no connection between the King, a figure in stained glass, the symbol of faith and fidelity, and the man of flesh and blood who ruled the State.
This thought occupied him until he reached Rue de Gesvres. There, aware once more of his surroundings, he was astonished to discover a street that crossed the Seine. When he came out on Quai Pelletier, he realised that it was a bridge lined with houses on either side. A young Savoyard chimney sweep waiting for custom, with a marmot on his shoulders, told him it was Pont-Marie. Looking back at this marvel several times, he reached Place de Grève. He recognised it from a print he had once seen, bought from a street hawker, which showed the torture and execution of Cartouche the highwayman before a large gathering of people in November 1721. As a child, he had daydreamed in front of it and imagined being part of the scene, lost in the crowd and caught up in endless adventures. With a shock he realised that his dream had become a reality: he was walking the stage where famous criminal executions had taken place.
Leaving the grain-port behind him to his right, he entered the heart of old Paris through the Saint-Jean arch at the Hôtel de Ville. When giving him directions, Père Grégoire had particularly warned him about this spot: ‘It’s a grim and dangerous place,’ he said, clasping his hands, ‘with everyone from Rue Saint-Antoine and the faubourg passing through.’ The archway was the favourite haunt of thieves and fake beggars who lay in wait for passers-by under its solitary vault. He entered it cautiously, but only came across a water carrier and some day labourers going towards Place de Grève to find work.
He reached the market of Saint-Jean via Rue de la Tissanderie and Place Baudoyer. It was, so his mentor had told him, the largest in Paris after Les Halles; he would recognise it by the fountain in its centre, near the guardhouse, and by the many people who came to collect water from the Seine.
Accustomed to the good-natured orderliness of provincial markets, here Nicolas had to force his way through total chaos. All the goods were piled higgledy-piggledy on the ground, except for the meat, which was on special slabs. In the warm autumn air the smells were strong, foul even, around the fish stalls. He found it hard to believe that there could be markets bigger or busier than this one. The space for the stallholders was very cramped and it was almost impossible to move around, but this did not prevent horse-drawn vehicles from driving through, threatening to crush anything in their path. People were haggling and arguing and from the accents and the clothes he realised that many peasants from the nearby countryside came here to sell their produce.
Carried first one way then the other by the crowd, Nicolas went around the market three or four times before finding Rue Sainte-Croix-de-la-Bretonnerie. This street led him without mishap to Rue des Blancs-Manteaux where, between Rue du Puits and Rue du Singe, he found Commissioner Lardin’s residence.
He hesitated and gazed at the three-storey house, bordered on either side by gardens protected by high walls. He raised the knocker, which produced a dull echo inside as it struck the door. The door half opened to reveal the face of a woman wearing a white mob cap, a face so wide and chubby that it seemed to be the continuation of a huge body, the top half of which was squeezed into a red jacket. This was framed by two arms, similarly proportioned to the rest, which dripped with washing suds.
‘What do you want?’ asked the woman, with a strange accent that Nicolas had never heard before.
‘I’ve come to deliver a letter from Monsieur de Sartine to Commissioner Lardin,’ said Nicolas, who immediately bit his lip, realising he had played his trump card rather too soon.
‘Give me.’
‘I must give it in person.’
‘No one at home. Wait.’
She slammed the door shut. All that remained for Nicolas was to show the patience that, as his own experience had confirmed, was the main virtue needed in Paris. Without daring to move away from the house he walked up and down, examining the surroundings. On the opposite side of the road, where there was an occasional passer-by, he glimpsed buildings, a monastery or a church, hidden amidst tall, bare trees.
He sat down on the front steps of the house, tired out by his morning’s expedition. His arm was numb from carrying his bag and he was hungry, since all he had eaten that morning in the refectory of the Carmelites was some bread dipped in soup. A nearby bell was chiming three o’clock when a sturdily built man, wearing a grey wig and leaning on a cane very like a cudgel, curtly asked him to make way. Guessing who this was, Nicolas stepped aside, bowed and began to speak:
‘I beg your pardon, Monsieur, but I’m waiting for Commissioner Lardin.’
Two blue eyes stared at him intently.
‘You’re waiting for Commissioner Lardin? Well, I’ve been waiting for a certain Nicolas Le Floch since yesterday. Would you know him by any chance?’
‘That’s me, Monsieur. As you can see …’
‘No explanations …’
‘But …’ stammered Nicolas, holding out Sartine’s letter.
‘I know better than you do what orders the Lieutenant General of Police gave you. I have no use for this letter. You may keep it as a souvenir. It will tell me nothing I don’t already know and merely confirms that you did not comply with the instructions given.’
Lardin knocked and the woman reappeared in the doorway.
‘Monsieur, I did not want …’
‘I know, Catherine.’
He motioned impatiently, as much to interrupt his servant as to invite Nicolas inside. He took off his coat to reveal a sleeveless, thick-leather doublet and, removing his wig, uncovered
