and tranquillity: the dying embers in the carved marble fireplace, a black and gold desk, the bergères upholstered in Utrecht velvet, the light-coloured panelling on the walls, the framed prints and the richly bound books lining the shelves all helped to create an atmosphere that someone more worldly than Nicolas would have described as voluptuous. He vaguely sensed that these refined surroundings were somewhat at odds with the boorish appearance of his host. The main drawing room at Château de Ranreuil, though still half medieval, had been until then his only point of reference in such matters.
Lardin remained standing.
‘Monsieur, this is a very odd way to begin a career in which exact-ness is of the essence. Monsieur de Sartine entrusts you to my charge and I don’t know to what I owe this honour.’
With a wry smile Lardin made his finger joints crack.
‘But I obey and you must do the same,’ he continued. ‘Catherine will take you to the third floor. I can only offer you a meagre attic room. You will take your meals with the servants or out of the house, as you wish. Each morning you will appear before me at seven o’clock. You must, I am told, learn the law. For that you will go for two hours each day to Monsieur de Noblecourt, a former magistrate, who will assess your abilities. I expect you to be perfectly assiduous and unfailingly obedient. Tonight, to celebrate your arrival, we shall dine together as a family. You may go.’
Nicolas bowed and left. He followed Catherine, who settled him into a small attic room. To reach it he had to cross a cluttered loft. He was pleasantly surprised by the size of the room and by the presence of a window which overlooked the garden. It was sparsely furnished with a small bed, a table, a chair and a chest of drawers cum washstand with its basin and ewer and a mirror above it. The wooden floor was covered with a threadbare rug. He put his few possessions away in the drawers, removed his shoes and went to sleep.
When he woke it was already dark. After quickly washing his face and combing his hair, he went downstairs. The door to the library where he had been received by Lardin was now shut, but those to other rooms along the corridor were still open. This enabled him to cautiously satisfy his curiosity. First he saw a drawing room decorated in pastel colours, compared to which the library suddenly seemed positively austere. In another room a table had been laid for three. At the end of the corridor another door led to what had to be the kitchen, judging by the smells coming from it. He went closer. The heat in the room was intense and Catherine kept having to wipe her brow with a cloth. When Nicolas entered she was opening oysters and, to the surprise of the young Breton who was used to swallowing them live, she was removing the contents of the shells and placing them on an earthenware plate.
‘May I ask what you are preparing, Madame?’
She turned around in surprise.
‘Don’t call me Madame. Call me Catherine.’
‘Very well,’ he said, ‘and my name’s Nicolas.’
She looked at him, her unprepossessing face lighting up and becoming more attractive. She showed him two capons she had boned.
‘I’m making capon and oyster soup.’
As a child Nicolas had enjoyed watching Fine prepare delicacies, the canon’s one weakness. Gradually he had even learnt how to make certain Breton specialities, such as far, kuign aman or lobster in cider. Nor was his godfather, the marquis, averse to turning his hand to this noble activity which, to the canon’s great disgust, he described as one of the seven ‘lively’ sins.
‘Cooked oysters!’ exclaimed Nicolas. ‘Where I come from we eat them raw.’
‘What! Living creatures?’
‘And how exactly do you make this soup?’
Going on his experience with Fine, whom he had needed to spy on for a long time in order to discover her recipes, Nicolas was expecting to be thrown out of the kitchen.
‘You so good that I tell you. I take two nice capons and bone them. I stuff one with flesh of other and add bacon, egg yolks, salt, pepper, nutmeg, bouquet garni and spices. I tie it all with string and poach in stock gently. Then I roll my oysters in flour and I fry them in butter with mushrooms. I cut up the capon and lay out the oysters, pour on the stock and serve with a trickle of lemon and some spring onion, piping hot.’
Nicolas could not contain his enthusiasm and it showed; listening to Catherine had made his mouth water and he felt even hungrier. So it was that he won over Catherine Gauss, a native of Colmar, a former canteen-keeper at the battle of Fontenoy, the widow of a French guard and now cook to Commissioner Lardin. The formidable servant had adopted Nicolas for good. Now he had one ally in the household and he felt reassured by his ability to charm.
Nicolas was left with confused memories of the dinner. The splendour of the table with its crystal, silverware and sparkling damask tablecloth gave him a feeling of well-being. The warmth of the room with its gilded grey panelling and the shadows cast by the gleam of the candles created a cocoon-like atmosphere. This, added to his already weak state, made Nicolas feel languid, and the first glass of wine went straight to his head. The commissioner was not present; only his wife and daughter kept Nicolas company. They seemed of about the same age and he soon gathered that Louise Lardin was not Marie’s mother but her stepmother, and that there was little love lost between the two women. Whereas Louise seemed anxious to come across as assertive and rather flirtatious, Marie remained reserved, observing her guest out of the corner of her eye. One was tall and blonde, the other slight and dark-haired.
Nicolas was surprised by the delicacy of the dishes served. The capon and oyster soup was followed by marbled eggs, partridge hash, blancmange and jam fritters. Nicolas, who was well versed on the subject, identified the wine as a Loire vintage, probably a Bourgueil, because of its blackcurrant colour.
Madame Lardin questioned him discreetly about his past. He had the feeling that she particularly wanted to clarify the origin and nature of his relations with Monsieur de Sartine. Had the commissioner given his wife the task of getting Nicolas to talk? She filled his glass so generously that the idea did cross his mind but he thought no more of it. He spoke a great deal about his native Brittany, giving them a thousand and one details that made them smile. Did they take him for an object of curiosity, some exotic foreigner?
It was only later, after he had got back to his garret, that he began to have his doubts: he wondered whether he had been too talkative. In fact he was so unclear as to why Monsieur de Sartine should have taken an interest in him that he easily convinced himself that he could not have let slip anything compromising. Madame Lardin must have been disappointed. He recollected also the irritable expression on Catherine’s face when she served or listened to Louise Lardin, who was herself very distant towards the servant. The cook muttered under her breath, looking furious. When, on the other hand, she served Marie, the expression on her face mellowed almost to the point of adoration. It was with these observations that the young man ended his first day in Rue des Blancs-Manteaux.
This was the start of a new life for Nicolas, one arranged around a regular sequence of tasks. Rising early, he had a good wash in a garden lean-to which Catherine agreed to let him use.
He had extended his modest wardrobe of clothes at Vachon’s, where the mere mention of Monsieur de Sartine’s name had opened all doors as well as the credit book, and the tailor even went slightly beyond the original order, much to Nicolas’s embarrassment. From now on, when he looked in a mirror, he saw the reflection of a dashing young man soberly but elegantly dressed and the lingering looks Marie gave him were confirmation of his changed appearance.
