Everything really had happened too quickly. After receiving a solid classical education from the Jesuits in Vannes, he had been working as a notary’s clerk in Rennes when suddenly he had been summoned back to Guérande by his guardian, Canon Le Floch. Without further explanation he had been fitted out, given a pair of boots and a few louis d’or, as well as plenty of advice and blessings. He had taken leave of his godfather, the Marquis de Ranreuil, who had given him a letter of recommendation for Monsieur de Sartine, one of his friends, who was a magistrate in Paris. The marquis had seemed to Nicolas both moved and embarrassed and the young man had not been able to say goodbye to his godfather’s daughter, Isabelle, his childhood friend, who had just left for Nantes to stay with her aunt, Madame de Guénouel.
With a heavy heart he had left the old walled town behind him, his sense of abandonment and separation intensified by his guardian’s visible emotion and the heartrending cries of Fine, the canon’s housekeeper. He had felt lost during the long journey over land and water that was taking him to his new destiny.
As Paris had drawn near he had become aware of his surroundings again. He could still remember how scared he had felt when he first reached the capital. Until then, Paris had been little more than a dot on the map of France hanging on the schoolroom wall in Vannes. Astounded by the noise and bustle of the faubourgs, he had felt bewildered and vaguely uneasy before this enormous plain covered by countless windmills. The movement of their sails had reminded him of a group of gesticulating giants straight out of that novel by Cervantes which he had read several times. He had been struck by the crowds in rags that constantly came and went through the toll-gates.
Even today he could remember when he’d first entered the great city: its narrow streets and enormously tall houses, its dirty, muddy thoroughfares and multitudes of riders and carriages, the shouts and those unspeakable smells …
On arrival he had wandered around lost for hours, often ending up in gardens at the bottom of dead-ends or finding himself back at the river. Eventually a pleasant young man with eyes of differing colours had taken him to the church of Saint-Sulpice and then to Rue de Vaugirard and the monastery of the Discalced Carmelites. There he was given an effusive welcome by a portly monk, Père Grégoire, a friend of his guardian, who was in charge of the dispensary. It was late and he was given a bed in the garret straight away.
Taking comfort from this welcome, he had sunk into a dreamless sleep. It was only in the morning that he discovered his guide had relieved him of his silver watch, a gift from his godfather. He resolved to be more wary of strangers. Fortunately the purse containing his modest savings was still safe inside a secret pocket that Fine had sewn into his bag the day before he left Guérande.
Nicolas found the regular pattern of life in the monastery reassuring. He took his meals with the community, in the great refectory. He had begun to venture out into the city equipped with a rudimentary street map on which he marked in pencil his tentative explorations so as to be sure of finding his way back. There were many aspects of life in the capital which he disliked, but its charm was beginning to work on him. He found the constant bustle of the streets both appealing and disconcerting; on several occasions he had almost been run over by carriages. He was always surprised by how fast they went and how they suddenly appeared from nowhere. He quickly learnt not to daydream, and to protect himself against other dangers: stinking muck that splashed his clothes, water from the gutters that poured down on passers-by, and streets transformed into raging torrents by a few drops of rain. He jumped, dodged and leapt aside, like a Parisian born and bred, in the midst of all the filth and a thousand other hazards. After each outing he had to brush his clothes and wash his stockings: he only had two pairs and was saving the other for his meeting with Monsieur de Sartine.
On that front there was no progress. On several occasions he had gone to the address written on the Marquis de Ranreuil’s letter. He had greased the palm of a suspicious doorkeeper only to be ushered off the premises by an equally disdainful footman. The weeks went by slowly. Seeing how unhappy he was and wanting to give him something to do, Père Grégoire suggested that the young man work alongside him. Since 1611 the monastery of the Discalced Carmelites had been producing a medicinal brew sold throughout the kingdom, made from a recipe that the monks kept a closely guarded secret. Nicolas’s task was to crush the herbs. He learnt to recognise balm, angelica, cress, coriander, cloves and cinnamon, and discovered strange and exotic fruits. The long days spent using the mortar and pestle and breathing the fumes of the stills befuddled him so much that his mentor noticed and asked what was on his mind. Père Grégoire immediately promised that he would inquire about Monsieur de Sartine. He obtained a letter of introduction from the prior that would smooth Nicolas’s path. Monsieur de Sartine had just been appointed Lieutenant General of Police, replacing Monsieur Bertin. Père Grégoire accompanied this good news with a stream of comments so detailed that it was obvious the information had only recently been acquired.
‘Nicolas, my son, here you are about to encounter a man who might influence the course of your life, providing you know how to please him. The Lieutenant General of Police is the absolute head of the service to which His Majesty has appointed the task of maintaining law and order, not only in the streets but also in the daily lives of all his subjects. As criminal lieutenant of the Châtelet prison, Monsieur de Sartine already had considerable power. Just think what he will be able to do from now on. Rumour has it that he will not refrain from making arbitrary decisions … And to think that he’s only just turned thirty!’
Père 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