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 and its accompanying snorts and chuckles of laughter.
‘Yes, yes, 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