He left the maze of old streets around the Quinze-Vingts and walked to the galleries of the Louvre. He noted with regret that the former royal palace was increasingly disfigured by all kinds of excrescences. The colonnade had recently been cleared, and already a multitude of second-hand clothes dealers were insulting it with displays of rags and tatters. Nicolas also deplored the fact that the presence of the academies entailed lodging some of their members here, to the detriment of the surroundings. Everywhere, even within the precincts of the monument, frame houses had sprung up, adorned with shapeless staircases that detracted from the majesty of the complex. He recalled a conversation between Monsieur de La Borde and the Marquis de Marigny, the brother of Madame de Pompadour and superintendent of buildings, about the noble plan to restore the palace to its former splendour. He had quoted Voltaire’s complaint at seeing the Louvre, ‘a monument to the greatness of Louis XIV, the zeal of Colbert and the genius of Perrault, hidden by buildings of the Goths and the Vandals’.
A multitude of stalls had taken root in the chinks of the vast edifice. Among them were those selling paintings and engravings. Fakes were more frequent here than genuine works, and the Lieutenancy General of Police was determined to settle a number of serious cases in which rich foreigners, victims of such swindles, had involved their embassies. In 1772, Nicolas had managed to unmask a group of forgers, which had been a salutary warning to the rest of the crooks.
He was well known to the merchants – both honest and dishonest – and his arrival always provoked a shudder of fear. Taking advantage of the presence of enlightened connoisseurs, some second-hand book dealers had chosen to join the sellers of prints and paintings, and offered customers a wide range, from the less good to, occasionally, the best. Nicolas recalled a few happy discoveries, like that of an original edition of François-Pierre de la Varenne’s Le Pâtissier Français. He had presented this small red morocco-bound duodecimo volume, published in Amsterdam in 1655 by Louys and Daniel Elzevir, as a gift to Monsieur de Noblecourt, who had almost swooned at the sight of it. The dealers would visit the houses of the recently deceased, and buy whole libraries from the grieving families. Unfortunately, there was nothing now that was not known about, and rare books had gradually become impossible to find. The few there were would be immediately spotted by scouts who, in the know, no longer offered four sous for treasures which were worth a thousand times as much. Here and there, you also came across banned or condemned books, handled conspiratorially behind the stalls, in the hope of concealing them from the inquisitive glances of the police spies who frequented the place and were on the lookout for anyone bringing illicit brochures to sell or seeking out copies of such lampoons as had escaped the bonfire.
On one of the stalls, Nicolas discovered a Plautus, a Terence, the complete works of Racine and a Lesage, all of which ought to give great pleasure to a schoolboy. He found the sight of the other book lovers amusing, spellbound as they were by the range on offer. Much to the chagrin of the bookseller, who was always afraid that some work of value might be stolen, they would spend hours looking through the books and searching in the crates, often without buying anything in the end.
Absorbed in the account of a journey to the West Indies, Nicolas suddenly felt a hand tugging at one of his coat buttons. Turning, he recognised the humble, contrite face of one of the officers who worked for the Lieutenant General of Police in Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin. The man was not alone: a second henchman, whom Nicolas did not recall having seen before, stood watching.
‘Commissioner,’ said the first man, ‘you must follow us.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We have orders to take you to Monsieur Lenoir immediately.’
Nicolas made an effort to conceal his astonishment. ‘Let me at least pay for my purchases.’
Once that was done, Nicolas found himself in a cab with the two officers. With the windows raised and the curtains drawn, the unpleasant smell of unwashed bodies was overwhelming in such a confined space. He lowered the corner of his hat, withdrawing into himself to reflect on what appeared, for all the world, like an arrest. He was only too familiar with the procedures and customs of a system of which he had long been an agent. He had taken part in so many investigations and shared so many secrets that he could not help but wonder. Everything was possible, he knew. Would he be exiled to the provinces? Surely he was too small a figure for such a great honour. It was more likely that a lettre de cachet had been issued, and that he would be thrown into prison. But they would still have to find a reason to justify such treatment. Although … He laughed, making his two companions look at him in surprise. So many people had been arrested without knowing the reason. He wouldn’t be the first and he wouldn’t be the last! He might as well keep his composure: he would learn his fate soon enough.
Still watched by his two guards, he was left waiting in the antechamber, before the door opened and the friendly face of an elderly valet appeared. He motioned Nicolas to enter, then leaned over and whispered in his ear, ‘He doesn’t know anything himself!’
The old man was clearly talking about Lenoir. What was it he didn’t know? Nicolas approached the desk. His chief was still writing, and had not even looked up.
‘I am grateful to you, Commissioner,’ he said at last, ‘for responding so promptly to my summons.’
‘How could I not, Monseigneur, when I was brought here by two officers? Quite an honour!’
‘I think,’ said Lenoir impassively, ‘that they exceeded my instructions.’
‘They found me, that’s the main thing. As always, our police force has shown itself to be extremely efficient.’
Lenoir folded his hands. ‘I am instructed to …’ for a moment, he searched for the correct word, ‘… invite you to present yourself immediately at the Saint-Florentin mansion. The Duc de La Vrillière, Minister of the King’s Household, has asked to see you.’ He seemed surprised by his own words. ‘I hope,’ he resumed, ‘that you’ve done nothing to offend him. You have not been assigned to any investigation for three months now. You wouldn’t by any chance have become involved in some other case? I’ve already had occasion to deplore your independent behaviour during our first encounter.’
‘Not at all, Monseigneur,’ replied Nicolas. ‘I have obeyed your orders completely and scrupulously. I have done nothing, I have enjoyed my leisure, and I have hunted. With His Majesty.’
His tone was so ironic that Lenoir sighed irritably. ‘Go, and make sure you report back to me on anything that might be of interest to the King’s service.’
‘I shall not fail to do so,’ said Nicolas. ‘I shall take the cab which brought me here and go directly to the minister’s mansion.’
With these words, Nicolas bowed and left the room. He descended the great staircase four steps at a time, watched with astonishment by the two officers, and jumped into the cab. We’re back in business, he thought. His intuition told him that the Duc de La Vrillière needed him.
Notes – CHAPTER I
1. See The Nicolas Le Floch Affair.
2. The author would like to thank Professor Daniel Teyssère of the University of Caen for these details about La Borde.
3. A kind of tunic