‘So, my Shakespearian friend, what is your opinion of last night? “Paint me Nicolas distraught amid these horrors …”’
‘Lack of preparation, improvisation, coincidence and disorder.’
He gave a brief account of the night’s events, without going into details which Sartine surely knew, since Sartine always seemed to be well informed, in some mysterious but effective way, about anything, whether happy or tragic, that happened in the capital with whose care he was entrusted. He mentioned the incident with the major from the City Guards, and described the layout of the area, the absence of any organisation, the initial episode with the fireworks and the disaster that had been its inevitable consequence. He did not fail to mention how certain privileged individuals had distinguished themselves on this battlefield by laying about them with their canes or even their swords and sending their carriages rushing through the crowd, nor how circumstances had left the field clear for crooks and thugs from the faubourgs.
Sartine had sat down in a bergère covered in crimson satin and was listening with his eyes half closed, his chin on his hand. Nicolas noted his pallor, his drawn features, the dark patches on his cheekbones. When he had met Sartine for the first time, it had struck him that he looked older than his age – a fact the Lieutenant General played on to assert his authority when confronted with older interlocutors who might consider him a young upstart. He did not deign to look at Nicolas until the latter’s account of his adventures as a chimney sweep. At that point he looked sharply at his deputy’s clothes, confirming to Nicolas that he had done the right thing in changing them. The satisfied smile that lit up his chief’s face for a fraction of a second was highly gratifying.
‘Yes,’ Sartine said, ‘it’s as I feared …’
He seemed to feel a kind of bitter joy in observing that, once again, events had justified his anxieties. He brought his fist down on the beautiful inlaid backgammon table before him.
‘I did, however, indicate to His Majesty that the city authorities were not in a position to control an event of that size.’ He thought for a moment, then went on, ‘Eleven years with no disasters, no mistakes, and now this Bignon, this cheap, stupid, powerless provost, usurps my authority, poaches on my territory and cuts the ground from beneath my feet!’
‘We’ll soon be able to apportion blame,’ Nicolas ventured.
‘Do you really believe that? Have you ever had to deal with these snakes? At court, the war of tongues can be deadlier than a battlefield. Calumny …’
Nicolas’s body still ached in places, bearing witness to the risks he had taken and the dangers he had confronted, which were just as real as those with which the Lieutenant General was now faced. ‘Monsieur,’ he said, ‘your past, the confidence that the monarch—’
‘Balderdash, Monsieur! Favour is by essence volatile, as our drawing room apothecaries and chemists say! People always remember the bad things we are supposed to have done. Do they ever take into account our efforts and our successes? Well, that’s as it should be. We are the King’s servants, for better or worse, and whatever it may cost us. But that this ridiculous provost, who has used his alliances and relationships to advance himself and who has obtained everything without having to make any effort, and certainly without deserving it, that such a man should be the cause of my disgrace, that’s something I can’t get over. He’s the kind of person who’s puffed up with pride when he mounts a good horse, or sports a plume in his hat, or wears fine clothes. What nonsense! If there’s any glory in those things, it should go to the horse, the bird or the tailor!’
Again he struck the gaming table. Nicolas, astonished by this uncharacteristic outburst, suspected a touch of play-acting in his chief – and suspected, too, that his last words had been a quotation, although he could not immediately identify it.
‘But we’re straying from the point,’ Sartine went on. ‘Listen carefully. You’ve been with me for a long time now and you are the only person I can tell these things. The reason I feel so strongly about this affair is that beneath such struggles for influence, major interests are always at play. You know that I am friendly with the First Minister, the Duc de Choiseul. Even though they had their disagreements and didn’t always trust each other, by and large he was close to Madame de Pompadour …’ He broke off. ‘You had dealings with her, didn’t you?’
‘I often had the privilege of speaking with her and serving her, when I first started working for you.’
‘And even, if I remember correctly, performing some signal services for her.2 The last time our poor friend received me, she was no more than a shadow of her former self … She was burning hot and complained of being frozen, her face looked drawn, and her complexion was pale and mottled …’
The Lieutenant General broke off, as if the memory was too painful to evoke.
‘I’m straying from the point again. My relations with the new favourite are quite different. She has neither the contacts, nor the political grasp, nor the subtle influence of the lady of Choisy,3 who was distinguished by her education, her studied elegance, her sure taste in arts and letters, and her native charm – well, she was born under the sign of Pisces. This one’s a decent enough girl, but she’s been thrown into the subtle ins and outs of the Court without preparation, apart from the wrong kind, perhaps.’
He lowered his voice, and looked around at the shelves of his library.
‘The worst of it is, whatever’s been achieved during the day she undoes at night. By arousing the old King’s senses she ensures her influence. Choiseul is obsessed with getting his revenge on the English. As he’s unsure how long he’ll keep his position, he’s in such a hurry to achieve this end that he has a tendency to rush in and make stupid blunders. He’s antagonized the new mistress or, more precisely, he resents her for having succeeded where his own sister, Madame de Choiseul-Stainville, failed – God knows she put her heart and soul into it! What’s all this to do with me, you will ask. I’ve been dragged into this quarrel against my will. Keep this to yourself: on the King’s orders, I had to go to Madame du Barry and protest my loyalty. I had to promise her, almost on my knees, that I would do everything I could to prevent the publication of scandalous writings, which, unfortunately for me, have multiplied and spread – the work of journalists and printers paid for by Monsieur de Choiseul himself.’
‘I recall, Monsieur, your ordering me to track down a lampoon called The Nocturnal Orgies of Fontainebleau. But where does Provost Jérôme Bignon fit in to all this?’
‘There’s the rub. He’s wooing Madame du Barry. You see, my dear Nicolas, the regrettable position in which last night’s events place me, apart from my sadness at any example of bad administration by the city authorities. I’ll be held responsible, because no one knows that the celebrations were taken out of my hands.’
‘And yet the marriage of the Dauphin does seem like a genuine success on Choiseul’s part. Everyone sees it as his crowning achievement. He always wanted to forge an alliance with Austria.’
‘You’re right, but nothing is closer to a precipice than a summit. You now have all the inside information I can give you – except for one other thing. Last night, His Majesty and Madame du Barry went to Bellevue to see the fireworks from the terrace of the chateau. They didn’t know anything of the tragedy at the time. On the other hand, the Dauphine and the King’s daughters went to Paris. On Cours-la-Reine, they were admiring the illuminations when they heard cries of terror that got them all aflutter. The coaches did an about-turn, with the princess in tears …’
He stood up, checked the position of his wig and readjusted it with both hands.
‘Commissioner, here are my instructions. They must be followed to the letter. You will use every means necessary to draw up a report