The Phantom of the Rue Royale: Nicolas Le Floch Investigation #3 - Jean-Francois Parot

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enter Rue de Bourbon. From inside the carriage, an arrogant voice gave the order to push the rabble aside and carry on regardless. The coachman was already urging the horses forward when Nicolas seized one of them by the bit to stop its progress and said something in its ear, a method he often used with his own mounts. With his finger, he massaged the animal’s gum, and the horse quivered and moved back. Turning his head, he saw Semacgus leaning over the wounded man, feeling his neck and holding a small pocket mirror in front of his lips. The surgeon helped the old lady to her feet and looked around for help. Two men appeared, carrying a table on which they carefully laid the victim. A man dressed all in black brought up the rear. Semacgus said something in his ear, and he took charge of the old woman.

      Nicolas felt a blow on his shoulder. The horse shied in fright and almost fell backwards. He turned to discover a glittering mass of bright gold stripes, and recognised the blue and red uniform of an officer of the City Guards. A broad, crimson face with cold little eyes, the very image of rage. It was the passenger from the carriage, who had got out and angrily struck Nicolas with the flat of his sword.

      ‘At the King’s service, Monsieur,’ Nicolas said. ‘You have just struck a magistrate, a commissioner of police at the Châtelet.’

      The crowd had moved closer and was following the scene with noticeable annoyance.

      ‘At the city’s service,’ the officer replied. ‘Move aside. My name is Major Langlumé, of the City Guards. I am on my way to the Place Louis XV to make sure that the festivities organised by the provost are proceeding in an orderly fashion. In accordance with the King’s decision, Monsieur Sartine’s people are not involved.’

      The regulations were categorical: it was out of the question for Nicolas to cross swords with this brute, even though he was itching to do so. He suddenly saw the onlookers closest to them, including some with especially sinister faces, gathering stones. What followed happened so quickly that nothing and nobody could have prevented it. A hail of stones, even a piece of rubble from a house under construction, fell on the carriage and horses. The major was hit on the temple, resulting in a gash. Shouting and swearing, he quickly got back into the carriage and resigned himself to having it move back into Rue de Bellechasse. Through the broken window, he waved a vengeful fist at Nicolas.

      ‘I admire your capacity for making friends,’ said Semacgus, who had approached. ‘Our victim will be fine with a plaster. He’d only fainted from a cut to the head, but he lost a lot of blood, which is always dramatic! I handed him and his wife over to an apothecary, who will do what’s necessary. What were they thinking of, at their age, running around the streets like youngsters, with all this upheaval going on? I’ve seen some pretty dubious-looking characters here, and my watch nearly ended up in someone else’s hands.’

      ‘I’d have got it back for you!’ Nicolas said. ‘The day before yesterday, at a grand supper given by the Emperor’s ambassador at Petit Luxembourg, I unmasked a criminal who had somehow wormed his way into the party and was trying to steal a watch from the Graf von Starhenberg, Maria Theresa’s former ambassador in Paris. The Graf was kind enough to write to Monsieur de Sartine and compliment him on the excellence of his police force, “the finest in Europe”, as you called it just now. I’ve also seen some doubtful behaviour here. It makes me worry about what’s going to happen next. What a coincidence – the person responsible for security at the festivities is that same jumped-up individual who was just now trying to pick a quarrel with me.’

      ‘Bah! Those people aren’t professionals. They’re a bourgeois guard who can buy their way in.’

      ‘And there’s a great deal of competition between them and the men of the watch. One day we’ll have to do something about it. The divisions between these various forces have rendered them powerless, and they’re more interested in scoring points off each other than in serving the public. But I’m wandering from the point. Think of it – the man in charge isn’t even in position yet to keep order in this great throng of people!’

      Nicolas sank back into his thoughts. Their carriage finally managed to get onto Pont Royal, where a motley mixture of pedestrians and a tangle of vehicles gave the impression of an army in flight. The Quai des Tuileries was no easier to negotiate than the rest of the route. Two turbulent streams – one coming from the left bank and another, just as large and just as disorderly, emerging from the Quai des Galeries du Louvre – came together and tried, with a great deal of pushing and shoving, to share the roadway.

      ‘The road seems to be blocked at Pont Saint-Nicolas.’

      That was enough to set Semacgus off again. ‘There’s not even a vessel of the line to delight the Parisians. When I was a child – the Duc d’Orléans was still regent – my father took me to see a Dutch ship with eight cannon moored there.’

      Nicolas was becoming impatient, tapping with his fingers on the window. It was almost completely dark by now, and the coachmen were stopping to light lanterns, which merely added to the chaos and slowness of the convoy. When they reached Terrasse des Feuillants, Nicolas gestured to his friend that they should abandon their carriage. He ordered the coachman to go back to the Châtelet: they would find their own way back after the festivities, and, besides, they were supposed to be having supper at the Dauphin Couronné in Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré, the house run by their old acquaintance La Paulet. Their progress through the crowd, which was getting denser all the time, was something of a miracle. Several times, Semacgus drew Nicolas’s attention to a number of threatening-looking characters mingling with the throng in little groups. Nicolas shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of powerlessness. They found themselves sucked into an eddy of people. Jostled, crushed, half-carried, they somehow managed to reach Place Louis XV. Here, too, two swollen streams of people and carriages met, one coming from the Quai des Tuileries and the other from the Cours-la-Reine promenade. Standing on tiptoe, Nicolas noticed that more and more carriages had parked on the quai, unchecked by any representative of authority.

      Pushed as they were in opposing directions, they found it a real struggle to get to the ambassadors’ mansion. What made Nicolas especially anxious was the realisation that there were no guards to be seen anywhere. Fortunately, he thought, no member of the royal family was due to be present at the display. They made their way, not without difficulty, past the structure that had been built in front of the statue of Louis XV: a Temple of Hymen with a magnificent colonnade. A kind of parapet ran all the way round it, at the four corners of which were dolphins ready to spew forth whirls of fire. The four sides of the temple were covered with symbols of rivers, also destined to spurt fire in sheets and cascades. The whole structure was surmounted by a pyramid with a globe on top. Semacgus criticised the proportions, finding them deeply flawed. Nicolas noted that most of the initial elements of the display had been placed around this structure, while behind the statue, on the side closest to the river, was a bastion from which the grand finale would be launched.

      At the ambassadors’ mansion, they were greeted by Monsieur de La Briche, secretary to Monsieur de Séqueville, and the man responsible for presenting the ambassadors to the king. He seemed to be beside himself and was finding it hard to catch his breath.

      ‘Ah, Monsieur Le Floch, you see me under constant attack by harpies … I mean, by the ministers accredited to His Majesty. Despite my pleas, the city authorities have distributed more reserved places than actually exist. The ambassadors’ bench is overflowing. As for the chargés d’affaires, I’m going to have to seat them on each other’s knees. Monsieur de Séqueville had the same problem at Versailles during the wedding celebrations …’

      He paused to scold two pages who were banging a newly painted wall with the bench they were carrying.

      ‘I keep adding more benches. How can I be of help to you, Monsieur Le Floch – where is my head? – Monsieur le Marquis?’

      ‘Le Floch will suffice,’ Nicolas said with a smile.

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