The Saint-Florentin Murders (24 page)

He shaved with a dexterity he had inherited from his father. When he had reached the age when he needed to start shaving, much to the consternation of Canon Le Floch, for whom all care of the body was the work of the devil, the marquis had taught him the rudiments and given him a little treatise, which contained instructions on how to shave without danger to oneself, which stones to use for sharpening blades, and how to prepare leather for a strop. He chose a dark-grey coat; the colour was known as
London chimney soot, and it was a recent model from the workshop of his tailor, Master Vachon, the discreet elegance of whose clothes were ideally suited for the end of the period of mourning. He took from his portmanteau some fine Mechlin lace cuffs and a cravat and shirt that were both dazzlingly white, the result of the combined care of Catherine and Marion: the old servant had taught her protégée the use of a charcoal iron, which had not been a feature of her life in military camps. He brushed his hair, straightened his wig, powdered it, arranged the strands of hair that peeped out with a little agate handle, and checked his flattering reflection in the mottled mirror on the dressing table. Last but not least, he fastened the old sword which, two years earlier, a messenger from Brittany had left in Rue Montmartre, wrapped in a blanket, without a word of explanation. Nicolas had recognised the Marquis de Ranreuil’s ceremonial sword and had assumed that it was his half-sister Isabelle who had sent it to him, just as, not long after the death of her father, she had given him the signet ring bearing the family arms, which he would one day pass on to Louis. Nostalgia overcame him for a moment. He closed his eyes and saw again the wild shore of the ocean, almost heard the cries of the seabirds above his head …

Having dismissed the Court carriage, he asked for a cab to take him to the d’Arranet mansion. Night had fallen. Nature was calm again, the wind having dropped at sunset. The hotel-keeper bustled around him obsequiously, suddenly convinced that he was dealing with some important person travelling incognito. Since Peter the Great, northern princes had taken to moving
about under false identities. It was true that Nicolas, with his grave, silent demeanour, looked the part.

Having reached his destination, he was greeted by the formidable footman and former sailor, who gave him a friendly wink.

‘The admiral’s in the library, Monsieur, with that damned butcher who’s suddenly turned up again. He was the one who sewed up my throat after a bloody Biscayan had cut it. He did it in the blink of an eye, while I was biting into a piece of leather soaked with rum. The bastard was good, I’ll give him that. By God, it’s really good to see him again!’

‘Tribord, I like you,’ said Nicolas, slipping a double
louis
into his hand. ‘Dr Semacgus is my friend, too.’

He was happy to discover some unknown aspects of the naval surgeon. The footman opened the door to the library. There was a mixture of odours: the warm smell of candles and the exotic scent of rum. The Comte d’Arranet was at one of the open windows, talking to Semacgus. Their words were punctuated by gales of laughter. Nicolas was struck by the majestic presence of the former general officer, who had put on his uniform for the occasion. Flame-red breeches, a matching doublet braided and embroidered in gold, a blue coat, the sash of the order of Saint Louis threaded through the epaulette on the right shoulder; everything contributed to the splendour of his appearance. The uniform gleamed in the lights, its martial elegance accentuating the energy in d’Arranet’s face. Semacgus, in his black coat and powdered wig, made a distinguished foil for his former chief and companion at arms.

‘Ah, here’s Ranreuil,’ said the admiral, turning. ‘You are both on familiar territory.’

Before it could even get under way, the conversation was interrupted by the sound of a number of carriages stopping at the front steps. The host put down his glass and hurried, one hand supporting his wounded leg, to greet the newcomers. Monsieur de Sartine and La Borde appeared in a symphony of grey, which reinforced Nicolas in his choice of coat. Monsieur d’Arranet introduced Semacgus to the minister, who recalled, with some humour, that he had had the pleasure of finding the naval surgeon innocent in a criminal case during which he had been wrongly imprisoned fourteen years earlier.
1
All of this was recounted with that air of self-satisfaction that always made Nicolas angry, even though he was accustomed to the former Lieutenant General of Police taking credit for his men’s successes. But he was wrong about the object of his annoyance; its target was not Monsieur de Sartine, or only by default. He had in fact just realised that this was a dinner for men only and that Mademoiselle d’Arranet would not be making an appearance. He was surprised at how displeased he felt. Drinks were served and the company grew lively. La Borde immediately drew Nicolas into the garden. He wanted to get something off his chest. His young wife’s health had hardly improved, despite the rigorous treatment to which she was being subjected. Her nervous irritation persisted, accompanied by convulsions and by a melancholy that nothing appeared able to dispel. It was difficult to break through her apathy. Nicolas was upset to see his friend so concerned, and he also sensed that he was still just as affected by the loss of the King. He had not realised, a few days earlier at Noblecourt’s house, how false his good mood had been and how tactfully he had striven not to cast a shadow over the party given in honour of
Louis. He assured him of his loyalty and his wish to be introduced to Madame de La Borde at a more propitious time. Tribord announced that the dinner for the minister was served, and they moved to the dining room.

Nicolas suspected Aimée’s hand in the arrangement and discreet elegance of the table. There was a dazzlingly white table runner on which stood emblazoned items of silverware interspersed with pieces of white coral containing mixed flowers. Monsieur de Sartine presided at the head of the table, with his host on his left, and Monsieur de La Borde on his right. Tribord supervised the five servants who stood behind the guests and served them food and drink. The first course consisted of mussels in an egg and lemon juice sauce, turbot coated in breadcrumbs, and a huge trout frozen in jelly and accompanied by
pannequets
of prawns and carved vegetables. Wine from Champagne and Burgundy waited in silver-gilt cooling pitchers.

‘Admiral,’ said Sartine, ‘you honour me with a most uncommon creature of the depths. I haven’t come across one of this size since those which occasionally appeared at the late King’s little dinners, and which were brought from Switzerland at top speed by relays of couriers. How much does it weigh? Twelve, fifteen pounds?’

‘More than that!’ said d’Arranet, beaming. ‘It’s twenty pounds at least and yesterday morning was still swimming in Lake Geneva. I love fresh fish, although some claim that you should leave it for a few days to enhance the taste. I’m not one of them.’

‘It’s true of skate,’ said Semacgus, ‘which is inedible on the first day. But you have to be careful. A little too long and the animal gets too much ammonia and starts to smell.’

‘Is fishing practised on our vessels?’

‘During longer crossings, it can be a pleasant diversion, and a definite improvement on the routine fare on board. I can still see Semacgus, abeam off Taranto, catching some fifteen tuna in a row! The crew thought they were eating fresh meat. That was on the frigate
Cassiopée
.’

‘Otherwise, it’s always beef and salted pork, I suppose?’

‘Always,’ said the comte, ‘and it’s often old and rotten. Now there’s a reform you could make: supplies.’

‘You never take live cattle or poultry on board?’

‘Yes, of course! On departure and at every port of call. But they don’t last long, and if there’s a battle, it’s a disaster. All it takes is one cannonball hitting a scuttle, and it’s farewell to the livestock.’

‘I observe,’ said Sartine pensively, ‘that supplying the navy is not a simple business. Well, I’ve come here wanting to learn. I’ve never sailed.’

‘Nor I,’ said La Borde.

‘I crossed the English Channel on a steamship,’ said Nicolas.

‘Comte,’ Sartine went on, ‘you’re an old sailor, I mean an experienced sailor, not one of those officers who are all show but never put to sea, you know what I mean … What advice would you give me?’

‘God forbid that I should presume to give advice to one of my master’s ministers! However, I can make a few fairly obvious suggestions. The first is that you must restore hope to the navy. Monsieur de Choiseul may have meant well, in his day, but this century has been disastrous for a force so vital to the greatness of France.’

‘It is a false accusation that people make against the late King,’ Sartine replied curtly. ‘Not you, Admiral, but others. The truth is that it was all a matter of savings and economy. Louis XV used to complain bitterly about it, but his ministers did nothing to raise his hopes. To tell the truth, we were living with political choices conceived under the Regency and pursued by Cardinal Fleury.’

‘And on what principles were these choices based?’ asked La Borde.

They broke off while the second course was laid on the table: pigs’ trotters with truffles, a hare pie and a salad of young rabbit. A Madeira brought back from the Indies, which they immediately sampled, met with unanimous approval.

‘To answer your question,’ resumed Sartine, ‘it is necessary to understand that our policy consisted of not making the other maritime powers jealous, especially England. It was believed that the surest way to maintain peace was to reduce the navy in order not to offend that nation.’

‘But, Monseigneur,’ cried d’Arranet passionately, ‘it is contrary to the honour and interests of the kingdom to have left our navy in the same state of weakness and decay for so long!’

‘Alas! As I said, the incompetence of the people involved, the financial crisis, the constant problem of debt, and the permanent opposition of the
parlements
, all these factors conspired to compromise everything. For more than twenty years, when Monsieur de Maurepas was in charge of the navy, he hoped to obtain a ratio of one to three in relation to the English fleet, but couldn’t manage it. Will I? I’m certainly going to try my best,
especially now that events in the English colonies in America have made it vital for us to stay on the alert. Have I answered your question, Admiral?’

‘Yes, indeed! But my second suggestion is a bolder one. I fear that we need to reflect on the way we fight. Let me explain. We French fight in a line and try essentially to knock down the enemy’s masts and cripple him. Applied mechanically, this tactic encourages routine and makes it impossible for us to adapt to circumstances. The English method is quite different; they fire directly into the hull. You should see the damage when a
well-aimed
shot has sliced through a ship, the splinters of wood like so many daggers … And what about when a vessel is behind you and tearing your stern to pieces with general fire that goes the whole length of the ship? The loss of life is appalling. Not to mention the fact that it takes a long time to replace the most experienced men.’

‘So what do you suggest?’ asked Sartine.

‘That we need to think about it! A career at sea requires courage, endurance, competence, but also reflection and a spirit of decisiveness in the most varied circumstances. I don’t think one should become too attached to a single tactic, but that each should be applied as and when the situation calls for it, sometimes both in succession. I know the English are very well trained. They really learn how to fire, how to board an enemy ship in heavy weather, and everything’s always precisely timed. While we, on the other hand, train very little and always with the thought of making savings. Faced with the enemy’s formidable efficiency, we’ve paid a high price for our lack of training!’

‘I tend to agree with you,’ Semacgus cut in. ‘When the time
comes for battle, the amount of time spent at sea counts more than the size of the cannon!’

‘Talking of cannon, Monseigneur,’ d’Arranet went on, ‘I hope your offices have sent you the announcement of the invention by an English engineer of a new type of cannon: the caronade, which is already being used by the Royal Navy.’

‘I’ve heard of it,’ replied Sartine, ‘though I haven’t quite grasped how it works.’

‘It’s shorter, doesn’t have wheels, and its gun carriage consists of two wooden boards that can be slid one on top of the other. Its great interest, apart from that, is that it has a line of sight and a lever with a threaded shaft that make it possible to give the weapon the desired angle of fire. With a double load or filled with grapeshot, the caronade can cause havoc …’

Sartine was thinking. He glanced around him. The servants had cleared away the second course, and no one could overhear.

‘I have a plan, my friends, to create a service whose job will be to gather information on the English fleet and what those gentlemen in the Admiralty have in store for us. It’s all still a bit vague in my mind, but the salvation of the State depends on being well informed. We’ll have to do some recruiting to find suitable men for this great project.’

He threw Nicolas a long, eloquent look. The servants were coming back, and the comte created a diversion.

‘The frigate is the queen of battleships,’ he declared. ‘Quick, and easy to handle. The seventy-four has good firing strength and can still manoeuvre. Apart from that, they’re ungovernable monsters whose losses are proportionate to their mass. Just think: nearly nine hundred men on board! It’s not a good idea to put all
one’s eggs in one basket … Finally, Monsieur, one last thing: I believe it’s necessary to develop infantry on our vessels. At sea, our crews are not armed. They’re handed out rifles and pikes. I think it would be advisable to strengthen a corps to provide heavy fire during close combat or boarding.’

‘A well-aimed shot that kills the commander can change the outcome of a battle,’ said Semacgus. ‘That’s happened before.’

The third course was ready: bacon pies, ramekins of Italian cheese, puréed partridge, duck à l’espagnole, tendrons of veal with Bengal curry, cardoons with grated cheese, and fried celery.