decorated with a Gobelins tapestry depicting the bloody wedding of Jason and Creusa.’
‘A remarkably tactless thing to do, to say the least. A deceived woman who takes her revenge, Creusa burned to death by a magic tunic, and Jason’s two children with their throats cut.’
‘Well, Sartine was hoping – since it is his prerogative – to have control over the Parisian part of the celebrations. But Bignon had already engineered it so that the responsibility fell to him. The King didn’t want to antagonise the magistrates of a city he hates and which feels the same way about him.’
‘All the same, Nicolas, we shouldn’t judge the city authorities too harshly before seeing them in action.’
‘I admire your confidence. Provost Bignon, whose motto is Ibi non rem,1 has a reputation for being incompetent, vain and stubborn. Monsieur de Sartine told me that when he was appointed the King’s librarian, his uncle, Monsieur d’Argenson, is supposed to have said, ‘What an excellent opportunity, nephew, now you can learn to read.’ The fact that he’s now a member of the Academy has of course only added to his conceit. But that’s nothing compared with how little thought has gone into the preparations for these festivities.’
‘That’s as may be. But are things so bad that you must get into this terrible state?’
‘Judge for yourself. Firstly, these gentlemen of the city haven’t taken any security measures. The whole thing is potentially like a rush of blood to the heart of the capital. Nobody’s even thought about how the carriages are going to gain access, whereas for the least performance at the Opéra, we carefully regulate the traffic on the approach roads. Remember when the new auditorium was inaugurated? We were there together. Remember all the measures we took to avoid congestion and disorder? The French Guards stationed all the way from Pont Royal to Pont Neuf? Traffic flowed easily all the way up to the immediate vicinity of the building. We had thought it all through, down to the smallest detail.’
Semacgus smiled at this royal ‘we’, encompassing both the Lieutenant of Police and his faithful deputy.
‘And secondly?’
‘Secondly, the architect given the task of building the structure for the fireworks didn’t even bother to level the area, which was a building site not so long ago. In places, there are still trenches in the ground, and that’s very worrying. The crowd could easily fall in. Thirdly, no provision has been made for allowing the distinguished guests – the ambassadors, the aldermen, the city authorities – to gain access. How will they get through this flood of people? And lastly, in defiance of custom, the provost has refused to grant a general bonus of a thousand crowns to the French Guards. So the streets are left to the City Guards, whose one concern over the past few days has been to show off the spruce new uniforms they’ve been given for the occasion by the municipality.’
‘Come now, don’t get so worked up. It may not turn out as badly as you think. The people will probably end the evening making merry on the victuals and wine provided by the provost.’
‘Alas, no! That’s another thing. According to my sources, the city authorities, in their anxiety to put on a firework display even more lavish than the King’s at Versailles, first tried to skimp on the food and drink and finally decided to do away with it altogether.’
‘No food and drink for the people! How stupid can they be?’
‘Instead, there’s to be a fair on the boulevards, but the stallholders have had to pay dearly for their pitches in order to meet some of the cost of the fireworks. You know how expensive such displays are. In short, the omens are not good. What annoys me is that I’m powerless to do anything. I’m here to report on what I see, nothing more.’
‘What on earth is the provost for, anyway?’
‘Not very much. Ever since His Majesty’s grandfather created the post of Lieutenant of Police, he has lost most of his prerogatives. He has a few trifles left, above all managing city property and taking out loans. He also cuts a decorative figure at ceremonies, with his red satin robe, his split gown – half red, half tan – and matching hat.’
‘I see!’ Semacgus said. ‘He’s like one of those pins or nails that are considered absolutely essential for holding together the parts of a building, but which in themselves are probably worth precisely nothing.’
Nicolas laughed heartily at this jibe. A long silence ensued, during which the noise of the carriages, the cries of the coachmen and the shuffling of the advancing crowd filled the carriage like the sound of rising waves in a storm at sea.
‘You haven’t said anything about the past two weeks, Nicolas. Nor have you told me what impression our future queen made on you.’
‘I accompanied His Majesty to Pont de Berne, in the forest of Compiègne, to greet the Dauphine.’ He lifted his head somewhat boastfully. ‘I rode beside the royal coach, and even received an amused smile from the princess when my horse reared and I almost fell. The King cried, “Steady, Ranreuil, steady!” as if we were out hunting.’
Semacgus smiled at his friend’s youthful enthusiasm. ‘Hard to find anyone more in favour than you!’
‘On the evening of the wedding, there was gambling in the King’s apartments, and the firework display was postponed until the following Saturday because of the storm. It was a great success, a dazzling sight. Two thousand giant rockets and an equal number of bombs. The whole park was lit up, all the way to the Grand Canal. There, a structure a hundred feet high representing the Temple of the Sun, exploded into a thousand extravaganzas. There was an enormous number of spectators, and the official responsible for the ambassadors had to settle endless quarrels of precedence among the notable guests on the balconies of the palace.’
‘And what of the Dauphine?’
‘She’s still a child. Beautiful, yes, but unformed. A graceful gait. Lovely blonde hair. Rather a long face with blue eyes and a magnificent porcelain complexion. I’m less fond of her mouth: her lower lip is too thick and droops. Monsieur de la Borde claims she is quite slovenly and that the Dauphin is rather uncomfortable with that …’
‘All very courtly of you, Nicolas!’ Semacgus laughed. ‘I sense the policeman in you rather than the private man. And the Dauphin?’
‘Berry is a very tall, gangly young man, quite abrupt in his manner. He sways as he walks and gives the impression that he hears and sees nothing, or that everything is strange to him. On the wedding night, the King strongly advised him to … well, to think of the succession …’
‘First Minister Choiseul does not spare our future king,’ Semacgus observed. ‘According to him he’s incompetent. And they say the Dauphin won’t even speak to Choiseul because of an offensive remark he once made to his late father.’
‘A remark amounting almost to lese-majesty: Choiseul begged heaven to spare him from having to obey the future king!’
The carriage stopped suddenly, pitching them forward. Straightening up, Nicolas opened the door and jumped out. A traffic jam, he thought. What had happened, in fact, was that a berlin emerging from Rue de Bellechasse had tried to join the long line of vehicles in Rue de Bourbon. With some difficulty, Nicolas made his way through the gathered onlookers. If only he had listened to the wise counsel offered by Semacgus, who had suggested crossing Pont de Sèvres and reaching Place Louis XV via the right bank of the Seine. He had insisted on taking a more direct route via the left bank and Pont Royal. He finally broke through a circle of onlookers who were looking down at a distressing sight on the ground.
An old man, who must have been knocked down by the berlin, was lying in his own blood, his face white and his eyes rolled upwards. His wig and hat had slipped off to reveal a smooth skull the colour of ivory. An old woman in bourgeois clothes was kneeling by the body, her cape in disarray, weeping silently and trying to lift the wounded man’s head. Unable to do so, she began gently stroking his cheek.