The Châtelet Apprentice Read Free Page A

Samaritaine. The workshops along the Quai de la Mégisserie were beginning to open, the tanners settling down to their day’s work now that the sun had risen. He walked along this foul-smelling bank with a handkerchief held to his nose.
    The mighty prison of the Châtelet rose up before him, dour and gloomy. He had never set eyes on it but guessed what it was. Uncertain how to proceed, he entered an archway dimly lit by oil lanterns. A man wearing a long dark gown passed him, and Nicolas called out:
    â€˜Monsieur, I would like your help. I’m looking for the offices of the Lieutenant General of Police.’
    The man looked him up and down and, after an apparently thorough examination, answered him with a self-important air:
    â€˜The Lieutenant General of Police is holding a private audience. Normally he sends someone to represent him, but Monsieur de Sartine is taking up office today and is presiding in person. Presumably you know that his department is to be foundin Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, near Place Vendôme, but he still has an office in the Châtelet. Go and see his staff on the first floor. There’s an usher at the door, you cannot mistake it. Do you have the necessary introduction?’
    Wisely, Nicolas was careful not to reply. He took his leave politely and went off towards the staircase. At the end of the gallery, beyond a glass-panelled door, he found himself in an immense room with bare walls. A man was seated at a deal desk and looked as if he were nibbling his hands. As he approached, Nicolas realised that in fact it was one of those hard, dry biscuits that sailors ate.
    â€˜Good day to you, Monsieur. I would like to know whether Monsieur de Sartine will receive me.’
    â€˜The audacity! Monsieur de Sartine does not receive visitors.’
    â€˜I must insist.’ (Nicolas sensed that everything depended on his insistence and he attempted to make his voice sound more assertive.) ‘I have, Monsieur, an audience this morning.’
    With instinctive quick-wittedness Nicolas waved before the usher the great missive bearing the armorial seal of the Marquis de Ranreuil. If he had presented the little note from the prior, he would doubtless have been shown the door immediately. This bold stroke shut the man up and, muttering something under his breath, he respectfully took possession of the letter and showed him a seat.
    â€˜As you wish, but you’ll have to wait.’
    The usher lit his pipe and then withdrew into a silence that Nicolas would dearly have liked to break in order to allay his anxiety. He was reduced to contemplating the wall. Towards eleven o’clock, the room filled with people. A small man entered, to the accompaniment of polite whisperings. He wasdressed in magistrate’s robes with a leather portfolio under his arm, and he disappeared through a door that had been left ajar, allowing a glimpse of a brightly lit drawing room. A few moments later the usher rapped on the door and he, too, disappeared. When he came back, he beckoned Nicolas to go in.
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    The magistrate’s gown lay on the floor and the Lieutenant General of Police, dressed in a black coat, stood in front of a desk made of rare wood with gleaming bronze ornaments. He was reading the Marquis de Ranreuil’s letter with intense concentration. The office was an ill-proportioned room, the bareness of the stone and the tiled floor contrasting with the luxury of the furniture and the rugs. The light from several candelabra added to the weak rays of the winter sun and to the red glow from the Gothic fireplace, illuminating Monsieur de Sartine’s pale face. He looked older than he was. His most striking feature was his high, bare forehead. His already greying natural hair was carefully combed and powdered. A pointed nose sharpened the features of a face lit from within by two steel-grey eyes that sparkled with irony. Though short of stature, his erect bearing emphasised his