This was followed by several sighs.
‘That’s the wine dealt with! What a bother – it’ll kill me, I tell you! Next, go to the perfume seller. First of all, I need some beef marrow pomade with orange blossom for my poor hair. For the girls, a dozen bars of scented Naples soap, and some of those small marble bars as well. Don’t forget the virgin milk. My, that’s well named! Are you laughing, you little devil? How dare you?’
He heard a fan strike flesh.
‘You asked for that! We also need a bottle of kidney vetch in liquid form for La Mouchet who collapsed into the bed twice last week and, what’s worse, she was with a bishop at the time! Admittedly, he did ask her to … Oh, you’ll learn about these things in good time. Anyway, we still need some of those little sponges for … Well, I know what I mean. Now get on with you – I hear someone.’
The maid – a small girl – withdrew. Nicolas had approached. There indeed was La Paulet, that monster of flesh, sprawling across a chaise longue, and buried in a grey silk dress from which her huge arms emerged. Her face, which seemed to have shrunk, was covered as usual with ceruse and rouge applied like plaster. What was new was the blonde wig, with its serried ranks of curls.
‘Well, well, it’s our commissioner! That rascal Nicolas, who kept his old friend waiting all night! I’m joking, I know that when duty calls, you policemen have better things to do than amuse an emaciated old thing like me.’
‘You underestimate yourself,’ Nicolas said. ‘There’s still plenty of flesh on your bones and, what’s more, I find you in a palace of such splendour as to leave me breathless.’
If it had not been for the thick plaster covering her face, Nicolas would have seen her blush.
‘So,’ she simpered, ‘you’ve noticed the change? I’ve been in a whirl for the past month. The devil take these guilds and artisans! Twenty times I thought I was going to die, and the money I had to spend to feed them all! But I’m no fool: I’d never let anything be done in my house without having my say. Nobody’s going to swindle La Paulet. But what has to be done has to be done! All the same,’ she went on with a learned air, ‘what do I know? Sometimes, our own opinions aren’t the best. Ah, I see your eyes light up at the thought of cornering your old friend and finding dishonest reasons for this prosperity. You’re so good at wheedling things out of me. You don’t believe for a moment that I’ve discovered treasure.’
Nicolas smiled. ‘Certainly not, but I must admit I’m surprised by such magnificence.’
‘Ah, my good sir, there is a God, and he looks on those with pure hands, not full ones. You know how sweet and innocent I am. Well, he filled them for me.’
‘Filled what?’
‘My hands, my hands! Do you remember I once treated you to a ratafia from the West Indies given to me by an old acquaintance? My taste buds are still tingling. You were mad about it. It was that time when my parrot Sartine – it still makes me cry – died of shock after the violence you inflicted on us.’
‘It was in a good cause, my dear.’
‘Yes, to make me talk. But that’s all in the past and I never bear grudges. I was perfectly happy with our arrangement and you can testify that I’ve kept to it. We’ll talk about that later.’
‘I’ll gladly give you that testimony. But what about this fortune?’
‘I’m coming to it. This acquaintance of my youth – God, how I loved him in those days – died and I didn’t even know. Communications with the West Indies had broken down because of the war with the English. Anyway, six months ago this rascal appeared. Despite the layers of powder on his wig, he stank of writs and seizures and lettres de cachet and other nasty things. When I saw him there, all dressed in black, I said to myself, “Paulette, this means trouble!” I even thought he might be a new agent of the Lieutenant General’s. Can you imagine? I was afraid they’d taken my Nicolas from me!’
She gave him a wink, which caused two or three pieces of her make-up to fall off, making her right eye look bigger.
‘Anyway, I put on my most welcoming air. The fellow opens a portfolio. Turns out he’s a notary, and a posh one, too – you just have to see his coach to know that. Straight out, he tells me that, Fortune being the daughter of Providence, my old friend, a rich planter, has died and, having no children, has made me his heir.’
‘His heir?’
‘Knowing that I wouldn’t cross the seas – even thirty years ago I refused to do that – his business manager sold his property, and the notary had come to inform me that a huge sum was waiting for me at a Paris bank. I pocketed the windfall, convinced that good fortune is no sin and that, if you don’t want to become a miser, you need to know how to spend.’
‘Always a good girl.’
‘More than you know! I’m getting on in years; there’s nothing I can do about that. This house is not a bauble; someone has to run it. These days, the girls don’t respect authority like they used to. If you ever give in to them on anything, everything goes out the window. The profession has changed, and keeps changing. Once, you came up out of the gutter and, as long as you had brains and common sense, you could end up quite well off. I started as a flower girl. Oh, you should have seen me: I was a lovely girl, always happy, able to play hard to get when I had to, discreet when I needed to be. It didn’t take me long to realise that the reason we have two ears but only one mouth is because we need to listen more than to speak. I found an old beau, a bit over the hill, but very neat and tidy, very gentle with me and willing to turn a blind eye to my younger suitors.’
‘Old men can be like books,’ Nicolas said. ‘Full of excellent things, even though they’re often worm-eaten, powdery and poorly bound.’
They both laughed.
‘Gradually I made enough money to put together a nice little nest-egg. I built up a discreet but well-to-do clientele. That’s how I managed to build this house. But the wind turns and, like I said before, the profession isn’t what it was. We feel it, we mother superiors. As I’m sure you know, there are more and more girls working in isolation, most of them riddled with the pox. Our houses are well maintained, but we need to adapt to change. Wealthy customers are always looking for something new. They want “novelties”. Our houses have always survived on force of habit, but luxury and refinement are the necessary commodities today. Well, I’ve embraced this way of thinking. I’ve invested part of my inheritance in adapting this place to modern tastes. But I’m getting older, and my legs are so swollen they won’t carry me any more. I can still look after the beginners, and I can keep order among the girls, even though they’re so wild these days – they’re getting harder and harder to select! So I’ll stay in the house to keep an eye open for trouble, but I’ve decided to pass on the torch.’
‘And who is the rare bird who’s to succeed you?’ asked Nicolas sternly. ‘Don’t forget, we have a say in the matter.’
‘There he goes, playing the stern taskmaster! But I’m quite certain you’ll be delighted with my choice, Commissioner. She’s going to be my heir; she’ll have everything that’s mine, provided I’m pleased with her work and she takes care of me when I’m old. She’s someone who’s been through hard times. She’s not some flighty young thing – she has a head on her shoulders. The Lord tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, thank God. The only thing that worries me a little is that she’s too soft-hearted, but no one’s perfect, and she’ll get harder. As for me, if everything works out well, I’ll retire to my property in Auteuil. You have to know when to let go. My experience and all this novelty does not make for the best mixture. Blend Suresnes wine with burgundy and I guarantee you’ll get a disgusting brew.’
‘Are you going to tell me the name of your find?’
‘She’s right behind you,’ came a soft voice from somewhere close to Nicolas.
He immediately recognised it: it was a voice he had never forgotten. How many times had he heard it whispering passionate words in his ear? The memory of La Satin1 had always remained precious to him. Their relationship
had lasted for a long time, but the unease, not to say the fear, he felt at the work she did and the life she led had eventually distanced him from her. He turned. My God, how beautiful she was! Even more beautiful than he remembered. With serene, tranquil eyes, she was looking at him tenderly. The silky curls of her hair were lifted at the back, leaving her neck and shoulders bare, and he remembered how he used to devour that neck and those shoulders with kisses so ardent that she would complain of the marks he left in her flesh. Her breasts swelled above a bodice of Alençon lace. A loose pigeon-blue silk dress gave her figure an air of languor. All her old charm was still there, but as if purified. She came to him and put her arms round his neck. He quivered when their lips met.
‘Well, my doves,’ said La Paulet. ‘Now that’s what I call a nice reunion!’
She clapped her hands. The African maid reappeared, and with a dancing step drew back the curtains of one of the alcoves. There was a table there, and on it stood a cooling pitcher of almond-green porcelain containing a number of bottles of Champagne. Beside the table, a circular bed promised other delights.
‘My children,’ La Paulet went on, ‘I’ll leave you to it. I need to go upstairs and tend to my legs. I’m sure you have a lot to talk about! The meal will be small, but refined. Those who gorge themselves, as a duke of my acquaintance says,2 are not true gourmets, and nothing is more dispiriting to the talent of a cook than his master’s gluttony.’
‘That’s the wisdom of Comus!’
‘To begin, fresh melon from my garden in Auteuil. Not one of those horrible, flabby, washed-out things your Sartine bans by the cupboardful every year. No, one of those orangey honey melons, as juicy and tasty as anyone could wish. After that, a dish fit for a king, perfectly prepared by my cook: a fattened chicken from Angoulême. It’ll make you lick your lips …’
She gave a salacious laugh.
‘I’d love to know how it’s prepared,’ said Nicolas.
‘I should have known it! Well, you have to get hold of a fine chicken, raised with love, corn-fed. All the fleshy parts you sprinkle generously with flakes of truffle. Then, by hand, you fill the body of the chicken with slices of truffle that you’ve baked in the oven with grated bacon and spices.’
‘And then straight into a casserole?’
‘No, no, my dear, as in love you have to lead up to things gradually. You wrap the chicken in paper to let the truffles and the spices blend. Three days later, you remove the paper and wrap the bird in slices of calf leg and bards of bacon. Then, and only then, you lay it down, just like your sweetheart, in a braising pan of exactly the right size, on a bed of sliced carrots and parsnips, mixed herbs and spices, salt and pepper, and two onions stuck with cloves, and pour a bottle of Malaga over it. Then let it simmer gently for at least two hours. Finally, you cut the fat off, sprinkle it with a handful of finely ground truffles, reduce the sauce by simmering and thicken it with crushed chestnuts. Fit for a bishop, I tell you!’
‘And the dessert!’ sighed La Satin.
‘Glacé pineapple straight from the greenhouses of the Duc de Bouillon. And after that … well, just don’t make too much noise!’
‘Another duke! Our Paulet really has changed!’
Nicolas was letting himself go, aware that he had fallen into a trap but unwilling to stop himself. The atmosphere had changed. La Paulet was talking to him more familiarly, certain of her own impunity. He was agreeing to an evening that promised to be full of delights, thanks to this unexpected reunion. For a long time, he had had no means of escape. The constant tension of his work, exacerbated by the daily obligations of the Dauphin’s wedding, had left him no respite. This evening, he would let himself go like a horseman who drops exhausted by the side of the road. But then, in a flash, he remembered something which made him sit up: Tirepot had told him to expect some revelations from La Paulet. The woman never did anything in a direct way. You always had to worm information out of her, as not only was she always keen to gain advantages and privileges from selling her services, but she also took pleasure in holding out on the police.
‘That’s all well and good,’ said Nicolas, ‘but before letting you rest I’d like to ask you a few questions. According to our friend Tirepot, you had some interesting things to tell me.’
She pulled a face and collapsed heavily onto her chaise longue. ‘This one certainly never forgets which way it is to the Châtelet!’
‘Never! Especially as I’m as eager to sample your news as your cooking. The sooner we get it over with, the better. So tell me all about the evening of the disaster. So much has happened – it seems like days ago, but it was only last night.’
‘Alas,’ sighed La Paulet, ‘if I have to, I have to. I was making preparations for the dinner we had planned in your honour and that of Dr Semacgus when the bell started ringing as if a thousand devils were pulling it. When I eventually opened up, there were about thirty City Guards, threatening to break everything. Those beanpoles were all spruced up, and wanted to have a party to christen their new uniforms. They were shouting and screaming, demanding wine and girls. I don’t like to be put under pressure …’ She threw a glance at Nicolas. ‘La Paulet’s a good girl, but you mustn’t provoke her. I gave them a piece of my mind, but since I had no choice but to serve them drinks, I took out a vinegary burgundy, which certainly can’t have done them much good, and –’
‘What time was this?’
‘Eight o’clock exactly, before the firework display. It even occurred to me that, what with the celebrations and the crowds and all that crush on the boulevards, they ought to have had better things to do than get drunk in an honest house.’
‘And how long did all this go on for?’
‘Until two or three in the morning. My legs had doubled in size. The rascals cleaned me out of my last stocks of ratafia. They had some officers with them. Someone even came looking for the major because of the disaster. He laughed and said he’d just come from there and was sick and tired of it, and that Monsieur de Sartine would sort it all out.’
‘What did this major look like?’
‘Tall, fat, red-faced, with wicked little eyes like boot buttons. A shrill, nasty voice. But he doesn’t frighten me. I’ll find him again for you!’
‘My dear friend, I thank you. Don’t let us keep you; go and look after your legs. We have to preserve you – you’re too valuable to us.’
‘Oh, he’s a crafty one, a smooth one! Now he’s suddenly in a hurry to get rid of La Paulet! All right, I understand, you can’t wait for your juicy chicken, ha ha!’
And with an eloquent smile, La Paulet rose and left the room, sighing in pain with each step she took. La Satin and Nicolas looked at each other. Just like the first time, he thought, in that cubby hole where he had found her when she was working as a maid for the wife of a President of the Parlement. A rape and a subsequent pregnancy – he had briefly thought that he was the father – had led La Satin into the business of trading her charms for money. But she had been lucky to end up at La Paulet’s, and thus escape the riff-raff and the General Hospital. Their relations had become less frequent, and it had been a long time since their paths had crossed.
‘I’ve never forgotten you, Nicolas,’ she said. ‘Oh, be quiet, I know how you felt … The times I waited under the archway of the Châtelet, just for the joy of catching a brief glimpse of you. You were always in a hurry, and passed like a shadow …’
He did not know what to reply.
‘And your child?’
She smiled. ‘He’s beautiful. He’s at school now, a boarder.’
What followed was a happy interlude for Nicolas. Constantly at the mercy of events as he was, only rarely granting himself a moment of respite between the end of one activity and the beginning of another, he now abandoned himself to the carefree pleasures of the here and now. The maid brought the food, took the cork from the wine, merrily filled the flutes and withdrew, singing a languorous chant which she accompanied with a slow swaying of her hips. Ni
colas relaxed. La Satin delicately boned the chicken and handed him the best pieces. The air in the alcove was filled with the aromas of the meal and heating bodies. Well before the glacé pineapple, Nicolas had drawn his friend onto the bed. There, buried in the sheets, he was back among the gentle slopes and deep ravines, the roads a thousand times travelled. The ardour of their renewed desire sealed that night’s reunion before they sank, exhausted, into sleep.
Friday 1 June 1770
Languidly, Nicolas pressed himself into the hot sand. He must have dozed off in the sun on the shore at Batz. Someone was muttering above him, unconcerned that he was trying to sleep. Much to the displeasure of his guardian, the canon, who always worried about the risk of naked bodies coming into contact with water, which was reputed to contain all ills and inspire all perversions, he loved to run in the summer with other rascals his age and throw himself into the waves, surrounded by fishing boats. He groaned: a hand was shaking him. He opened his eyes, saw a brown nipple, a tangle of rumpled sheets and, at a slight distance, the mocking face of Inspector Bourdeau. He disentangled his legs from La Satin, who was sleeping peacefully, wrapped himself in a sheet and looked sternly at the intruder.
‘Pierre, what are you doing here so early?’
‘A thousand pardons, Nicolas, but duty calls! They’ve found the Indian.’
‘Good Lord. What time is it?’
‘The stroke of nine.’
‘Nine? I can’t believe it – I could have sworn it was midnight! I was sleeping like a child.’
‘Like a child, really?’ said Bourdeau, stealing a glance at La Satin’s body.
‘Bourdeau, Bourdeau! Come on, you have to help me. I remember there was a fountain in the backyard of this house of perdition.’
‘Come now, don’t speak ill of good things!’
Muttering, Nicolas pushed the inspector aside, and went and splashed himself with cold water from the pump. He caught the black maid ogling him shamelessly from the pantry window. He wagged a threatening index finger at her, and she disappeared. Once he was dressed, he joined Bourdeau in the cab. He left a moment’s silence, as if closing a door on the past night, then began questioning his deputy.
The Phantom of Rue Royale Page 9