‘Well put, very well put. What do you think, Sartine?’
‘I tend to the opinion that Monsieur Le Floch is trying once again to pull the wool over our eyes, but since, as usual, everything is contriving to prove him right, I am inclined to give him carte blanche in this case, if the King agrees to it. In addition,’ he added with a meaningful gesture, ‘if things turn out badly, we won’t have the archbishop against us, because he’ll be forced to form a united front with us. That reason alone convinces me, because, to be quite honest, I don’t believe in the devil and all that nonsense. Still, if a bit of holy water can get rid of him, why deny ourselves the pleasure? All the same, I don’t trust the archbishop. Remember the affair of the Gazette ecclesiastique?’
‘I don’t remember it, but remind us of the facts, for the edification – if that’s the word – of our commissioner.’
Nicolas carefully neglected to mention that he had already heard his chief tell the story many times.
‘The thing is,’ Sartine said, ‘I’d managed to get a writer for that periodical in my pay. He’d bring me proofs from the printing shop and delete passages that were too satirical. Monseigneur de Beaumont managed to intercept one of these proofs and unmasked my man. He asked the King to have the man arrested. A lettre de cachet was immediately issued, and he had it delivered by one of his own bailiffs. As soon as I found out, I ran to the King and protested. I pointed out that it was only the actions of my man that had prevented the Gazette ecclésiastique from becoming a channel for religious dissent, among both the Jansenists and the Jesuits. I also told him that I thought there was a great risk in having anyone other than the Lieutenant General of Police deliver lettres de cachet in Paris.’
‘I remember the King sending for me,’ Saint Florentin cut in, ‘and ordering me to deliver another lettre de cachet freeing the prisoner. He asked me to make sure that in future his orders were carried out strictly according to the rules. As for this present case, I think we’ve made the right decision. We still have to find the King. He went hunting this morning in the great park. I have a whole chain of scouts along the route to inform me when he’s about to return.’
He rang a little bell and a servant appeared, to whom he gave instructions. Turned away from Nicolas, he went back to examining the documents that Sartine handed him. As he did so, he made a few brief comments, which the Lieutenant General took down in writing. It was the whole secret life of the capital they were reviewing, in particular the presence in hotels and furnished lodgings of foreigners, all suspected of being hand in glove with foreign powers. The servant returned and whispered a few words in the minister’s ear.
‘Good, good. His Majesty has just passed the gate of the reservoirs.’ He rose. ‘I think we can get a note to him.’
At the foot of the stairs was a throng of supplicants and a stiff-looking usher trying to push them aside with his rod. Monsieur de Saint-Florentin’s head disappeared for a moment beneath a wave of petitions that encircled his wig like a flight of white butter flies. Once past the Marble Courtyard, they entered the great apartments. On his first visit to Versailles in 1761, Nicolas had taken the same, almost initiatory route. He had passed this flight of steps, that hall, these long corridors, that maze of shorter corridors, and finally come out, as he did now, into a room of vast dimensions looking out on the park. It was gradually filling with courtiers and pages, and valets carrying towels in wicker baskets. Monsieur de La Borde greeted the three men. The King was coming, and a cacophony of footsteps, cries and solemn announcements rose like a tide and echoed through the palace. La Borde enquired as to the reason for the unexpected appearance of Monsieur de Saint-Florentin and his companions. Nicolas explained the situation briefly. La Borde grimaced: Madame du Barry was waiting for her master in the little study. He reminded his friend that the new concubine was of a different calibre from La Pompadour: young, beautiful and more temperamental than the marquise. The kind of attention she expected from the King was more likely to follow the excitement of the hunt than the dissipation of a midnight meal. Not surprising, therefore, that the King did not like to be disturbed at this intimate hour. The pleasant conversation and refreshments of the old days had given way to other games. At last the monarch appeared, wearing a blue coat trimmed with gold braid and beating his thigh with the handle of his whip. He was smiling: the hunt had obviously gone well. But once again Nicolas noted how stooped he was. The King looked all of his seventy years, and his associates were worried at the excesses which his young mistress’s ardour was imposing on a weary organism.
As calm returned, the usual ceremonial began. Louis XV made a sign to Saint-Florentin, who approached. As he was short, he got up on tiptoe and talked at length in the King’s ear. The King blinked and looked first at Sartine and then at Nicolas, to whom he addressed a gracious gesture, the kind he had given young Ranreuil, recognising him in the Hall of Mirrors as the royal family walked in procession to the Saint-Louis chapel. The minister finished his aside. The King raised his hand and La Borde approached to receive his orders.
‘His Majesty wishes to be alone,’ announced La Borde, pointing to the minister and his two companions.
The crowd of courtiers hesitated. A dull murmur rose from the disconcerted audience. The King frowned imperiously, and the stream of people withdrew, casting curious or hostile glances at the privileged few because of whom the usual protocol had been disrupted.
‘You, stay,’ said the King to a short old man wearing make-up and perched on red heels, whom Nicolas recognised immediately as the Duc de Richelieu. ‘Where there is devilry, you have your place reserved!’
‘Sire, the Bourbons have always been afraid of the devil; it’s well known.’
‘That’s as may be,’ retorted the King, ‘but only because they’ve never seen him, unlike you!’
The old man laughed and bowed.
‘Yes, gentlemen, when he was ambassador in Vienna, my cousin here,2 who was supposed to be representing me, got it into his head to be initiated into a society of necromancers who promised to show him Beelzebub.’ The King lowered his voice and crossed himself.
‘Sire, to name him is to invoke him.’
‘Quiet, libertine! Anyway, gentlemen, he pursued this illusion. The meeting took place at night, but some of those present spoke up afterwards. The affair became public, and all Vienna took sides in the scandal. Now, Richelieu, young Ranreuil here …’
‘Whom I know,’ said the marshal with a smile, revealing his false teeth.
‘… has seen strange manifestations and incidents of possession with his own eyes. He’s asking me to give authorisation for the Archbishop of Paris to order an exorcism. What do you say to that, Richelieu?’
‘I say that between leaving an established case of possession unattended to and letting the Church make a legal and authorised attempt to deal with it, it is better to choose the second way, however uncertain the outcome. Otherwise, the archbishop will bide his time and do all he can to get the better of us. I had to deal with a similar problem when I was governor of Aquitaine. I nipped it in the bud with the aid of holy water and candles, and prevented unrest among the people.’
The King was still beating his whip against his thigh, seemingly in the grip of opposing thoughts. ‘Ranreuil, did you really see him?’
‘Sire, I beg Your Majesty’s pardon, whom?’
‘The … well, that palliasse didn’t move all by itself!’
‘I can state that it was shaking violently, that it was so far above the floor that you could have put four hands beneath it, that the girl was speaking German and Latin and that …’
‘Yes?’
‘And that your late servant, the Marquis de Ranreuil, spoke through her mouth, referring to matters known only to myself.’
‘Very well!’ said the King. ‘If that’s what we have to do, I authorise you to approach the archbishop. Saint-Florentin, do what you have to do: you have enough blank signed letters. Let Commissioner Le Floch have f
ree access to the archbishop. But, Ranreuil, you owe me a detailed report – you’re such a good storyteller.’
With these friendly words, the King turned his back on them and gave himself up to his valets. Nicolas, Sartine and Saint-Florentin went back to the ministers’ wing. Monsieur de Saint-Florentin wrote a few words on a blank document, sealed it and carefully wrote the address. As soon as the wax was dry, he handed over the missive without a word. Nicolas was about to leave the courtyard when a breathless Sartine caught up with him, told him that he wished to be kept up to date with the case and advised him to make sure of the wisdom of his decisions in such a delicate situation. Obviously, for Sartine, collusion with the Church could well have unfortunate consequences, even if started in a rare spirit of agreement between the temporal and spiritual powers. He also enjoined him not to forget, however compelling this crisis, that he was also supposed to be investigating the disaster in Place Louis XV. Nicolas used this opportunity to inform his chief of the attack on Monsieur de Noblecourt. Sartine was so shocked that Nicolas felt emboldened to reveal to him the trick he had played with the brass tag. The Lieutenant General said nothing, but gave his deputy a curious look. Nicolas added that he was aware that he had overstepped the mark, by forgetting the principle which Monsieur de Sartine had inculcated in him on his entry into the police force, ‘that on his rigour would depend the life and honour of men who, however lowly their station, should be treated according to the rules’. Aware that he had done wrong, he was consequently placing his position at the King’s disposal, once the investigation on which he was engaged had been concluded.
Sartine smiled. Of course he understood Nicolas’s scruples – indeed, they increased the respect he bore him – but this was all nonsense. Why should one treat equitably a man responsible for the incompetence of the municipality and the deaths of so many innocent people, a man who had escaped being the murderer of an old man by pure luck? Was there a way to confound him, yes or no? If there was, then it had to be used. Justice must be done, whatever the cost, and he, the Lieutenant General of Police, took full responsibility, relieving Nicolas of any blame and any remorse. Major Langlumé had to be arrested, he insisted. The brass tag would certainly help to prove his guilt, at least in the eyes of the judges.
And so it was with a light heart that Nicolas set off back to Paris, after the great stable had again provided him with a horse – a sturdy, frisky light-tan mare. The journey passed uneventfully, and Nicolas no longer felt tired or hungry. By five he had passed Porte de la Conference. By five thirty he had abandoned his mount to the good graces of the duty groom at the Châtelet. He immediately left the houses of Pont au Change on his right, and set off along the Quai de Gesvres. This embankment above the river, which went under an arch before joining up with Pont Notre Dame, was a terrible cesspool where four sewers emptied their muck, where blood from the slaughterhouses ended up and into which all the latrines of Paris unloaded their refuse. Nicolas had to cover his nose with a handkerchief to protect it from the foul stench. The heat of summer was beginning, and the river, relieved of the spring floods, no longer lapped at the fetid arches of this bridge. He stepped onto the Cité, a district that still remained, much to the displeasure of Monsieur de Sartine, ‘an unplanned meeting of a great number of houses …’ They were all at odd angles to each other, creating all sorts of diversions and bottlenecks for the carriages, which found the streets extremely difficult to negotiate. Nicolas crossed the narrow square in front of Notre Dame and knocked at a door reinforced with nails and iron bars, which gave access to the archbishopric, a medieval house with its own turret situated on the south side of the cathedral.
A liveried valet opened the door and asked him the purpose of his visit. He gave a start when Nicolas told him that he wished to see his master immediately. He was clearly about to send him away when a thin man in the short coat of a cleric emerged from the gloom of the entrance hall. He was one of the prelate’s secretaries, and Nicolas did not see any reason to conceal his own rank or in whose name he was venturing to disturb the archbishop’s peace of mind.
‘Do you have some sign or proof of your mission?’ asked the secretary.
‘I have two letters for the archbishop.’
The man held out his hand with the feigned innocence of someone taking a chance without really believing in it.
‘Monsieur,’ said Nicolas coldly, ‘they can only be delivered into the hands of the person to whom they are addressed. But I consent to you looking at the seal of one of them.’
He showed him the letter from the King, sealed with the three fleur de lis of the French coat of arms.
‘Monsieur,’ the secretary said, ‘it’s very late, you’ve come unannounced and Monseigneur is very tired after the Pentecost ceremonies. I would therefore urge you to leave your letters with me. I shall give them to him tomorrow, and then we can decide on the best thing to do.’
‘Monsieur, I’m extremely sorry, but I have to see the archbishop. It’s an order of the King.’
The man went red in the face. Nicolas could see what was going through his mind, as if it were an open book. Monseigneur de Beaumont had already been exiled three times, so it was natural to fear the worst.
‘Surely, Monsieur—’
Nicolas did not let him finish. ‘Do not worry, Monsieur. I’ve only come here to discuss an affair which falls within the province of your master’s spiritual magisterium. He isn’t threatened in any way, if that’s what you were thinking.’
‘God be praised! All right, I’ll go and see if Monseigneur can receive you. He was about to dine with a visitor.’
The cleric withdrew, leaving Nicolas facing a gloomy, suspicious valet. He did not have long to wait. Without a word, he was invited to climb a large, dark, wooden staircase. On the first floor, a vast antechamber – its walls decorated with portraits of cardinals and archbishops, whom he supposed to be the present incumbent’s predecessors – served as a waiting room. The secretary knocked at a door, opened it, murmured a few words and moved aside to let Nicolas into the room.
Nicolas was struck by the mixture of austerity and sumptuousness in the sparsely furnished room. The ceiling with its emblazoned beams was lost in shadow. An unseasonable fire blazed in the Renaissance fireplace. A huge chiaroscuro Descent from the Cross which Nicolas, as a lover of paintings and a tireless visitor of churches, judged as dating from the previous century, glowered over the room. The floor was covered with an oriental carpet in reddish shades.
The archbishop was sitting in a vast armchair to one side of the fire, next to a table on which stood a large silver candlestick with all the candles lit. There was another armchair facing him. To Nicolas, the prelate’s pose seemed somewhat theatrical. He was wearing a purple cassock with a flapped cravat, the top half of his body covered in a clerical overcoat, and sat staring at the fire, his chin on his left hand, and his right hand caressing the cross of the Order of the Holy Spirit, which hung round his neck on a large blue moiré sash that passed beneath the two flaps of the cravat, and which he wore as if it were a pectoral cross. He turned his pale face and bloodshot eyes to Nicolas. His well-drawn mouth was framed by two deep, bitter folds. His chin was dimpled and somewhat weak, making a strong contrast with his high forehead and almost white hair, combed with little affectation. He held out his hand to Nicolas, who bowed and kissed it.
‘I’m told that you have orders for me from the King.’
This was said in an ironic tone, which implied that it was an obvious fact.
‘Monseigneur, all I have for you is two letters. One is from His Majesty, the other is from Père Grégoire, of the Discalced Carmelites in Rue Vaugirard. I won’t conceal from you the fact that they both concern the same disturbing case.’
He handed them to the prelate, who searched in his sleeve for a pair of spectacles and opened the two letters, beginning with the King’s, which he immediately refolded and placed in his sleeve. Père Grégoire’s letter was read very quickly and
thrown on the fire.
‘Père Grégoire’s letter would have sufficed,’ said the archbishop. ‘I have the greatest respect for him, and he often provides me with effective remedies for my ailments. Much more effective, I must say, than those with which the gentlemen of the Faculty deluge me. Commissioner – or should I say Marquis? – I take it as a sign of friendship that His Majesty has sent you.’
Nicolas refrained from answering, knowing the archbishop’s aristocratic obsession and his pride in the ancient origins of his family – the Beaumont de Repaires – which he traced back, some joked, as far as the Flood.
‘But does His Majesty really think,’ the archbishop went on, ‘that I am unaware of this affair? The parish priest of Saint-Roch brought it to the attention of my men. If the King had not decided to act in order to preserve order in his city, I would have done so myself to ensure the tranquillity of my flock.’ He added, as if speaking to himself, ‘A century of decline, in which this poor lost people, led astray by so many reprehensible examples, searches for the way without finding it and ignores the good shepherd! Alas, charity abates and the Church is riven with dissension. Where is the truth hiding? And as for obedience … When the State is threatened, the good side is always the King’s; when the Church and its doctrine are called into question, the good side is always that of the body of bishops.’
He had been staring into the dancing flames. Now he again turned to look at Nicolas.
‘Let us go through this point by point. And the better to clarify this matter, I need to know more about you. You had a good education at a reputable school in Vannes.’
Nicolas did not take this as a question.
‘Do you believe in the devil, my son?’
‘I believe in the teachings of the Holy Church. In my work, I often encounter evil. But what happened in Rue Saint-Honoré turns all my certainties upside down and goes beyond human understanding.’
The Phantom of Rue Royale Page 20