‘I wrote to Turgot this morning that he could count on my standing firm. Now, thanks to this blunder, everyone will think himself justified by a decision that will be attributed to me. Ranreuil, do you have a good hand?’
‘I believe so, sire.’
‘Then I will dictate a letter, and you can take it to Monsieur de Turgot yourself.’
He indicated the council table.
‘Everything is quiet here. The rioters had begun to be quite heated. The troops brought them under control. Monsieur de Beauvau questioned them: most said that they had no bread, that they had come to get bread and showed some poor-quality barley bread, which they said they had bought for two sols and which was the only bread anyone was willing to give them. I am not going out today, not out of fear, but to keep everything calm. The market is over, but for the first time the greatest precautions must be taken to make sure they do not return to lay down the law; tell me what they might be, as all this is very embarrassing.’4
The King stopped and looked pensively at Nicolas. He bent his tall frame, took the letter, read it and signed it. Leaning on both fists, he moved his face closer to the commissioner’s and murmured, with tears in his eyes, ‘We have our good conscience on our side, and that makes us strong. Oh, if only I had the charm and bearing of my brother Provence, I’d speak to the people, and everything would be perfect! But I stammer and that would spoil everything.’
Nicolas had a lump in his throat. He suddenly realised that, for the King, he was an elder, one of the men who had been close to his grandfather when he himself was still a child. He brought his emotions under control, shaking his head like a horse. He would have liked to make a gesture to demonstrate the depth of his devotion, but could not make up his mind to do so. This inner struggle did not escape the King, who smiled. There was a silent exchange between them that Nicolas would never forget. The King pulled himself together and asked him in a low voice to report to him, and nobody else, anything he was able to find out about the current disturbances.
Nicolas quickly left the palace and walked back to the d’Arranet mansion, where he found Tribord nervously waiting for him. His scarred old face betrayed his anxiety.
‘Mademoiselle came back …’
Good news at last, thought Nicolas, although disturbed somewhat by the grim expression with which the announcement had been made.
‘… and immediately left again.’
‘What do you mean?’
Tribord was shifting from one foot to the other. ‘What can I tell you? That’s the way it was! When I told her you were here, she immediately gave orders to turn back. Off she went, and don’t spare the horses!’ Seeing the expression on Nicolas’s face, he ventured an explanation.
‘Don’t distress yourself. It seems to me that when women run away it’s because they’re only too eager to stay.’
Nicolas shook his hand and went upstairs to change, then retrieved his mount and set off at a gallop back to Paris. He tried during this journey to close his mind to any emotional impulse, convinced that it was not love that should be depicted as blind, but rather pride. He concentrated on the mission he had been given by the King. The letter to Turgot was a sign of his benevolence and good faith. But it also implied a kind of submissiveness on the part of the monarch towards the comptroller general, a slightly unsettling innocence – even though, for now, he was demonstrating great composure, left as he was to face this trial alone in a deserted Versailles. That was something to be thankful for, coming as it did from a shy, awkward adolescent who needed to be brought out of his shell. One thought sustained him. Each man had his own trials to confront: kings, lovers and fathers were all puppets of a providence that drove their passions and interests. Everything seemed calm as he drew near to Paris, although he had learnt not to trust these deceptive lulls. It was certain that the events in Versailles would stimulate further unrest as soon as the news of them had spread, transformed and distorted as they would be by rumour and additions motivated by self-interest. There was never any lack of people ready to exploit a dangerous situation for their own ends.
It was early afternoon by the time he reached the comptroller general’s office in Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs. Immediately admitted to the study of the minister, whom he had met several times at Court, he found him writing, his bandaged right leg resting on a tapestried cushion. Turgot raised his head and scowled at the newcomer. Nicolas noted his height and corpulence, the fine head with its abundant curly hair, the light-blue eyes, the left one smaller than the right. It was not an unpleasant countenance, but it conveyed a sense of effort that was more moral than physical. Nicolas presented himself and handed over the letter from the King. The comptroller general’s naturally white complexion betrayed his feelings as he read, turning red when he proceeded to a second, more attentive reading. When he looked up again, his gaze was both soft and remote, and Nicolas wondered if, like the King, he was short-sighted.
‘Monsieur, on whose account were you at Versailles? You’re Sartine’s man, aren’t you?’ The tone was both inquisitorial and offensive.
‘Monseigneur, I was at Versailles to deliver something from the Empress of Austria to our Queen and to participate in the King’s hunt. As luck would have it, I was caught up in the riot and when I finally reached the palace this morning I was able to give His Majesty an account of the events. As for the rest, I am the King’s man just as I was the late King’s man.’
This answer did not mollify Turgot, who continued to question him in an arrogant tone before dismissing him unceremoniously.
Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin being very close, he decided to inform Monsieur Lenoir of the turn of events. He found him overwhelmed with dark presentiments. As soon as he saw Nicolas, he launched into recriminations. He was angry at the false rumours circulating, of which the worst was that the police had advised that the people be supplied with all the bread they wanted at the price they wanted, even if that meant compensating the bakers subsequently. That, as the commissioner pointed out, was an inevitable consequence of the King’s supposed promise that bread would be sold at two sols a pound. The rumour from Versailles had spread like wildfire. Nicolas informed his chief about his audiences with the King and Turgot and also about the investigation into the events in Rue Montmartre, which might have unfortunate consequences in the current situation.
‘I fear some difficult days ahead,’ said Lenoir. ‘We’re being dragged along with no thought for what may happen next. Without restraint, reforms become abuses and those who apply them too quickly are tactless and destructive. There is no more absurd whim than to set oneself up as a reformer! Once the hand is committed, the whole body is drawn in. France is an old machine set in motion a long time ago, still working more or less, but likely to break at the first shock! Just in case, I’m going to have the grain market protected tomorrow. We must avoid a repetition in Paris of the unrest in Versailles. I’ve asked for dragoons and musketeers to reinforce the watch and the French Guards, but I shall give orders that under no circumstances are they to open fire, even if that means being insulted and manhandled by the rabble. How did you find the King?’
‘Both nervous and calm, and leaving everything up to the comptroller general.’
‘There’s the rub! Monsieur de Sartine thinks we should rouse the King to take a greater interest in affairs of State. Alas, the one area where there’s no problem stimulating him is his taste for gossip, scandal and slander. He takes too much pleasure in reading the intercepted correspondence that Monsieur d’Oigny brings him. Obviously, in such cases, nothing is easier than to fabricate or carefully select evidence. And there are so many people involved in intrigue. The postal service does not offer safety or secrecy for families or friends. It is sad, my dear Nicolas, to find the same thing in this monarch as was noted in the late King: a bad opinion of everyone and a general mistrust which, in his case, or so he believes, justifies his standing aloof.’
By the time Nicolas left Monsieur Lenoir, he was ext
remely worried by his lack of resolution and the many doubts assailing him. Coming from someone in his position, such indecision could lead to the most unfortunate changes in direction when action had to be taken. Perhaps Lenoir had got to the point where he almost unconsciously hoped for more unrest, in order to expose the stupidity of Turgot’s draconian initiatives. In Sartine, too, he had sensed an attitude that was even more ambiguous than ever. The difference was that Sartine embellished it with an amused cynicism which Lenoir did not possess. Entrenched in his own friendships and ambitions, Sartine doubtless believed that you needed to be shrewd to appear an honest man, but never so stupid as to actually be one. He had often reproached Nicolas for his innocence. May God help him to keep it! Fifteen years in the police force, working on special investigations, did not allow him any illusions about the way of the world, or the honesty of those in power. Not that this weakened his devotion to his former chief. It was just a matter of not being taken in by him. As for Monsieur Lenoir, he seemed like an honest man caught in a tempest he could not control but reluctant to take extreme measures.
Nicolas returned his mount to the stables at police headquarters and got back to the Grand Châtelet by cab. There he found Bourdeau, Semacgus, and Sanson, the public executioner, debating whether they should proceed with the autopsy on Master Mourut in his absence. His arrival settled the matter. He questioned them about the crowd of people who had gathered at the foot of the grand staircase and were now heading towards the skylights that made it possible to look down at the corpses on display in the Basse-Geôle.
‘The object of their curiosity,’ said Semacgus, ‘is the body of a beautiful young girl whose body was fished out of the Seine.’
‘That’s hardly an unusual sight,’ said Nicolas. ‘The bodies of the drowned are brought here every day.’
‘It isn’t so much the body that’s attracting the people, as the supposed miracle of its discovery. The family had placed on the river a wooden begging bowl with a lighted candle and bread consecrated to St Nicolas of Tolentino at the monastery of the Grands Augustins. There is an old belief that the begging bowl will stop where the body is to be found, in this case level with the Jardin de l’Infante at the Louvre.’
‘I thought such superstitions were long forgotten,’ grunted Bourdeau. ‘There’s nothing more dangerous. In 1718, a poor old woman looking for the body of her son nearly burnt down the whole city. The candle set light to a boat carrying flour, which continued downstream, spreading terror and setting the houses on the Petit-Pont on fire. A whole district was destroyed.’
By now, they had reached the cellar where they were accustomed to plying what Sartine called ‘their macabre trade’. Nicolas enquired after Madame Sanson and the children, much to the delight of the executioner, who was always overjoyed at any personal attention from the commissioner. Dr Semacgus and Sanson were getting ready, and laying out their instruments. For once, Bourdeau did not light his pipe, but ostentatiously took out the Viennese snuffbox given him by Nicolas. He offered Nicolas a pinch, then took one himself. The silence was immediately broken by a long, sonorous series of sneezes. As the two practitioners began examining the corpse, Nicolas took out his little black notebook.
‘My dear colleague and I are in agreement,’ said Sanson after a while, as ceremonious as ever. ‘A superficial examination reveals no lesions and no suspicious marks.’
Semacgus nodded. ‘Nevertheless,’ he said, ‘allow me to temper my approval of your statement. There does appear to be a curious necrotised wound on the palm of the right hand.’
Sanson bent over and examined the body again.
‘A scratch left untended, which has become a little swollen … I would put it down to the change of temperature …’
‘You are no doubt right. Let us at least note the fact.’
The mouth was carefully inspected with the help of a metal instrument.
‘Clearly he was not choked by the risen dough,’ remarked Semacgus. ‘Although …’
‘Although?’ asked Nicolas.
‘I see what the doctor is saying,’ said Sanson. ‘The man did not choke to death, although everything suggests that he did.’
Nicolas found this observation somewhat strange.
They now proceeded to open the body. Although Nicolas had often attended similar operations, they always set his nerves on edge. It was not so much that he could not stand the horror of it all, as that the scratching of the instruments on and in the flesh, the cracking of the bones and the noises emitted by the manhandled corpse, as if in protest against this barbaric treatment, filled him with an overwhelming feeling of despondency. He knew, though, that without this attempt, however derisory, to penetrate the secrets of the body, many crimes would remain unpunished. He closed his eyes, and ran through, in his mind, a tune he had learnt from an old teacher at the collegiate church in Guérande. It was a motet played on the organ and accompanied by the Breton instrument the bombard. Words exchanged in a low voice by Semacgus and Sanson drew him out of his daydream. Having restored a semblance of normality to the body and washed their hands and arms in a tub which one of the executioner’s assistants had brought in, they turned to the two policemen. Contrary to their well-established procedure, neither said a word.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Nicolas, ‘we await your report.’
Sanson sighed, and raised his hands in a gesture of powerlessness. ‘To tell the truth, it seems an idle exercise to try and determine the cause of death and consequently to confirm or invalidate the theory that we are dealing with a murder. I’m sorry to say it would be almost impossible even to attempt to do so.’
Semacgus remained silent.
‘I understand,’ replied Nicolas. ‘However, knowing how careful you always are with words, I note that you used the expression “almost impossible”. There’s a tiny but real gulf between “impossible” and “almost impossible”. The law usually requires something more tangible. I must therefore ask you: what does that “almost” mean?’
Sanson turned to Semacgus, who was still unruffled. ‘The fact is,’ he resumed, hesitantly, ‘we discovered some internal disorders indicating that an attack of something stopped the course of this man’s life.’
‘Something like death?’ sighed Bourdeau, ironically.
‘A phenomenon due to an unknown cause, or rather, too many unknown causes. Everything suggests that the observed phenomena are diverse, confusing, contradictory and yet crucial to the processus mortis. The heart and vessels have been damaged and the lungs clearly gave out, which may have led to asphyxia or the heart stopping, or both!’
‘But can you confirm that the dough is in no way responsible?’
‘The dough had nothing to do with it,’ said Semacgus, breaking his silence. ‘He fell into it, or was pushed into it, but it didn’t kill him. I confirm our friend’s analysis. There is a mystery here.’
Sanson, anxious to get back to his family, left them immediately, offering an invitation to dinner. Semacgus stood where he was, deep in thought, and motioned them to remain. After a moment, he went to the stairs and listened to make sure that Sanson had indeed gone. All this greatly surprised the two policemen.
‘Don’t look so astonished. Sanson’s friendship means a great deal to me. That’s why I wanted to avoid hurting a man of such delicate sensitivity. He has all the qualities of an empiricist, but his medical knowledge is limited. I have the advantage over him of twenty years sailing the seven seas. Now that he’s gone, I can express my opinion openly.’
Semacgus’s long face radiated a kind of jubilation that continued to surprise them.
‘The wound we noted on the hand,’ he went on, in an authoritative tone, ‘has no particular significance for me, except in so far as it reminds me of something I observed during another autopsy, although I do not recall the exact circumstances at the moment.’
‘But what’s the connection with Monsieur Mourut? Your words are confusing!’
‘I don’t know. The fact r
emains that our man displays all the symptoms of a very terrible death by poisoning. Remember my remarks on the strange wound to the hand. I didn’t want to contradict Sanson in front of you, but that necrotised wound continues to haunt me.’
‘What could it be?’
‘I am still groping in the dark.’
‘The wound is indeed intriguing,’ said Bourdeau. ‘Is it possible that the poison could have been introduced into Monsieur Mourut’s organism through it?’
‘Extraordinary as it may seem, it’s quite possible. At the time of the Borgias, in Florence, there were gloves containing hidden blades. They allowed you to make a cut and then instil poison through it. Everything points to the likelihood that we are dealing with something similar here.’
‘I shudder to think of it,’ said the inspector.
‘How might the poison be identified?’ asked Nicolas. ‘Are you at least sure that it was poison and nothing else?’
‘I’d bet my right hand on it. The curious appearance of the blood, combined with other signs of internal corruption, removed my last doubts.’
‘But how can it be proven?’
‘We have to find the murderer and discover his method.’
‘That would be like putting the cart before the horse,’ concluded Bourdeau, ‘or catching the serpent by its tail! It won’t be easy to convince Monsieur Testard du Lys. Our Criminal Lieutenant would scoff at the idea of a gnat’s bite, let alone the poison of the Borgias!’
Semacgus gave the inspector a curious look, almost said something, but then had second thoughts.
‘Let’s keep this mysterious idea to ourselves,’ said Nicolas. ‘The best thing would be, I think, to take poisoning with an unknown substance as a point of departure. Monsieur Testard du Lys won’t ask for more than that. As for our friend Sanson, I’ll accept his dinner invitation soon. I can mention in passing that other discoveries have led us to lean towards the theory of a murder.’
They agreed with Nicolas, although Semacgus was still lost in thought. As they left the Basse-Geôle, Nicolas questioned Bourdeau on what he had found out.
The Baker's Blood Page 18