He noted with satisfaction that all his shopping would take him to the same district, Rue Saint-Honoré and the environs of the Louvre. After a bracing walk, he began his rounds with Madame Peloise, who cleverly succeeded in making him spend much more than he had anticipated. An antique intaglio showing a Roman profile, mounted on a silver shaft, particularly attracted him and replaced his initial choice of a seal with initials. It was both more elegant and less banal, more discreet, too, and hard to imitate. From there, he proceeded to the shop selling the stain remover, where he was assured that the desired quantity of the product could be delivered to Juilly in the name of Louis Le Floch, which greatly simplified matters.
He left the maze of old streets around the Quinze-Vingts and walked to the galleries of the Louvre. He noted with regret that the former royal palace was increasingly disfigured by all kinds of excrescences. The colonnade had recently been cleared, and already a multitude of second-hand clothes dealers were insulting it with displays of rags and tatters. Nicolas also deplored the fact that the presence of the academies entailed lodging some of their members here, to the detriment of the surroundings. Everywhere, even within the precincts of the monument, frame houses had sprung up, adorned with shapeless staircases that detracted from the majesty of the complex. He recalled a conversation between Monsieur de La Borde and the Marquis de Marigny, the brother of Madame de Pompadour and superintendent of buildings, about the noble plan to restore the palace to its former splendour. He had quoted Voltaire’s complaint at seeing the Louvre, ‘a monument to the greatness of Louis XIV, the zeal of Colbert and the genius of Perrault, hidden by buildings of the Goths and the Vandals’.
A multitude of stalls had taken root in the chinks of the vast edifice. Among them were those selling paintings and engravings. Fakes were more frequent here than genuine works, and the Lieutenancy General of Police was determined to settle a number of serious cases in which rich foreigners, victims of such swindles, had involved their embassies. In 1772, Nicolas had managed to unmask a group of forgers, which had been a salutary warning to the rest of the crooks.
He was well known to the merchants – both honest and dishonest – and his arrival always provoked a shudder of fear. Taking advantage of the presence of enlightened connoisseurs, some second-hand book dealers had chosen to join the sellers of prints and paintings, and offered customers a wide range, from the less good to, occasionally, the best. Nicolas recalled a few happy discoveries, like that of an original edition of François-Pierre de la Varenne’s Le Pâtissier Français. He had presented this small red morocco-bound duodecimo volume, published in Amsterdam in 1655 by Louys and Daniel Elzevir, as a gift to Monsieur de Noblecourt, who had almost swooned at the sight of it. The dealers would visit the houses of the recently deceased, and buy whole libraries from the grieving families. Unfortunately, there was nothing now that was not known about, and rare books had gradually become impossible to find. The few there were would be immediately spotted by scouts who, in the know, no longer offered four sous for treasures which were worth a thousand times as much. Here and there, you also came across banned or condemned books, handled conspiratorially behind the stalls, in the hope of concealing them from the inquisitive glances of the police spies who frequented the place and were on the lookout for anyone bringing illicit brochures to sell or seeking out copies of such lampoons as had escaped the bonfire.
On one of the stalls, Nicolas discovered a Plautus, a Terence, the complete works of Racine and a Lesage, all of which ought to give great pleasure to a schoolboy. He found the sight of the other book lovers amusing, spellbound as they were by the range on offer. Much to the chagrin of the bookseller, who was always afraid that some work of value might be stolen, they would spend hours looking through the books and searching in the crates, often without buying anything in the end.
Absorbed in the account of a journey to the West Indies, Nicolas suddenly felt a hand tugging at one of his coat buttons. Turning, he recognised the humble, contrite face of one of the officers who worked for the Lieutenant General of Police in Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin. The man was not alone: a second henchman, whom Nicolas did not recall having seen before, stood watching.
‘Commissioner,’ said the first man, ‘you must follow us.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We have orders to take you to Monsieur Lenoir immediately.’
Nicolas made an effort to conceal his astonishment. ‘Let me at least pay for my purchases.’
Once that was done, Nicolas found himself in a cab with the two officers. With the windows raised and the curtains drawn, the unpleasant smell of unwashed bodies was overwhelming in such a confined space. He lowered the corner of his hat, withdrawing into himself to reflect on what appeared, for all the world, like an arrest. He was only too familiar with the procedures and customs of a system of which he had long been an agent. He had taken part in so many investigations and shared so many secrets that he could not help but wonder. Everything was possible, he knew. Would he be exiled to the provinces? Surely he was too small a figure for such a great honour. It was more likely that a lettre de cachet had been issued, and that he would be thrown into prison. But they would still have to find a reason to justify such treatment. Although … He laughed, making his two companions look at him in surprise. So many people had been arrested without knowing the reason. He wouldn’t be the first and he wouldn’t be the last! He might as well keep his composure: he would learn his fate soon enough.
Still watched by his two guards, he was left waiting in the antechamber, before the door opened and the friendly face of an elderly valet appeared. He motioned Nicolas to enter, then leaned over and whispered in his ear, ‘He doesn’t know anything himself!’
The old man was clearly talking about Lenoir. What was it he didn’t know? Nicolas approached the desk. His chief was still writing, and had not even looked up.
‘I am grateful to you, Commissioner,’ he said at last, ‘for responding so promptly to my summons.’
‘How could I not, Monseigneur, when I was brought here by two officers? Quite an honour!’
‘I think,’ said Lenoir impassively, ‘that they exceeded my instructions.’
‘They found me, that’s the main thing. As always, our police force has shown itself to be extremely efficient.’
Lenoir folded his hands. ‘I am instructed to …’ for a moment, he searched for the correct word, ‘… invite you to present yourself immediately at the Saint-Florentin mansion. The Duc de La Vrillière, Minister of the King’s Household, has asked to see you.’ He seemed surprised by his own words. ‘I hope,’ he resumed, ‘that you’ve done nothing to offend him. You have not been assigned to any investigation for three months now. You wouldn’t by any chance have become involved in some other case? I’ve already had occasion to deplore your independent behaviour during our first encounter.’
‘Not at all, Monseigneur,’ replied Nicolas. ‘I have obeyed your orders completely and scrupulously. I have done nothing, I have enjoyed my leisure, and I have hunted. With His Majesty.’
His tone was so ironic that Lenoir sighed irritably. ‘Go, and make sure you report back to me on anything that might be of interest to the King’s service.’
‘I shall not fail to do so,’ said Nicolas. ‘I shall take the cab which brought me here and go directly to the minister’s mansion.’
With these words, Nicolas bowed and left the room. He descended the great staircase four steps at a time, watched with astonishment by the two officers, and jumped into the cab. We’re back in business, he thought. His intuition told him that the Duc de La Vrillière needed him.
Notes – CHAPTER I
1. See The Nicolas Le Floch Affair.
2. The author would like to thank Professor Daniel Teyssère of the University of Caen for these details about La Borde.
3. A kind of tunic worn over armour in the Middle Ages.
4. See The Phantom of Rue Royale.
5. Saint Greluchon wa
s prayed to in cases of infertility.
6. Boileau, Art Poétique, chant III.
7. The hospice of the Grand-Cour des Quinze-Vingts was founded by Saint Louis in aid of a brotherhood of crusaders blinded by the Saracens. It stretched from the present-day Place du Théâtre-Français to a third of the way down the Cour du Carrousel. In 1779 it was transferred to Rue de Charenton.
II
THE SAINT-FLORENTIN MANSION
It was neither tumult nor calm, but a silence like that
of a great fear and a great anger.
TACITUS
Like a rider facing a hurdle, Nicolas liked to give himself a lull before launching into the thick of the action. He considered this pause necessary to keep a clear head. He asked to be dropped at Place Louis XV and, anxious to contemplate the Saint-Florentin mansion, where he might well have a date with destiny, he sat down on a bollard. Having kept him waiting for three months, they could certainly wait a few more minutes. He admired the classical trappings of the building, which extended the splendour of the Garde-Meuble. For a moment, the past paraded before him: images of that terrible night in 1770, the cries, the smoke, the crushed bodies, and the statue of the King looking down on the disaster of that failed firework display.1 The facade overlooked a small square with a fountain from which it was possible to reach the Tuileries gardens. It had two large noble floors and a roof crowned by a balustrade and decorated with carved panoplies and two monumental urns. On Rue Saint-Florentin was a splendid gate adorned with a stone coat of arms held aloft by two deities. The coat of arms was divided into four quarters, combining the blue of the Phélypeaux family, strewn with gold cinquefoils and ermines, and the three red mallets of the Mailly family.
Nicolas had known Monsieur de Saint-Florentin, who was now the Duc de La Vrillière, since he had joined the police force. He pondered that remarkable career which had begun fifty years earlier in the King’s councils and which had been built on a stubborn loyalty to the person of Louis XV. The man was not exactly popular, either at Court or in the city. Many envied his influence while condemning his weakness and timidity. He was also responsible for many arbitrary decisions and lettres de cachet. Madame Victoire thought him stupid, whereas others emphasised his gift for conciliation, his ability to appease dissenting parties without compromising the authority of the throne. On many occasions, he had demonstrated his trust in Nicolas, but a recent case in which his cousin the Duc d’Aiguillon had been involved seemed to have contributed to his current low opinion of the commissioner.
Nicolas again looked at the house, which had all the grandeur and nobility of a small palace and gave anything but a small idea of the fortune of the man who had built it. He recalled certain pieces of gossip concerning the minister’s dubious morals. He lived a dissolute life in Paris, surrounded by women of ill repute, and neglected his wife in favour of a mistress, Marie-Madeleine de Cusacque, the Marquise de Langeac, whom he called ‘the Beautiful Aglaé’. It was claimed at Court that this woman made use of her lover’s influence and traded lettres de cachet, and there was good reason to believe that this was true. The duc had set up all the lady’s children, despite their dubious lineage, but since the King’s death he had had to conform to the new, stricter morality and give up seeing her. She had continued to appear, however, even provoking a gentleman to a duel and insulting a tribunal. Eventually, she had been ordered to remain fifty leagues from the Court and had withdrawn to an estate near Caen. As for her lover, his health had declined since this forced separation.
Nicolas finally decided to enter the mansion. A monumentally tall Swiss Guard, covered in silver braid, received him haughtily, softening only when he gave his name and occupation. He was led across the main courtyard and then up some steps into a vestibule where a valet greeted him. He was surprised by the lack of hustle and bustle in the house at this hour of the day. Several servants passed him without looking at him, with inscrutable expressions on their faces. On the great staircase, he noted a fine painting, an allegory of Prudence and Strength. On the first floor, a succession of antechambers led him to the minister’s study. The valet tapped at the door. A familiar voice responded. The valet stood aside to let him in. The Duc de La Vrillière sat slumped beside the big marble fireplace, wearing a grey coat and no wig. He glanced at Nicolas expressionlessly. The man had certainly changed since their last encounter. Thin, stooped, hollow-jowled, he looked quite unlike the chubby little man Nicolas had known.
‘Hmm, here’s young Ranreuil,’ he grunted. ‘Quite cold, isn’t it?’
He sighed, as if the name alone could summon up the ghost of the late King, his other passion in life. Things could have got off to a worse start, thought Nicolas.
‘Monsieur,’ said the minister, ‘I have always held you in great esteem. I understand that you may have thought that you – how shall I put it? – did not have my trust. But that was a complete misunderstanding on your part.’
‘I did indeed think so, Monseigneur,’ replied Nicolas. ‘In fact, I was quite convinced of it, even though I found it hard to explain. Others took it upon themselves to reinforce the impression.’
‘Now who could that have been? Lenoir? Yes, that may well be what he thought. A word from me will disabuse him. It is no longer possible to do without your services. Monsieur de Sartine long ago convinced me of that. Today, I need you again.’
Nicolas had been right: he was indeed back in business. ‘Monseigneur,’ he said, ‘I am at your service.’
The minister raised a hand clad in a grey silk glove and brought it down hard on the armrest of his chair. He sat up, and for a moment the image of the man he had been reappeared, an image of easy-going but real authority.
‘Let’s get straight to the point. Yesterday I was at Versailles. I came back early this morning to find my house turned upside down. The fact is, Monsieur, my major-domo has been killed.’ He shook his head irritably. ‘No, I’m wrong! One of my wife’s maids has been killed, and my major-domo was found wounded and unconscious with a knife beside him. It would seem that, having killed the girl, he tried to punish himself by committing suicide.’
‘What measures have so far been taken?’ Nicolas enquired coldly, once again the professional who did not like other people to draw hasty conclusions for him.
‘What? What? … Measures? Oh, yes, measures … I forbade anyone to touch the maid’s body. The major-domo was taken to his room on the mezzanine, still unconscious. He is being watched by a doctor. As for the kitchens where the crime took place, I have forbidden access to them and the doors have been bolted while waiting for you to inspect the place.’
‘Did you know the victim?’
The duc gave a kind of start. ‘A chambermaid! One of the last to have entered my house. How could I? I don’t even know her name.’
Nicolas thought to himself that servants were often regarded as furniture. Most of the time, their names were changed and their master was unaware of their real name, knowing nothing of them but the particular function for which they were paid.
‘Monseigneur,’ he said, ‘may I be so bold as to demand full authority in this affair, which is all the more serious for having taken place in your house? No meddling, no interference, the possibility of questioning all the occupants of the house, and I mean all, and permanent permission to move around and to search.’
‘All right, all right,’ grumbled the duc, ‘I suppose it’s necessary. Sartine did tell me how inconvenient you can be.’
‘The facts are more inconvenient than I. That’s not all, Monseigneur. I should like to be assisted by Bourdeau. I trust you will consent.’
‘The name sounds familiar. Isn’t he one of our officers?’
‘One of our inspectors, Monseigneur.’
‘That’s right,’ said La Vrillière, striking his forehead, ‘he’s your loyal deputy. I like loyalty. Of course I consent.’
‘What about Monsieur Lenoir?’
‘Leave it to me. I’ll reconcile the two of you.
He’ll be informed that this is my affair and you answer entirely to me. It’s a private matter, and requires the greatest discretion. The Lieutenant General of Police will have to accede to your demands for any help or support that you may require. I hope that you will show the same zeal and efficiency in this affair as you have in others. A study has been set aside for you on the mezzanine, and orders will be given that you must be obeyed in all matters. My valet, Provence, will be your guide in this house. You can trust him, he’s been with me for twenty years. Now do your work. Monsieur, I am at your disposal.’
The minister’s tone was certainly in keeping with the circumstances. Nicolas had often noted in this unloved little man, lacking in personal prestige, a kind of unexpected grandeur which occasionally appeared, its roots constantly irrigated by the will and trust of the monarch. Thus, in a few short moments, the Duc de La Vrillière had been transfigured, animated by the concerns of State and the order it was his task to impose upon it. Everything vital having been said, Nicolas bowed and left the room. The valet was waiting at the door, and asked Nicolas to follow him. They took the same route by which they had come. Back on the ground floor, they came to a large hall that led to a succession of antechambers. In the third room on the right, the valet pointed out the entrance to a large study, which Nicolas judged to be situated more or less beneath that of the minister. The valet closed the door behind him. A fire was blazing in a white marble hearth, above which stood a bust of Louis XV. He stood for a moment contemplating it, suddenly overwhelmed with memories. Then he sat down at a small desk inlaid with bronze and lacquer and equipped with paper, quill pens, ink and lead pencils. He took out his little black notebook, an indispensable tool of his investigations. He was swept by a wave of excitement. It was the habitual thrill of the hunter setting off on the trail, the same ardour that sent him galloping off into the thickets of the forest of Compiègne. Already his mind was revolving around this case with which he had been presented, and his intelligence and intuition were on the alert.
The Saint-Florentin Murders Page 4