‘All he can do now is ask for the address of the silversmith who made the silver hand.’
‘The silver hand?’
‘Yes, Monsieur de Saint-Florentin, or rather the Duc de La Vrillière, had the same thing happen to him a few years ago. The late King presented him with a substitute hand.’
Nicolas sat huddled and silent in a corner of the coach. So that gaping hole in the throats of the two victims, shaped like a stiff hand, could be … The idea seemed so monstrous, he bit his lips until they bled.
Notes – CHAPTER VII
1. This subtle analysis is borrowed from Crébillon.
2. La Harpe (1739–1803) was a critic.
3. See The Phantom of Rue Royale.
4. In August 1901, two Englishwomen, Miss Moberly and Miss Jourdain, were transported to the eighteenth century while walking at Trianon and met people in period dress. This journey through time remains a mystery to this day. I thought it might be amusing to tell the story the other way round.
5. See The Nicolas Le Floch Affair.
6. The Maurepas had been exiled to Pontchartrain by Louis XV.
7. Madame de Noailles was a lady-in-waiting known as Madame l’Étiquette.
8. See The Phantom of Rue Royale.
VIII
NAVIGATION
What is a naval battle? You fire cannon, you separate,
and the sea is just as salty as it was before!
MAUREPAS
Nicolas returned to the palace, frozen with fear. How could he have forgotten that characteristic of the Minister of the King’s Household? So many years spent close to him, and yet … It was precisely that proximity, a matter of habit and routine, which played games with your memory and blunted your powers of reasoning. He had long wondered about the nature of the late King’s fondness for that colourless little man who led a life of debauchery and was so hated within the royal family … Madame Adélaïde and Madame Victoire endlessly belittled him, and never lost an opportunity to humiliate him in public. Had not the Queen, as she had herself just reminded Nicolas, once told the duc that she could not forget that he had taken sides against her at the end of the former reign? For Nicolas, however, there remained the minister’s loyalty to Louis XV, not to mention the vital support he had given his commissioner on a number of critical occasions.
The new King had retained him against all the odds, although he had exiled his mistress, the Beautiful Aglaé, and was keeping him somewhat at arm’s length. For what reason? Did his office put him in a position to know too many State secrets? Was it too risky to even conceive of the idea of removing him? Or did the fact that he was a cousin of the First Minister demand a certain indulgence, at least for the time being? Sartine, who had long been his follower, had gradually distanced himself from him, having become aware that La Vrillière had benefited greatly from the successes of his service but had done nothing to support him when things had become unpleasant for him.
When it came down to it, Nicolas did not really care about all these intrigues, and followed their ins and outs only from a very great distance. What mattered was that he now found himself in possession of a clue, perhaps even a piece of evidence, the importance of which was still to be assessed. He could not dismiss the possibility that it was a coincidence, and it was vital that he be extremely cautious. Could somebody else have got hold of an object the Duc de La Vrillière obviously had to take off from time to time – to sleep, for example? Was it possible that someone had made a copy of the artificial hand with a view to compromising the minister? On the other hand, the initial stages of the investigation had revealed a number of contradictions in those testimonies which could have provided the master of the house with an alibi. Nor could Nicolas forget that even the duchesse had lied about Monsieur de La Vrillière being at Versailles on the night of the murder.
The minister’s private life, which certainly could be called dissolute, was an open secret. So why, in this particular case, strive to conceal what he had been doing that night, unless in an attempt to cover up the unspeakable? Nicolas recalled his uncertainty about the real purpose of his mission: did they have such a low opinion of him as to imagine that, finding himself out of favour and removed from affairs, he would agree to be a malleable instrument and carry out the semblance of an investigation the conclusion of which was inevitable? He was thinking so fast that the blood was beating in his temples. There was no point tormenting himself with speculations, he just had to get a move on. Only a return to action would allow him to throw some light on an affair which was becoming increasingly obscured by new facts and in which sham and pretence were everywhere.
The most important thing was to determine if the Duc de La Vrillière still wore the silver hand given to him by the late King. How to proceed? Should he simply ask the minister, and never mind his possible reaction? As Nicolas prepared his strategy, he became aware of the enormity of the implications: whether he liked it or not, he was now considering the duc to be the prime suspect in a murder committed in his own house. His sense of embarrassment increased when a new thought occurred to him: a second victim had been discovered, bearing on her neck the same characteristic wound. The two murders seemed to have been committed using an identical weapon, which meant that the person responsible for the first could also have been responsible for the second. He would definitely have to verify the duc’s whereabouts at those times. Nicolas rebuked himself for wasting too much time in hypothesising. Yes, it really was essential to get down to action and stop himself getting needlessly carried away.
The Minister of the King’s Household must surely be back in Versailles, where the affairs of his office required him. He was a man of habit, and usually lunched at about one in the afternoon. Nicolas judged that this was a good time to be received. He would not change, as his hunting costume denoted his privileged rank at Court … He had a perfect excuse: to give an up-to-date report on his inquiry into the murder at the Saint-Florentin mansion.
In the ministers’ wing, he was greeted like a regular visitor by the elderly groom, who, after tapping at the door, admitted him to the Duc de La Vrillière’s study. As predicted, he was in the middle of lunch, sitting at a pedestal table near the window. A fire was blazing in the hearth.
‘What, have the animals got into the palace?’ he said, looking up. ‘How long have you been at Versailles?’
Nicolas realised that the opening remark referred to his hunting costume. ‘Since yesterday morning, Monseigneur. On the instructions of Monsieur Lenoir.’
‘And you’ve only just deigned to come and pay me a visit!’
‘His Majesty wanted to see me, then Monsieur de Maurepas, and, last but not least, the Queen. In addition, the King requested my presence at this morning’s shoot.’
‘Ah, that’s how they poach our people …’ The duc seemed tense, even anxious. ‘I’m listening,’ he said.
‘Monseigneur,’ began Nicolas, ‘I should like to give you a brief report of my investigation. Most of your servants have been misrepresenting the truth, and sometimes openly lying. Your major-domo’s attempted suicide was nothing but a minor cut. He doesn’t remember a thing.’
‘What?’ said the duc, agitated. ‘And will that be enough to exonerate him in your opinion?’
‘I’m not saying that. I’m merely observing that there is nothing to support the charges against him, no significant corroborating evidence …’
‘Come now, it must be him! Who else could it be? You need to speed things up, Monsieur.’
‘Justice, Monseigneur, walks hand in hand with truth, which by definition is slow and cautious.’
The duc stiffened on his chair. ‘I hope you’re not trying to teach me a lesson, Commissioner.’
‘God forbid,’ replied Nicolas. ‘It was merely an aside. There are many others who think the same way as you and are urging me to bring matters to a conclusion.’
The minister was eating oublies, dipping them into a cup of chocolate. A little pot contained the
rest of the drink. The pedestal table was unsteady, and the pot badly balanced. The duc’s gloved right hand was flat on the table, motionless. Only his left hand was moving. If he became any more irritable, thought Nicolas, the whole thing would come crashing to the floor. With a little luck …
‘What?’ yelled the duc. ‘Who are these others? Why is an affair which should have remained secret being openly discussed? Who have you been talking to about it? Can’t you hold your tongue after all these years? Sartine, of course! He doesn’t matter any more, don’t you understand? He doesn’t matter at all!’
The little man was pallid with rage.
‘Monseigneur is mistaken,’ Nicolas replied, in his most placatory tone. ‘It may well be that Monsieur de Sartine knows, he’s always well informed about everything. Imagining the contrary would be an illusion. I was thinking of the Duc de Richelieu, who runs everywhere spreading news from group to group. Naturally he questioned me, and I pretended to know nothing. As for the King, he was of the opinion that I would succeed in the end.’
Purple blotches appeared on the minister’s face. ‘Richelieu! He’s always fussing around, thinking he’s indispensable. Why doesn’t he just retire, after more than sixty years at Court? Damn the fellow! And as for the King …’
He raised his gloved hand and brought it down heavily on the pedestal table. The table swayed, the cup tinkled in its saucer, as if taking fright, and the pot overturned, covering the silk glove with dark liquid. Furious, the duc rose and took it off. Nicolas saw what he had wanted to see: the artificial hand was made, not of silver, but of wood.
The chaos which followed this incident gave Nicolas time to reflect on the measures to be taken. Monsieur de La Vrillière had rushed to take another glove from his desk drawer, while the groom repaired the damage and took away the soiled pedestal table. Now Nicolas would have to pull out all the stops, while pretending to continue with his report.
‘There is still one strange fact of which I must inform you, Monseigneur …’
‘Well, hurry up about it.’
‘The examinations our people carried out at the Basse-Geôle allowed them to take a plaster cast of the weapon used to cut the throats of the two victims.’
‘What two victims? As far as I know, my major-domo didn’t die, you just told me he was barely scratched. Are you inventing new victims for your own pleasure?’
‘Alas, no! Another young girl was discovered in Impasse Glatigny on Tuesday morning, with her throat cut in an identical way. There can be no possible doubt: the same weapon was used on both occasions.’
He had the impression that the blow had struck home.
‘So you found it and took a cast?’ the minister said, in a cold, measured tone.
‘We took a cast from the shape of the wound. Just as one can get back to the original seal by taking a cast from the seal on a letter.’
‘And what’s so strange about it?’
‘Its strangeness justifies the question you will forgive me asking, Monseigneur. The cast is in the shape of a hand. Now, no living hand could produce the wounds we found. I note that you are wearing a wooden hand. Where is the silver hand given you by our late lamented King and master?’
La Vrillière did not bat an eyelid. He looked Nicolas in the eye, as if trying to grasp his precise motive in daring to ask such a question. ‘Monsieur Le Floch,’ he said, ‘I wear what I feel comfortable with. The hand given me by our late master I reserve for special occasions.’
‘Nevertheless, Monseigneur, you always wear a glove … I’m sure you will permit me to examine the precious original more closely. The fact that it is sometimes out of your sight gives rise, if it were necessary, to the suspicion … What if someone borrowed it, or worse still …’
The minister appeared to have lost patience. ‘Of course, of course … I’ve never claimed that it was still in my possession. To tell the truth … to tell the truth, I’ve lost it. I may have left it somewhere.’
‘Monseigneur must recall where this loss took place?’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ he said, and appeared to hesitate. ‘At Madame de Cusacque’s house in Normandy.’
‘Is it conceivable that this object, which is precious for more than one reason, could have been stolen?’
The minister appeared increasingly perturbed. ‘How should I know? Anything’s possible.’
‘Monseigneur, one last detail. Who actually made that silver hand? Some details on the nature of the object would be useful to me.’
‘Monsieur de Villedeuil. In 1765, he was an engineer in Place Royale. Dead now, I think. Le Floch, does the King know about this affair?’
‘Yes, Monseigneur. His Majesty mentioned the matter briefly to me, as I have already said.’
The minister took up his quill, dipped it in the inkwell, and began writing. Nicolas understood that the interview was over.
The Court carriage took him back to the Hôtel de la Belle Image, where this triumphant arrival added greatly to his prestige. He immediately went up to his room, shut himself in, and, while once again cleaning his rifles with fanatical care, reflected on what he had just heard, trying to hone his impressions of the encounter with the Duc de La Vrillière. His first observation, a vital one, concerned the lack of openness and honesty in the interview. The second concerned the major element of the artificial hand.
The minister’s assertion that he wore a wooden model for everyday use was plausible. Perhaps the original really had disappeared, and its owner really did not know the exact circumstances. His answers about the place where it had been stolen or lost were exceedingly vague. Had it happened in Caen, where his mistress Madame de Cusacque, the Beautiful Aglaé, lived in exile? If so, that would certainly not help them get at the truth. The minister was in a position to know that no inquiry would be carried out in the immediate future so far from Paris and that his word would suffice to put an end to the question.
The duc’s anger on learning that the news of the tragedy in his Parisian mansion had spread to Versailles, as well as his acrimony towards Sartine, also gave the commissioner food for thought. Should it lead him to respond favourably to the former Lieutenant General of Police’s demand to be kept informed of everything concerning the Minister of the King’s Household? He did not really like such a role. But could he refuse Sartine, to whom he owed everything and whose actions had always been dictated by an overriding concern for the interests of the throne? A final thought helped him to make up his mind: if the pot of chocolate had not been overturned, would he have discovered that Monsieur de La Vrillière’s silver hand had disappeared? Deep down, he thought himself quite a casuist; if Sartine had been there, he would again have called him a disciple of Loyola …
Nicolas knew he was becoming over-excited, and to calm down he decided to write to his son. He could not help being slightly anxious about the beginning of Louis’s life as a schoolboy. How would a boy like that, his character already well formed, a boy in whom Nicolas was delighted to find traces and memories of his own father, the Marquis de Ranreuil, react to school? However extraordinary his situation might seem to him, Louis appeared to rise above it with a praiseworthy straightforwardness and sense of proportion. Nevertheless, Nicolas could not quite shake off the unease caused by the circumstances of his early youth. On the one hand, he was the spoilt child of a brothel, and on the other, the brilliant, refined schoolboy who had delighted everyone in the Noblecourt household. Nicolas had to give due recognition to La Satin for having, in such conditions, been able to avoid the worst. Louis was now proud of the glorious family of which he was the descendant, but was quite lacking in arrogance. Did he fully realise, though, the ambiguity of his position in the world? The steep path of truth had been chosen for him, and it might lead him down many treacherous side roads. Nicolas dreaded the suffering it might bring him, while hoping that, if such strains did indeed make themselves felt in such a young soul, he would gain from them, like a burning blade made supple and hard by being dipp
ed in water. It was therefore a tender letter full of the most judicious advice – the very same advice he had received twenty years earlier from the Marquis de Ranreuil – which he addressed to his son. He corrected it carefully, copied it out neatly, and sealed it. Then he set about getting ready for his dinner at the Comte d’Arranet’s house.
He shaved with a dexterity he had inherited from his father. When he had reached the age when he needed to start shaving, much to the consternation of Canon Le Floch, for whom all care of the body was the work of the devil, the marquis had taught him the rudiments and given him a little treatise, which contained instructions on how to shave without danger to oneself, which stones to use for sharpening blades, and how to prepare leather for a strop. He chose a dark-grey coat; the colour was known as London chimney soot, and it was a recent model from the workshop of his tailor, Master Vachon, the discreet elegance of whose clothes were ideally suited for the end of the period of mourning. He took from his portmanteau some fine Mechlin lace cuffs and a cravat and shirt that were both dazzlingly white, the result of the combined care of Catherine and Marion: the old servant had taught her protégée the use of a charcoal iron, which had not been a feature of her life in military camps. He brushed his hair, straightened his wig, powdered it, arranged the strands of hair that peeped out with a little agate handle, and checked his flattering reflection in the mottled mirror on the dressing table. Last but not least, he fastened the old sword which, two years earlier, a messenger from Brittany had left in Rue Montmartre, wrapped in a blanket, without a word of explanation. Nicolas had recognised the Marquis de Ranreuil’s ceremonial sword and had assumed that it was his half-sister Isabelle who had sent it to him, just as, not long after the death of her father, she had given him the signet ring bearing the family arms, which he would one day pass on to Louis. Nostalgia overcame him for a moment. He closed his eyes and saw again the wild shore of the ocean, almost heard the cries of the seabirds above his head …
The Saint-Florentin Murders Page 21