We pay this homage
Worthy of our King,
To crown his glory
And proclaim his might.
Deities waved palm branches. Monsieur de La Borde squeezed Nicolas’s arm.
‘Look, the fair-haired girl on the right … the second one wearing a tunic. That’s her.’
Nicolas sighed. He knew as well as anyone the sad fate awaiting these young girls from the Opéra. They began their careers in the chorus or as dancers, but then, still barely more than children, fell prey to a world in which loose morals and the power of money prevailed. Unless they managed to navigate the dangerous waters of libertinism, which required skill and caution, and reached the privileged status of kept women, inevitably once the charms of their youth had faded they were condemned to lives of squalor and degradation. At least this pretty little thing might fare rather better with a decent sort like La Borde. Perhaps.
The splendid strains of the prologue continued to ring out. This style of composition had gone out of fashion years ago: Rameau himself had ended it, replacing this standard device with an overture linked to the entertainment. Nicolas had been surprised by this spectacular opening, which lauded the monarchy and glorified its military successes, when the reality was a series of short-lived victories and uncertain setbacks, hardly a reason for bombastic celebration. But carried away by force of habit, everyone continued to pretend. It was not a bad policy in the view of those in authority who looked on from the shadows for any hint of public disaffection. The curtain fell and Monsieur de La Borde sighed; his goddess had disappeared.
‘She will be on once again in the third act,’ he said with a sparkle in his eye, ‘in the dance of the Chinese pagodas.’4
The performance resumed and the plot of Les Paladins followed its tortuous and conventional path. Ever attentive to the music, Nicolas noted the overlap with vocal elements already used in Zoroastre,5 the importance given to accompanied recitatives and the clear reference to Italian opera in the extensive use of ariettas. Carried away by the orchestration, he paid little attention to the plot: the depraved love of the elderly Anselme for his ward, Argie, herself in love with the paladin Atis.
In the first act Nicolas delighted in the dance tunes, whose gaiety was enlivened by the virtuoso horn accompaniment.
At the end of the second act, during the singing of the aria ‘I Die of Fear’, Nicolas, keeping a watchful eye on the auditorium, noticed that something was happening in the royal box. A man had just entered it and was whispering to a military-looking old man sitting to the right behind the princess and who must have been the Comte de Ruissec. Then the elderly gentleman himself leant towards an old lady with white hair and a black lace mantilla. She became agitated and Nicolas saw her shake her head in disbelief. Although from a distance this whole scene appeared to be taking place in silence, the King’s daughter became concerned and turned round to learn the cause of the disturbance.
At that moment the curtain fell for the end of the act. Nicolas then saw the same man enter Monsieur de Sartine’s box and speak to him. The magistrate rose to his feet, leant towards the auditorium to peer into the stalls and, after finally spotting Nicolas, summarily signalled him to come up. The commotion was growing in the royal box and Madame Adélaïde was dabbing Madame de Ruissec’s temples with a handkerchief.
Later, going back over these moments, Nicolas would remember that this was when the whole monstrous mechanism was set in motion, to end only once destiny had been sated with death and destruction. He bade farewell to Monsieur de La Borde, then hurried to join the Lieutenant General of Police as quickly as the public, now on its feet and talking in tightly knit groups, would allow.
Monsieur de Sartine was not in his box. He must have gone to the princess’s. After parleying with the officials of her Household, Nicolas managed to gain admittance. Madame Adélaïde was speaking to the Lieutenant General in a low voice. Her beautiful, full face was scarlet with emotion. Monsieur de Ruissec was kneeling at his wife’s feet, fanning her as she sat semi-conscious in her seat. A man in black, whom Nicolas recognised as a police officer from the Châtelet, was standing stock-still against the partition wall, looking terrified. Nicolas drew near and gave a deep bow. The princess, taken by surprise, replied with a slight nod of the head. He was moved to see in her youthful face a close resemblance to the King.
Monsieur de Sartine resumed: ‘Your Royal Highness may rest assured that we shall do everything necessary to accompany the comte and comtesse back to their mansion and attempt to settle this matter discreetly. However, some observations do need to be made. Commissioner Le Floch here will accompany me. The King knows him and holds him in high esteem.’
A royal look fell upon Nicolas without seeming to notice him.
‘We rely on you to do your utmost to allay the distress of our dear friends,’ said Madame Adélaïde. ‘And above all, sir, have no concern for my person but deal with what is urgent. The officials of our Household will watch over our person and besides the Parisians love us, both my sisters and myself.’
Monsieur de Sartine bowed as the elderly couple – the comtesse trembling uncontrollably – took their leave of the princess. They all left to return to their carriages. It took some time to gather up the coachmen, who had gone off for a drink or two. A court carriage set off with the Ruissecs, since they had come in procession from Versailles with the princess. It was soon followed by Monsieur de Sartine’s coach. The flames from the sputtering torches cast flickering shadows over the houses in Rue Saint-Honoré.
The Lieutenant General remained silent for some considerable time, lost in thought. A disorderly jam of carriages brought the vehicle to a standstill and the young man took advantage of the moment to venture an observation.
‘One day, sir, it would be useful to introduce regulations with respect to vehicles waiting outside theatres and opera houses. It might even be appropriate to force them to go one way only, in order to make our streets less congested and easier to negotiate.6 If the roads were also better lit, safety would definitely improve.’7
The observation elicited no reply. Instead the Lieutenant General drummed on the windows of the carriage in apparent irritation. He turned towards his subordinate.
‘Commissioner Le Floch …’
Nicolas stiffened. He had learnt from experience that when the Lieutenant General of Police addressed him by his title instead of calling him by his first name, as he normally did, it meant that he was not in a good mood and that trouble was brewing. He listened carefully.
‘We have before us, so I believe, a case that requires particular tact and lightness of touch,’ Sartine continued. ‘I am, moreover, hostage to the promises I gave to Madame Adélaïde. Does she think this kind of procedure is simple? She knows nothing of the world or of life. She gives herself over to her instinct for kindness. But what relevance have feelings of sorrow and pity for me? Have you nothing to say?’
‘First, sir, I would need to have a little more information on the situation.’
‘Not so fast, Nicolas. It suits me far better to let you know as little as possible. Otherwise I am only too well aware what the result will be. Your lively imagination will immediately start to run wild. We’ve seen what happens when I loosen your reins. You take the bit between your teeth and bolt. Suddenly we’re off in all directions, picking up bodies on every street corner. You are shrewd and throw yourself into your work, but if I am not there to put you back on the right track … I want you to retain a completely open mind so that I can benefit from your initial impression. We must not put the hounds off the scent!’
After two years of working for him, Nicolas was accustomed to Sartine, who could at times be monumentally unfair. Only Monsieur de Saujac, the president of the Parlement of Paris, whose reputation for unfairness was legendary, could have taught him anything on that front. So Nicolas was not taken aback by his comments, which another might have found hurtful. He was well acquainted with the sudden mischievous twinkle
in his superior’s eye and the involuntary twitching to the right of his mouth. Monsieur de Sartine did not believe what he was saying: it was just an affectation, his particular way of imposing his will on people. Only the less perspicacious let themselves be taken in, but he treated everyone in the same manner. Inspector Bourdeau, Nicolas’s deputy, claimed that it was his way of manipulating his puppets to check they remained loyal to him and agreed with what he said, however outrageous it might be. What was more surprising was his tendency to prove cantankerous and irascible to those close to him when he had a reputation for being a gentle, secretive and extremely courteous man.
Monsieur de Sartine’s apparent mood was a cover for his distress and anxiety. What would they find at the end of their night ride through Paris? What drama lay ahead of them? The Comtesse de Ruissec had looked so distressed …
Whatever spectacle fate had reserved for them that evening, the young man vowed not to disappoint his superior and to take careful note of everything. Monsieur de Sartine was once more locked away in a gloomy silence. The effort at concentration that showed on his face further emphasised the lines in his angular features, which had lost all their youthfulness.
They stopped outside the half-moon gateway of a small mansion. A large stone staircase opened on to a cobbled courtyard. Monsieur de Ruissec entrusted his distraught wife to a chambermaid. The comtesse protested and tried to hang on to her husband’s arm but he freed himself firmly from her grasp. This scene was played out by the light of a candelabrum held by an elderly retainer, but Nicolas was unable to work out the layout of the broader premises, which were still cloaked in darkness. He could barely even make out the wings of the main building.
They climbed the steps leading into a flagstoned entrance hall with a staircase at the far end. The Comte de Ruissec staggered and had to lean against an upholstered armchair. Nicolas studied him. He was a tall, wiry man, somewhat stooped, despite his concerted efforts to stand straight. A broad scar, now red from emotion, ran across his left temple, probably the mark of a sabre. He was biting his inner lip, his mouth pursed. The austerity of his severe dark coat further emphasised by the cross of the Order of St Michael hanging from a black ribbon, contrasted with a single note of colour, the insignia of the Order of St Louis fastened to a bright red sash, which hung over his left hip. The sword he wore to the side was no ceremonial weapon but a sturdy blade of tempered steel. Nicolas, well versed in such matters, remembered that the comte had been escorting Madame Adélaïde and might in certain circumstances have had to protect her. Monsieur de Ruissec straightened up and took a few steps. Whether it was the result of an old wound or the effect of age, he walked with a limp and sought to conceal this infirmity by raising and thrusting forward his whole body with every stride. He gave his old retainer an impatient look.
‘We do not have a moment to lose. Take us to my son’s bedroom and give me your account of events on the way.’ The authoritative voice was still young, its tone almost aggressive. He led the small group, leaning heavily on the bronze handrail.
Wheezing, the major-domo began his story of the evening’s events.
‘Your lordship, around nine o’clock in the evening I had just taken some logs to your rooms and had gone back downstairs. I was reading my Book of Hours.’
Nicolas caught the wry look on Monsieur de Sartine’s face.
‘His lordship the vicomte arrived. He seemed in a great hurry and his cloak was wet. I went to take it from him but he brushed me aside. I asked him if he needed me. He shook his head. I heard his bedroom door slam, then nothing more.’
He stopped for a moment, short of breath.
‘That wretched bullet again. Sorry, General. As I was saying, then nothing more until suddenly a shot was fired.’
The Lieutenant General intervened. ‘A shot fired? Are you quite sure?’
‘My major-domo is a former soldier,’ said the comte. ‘He served in my regiment. He knows what he’s talking about. Carry on, Picard.’
‘I rushed up but found the door shut. It was locked from the inside. There was not a sound or cry to be heard. I called out but there was no answer.’
Having gone down a corridor at the end of the landing, the procession was by now in front of a heavy oak door. Monsieur de Ruissec had suddenly become stooped.
‘I was unable to force it open,’ Picard went on, ‘and even if I’d had an axe I would not have had sufficient strength. I went back downstairs and sent her ladyship’s chambermaid off to the nearest guard post. An officer came running but despite my pleas he refused to do anything unless someone with greater authority was present. So I immediately sent for you at the Opéra.’
‘Commissioner,’ said Sartine, ‘please find us something with which to open or knock down this door.’
Nicolas seemed in no hurry to obey. Eyes closed, he was carefully going through his coat pockets.
‘We are waiting, Nicolas,’ said his superior impatiently.
‘To hear is to obey, sir, and I have the solution to hand. There is no need to go in search of tools to force an entry. This will do the job.’
He was holding a small, metallic object similar to a penknife, which, when opened, revealed a series of hooks of various sizes and designs. It had been a gift from Inspector Bourdeau, who already possessed one himself and had confiscated another from a bandit and given it to Nicolas.
Sartine raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘The thieves’ picklock comes to the rescue of the police! The designs of the Great Architect often follow crooked paths,’ he murmured.
Nicolas smiled inwardly at this Masonic parlance, knelt down and, after carefully deciding on the most suitable hook, inserted it into the lock. Immediately a key was heard to drop on to the wooden floor of the bedroom. He studied his hooks again, chose another and set to work. Only the wheezy breathing of the comte and of his major-domo, and the sputtering of the candles, disturbed the silence of the scene. After a moment the lock mechanism could be heard creaking and Nicolas was able to open the door. The Comte de Ruissec rushed forward but was just as swiftly stopped in his tracks by the Lieutenant General of Police.
‘Sir,’ the old man said indignantly, ‘I will not allow this. I am in my own home and my son …’
‘I beg you, your lordship, to permit the officers of the law to proceed. Once the initial observations have been made, I promise you that you will be able to go in and that nothing will be hidden from you.’
‘Sir, have you forgotten what you promised Her Royal Highness? Who do you think you are to disobey her orders? Who are you to oppose me? A petty magistrate who has barely emerged from his ancestors’ herring-barrels and whose name is still redolent of the grocer’s shop …’
‘I shall not tolerate anything that breaches the law and I take my orders from His Majesty alone,’ replied Sartine. ‘I vowed to deal with this matter with discretion and that is the only promise I made. As for what you have said to me, your lordship, were it not for the dignity of my office and royal condemnation of the practice, I would challenge you to a duel. The best thing you can do is to proceed immediately to your apartments and wait for me to call for you. Or rather I shall come to fetch you myself.’
Eyes blazing, the elderly nobleman turned and left. Nicolas had never seen Monsieur de Sartine look so pale. Purplish rings had appeared under his eyes and he was furiously twisting one of the curls of his wig.
After taking a candle from the candelabrum Picard was carrying, the young man stepped cautiously into the room, followed by his superior. He would remember his first impressions for a very long time.
At first he could see nothing but immediately felt the chill in the bedroom, then detected the smell of brackish water mingled with the more irritant odour of gunpowder. The flickering flame shed a dim light on an enormous room decorated from floor to ceiling with pale wood panelling. As he moved forward he saw on his left a large, garnet-red marble fireplace topped by a pier glass. To the right an alcove hung with dark damask stood out fro
m the gloom. A Persian carpet and two armchairs hid from view what seemed to be a desk, placed in the corner opposite the doorway. Here and there were chests covered with weapons. These and the disorderly state of the room showed that its occupant was a young man and a soldier.
It was when he neared the desk that Nicolas noticed a figure stretched out on the ground. A man lay face up, his feet pointing towards the window. His head seemed shrunken, as if out of proportion to his body. A large cavalry pistol lay beside him. Monsieur de Sartine moved closer and then recoiled. It was truly a sight to shock the most hardened individual.
Nicolas, who had not flinched when he leant over the body, suddenly realised that his superior had had few opportunities to witness death in its more gruesome forms. He took him firmly by the arm and forced him to sit down on one of the armchairs. Monsieur de Sartine let himself be led like a child and did not utter a word; he took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow and temples whilst airing his wig, then slumped down, his chin drooping on to his chest. Nicolas was amused to note that Monsieur de Sartine’s pale face had now turned a greenish colour. Having scored a point over his superior – he allowed himself such little victories – he resumed his examination of the scene.
What had horrified the Lieutenant General of Police was the dead man’s face. The military wig had slipped down on to his forehead in the most grotesque fashion. It further emphasised the already glazed look in the eyes that seemed to be staring at death itself. But where a gaping mouth should have completed the expression of horror or pain, all that could be seen were sunken cheeks and a chin that almost touched the nose in a twisted grin. The face had been so disfigured that it immediately brought to mind an old man who had lost all his teeth or the contorted features of some sculpted monster. The wound that was the cause of death had not bled, but it was too soon to draw any conclusions from this. The bullet seemed to have struck the base of the neck at point-blank range and to have singed the fabric of the shirt and the muslin of the cravat.
The Man with the Lead Stomach Page 2