‘That’s the only one,’ said Nicolas, watching the cat playing under the bed with a light-coloured man’s wig, near which lay white clerical bands.
‘Tuesday evening? Tuesday evening there was no performance. Harlequin was ill and I stayed here to rest.’
She did not, however, look like the sort of person who rested.
‘Alone?’
‘Monsieur, you are overstepping the mark. Yes, alone. Alone with Griset, my cat.’
At the sound of its name the tomcat emerged from its hiding place and went warily over to its mistress, its tail raised and its eyes trained on Nicolas. There was nothing more to add and Nicolas bade farewell; she did not reply. The maid accompanied him out with due ceremony, then shamelessly held out her hand for her reward. After a moment’s hesitation he paid his contribution. The Bichelière household certainly had many faults but modesty of manners was not one of them.
Once he was back outside he began to regret what had happened. How on earth, he asked himself, could I have lost control and surrendered to my instincts like that in the middle of an investigation while questioning a witness in a criminal case? A small voice inside him tried to plead extenuating circumstances: he had not really wanted to do it, the girl was pretty and forward, and anyway was known to be of easy virtue. Added to this soulsearching was an underlying anxiety. The whirlwind of sensations had been so violent that he had taken no precautions. He remembered only too well his friend Semacgus’s advice. Speaking from long experience as a libertine, he had warned him of the dangers of the company of actresses, opera girls and other harlots, too happy or too carefree to be bothered about spreading the poisoned fruits of their licentiousness far and wide. The surgeon had urged him to use a sheath made of sheep gut, more commonly known as a condom, which was a man’s best defence against Venus’s revenge. Finally, who was this ‘Gilles’ whose name had unfortunately disturbed the moment of climax?
To take his mind off things, Nicolas walked towards the Place des Victoires. He was always struck by the beauty of the place. He had never had the opportunity to examine closely the monument at its centre. Above the inscription ‘Viro immortali’ Louis XIV sat enthroned in glory. Protected by the figure of Fame with wings outstretched, the monarch looked down on slaves in chains, with the globe at his feet, beside Hercules’ club and lion’s skin. One day as they were crossing the square in a carriage Sartine had rattled off an anecdote, as he loved to do. He told Nicolas how a courtier, the Maréchal de La Feuillade, had built this square, taking his cult of the King so far as to have an underground passageway constructed from the crypt of the church of the Petits-Pères to a vault situated directly beneath the statue in which his mortal remains could pay court to the King for all eternity. The Lieutenant General of Police had also pointed out that this used to be an area of ill repute and that a reminder of its murky past was to be found in the street name Vide-Gousset.1
Nicolas got back to Rue Montmartre on the stroke of seven. The normally peaceful household was a hive of joyous activity. Marion and Catherine were busy in the pantry, surrounded by the noise and pleasant smells of the supper they were preparing. He could particularly smell the delicious aroma of fish and buttered croute. The atmosphere in the house helped dispel his lingering sense of melancholy, due as much to a heavy stomach as to his amorous exertions, whose beginning and ending had not lived up to the pleasure he had experienced in between.
Poitevin went back and forth, his arms laden with silverware and bottles which, Nicolas discovered upon enquiry, were to be used to lay the table that had been set up in the library that evening. He asked for some hot water and, still faithful to his godfather’s precepts with respect to personal hygiene, washed thoroughly before changing. When he entered the drawing room to be greeted by Cyrus jumping about, he heard three voices express their surprise at seeing him.
‘Here comes the prodigal son!’ said Monsieur de Noblecourt, on his feet and wearing a magnificent Regency-style wig. ‘Hunger has brought him in off the streets!’
Nicolas blushed at the biblical reference. He would have to learn to ignore these innocent jokes since those who made them were unaware of their meaning for him.
‘My dear Nicolas, you have arrived just at the right time. Two of our friends have done me the honour of asking to dine with me this evening.’
Glasses already in hands, Monsieur de La Borde and Dr Semacgus were smiling. They had never met and had just been getting acquainted. The company exchanged greetings. Nicolas sat down. The fire was burning cheerfully high; he surrendered to the wellbeing and warmth of friendship.
‘Nicolas,’ Monsieur de Noblecourt went on, ‘we are amongst friends, the door is well and truly closed. Give us a detailed account of the results of your investigations.’
The young man recounted the course of events, beginning with the evening at the Opéra particularly for La Borde’s benefit. Reporting to Monsieur de Sartine meant he needed to be able to explain facts quickly and clearly, avoiding excessive or tedious details. The Lieutenant General would not have tolerated them because he was a model of verbal precision himself. He continued his account, missing out certain details that he wanted to verify first. There was no doubt about his friends’ discretion but Nicolas never told everything, not even to Bourdeau. He blushed slightly when he came to the episode with the lovely Bichelière. He suddenly thought that he did not even know her first name and also that he would have to find out about this ‘Gilles’ fellow who had made such an ill-timed intervention in his love-making. Most surprised by his account of events was the First Groom to the King’s Bedchamber, who had only witnessed Nicolas’s hurried departure during the performance at the Opéra.
‘I now understand,’ he said, ‘why Monsieur de Saint-Florentin summoned the Lieutenant General of Police yesterday as a matter of urgency. The result of this audience was the order to abandon the investigation and the body was then taken from you. I understand, however, that you had already established a diagnosis …’
‘I’ve been giving our problem a great deal of thought since yesterday,’ Nicolas said. ‘This frightful death resulting from the ingestion of molten lead … Lead can be found everywhere. We still need to find those who use it.’
‘Printers,’ said La Borde.
‘Quite right, but also gunsmiths,’ added Semacgus.
‘Roofers,’ said Nicolas.
‘And coffin-makers.’
Monsieur de Noblecourt gave a knowledgeable wag of his finger.
‘My friends, my friends, I remember an evening with the late Duc de Saint-Simon. He entertained rarely and stingily, being rather tight-fisted but exquisitely courteous. One evening in the year 1730 or thereabouts, he arranged a supper party, which was unusual for him. I was there, listening to the conversation. One of his friends who was visiting Paris at the time, the Duke of Liria, the Spanish Ambassador in Muscovy … He was, it must be said …’
A long digression was in prospect, one that would considerably delay the main point of the speech.
‘… He was the son of the Duke of Berwick, himself the son of James II. I can see Nicolas becoming impatient. What it is to be young! In short, the Duke of Liria was telling the Duc de Saint-Simon how it was an old Russian custom to execute counterfeiters by making them ingest molten metal, which, he added, made their bodies explode. They probably did not use lead, which liquefies quickly. In any case, with the unfortunate vicomte it must have required a pipe or a funnel to force this devilish potion down his throat.’
‘It seems to me, Monsieur Procurator,’ interjected La Borde, ‘that there is also a fifth and a sixth profession that handle lead. First the executioner and, above all, fountaineers. In Versailles the other day I was watching the conduits of Neptune’s fountain being repaired. They did not stint on the lead.’
‘In a word,’ said Semacgus ironically, ‘you have a ready-made list of suspects … But still what could be the reason for this barbaric punishment? What crime could merit such an end? N
ot so long ago they used to cut out the tongues of informers.’
The four dining companions indulged in lengthy speculation, then turned their attention to the case of Mademoiselle Bichelière. If Madame de Ruissec had been pushed into the well of the dead what was the connection between her death and the actress? Their suppositions were interrupted by Marion who, grumbling, reminded them that it was time to sit down to dinner.
As they were getting up, Semacgus grabbed Nicolas’s elbow and whispered in his ear: ‘I suspect you, my young Romeo, of taking your questioning of La Bichelière rather further than you would have us believe …’
What was originally intended to be a quiet supper turned into a feast, even if, under his housekeeper’s watchful eye, the elderly procurator abstained from the morel pie. He made up for it with the sole à la Villeroy, which Catherine brought in reverently, but he managed to resist the temptation of a restorative white Mâcon. Had he shown the least inclination to taste it the ever-vigilant Marion would have prevented him, white wine being notorious for exacerbating the symptoms of gout. Meanwhile the assembled representatives of the medical profession, the royal Court and the Châtelet pursued the task in hand methodically, whilst exchanging the latest gossip. Their favoured topics were once again: the war; rumours of negotiations with England; the business with the Jesuits, who were under increasing threat; and the failing health of the King’s favourite, made worse by the rumours of the King’s latest fancy who was said to be with child by him. Finally dispatches from Moscow indicated that Tsarina Elizaveta Petrovna’s health was declining rapidly.
Monsieur de Noblecourt mentioned a strange event that one of his Swiss correspondents had drawn to his attention.
‘In Geneva they saw a shining ball of fire which, as it disappeared, exploded, and everyone felt a short earthquake along with a muffled noise. My friends thought they had been plunged into darkness when the brightness of the phenomenon had passed.’
‘What a very philosophical tale!’ said Semacgus. ‘Your Calvinist friends have been drinking too much Fendant … Here they are, imagining night in the middle of the day.’
Monsieur de Noblecourt nodded thoughtfully. ‘Sometimes the obvious can blind us to the truth. To return to the case before us, I would advise our young Châtelet commissioner not to attach too much importance to appearances but to seek to discover instead what lies behind them. The present is born of the past and it is always worth disentangling the past of the protagonists in a drama, to find out who they really are as opposed to how they wish to present themselves, who they say they are or what they would have people believe.’
Following these wise words they went their separate ways. For a celebration to end someone’s convalescence it had turned out to be a lively evening. Nicolas accompanied his friends outside. He was pleased to see that La Borde and Semacgus were already on such good terms. The two men, though different in character, age and station, had in common their friendship for Nicolas. The First Groom of the King’s Bedchamber, having at his disposal a Court carriage, offered to take the doctor back to Vaugirard.
He stepped aside for him and, turning towards Nicolas, whispered in his ear: ‘Madame de Pompadour wishes to see you tomorrow in her chateau at Choisy. You will be expected at three o’clock in the afternoon. Good luck, my friend.’
It was on this astonishing note that Nicolas’s day drew to a close.
NOTES – CHAPTER V
1. Literally ‘Pickpocket Street’ (Translator’s note).
VI
THE TWO HOUSES
‘Once the imagination is in motion, woe betide the mind it governs.’
MARIVAUX
Friday 26 October 1761
Nicolas left Rue Montmartre early in the morning. The evening he had spent with his friends had allayed any misgivings. Mademoiselle Bichelière had used him either to satisfy a passing fancy or to ingratiate herself with the police. He convinced himself that as he was not the first person she had given herself to, he was absolved to a degree from having yielded so thoughtlessly to his instincts. He recognised that the experience had been quite pleasurable, and then remembered Semacgus’s sniggers.
But Nicolas now had other things on his mind. He could not postpone meeting with Monsieur de Sartine any longer and felt apprehensive about what his superior would say. Would he try to salvage what he could of the situation by covering for his deputy or would he distance himself as he had done on occasion? Would that be tantamount to forbidding him from pursuing the investigation? This possibility worried Nicolas.
The other matter worrying him was the summons from the King’s favourite to go to her chateau at Choisy. He could hardly believe it. What requests or orders could she possibly have for him? Admittedly he had recently rendered her a signal service, but why turn to him, a modest link in the police chain, and not go directly to Sartine? Was the latter aware of this summons? If so, what did he think of it?
The venue for the meeting partly answered his question. The marquise had plenty of choice: her apartments in Versailles, her mansion in the royal town, the Hôtel d’Evreux in Paris, the chateau of Bellevue … but Choisy seemed most appropriate for a discreet meeting as it was relatively far away, very extensive, with a large number of servants, and thus a place of many comings and goings. The fact that the message had been passed on by La Borde, in whom the King had absolute trust, reassured him somewhat. The sovereign was no doubt aware of everything.
Monsieur de Sartine seemed to be in neither a good nor bad mood. Having tapped gently on his door and crept in, Nicolas found him busy writing, wearing a colourful, shot-silk headscarf. A manservant was clearing a pedestal table. The Lieutenant General gave his visitor a guarded look.
‘Are you Tamburlaine, Attila the Hun or Genghis Khan, Monsieur?’ he declared. ‘Wherever you go, nothing survives, the bodies pile up, whole families perish, mothers follow their sons on to Charon’s ferry. What’s your explanation for this – in as few words as possible, please?’
The jollity of his tone belied the strength of his words. Nicolas took a deep breath and replied in similar vein.
‘I am desperately sorry, Monsieur.’
‘Oh, I am so glad, so glad to have to explain to Monsieur de Saint-Florentin about the goings-on in our good town. How the body of an unfortunate who has committed suicide, or rather the victim of an accident, was taken away against the wishes of his father and delivered up to quacks and to the … I won’t mention his name … so that they might have the macabre pleasure of delving into his entrails. This is intolerable, Monsieur! How can it be explained or justified? And how do I look in all of this? A lieutenant in the French Guards, the son of a gentleman-in-waiting to Madame Adélaïde … As I predicted the father has gone on the offensive and the minister has not weathered the storm. Heaven – or the Devil – help us if you actually opened up the body!’
‘There was no need.’
‘What do you mean, no need? All this fuss for nothing?’
‘Certainly not, Monsieur. Our quacks had time to examine everything and come to a conclusion.’
‘Oh, really! Well then, Mister Sawbones, what did they conclude? I am keen to know …’
‘The conclusion, Monsieur, is that the Vicomte de Ruissec was murdered. Molten lead was forced down his throat.’
Monsieur de Sartine tore off his headscarf, revealing his thinning, already greying hair.
‘Good God, Monsieur. That is terrible. This changes everything, obviously. I’ll take you at your word and assume that the matter is now beyond doubt.’
He stood up and began to walk up and down his office. After some time he stopped his obsessive pacing and sat down again.
‘Yes, beyond doubt: the crime is proven. Ruissec has now seen his son’s body and can be under no illusions. That expression on the face still haunts me. So, not suicide … But what about the comtesse? You’re not going to tell me that—’
‘Once more I am desperately sorry, Monsieur. Myself, Monsieur de Beurquigny
, the commissioner for the district, whom you know, and a doctor concur in all our findings: we have ruled out the possibility of an accident and must conclude that the unfortunate lady’s neck was intentionally broken and she was then thrown down the well of the dead in the church of the Carmelites.’
‘This is really all too much. The situation could not be more difficult. Is it possible to establish a link between these two crimes?’
‘At this stage of the investigation it’s impossible to say. However, there is one disturbing detail.’
Nicolas gave a rapid account of the story of the ticket for the Comédie-Italienne and the ensuing inquiries.
‘Which means, Monsieur, that you are requesting permission to continue your investigation, does it?’
The young man nodded. ‘I am asking your permission to go on searching for the truth.’
‘But the truth is like a slippery whore that always escapes your grasp. And if you do catch hold of her she will burn your fingers. In any case, Nicolas, how can I let you continue an investigation when the minister has decreed that no crime was committed?’
Nicolas noted that he was being addressed by his first name again.
‘So we must close our eyes, must we? Let the crime go unpunished and—’
‘Come, come, stop being childish by putting words into my mouth. No one is more anxious than I to separate the truth from the lies. But if you persist with this investigation it will be at your own risk. My support will cease as soon as influences more powerful than mine are brought into play. I realise you do not wish to give up the chase and, if I am speaking to you like this, it is because I am concerned for your safety.’
‘Monsieur, I am touched by your words but you must understand that I cannot stop now.’
‘Another thing: be punctual for your meeting with Madame de Pompadour.’
The Man with the Lead Stomach Page 13