He glanced towards the clock on the chimney piece. Nicolas said nothing.
‘Monsieur de La Borde told me about it,’ continued Sartine. ‘Take care not to lose such a precious and disinterested friendship.’
He paused and then went on in a quieter voice, as if talking to himself, ‘Occasionally a woman hides from a man the full extent of the passion she feels for him, whilst for his part the man feigns for her feelings he does not have. Yes, be punctual and respectful.’
‘Monsieur, I will give you a full report …’
‘That goes without saying, Commissioner.’
Nicolas bit his lip. He would have done better to have held his tongue.
‘And what does Monsieur de Noblecourt think about all this?’
Nicolas noted that his superior apparently thought it quite natural for him to tell the former procurator about an ongoing investigation.
‘He talks in maxims. According to him, being honoured counts for little because it does not mean that one is honourable and he advises me to look closely into the protagonists’ pasts. He, too, urges me to be on my guard.’
‘I see that our friend has lost none of his wisdom. The last piece of advice is good and the others equally apposite. Be off with you, Monsieur. A carriage awaits you. Do not forget the business with the Minister of Bavaria. Find me this damned coachman as quickly as you can.’
Nicolas bowed and refrained from expounding on his theory concerning the incident at Pont de Sèvres. There would be time for that later. He was already at the door when he heard the Lieutenant General of Police’s voice once more.
‘Don’t do anything foolish, Nicolas. And don’t brush Bourdeau aside. We are very fond of you.’
Following these kind words, Nicolas found himself in the antechamber. A mirror hung over a chest of drawers showed the reflection of an elegant, well-built young man with a cocksure air, dressed in a black coat and carrying a hat under his arm. The long eyebrows above his grey-green eyes made him look more startled than innocent. His well-defined lips gave the hint of a smile and his auburn hair, tied in a knot, emphasised the youthfulness of the face, despite a few scars. He dashed down the stairs four at a time. Monsieur de Sartine planned things down to the smallest detail when it suited his purposes. It was important for Nicolas to get to his meeting with the King’s favourite without incident, so a carriage was waiting for him in the courtyard.
In the end, the interview with the Lieutenant General had gone better than expected from Nicolas’s point of view. He had been afraid of encountering a man who was annoyed, hesitant and wanting to distance himself from his subordinate’s risky initiatives. In fact he had been given a free hand, admittedly ‘at his own risk’, but with a veiled expression of concern that came from the heart. He shuddered belatedly at the thought that everything might have come to a halt there and then. No more bodies, no more crimes, no more victims, no more culprits … Perhaps Madame de Ruissec’s murder should have been made public but the result would have been exactly the same: the body would have been removed and the case buried together with the comtesse. That was in fact how things stood for now and he alone held the small clue that might enable the mystery to be solved and thus unmask the perpetrators.
From the comfort of his carriage Nicolas practised guessing the occupations of the passers-by, by trying to read their expressions and imagining what might be going through the minds of this mass of humanity called the people. He stored up images of clothes, outfits and postures in his memory. He would call upon these one day in relation to specific people, to make those mysterious connections that were essential to his intuition. His knowledge of people would gradually increase by consulting these living archives in the course of his investigations. The sight of the gloomy bulk of the Bastille interrupted his ruminations. He had gone there once to visit his friend Semacgus in prison. He could still feel the dank cold of the ancient fortress. The carriage turned off to the right to follow the Seine. He banished the image of the prison from his mind.
Town suddenly gave way to countryside. Having nothing else to do, Nicolas give some order to the various facts he knew about the Marquise de Pompadour. Monsieur de Noblecourt’s well-informed guests talked a great deal. In addition to what they said he read publications confiscated by the police or letters opened by the postal censors. Scurrilous tracts, lampoons, obscene poems and insults made up a motley collection. Everyone said she was ill and exhausted by the frenzy and anxiety of the Court. The King, who had never treated her with much consideration, required her presence at late-night vigils, suppers, entertainments and on his incessant travels, especially in the hunting season. Her delicate stomach had been damaged by too rich a diet. Semacgus put forward the theory that to please her lover she had listened to bad advice and made excessive use of stimulants provided by charlatans – not to mention her prodigious consumption of truffles and spices.
But it was generally agreed that what most gnawed away at the marquise was her constant obsession about ‘some other woman’, one who would discover the secret of this unusual man, so difficult to distract from his ennui. She had even gone to the length of creating her own rivals who were seductive but naïve and who posed no threat to her hold over the King. At present, and despite these precautions, a young girl from Romans was a worry to her; she was said to be scheming and witty.
Monsieur de La Borde, though sworn to secrecy, had agreed to repeat in select company the words of one of the favourite’s friends. In an attempt to reassure her she had told her: ‘It’s your staircase that he likes, he’s used to going up and down it.’ Thus the time for passion was over, replaced by the gentler waters of friendship.
This fear of losing the King was compounded by the permanent dread of another Damiens affair. The favourite did not forget that she had almost been pushed aside and exiled during the period when the King had been in uncertain health and the Dauphin and pious members of the royal family had managed to prevent her seeing him. As for what the people thought of her, they viewed the marquise as one of the three calamities afflicting the kingdom, along with famine and war. The streets were full of people hurling insults and threatening to kill her.
Nicolas, who had been in the marquise’s presence once before, had thought her unfussy and kind. Monsieur de La Borde, who saw her every day, shared this opinion. According to him the Good Lady was neither a spendthrift nor a hoarder, and her expenditure, though considerable, was put to good use in the arts. It was true that her allowance and income were not commensurate with the needs of her household and this vocation as patron of the arts. It was rumoured that she had obtained permission from the King to make use of treasury bonds as she pleased, without being accountable for how they were spent. She owned numerous estates, ranging from the distant Menars to the nearby chateau of Bellevue, halfway between Paris and Versailles, built on a hillside above Pont de Sèvres. Madame de Pompadour liked to be in a dominant position.
The carriage followed the river. The countryside offered a pleasant prospect of taverns, and small farms that were crowded with herds of cattle, which their breeders fattened for consumption in the capital, selling the manure as fertiliser to the gardeners and fruit and vegetable growers in the neighbourhood. Orchards and glasshouses lined both sides of the road. These rural impressions put Nicolas in a good mood. His reflections had armed him with the necessary facts and information for his forthcoming conversation; for now, the reason for the interview remained a mystery to him, but it was clearly something quite out of the ordinary. The fact that Monsieur de Sartine, normally so eager to give advice, had made no comment on the matter was evidence enough of his own puzzlement.
As they entered Choisy, Nicolas made the carriage stop outside a small, pretty-looking tavern, attracted by its vine-covered façade, which still bore clusters of dried grapes left at the previous harvest. In a whitewashed room he ordered a pitcher of new wine, its recently pressed juice having been clarified by the use of wood chips. He was also served a few s
lices from a ham hanging in the fireplace and some freshly baked bread to go with it. The wine proved to be a pleasant surprise. He was expecting it to be as rough as usual but it was unexpectedly clear, bright red in colour, fresh and with the slightly wild aroma of redcurrant. Amused by the incongruousness of the image, he eventually concluded that the best comparison was with a redcurrant crushed on the fur of a polecat. The smell of this small wild animal had remained with him since childhood: the Marquis de Ranreuil wore a collar made of this fur on one of his cloaks and there had been no way of removing the smell. Those of his dogs who were unaccustomed to the smell would bark at his heels.
Nicolas suddenly noticed a young man in the uniform of the Life Guards. He was seated at another table watching him, but turned his head away under Nicolas’s gaze. Nicolas was surprised to see him there but thought no more of it; the King was not in Choisy but, after all, whoever served the sovereign could also serve his favourite.
At half-past two he set off again and the carriage made its way up to the chateau at walking pace. The vehicle came within sight of a magnificent gate opening on to an immense avenue with a double row of trees. He noticed several forks in the road, leading off into the surrounding countryside. The building rose up before him, its two wings decorated with pediments. To the left a huge building served as the staff quarters and the stables. Nicolas alighted in front of the central main steps, where a man with a staff in his hand who seemed to be waiting for him greeted him with great formality.
‘Do I have the honour of addressing Monsieur Nicolas Le Floch?’
‘Your servant, Monsieur.’
‘I am the intendant of the chateau. My mistress has asked me to take a tour with you. She is a little unwell and will receive you later.’
The man took Nicolas off towards the chapel. There he was able to admire Van Loo’s painting of St Clothilde, Queen of France, before the tomb of St Martin. He then visited the ceremonial rooms of the chateau, the main gallery decorated with pier glasses and Parrocel’s painting of the battle of Fontenoy. Nicolas thought that the marquise was showing her devotion to the King even down to the decoration of her houses. The dining room was embellished with six views of royal houses, and the buffet room with hunting scenes. The King’s particular interests: war, buildings and hunting, were all depicted in this residence. His guide led Nicolas outside to admire the view from the terrace, the most attractive feature of the chateau. The Seine flowed peacefully at his feet. A pavilion that was used as a summer dining room stood at the centre. A breathless servant ran up to them: the Marquise de Pompadour was ready to receive Monsieur Le Floch.
He was shown into a grey and gold boudoir. The curtains had been closed and the room was in semi-darkness. In the great pale marble fireplace dying embers glowed. As he entered he was greeted by a little black barbet who, after inspecting him quickly but cautiously, celebrated his arrival. This little game created a diversion.
‘Monsieur Le Floch,’ said the marquise, ‘I have every reason to believe in your loyalty and I notice that Bébé thinks the same.’
Nicolas bowed, thinking that the smell of Cyrus on his breeches and stockings must have had quite a lot to do with the trust Bébé showed him. He looked up at the marquise. She had changed considerably within a few months. Admittedly there was still the same oval-shaped face, but her chin had become heavier. The skilful application of white powder and rouge probably concealed the other ravages of time. Her eyes, ever inquisitive and lively, watched Nicolas with some amusement. A white lace headscarf allowed a glimpse of her ash-grey hair. A white taffeta cape covered a double-flounced black silk skirt. Long cuffs covered what she considered to be unattractive hands. Nicolas wondered if that was why the King so disliked seeing ladies wearing rings, thereby drawing attention to a part of the body he could not admire in the marquise. The overall effect felt rather sad, even austere to him, in keeping with her new-found reputation for piety, but then he remembered that the Court was in mourning for a German prince.
‘Do you know, Monsieur, that on two occasions the King was concerned for your safety?’
This was intended both as a criticism and a piece of advice but it was also a way for her to charm and flatter the person she was addressing. Nicolas was not fooled. There was nothing to say in reply and so he bowed.
‘You are too discreet. Remember that for the King you are the Marquis de Ranreuil and all you have to do is to … Do you not regret your decision?’
Her look became more intent. Nicolas sensed the trap: the woman who was speaking was not of noble birth.
‘The Marquis de Ranreuil, my father, taught me that worth is not something that one is born with. Everything depends on what one makes of one’s life.’
She raised her eyebrows and smiled, no doubt appreciating this sidestep.
‘Even so, Monsieur, you ought to follow my advice. You are a hunter, so you should go hunting. That is where you will meet your master.’
However accustomed Nicolas was becoming to the manners of the Court, he nevertheless found this a somewhat long-winded preamble. La Borde had already passed on the message that he had to put in an appearance at the King’s hunt.
‘All this is to say that one is assured here and elsewhere of your loyalty,’ continued the marquise.
She motioned to him to sit.
‘Monsieur de Sartine has entrusted you with an investigation into the, let us say, unexplained death of the Vicomte de Ruissec … I know what happened and also the strange circumstances of his mother’s death. I have requested that Monsieur de Saint-Florentin and the Lieutenant General of Police spare the King the details of these deaths. He would be only too inclined to dwell on them.’
She remained thoughtful for a moment. Nicolas remembered the sovereign’s morbid curiosity when he had recounted the examination carried out on a body found in the knacker’s yard at Montfaucon. This strange interest in macabre details had become more marked, it was said, since Damiens’s attempt on the King’s life.
‘Monsieur, what do you think lies behind these deaths?’
‘Madame, I am convinced that we are confronted with two cases of murder. For the time being there is nothing to indicate a connection between the two but nothing either to prove the opposite. In the case of the Vicomte de Ruissec the circumstances are quite extraordinary. I am investigating the victims and their pasts, on the understanding, as you are no doubt well aware, that these murders have not been officially recognised, that the course of justice has been impeded and that my inquiry is personal and undertaken at my own risk.’
She gave an elegant nod of the head. ‘Whatever the circumstances you will continue to enjoy my protection.’
‘It is of the most precious assistance, Madame.’
He did not believe a word of it. The protection of the King’s favourite was good as far as the door of this boudoir. As soon as he left Choisy, a good sharp sword and Bourdeau would be infinitely more useful.
‘Perhaps, Monsieur, you would do well to believe that this decision to stop the investigation was merely a device to avoid scaring away the game one wishes to trap.’
This obviously opened up new perspectives. As was often the case – and he sometimes did the same thing himself – Monsieur de Sartine had doubtless concealed part of the truth from him. Or else the favourite had reserved for herself the privilege of informing him. The game was becoming decidedly more complicated. His own side had just castled, he thought, like the good chess player he was.
As he did not respond, she continued, ‘That does not seem to come as a surprise to you. You had already thought of it. I must confide to you how anxious I am … Public misfortunes are causing me great distress. Threats are being made against the King and I am constantly the victim of insults. If only I could withdraw to a retreat … To Ménars, for example.’
She was interrupted by the crash of a falling log. From what Nicolas knew, Ménars was not a particularly austere type of retreat.
‘I am tired and s
ick,’ continued the marquise. ‘I might as well tell you, Monsieur. You have already saved me once. Look at this piece of paper that I found on the door of my apartments. And it is not the first.’
She handed him a printed sheet. He read it through to the end.
To the king’s whore. God in His ineffable but unerring wisdom in order to punish and humble France for your sins and wickedness that now are at their height has allowed the Philistines to vanquish us on land and on sea and to force us to sue for a peace that they will grant only to our greatest and most humiliating disadvantage. The hand of God is visible in this disaster. He will punish again.
When Nicolas looked up from reading he saw her face was in her hands. The dog jumped on to her lap and whined quietly.
‘Madame, leave this rag with me. I shall find the source.’
She raised her head again.
‘You will find it is a hydra with heads that constantly grow back. I foresee more insidious dangers. I have reason to fear the Ruissec family whom the King holds in little esteem. It is plotting with the pious, the Jesuits and all who wish to see the back of me. I cannot tell you more. This case must be solved. In truth I fear for the King’s life. Look at Portugal: the newspapers announce the execution of the Jesuit Malagrida. He is an accomplice to the murder of the King of Portugal. It is reported that he met Damiens some time ago in Soissons. So many plots! Time and again they try.’
‘But, Madame, many people around you and the King are watching over you.’
‘I know. All the Lieutenant Generals of Police have been my friends – Bertin, Berryer and now Sartine. But they are taken up by more important matters and their time is divided between many tasks, just like the minister, Monsieur de Saint-Florentin. I put my trust in you, Monsieur le Marquis.’
Nicolas felt that the Good Lady could have spared herself this new attempt at flattery, which was, nevertheless, a good indication of her distress. She could count on him but he would have liked her to give more detail at points where she had clearly held back as she spoke to him She had not laid out all the facts in her possession. It was regrettable that the normal course of an investigation should be subject to so many refusals to disclose information. She held out her hand for him to kiss. It was as feverish as on their previous meeting.
The Man with the Lead Stomach Page 14