The Nicolas Le Floch affair

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  ‘The thing that makes me feel especially bad,’ he sighed, ‘is that you only responded with loyalty to the sham that I was under orders to force upon you. You even rejected my plan at first because you were afraid it would get me into trouble …’

  Nicolas half turned to the inspector and gave him a thump on the shoulder. ‘Let’s not talk about it. The main thing is that Monsieur de Sartine and you, Pierre, are convinced of my innocence at a time when fate seems to be against me. As for Balbastre, our first encounter at Monsieur de Noblecourt’s house has stayed in my mind as a hateful memory. I was twenty, a young provincial newly arrived from my native Brittany, and couldn’t tolerate anyone behaving arrogantly or contemptuously towards me. We’ve often met since then, but our relations have never grown cordial. The man’s about fifty, but still struts like a dandy in his fine clothes and blond wig. He was a regular visitor to Julie’s house. Don’t trust him, he’ll try and lord it over you. Make sure he knows from the start that you’re acting on behalf of Monsieur de Sartine. I’ll cough every time I think you should be on your guard.’

  Throughout the short journey from the Châtelet to Notre Dame, Nicolas made an effort to make sense of the many thoughts assailing him. Julie, then, was no longer merely a desirable young widow, she was one of those paid agents thanks to whom the Lieutenancy General of Police kept track of every thing happening in the capital, one of the conduits of information who made it possible for Monsieur de Sartine to say, ‘Whenever four people talk amongst themselves, at least one of them is mine.’ Reality was built on pretence, appearances were deceptive, and he had been a puppet in a kind of shadow play. The question of whether or not the feelings Julie had claimed to have for him were genuine was of little importance compared with what he had just learnt. By an incomprehensible kind of retrospective jealousy, the fact that the unknown young man had evidently seduced his mistress obsessed him as though it were happening now. From there, his reasoning led him on to blacken Madame de Lastérieux’s character, to treat her as a creature who had been anybody’s, as if by doing so he could assuage a grief he could not shake off. He hoped, too, that this devaluation of her memory would carry away all the rest, just as water thrown on the road washes away the rubbish. He saw himself as a man who had been led blindly, an ox ready to be a beast of burden, as his father, the marquis, would have said. It seemed to him that he had been walking on the edge of a precipice without being aware of the danger, and had taken vice for virtue and worshipped it accordingly. With the self-deprecating irony that always came out when he examined his own actions, he told himself that he was perhaps a little bit of a Jansenist, and consequently a little naïve. He had certainly been blind, and that was a lesson he would have to absorb.

  They came off the Pont au Change and were in the Cité. Nicolas tried to dismiss his torments. He thought of their destination, Notre Dame, and of a conversation he had had with Monsieur de La Borde, a great lover of art, who scorned the ‘vulgar work of the Goths’. The commissioner, who loved the old cathedral, had modestly countered with the views of Père Laugier,2 author of an Essai sur l’architecture in which he sang the praises of the Gothic churches, despite the grotesque ornaments which disfigured them like the sediment of the ages. He had quoted the writer’s thoughts on Notre Dame ‘which strikes the imagination with its length, its height, the space above the nave, and the majesty of the whole’. The same author, much to the outrage of Monsieur de La Borde, found Saint-Sulpice to be highly overrated: there was nothing there, he wrote, ‘but thickness and mass’. There had ensued an interminable evening during which each of them, expanding on his own ideas, had ended up cheerfully conceding the other man’s point of view.

  When a spot of traffic congestion held them up at the corner of Rue de la Lanterne, Bourdeau, who, once again, seemed to have been following Nicolas’s train of thought, asked, ‘Do you still love the cathedral as much as you did?’

  ‘Of course. Why do you ask?’

  ‘When I first met you, you frequently attended services and choral concerts there in the company of a friend of yours, a seminarist at the college of the Thirty-Three.’

  ‘Pierre Pigneau. Good Lord, you’re right! How long ago all that seems!’

  ‘Come now, you’re still a young man. What’s become of him?’

  ‘According to the latest news, which in his case is never very recent – in fact, it’s probably at least six months old – after many adventures he’d ended up in Pondicherry. I believe that after the death of Monseigneur Piguel, the bishop of Canathe, Pope Clement XIV appointed Pierre his successor. So there he is, mitred and the coadjutor of the apostolic vicar of Cochin China. It’s what he’d always dreamt of. To think that we used to gorge ourselves on rum babas from Stohrer’s, the King’s pastry maker in Rue Montorgueil!’

  ‘You surely know the latest fashionable dispute?’

  ‘No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.’

  ‘They’re talking of whitewashing the interior of Notre Dame to make it brighter. Bring it up to date, so to speak.’3

  ‘It would be a grave mistake. The building’s patina of age and impressive darkness are what give it a sense of religious awe.’

  Bourdeau lowered the window and leant out. Then he sat down again with a sigh. ‘Another dead animal being cleared off the road and sent to the knacker’s yard! They work these poor nags to their last breath. It shouldn’t be allowed.’

  ‘Write Monsieur de Sartine a memorandum entitled Obstacles to Traffic. He loves any excuse for making new regulations.’

  Bourdeau laughed. ‘That reminds me of something. In 1759 – I don’t know if you were in Paris yet – Monsieur de Lalande, the astronomer, read a paper on comets at the Academy of Sciences, in which he said it was quite possible that one of these heavenly bodies would come crashing into our planet and reduce it to powder. The rumour that the world was about to end soon spread. Crowds rushed to the confessionals. I was given the task of keeping order around Notre Dame. Now that was impressive. Imagine a nightmarish crowd flocking to be heard by the Grand Penitentiary, the only man authorised to hear confessions of the worst cases. I can still see those terrifying faces, real gallows birds all of them. Quite a time, I can tell you!’

  The traffic started moving again, and at last they reached the cathedral. The winter sky was so low that the smoke from the chimneys merged with the fog and the old church was invisible above the level of the frieze of Old Testament kings. As soon as they entered the cathedral, Nicolas was, as always, impressed by the monumental statue of St Christopher. The air was vibrating with snatches of organ music from the gallery. So Balbastre was there. They asked their way of a passing canon, who was so stooped that his chin touched his chest and he had to lift his head with his hand to look at them. He pointed them in the direction of the staircase leading to the gallery, and then let his head drop again. By the time they reached their destination, Nicolas was sweating beneath his false belly and Bourdeau was red in the face and panting like a bull. They glanced at the enemy flags lining the circumference of the building and the hats of dead cardinals hanging by threads from the vault. They heard a familiar voice, both shrill and pompous.

  ‘Would you like to tell me what the tremblant is, Monsieur? … It may be the state into which my question plunges you. The tremblant, Monsieur, is the system which alters the rate of flow of the emerging wind in such a way that it comes out through the pipes in regular bursts and produces a trembling sound. Redeem yourself, you ignoramus. What is a strong tremblant?’

  ‘I think, Master,’ came a small voice, ‘it’s the one we use in the great stop.’

  ‘That’s better. But don’t think you’ve got out of it. Define the great stop.’

  ‘The great stop … is the stop … which … where …’

  ‘Nothing! You’re just a stupid ass. The great stop is the name given to the principal keyboard …’

  They heard a fist beating wood.

  ‘Without the great stop, there�
�s no jubilation, no brilliance, no dialogue between the different resonances.’

  Bourdeau coughed. Half a dozen terrified faces turned to him. The protagonist of the scene did not even deign to move his head.

  ‘Who takes the liberty of disturbing Monsieur Balbastre when he’s teaching?’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, Master,’ said Bourdeau. ‘Monsieur de Sartine, the Lieutenant General of Police, asked me to come as soon as I could. He’s extremely grateful to you for the letter you were so good as to send him concerning the sad events in Rue de Verneuil, but requires some further information. Inspector Pierre Bourdeau, at your service.’

  Bourdeau bowed, sweeping the floor with his tricorn. Nicolas thought the gesture a trifle exaggerated, but it was probably necessary in order to assuage the organist’s wrath. Balbastre turned stiffly on his swivel chair until he was facing Bourdeau. His round, pale face was framed by a curly blond wig and covered in ceruse to conceal the wrinkles. The cheeks were spotted with rouge in an apparent attempt to hide the fact that he had no cheekbones. His ill-assorted garments – a daffodil-yellow waistcoat and mottled breeches with gold threads – made him look all the more like an automaton perched on its mechanism.

  ‘Inspector? Am I only entitled to an inspector? I won’t speak to anyone but the Lieutenant General.’

  ‘I’m sorry to have to contradict you,’ replied Bourdeau. ‘You’ll have to speak to me first. Monsieur de Sartine is at Versailles.’ He turned to the pupils. ‘And first of all, gentlemen, it’s break time. Monsieur Balbastre is allowing you to go. Come on now …’

  He waved his hands, and the pupils scattered like a flight of sparrows.

  The organist got down off his chair and waddled towards Bourdeau. He reminded Nicolas of some exotic guinea fowl engraved on a Coromandel screen.

  ‘What gives you the right, Monsieur?’

  ‘Monsieur de Sartine has given me full authority to question you,’ said the inspector. ‘Now sit down and listen.’

  Balbastre obeyed.

  ‘In the letter in question,’ began Bourdeau, ‘you make a number of serious accusations against Monsieur Le Floch. I would like to hear from your own mouth the arguments on which you base these.’

  ‘Far be it from me to accuse anyone!’ the organist cried. ‘I merely reported the facts. And sometimes it is the facts that accuse—’

  ‘How long have you known Commissioner Le Floch?’

  ‘Commissioner? That little notary’s clerk? What kind of age are we living in, when false values take pride of place? I first met him some fifteen years ago at the house of my friend Monsieur de Noblecourt. We’ve met occasionally since. Your “commissioner” wormed his way into the trust of that honourable magistrate and took up residence there, plundering the house and spending the inheritance of his benefactor, who didn’t see through his game. I’m convinced he also had his eye on my lovely friend Madame de Lastérieux’s inheritance, the master deceiver that he is.’

  Bourdeau glanced anxiously at Nicolas, who stood with his head bowed, seemingly lost in contemplation of the inscriptions on a Pomeranian standard.

  ‘Are your assertions based on specific facts?’

  ‘Who needs specific facts? The lovely Julie had no secrets from me, let me tell you.’

  Nicolas coughed, and the organist looked daggers at him.

  ‘Are you suggesting you had a liaison with Madame de Lastérieux?’ asked Bourdeau.

  Without replying, Balbastre shook his blond wig triumphantly, and his head was immediately surrounded by a cloud of scented powder.

  ‘So you won’t answer? Very well, others will be more talkative. Despite your lack of esteem for Monsieur Le Floch, it is well known that you were on speaking terms with him.’

  ‘If we refused to be on speaking terms with all those we despise, we’d never leave our houses. I deigned to respond to his greetings. I’m sure he was afraid of me. After all, I do have some influence at Court and in the city. The Dauphine often requires my services.’

  ‘A man as well connected as you must have been familiar with the regulars at Madame de Lastérieux’s house.’

  ‘Of course! Although on the evening of which we are speaking, most of them were strangers.’

  ‘Most or all?’ asked Bourdeau.

  ‘There were four young people there, all very handsome, who had been introduced by that Swiss gentleman, Monsieur Friedrich von Müvala.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Tell us a little about him. What do you know of him?’

  For a moment now, Bourdeau had been trying to attract Nicolas’s attention. Nicolas remembered that he was supposed to be taking notes of what was said. For fear of arousing suspicion, he had to give some substance to his role as a clerk.

  ‘An interesting gentleman,’ said Balbastre. ‘A native of the Valais, travelling around Europe. Quite an artist, paints beautifully and plays the pianoforte quite well too. He’s also interested in botany, and is trying to put together a herbarium from the different regions of Europe.’

  ‘Where did you meet him?’

  ‘He accidentally knocked into me one evening at the Opéra, and then apologised so graciously and displayed such knowledge of my work that—’

  ‘So he knew you?’

  ‘After we had introduced ourselves, obviously. I invited him to one of my musical afternoons, in order to hear him on the pianoforte. It was on that occasion that I introduced him to Madame de Lastérieux. That was two or three weeks ago.’

  Nicolas handed Bourdeau a little piece of paper. He read it and stuffed it in his pocket.

  ‘Tell me, Monsieur, you wouldn’t invite someone you despised into your house, would you?’

  ‘Never,’ said Balbastre, laughing. ‘I might acknowledge him in the street, that’s all.’

  ‘I happen to know for certain that you have invited Commissioner Le Floch several times. Dozens of times, in fact, over the past fifteen years. He once even demonstrated the bombard, an instrument from his native province, in your house. I shan’t hide it from you, Monsieur, there are some very contradictory elements in all this which might be thought to throw doubt on the rest of your testimony. You despise the man, you slander him, you belittle him: that all makes perfect sense, but then you invite him to your house dozens of times. Don’t you think that’s strange?’

  Balbastre went over to a cast-iron brazier filled with glowing coals, as if suddenly aware of how cold the cathedral was.

  ‘Inspector, I’m going to tell you everything. I don’t know if I can … if I should … and what risks I’m running …’

  The organist had lost some of his arrogance. He looked round him like an animal at bay, peered towards the top of the staircase, and slunk the length of the organ case, as if trying to merge into the darkness at the far end of the gallery.

  ‘To tell the truth,’ he resumed, ‘I have nothing against Monsieur Le Floch, whom I admit I have often invited. Just a touch of jealousy, perhaps, towards a young man who seems to succeed in everything he does, but nothing malicious. Nevertheless, I received orders from someone highly placed, very highly placed, to introduce him to Madame de Lastérieux a year ago.’

  ‘Who gave you that order?’

  ‘I can’t say, on my life.’ He was still standing in the shadows, in an attitude of dejection.

  ‘The fact remains,’ said Bourdeau, ‘that you have made serious allegations against Monsieur Le Floch.’

  Balbastre bridled at this. ‘That may be what you think, but you’re wrong! All I did was report what happened. Everyone saw the altercation with Madame de Lastérieux. He was so angry that he bumped into me as he left the room and spilt my drink over my silk doublet, which was completely ruined. He’s a madman, I’m not exaggerating.’

  ‘What about what happened next?’

  ‘Well, I have to be honest and say I didn’t see it myself. It was Monsieur von Müvala, coming back from the servants’ pantry where he’d gone to look for a bottle, who told me that Le Floch had come back in the hous
e, doing God knows what in the kitchen, and that when he was surprised, he’d quickly fled.’

  ‘Did anyone else witness that?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’

  ‘What’s your personal opinion of Madame de Lastérieux’s death?’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of having one, as I have no idea of its true cause.’

  ‘And if I told you it was murder, what would your reaction be then?’

  ‘The same, Monsieur. I’m not trying to accuse anyone. All I want is for the truth to come out and justice to be done.’

  There was a short silence, then Bourdeau said, ‘One more thing. What time did you get home?’

  ‘I’d given my coachman the evening off. It wasn’t easy to find a cab at that hour. It was about midnight.’

  ‘Can anyone testify to that?’

  ‘Now you’re accusing me!’

  ‘I’m not accusing you, but all those present at that dinner are suspects by definition. I don’t suppose you remember the number of the cab?’

  ‘I wasn’t in a fit state to notice, even supposing such a detail might interest me – I don’t have a detective’s eye.’

  ‘No, just a detective’s pen … Thank you, Master, you’ve been a great help. I shall inform the Lieutenant General of the details you’ve been so good as to provide. I have the honour of bidding you good day.’

  Bourdeau walked back down the stairs, followed by Nicolas, who still maintained his stooped position. On the square in front of the cathedral, they had to disentangle themselves from a mass of beggars demanding alms before they could get back in their carriage. The horse stumbled in alarm, and it was only the coachman cracking his whip that finally dispersed the crowd.

  ‘Strange character,’ said Bourdeau as the carriage set off. ‘Is it possible to make so many malicious accusations without actually believing them, without being driven by some deep-seated hatred?’