Bourdeau turned to Nicolas. ‘And does nothing come to mind as to the nature of this thing?’
‘What’s the point in playing at riddles? It’s not my business. Let the author of these base deeds explain himself. It’s clear that a hidden enemy is pursuing me. But we should not be misled by slander and accusation without evidence. In criminal matters, it is through the facts that we discover the intentions, not the other way round. This enemy is using so many means to discredit me that one is tempted to say to him, “Monsieur, you’re overdoing it.”’
This convoluted reply was neither very sincere not very skilful: it even came close to dissimulation. But it seemed to satisfy Bourdeau. In fact, Nicolas was pursuing an idea that had been nagging at him for some time without his being able to pin it down. Like a panic-stricken bird, it was fluttering around in his head without direction. He would catch it when the moment was right.
*
A surprise awaited them at the Châtelet. Semacgus was pacing the corridors of the old fortress, talking to Old Marie, who was finding it hard to keep up with him. He heaved a sigh of relief when he saw his friends and drew them outside, a finger to his lips.
‘I’m delighted to see you haven’t missed me. I have some surprising news for you.’ He looked at his watch. ‘The hour for sustenance approaches and this timepiece is urging me to answer its call. What would you say to a little visit to your usual lair, I mean your countryman’s place, Monsieur Bourdeau?’ They set off at a good pace, both curious about the navy surgeon’s information and their mouths watering at the prospect of taking a break over a dish in a tavern. They headed for Rue du Pied-de-Bœuf, where this favourite establishment of theirs was situated. The host found them a table in a quiet corner, and they sat down, feeling very cheerful.
‘This place,’ said Nicolas, ‘brings back memories of a reprehensibly heavy drinking bout, into which I was dragged by the inspector here and Tirepot.’
‘Go on, complain. You were recovered half dead5 and the infusion you were served put you back on your feet and made you a real chatterbox.’
‘Enough of this foolery,’ said Semacgus. ‘What shall we have for dinner?’
‘A leg of veal the way my grandmother used to make it at Montsoreau,’ said the innkeeper. ‘To wit, a saucepan of fresh bacon rinds with three big handfuls of sliced onions and carrots. In it, I lay the meat like a baby in its crib. I cover it, heat it and let it sweat in its juices for half an hour. Then I sprinkle it with half a bottle of white wine and level it off with a few ladlefuls of stock. After that, I put it to one side on the stove, go about my business, chat to my customers, drink five or six glasses, and two or three hours later, I’m reminded of the veal by its delicious aroma. I’ll carve it for you over a purée of onions and serve it with a few jars of the usual Chinon. Finally, to make it all go down, a pâté of prunes that’ll make you sing Hallelujah.’
‘That all sounds fine,’ said Semacgus, radiantly. ‘Something to keep the chilblains at bay in any case.’ He let the host go and, raising his voice, addressed his friends in the tones of a female vendor at the central market. ‘Six sous, six sous, see my purslane, see my lettuce!’
‘What’s put you in such a good mood?’ asked Nicolas, serving the wine which had just been brought.
They stopped to take their first sip. It was so satisfying that a second serving followed immediately.
‘Here’s the thing,’ said Semacgus. ‘As I was continuing my researches at the Jardin du Roi and exploring its collections—’
‘What kind of collections?’ asked Bourdeau.
‘Large cabinets with drawers containing herbariums and boxes of specimens – flowers, dried leaves, seeds – all learnedly presented and referenced. I’d been opening drawers for some time, examining the contents and reflecting on them when I suddenly discovered an empty box. It was obvious that it hadn’t always been empty. That intrigued me, especially as the label read … well, I’ll let you guess …’
‘Piment bouc,’ breathed Nicolas.
‘Ah, how do you do it?’
‘It seemed only natural,’ said Nicolas modestly.
‘I haven’t finished yet,’ Semacgus resumed, with an impatient gesture. ‘You should know that the curator of the collections, Monsieur Bichot, the assistant of Monsieur de Jussieu, the demonstrator at the botanical exhibition, is a man very much in love with his treasures, indeed somewhat obsessive about them. He notes the names of visitors in a register with numbered and initialled pages, like a notary’s minutes. It’s a habit he adopted after a number of petty thefts by collectors. In fact, he has not only the names but also the addresses of the visitors and, better still, the details of which herbariums and boxes they specifically asked to examine. Apart from that, you may not be aware that the Jardin is only open to the public on Tuesdays and Thursdays.’
‘That’s what I call good work!’ said Bourdeau, emptying a third glass in his enthusiasm.
‘Now,’ Semacgus went on, ‘the last person to visit that section did so … on Tuesday 4 January 1774, that is, exactly two days before Madame de Lastérieux was poisoned!’
‘You’re going too fast for my poor brain,’ moaned Bourdeau. ‘Either that, or this Chinon’s going to my head. Look, we already know she wasn’t poisoned by piment bouc, which isn’t even poisonous—’
‘True,’ Nicolas cut in. ‘But we’ve discovered – or rather, Semacgus has demonstrated – that seeds of piment bouc were ground into the eggnog to conceal the presence of a strong poison we haven’t been able to identify.’
‘Why go to the trouble of stealing it?’ insisted the inspector.
‘Because Casimir didn’t have any more,’ Nicolas explained calmly. ‘He’d exhausted the stocks he’d brought with him from the West Indies. An indisputable connection had to be established linking the concealed poison to a household product to which someone familiar with the house – myself, in fact – had access. As for what the role of Casimir was in all this, we may never know. Dead men tell no tales.’
‘Gentlemen, gentlemen!’ Semacgus cut in. ‘This is all conjecture. Just let me finish my story. On Tuesday 4 January 1774, a man named Charles du Maine-Giraud asked to look at the collections from the West Indies. Monsieur Bichot remembers him as a young man of quality to judge from his clothes, very polite and with no distinguishing features. It was only after he’d gone that the curator noticed the theft.’
‘And the address?’
‘There’s the crux of it. This gentleman lives in a furnished apartment in Rue Saint-Julien-le-Pauvre.’
‘Then let’s pay the fellow a quick visit,’ roared Bourdeau.
‘Especially,’ added Semacgus triumphantly, ‘as he is lodging – I have this from Rabouine, who has already sniffed around the area for me – in an apartment belonging to …’ They all looked at him, hanging on his words.
‘… Monsieur Balbastre, organist of Notre Dame and sworn enemy of Monsieur Nicolas Le Floch, commissioner of police at the Châtelet.’
When the host came in with a large clay dish straight from the oven, he found his customers looking dazed. He put it down to admiration and hunger. The leg of veal was steaming, its tender meat subsiding gently on its bed of onions.
Notes – CHAPTER 8
1. See The Châtelet Apprentice.
2. The modernity of the institution of the Farmers General during the ancien régime is still quite striking.
3. The Comptroller of Finances, responsible for the State’s coffers.
4. This experiment with a diving suit is a real historical event. It took place on 20 January 1774 beneath the Pont Royal, in the presence of a commission from the Academy of Sciences.
5. See The Châtelet Apprentice.
IX
HUNTING
We all touch the infernal shore in our lives.
CRÉBILLON
The meal turned into a war council.
‘This is what we’re going to do,’ said Nicolas. ‘Bourdeau will go to this you
ng man’s lodgings. If the bird’s in the nest, he’ll bring him back to the Châtelet, and we’ll immediately proceed with a preliminary interrogation. As for me, I need to examine Julie’s will. I have some genuine letters from her which I intend to show to an expert. I’ve heard of a clerk at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs who’s skilled at opening letters diverted, bought or stolen from the mail of other countries. He might be able to help us. I have to go to Versailles in any case, to …’
He stopped himself just as he was about to reveal the fact that he was due to give the King an account of his mission to London.
‘… to get help from Monsieur de La Borde, who will, as usual, be more than willing. I hope I’ll have a much clearer idea of the matter by the time I get back to Paris. Depending on what I’ve found out, I’ll go to see Master Tiphaine and force him to come clean. As a last resort, a few threats may encourage his honesty. As for Monsieur Balbastre, the inspector’s inquiries will provide plenty to question him about when we have that pleasure. He already has a lot of explaining to do. He’s been turning up everywhere in this investigation, much too often for it to be mere chance.’
‘Let’s not forget,’ said Bourdeau, ‘that, for all his arrogance, Balbastre has no alibi.’
As he dug into his portion of pâté of prunes, Nicolas reflected on the connections, known and unknown, between the organist of Notre Dame and himself. It was at his house that he had first met Julie. He knew the mysterious Müvala. He was suspected of belonging to certain secret circles. Under questioning, he had been forced to admit that a highly placed individual had a hold over him and was forcing him to perform certain actions. Although nothing was known of his private life, it could not be ruled out that he, too, had fallen under the spell of Madame de Lastérieux. Something had struck Nicolas during the interview with Balbastre beside the organ case at Notre Dame, a detail whose nature he was unable as yet to determine, but which, like a piece in a jigsaw puzzle, had somehow to be slotted into the general picture.
By the time they had finished eating, they were a good deal less cheerful than when they had started. It was as if an extra weight had fallen over the three friends’ thoughts. Nicolas went back to the Châtelet to consult the Almanach royal and find out the name of the clerk at Foreign Affairs he was hoping to meet at Versailles. Unable to discover it, he decided to turn to Monsieur de Séqueville, the King’s secretary with responsibility for the ambassadors, who lived in Rue Saint-Honoré, opposite Rue Saint-Florentin. He decided to stretch his legs, as walking helped him to think: there was something about physical movement which allowed him to forget everything and concentrate on the essentials. The unceasing spectacle of the busy streets and the multiplicity of faces and sounds also acted as much needed stimulants.
Monsieur de Séqueville was at home. After the customary compliments, he listened to the commissioner’s request and, having thought it over, told him that the thing he wanted was feasible but that there was no point in turning to a clerk at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, who by definition had little experience with private correspondence. Lowering his voice, he admitted that he knew a public letter-writer and high-class calligrapher who lived deep in Faubourg Saint-Marcel. His voice now almost inaudible, he explained that they had had occasion to call on his services in the past to check certain dubious papers and signatures suspected of being forgeries, and that it could well be that this Monsieur Rodollet would be able to help Nicolas. Nevertheless, the man being rightly suspicious, it would be risky to approach him without taking prior measures. Nicolas needed a letter of recommendation, and he, Séqueville, undertook to write one for him immediately. But all Nicolas was given as a letter, much to his surprise, was a little square of paper on which he had been able to make out, before it was folded and sealed, a pen drawing without any writing. Monsieur de Séqueville’s good-natured face, creased with amusement, dissuaded him from asking any questions. All he asked for was the address, which he was given, accompanied by a shrill little laugh.
*
Impatient as he was to settle this crucial question as quickly as possible, Nicolas allowed himself to be carried away by an impulse in which his will played little part and which led him to the Dauphin Couronné. The pretext was to say hello to La Satin, who was now mistress of the place. Arriving outside the house, which evoked so many memories, both pleasant and tragic, he knocked at the door. After a moment, a well-dressed young maid opened and, with a smile, asked him what he wanted. The establishment welcomed customers from early evening onwards, she explained, but, she added with a graceful curtsey, she was at his disposal for any information he might require. Nicolas asked after the mistress of the house. She was out visiting some of her suppliers, he was told, and would be away until the evening. He was about to leave when he heard hurried steps, and an impatient hand pushed the maid aside. It was a young man, not much more than a child, wearing a black coat and white cravat, and with a tricorn in his hand, who excused himself and asked if he might be allowed to get to the front door. Nicolas was turned to stone. It was as if he saw, in this boy’s face and bearing, an image of himself as he had been twenty years earlier reflected back at him. He was so overcome with emotion that he remained in the doorway and let himself be pushed gently aside. The young man threw him a curious glance as he passed, but Nicolas was standing against the light, his face in darkness. Almost running out, the apparition vanished. Recovering his composure, Nicolas could not help asking the maid about this fleeting vision.
‘That’s Madame’s son, Louis,’ she replied, blushing. ‘He’s still at school, where he’s doing very well. He doesn’t come here often …’ She turned scarlet. ‘Madame wouldn’t be happy to know he dropped by. Given his conduct, his determination and his excellent work, she’s hoping he’ll get a position, a position …’
She broke off, on the verge of tears.
There’s a young man who’ll break hearts, thought Nicolas with a sigh, equally moved. His face will get him a long way. He gave the girl a louis, much to her surprise, and walked out into the street, in a daze. There was no longer any room for doubt, if there ever had been. He was so overcome that he seemed not to see other pedestrians coming in the opposite direction and bumped into them, provoking curses. He felt a mixture of joy and anguish. In a world where birth was of such importance, what would his child’s fate be? He himself had suffered a great deal from being illegitimate, even though the advantages had made themselves felt over the years. What would happen to the bastard son of a police officer and a prostitute? True, at the time the child had been conceived, she had not yet taken up that career. What should he do? Once again, he put off making a decision. This was a serious issue, he knew: he was quite aware that it would change his life and that nothing would ever be the same.
He hailed a passing cab and returned to the Châtelet, where he picked up Madame de Lastérieux’s supposed will, as well as the mysterious letter, then went on to Rue Montmartre, where everyone noticed the unaccustomed gravity of his demeanour. Here, he found Julie’s old letters. He ordered the driver to take him to Faubourg Saint-Marcel. Once past the city limits, his carriage drove along Rue Mouffetard as far as Rue du Fer-à-Moulin and the Scipion mansion, on the right-hand side of which was the little street of the same name, leading to the outbuildings of the monastery of Saint-Marcel.
Apart from monasteries and hospitals, this district, the poorest in the capital, was home to a populace that was kept at a distance from the main life of the city. Amongst them were a few studious, misanthropic sages living isolated lives. The whole faubourg had a reputation for being difficult, quarrelsome and easily inflamed, more susceptible to popular unrest than any other. Monsieur de Sartine always advised moderation in dealing with it, saying that sedition could be reduced but never entirely suppressed. His police force handled the population of the area with kid gloves, for fear of provoking an extreme response. In the course of their investigations, Nicolas and Bourdeau often frequented the infamous tobacco shops of the
faubourg, where unemployed workers whiled away their days, with smoke and contraband brandy taking the place of food. Such places also attracted deserters from the army, porters and refuse collectors, as well as the lowest prostitutes. He could not help asking himself what real difference there was between these poor creatures wallowing in the mire and La Satin in her lace and velvet. He refused to answer his own question, aware of the injustice he was committing, even if only in thought. He looked at these poor houses of cob, these wan faces, these children freezing with cold, their bare feet in the icy mud. It was a place of total degeneration, a place dominated by straw bread, poisoned oil, vinegary wine and purpuric fever. With such a reputation, it was easy to forget the discreet, tranquil presence of modest, well-established craftsmen who devoted themselves to the arts of furniture and textile making and, above all, printing and bookbinding.
*
Monsieur Rodollet’s little house in Rue Scipion, with its ivy-covered front, stood next to a printing shop. Above the windowed door, a discreet but elegantly adorned sign indicated the occupant’s activity. Nicolas was received in a kind of workshop that doubled as an office. Illuminated manuscripts and calligraphy models hung from pegs attached to wires slung across the room, and there were pigeonholes containing many different kinds of paper and a large number of pens. Bottles of ink and shiny, soluble squares of paper were heaped up in every nook and cranny. The proprietor, a fat, middle-aged man with a few faded wisps of hair poking out beneath a grey bonnet, looked at him circumspectly, slowly rubbing his hands. Nicolas would have put his age at about fifty. He was wearing a kind of chasuble tucked loosely into black breeches and a pair of comfortable-looking leather slippers. The man saw Nicolas looking at them.
‘I wear these,’ he said, ‘so that I can put my feet on the foot-warmer when the weather is cold. How can I be of service, Monsieur?’
The Nicolas Le Floch affair Page 22