The Nicolas Le Floch affair

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  Monsieur de Sartine, his face flushed with new-found vigour, left the room, beating his calves with his table napkin, as if thrashing a pair of hunting boots with a riding crop.

  Once he had passed Meaux, the sun flooded the road and the surrounding countryside. Through the lowered windows, scents of wet grass and flowers and the uninterrupted chirping of birds were borne in on the wind. The cloudless sky added to the serenity of this new journey on which Nicolas had immediately embarked, happy to complete his mission and impatient for the coming actions, which, he fully expected, would finally allow him to reverse the bad luck he had for too long been suffering.

  He reached the convent of Pont-aux-Dames just before vespers. He could feel the difference in the welcome reserved for him. No doubt forewarned, the mother superior was lavish in her attentions. He had to agree to attend the service. Madame du Barry, in full mourning, her face bent over her Book of Hours, was like a heavenly apparition that had stepped out of a stained-glass window. Despite their reserve, the younger nuns stole glances at her out of the corners of their eyes, while the older ones looked on sternly. Madame de La Roche-Fontenilles had not been sparing in her praise for ‘the poor young woman’, vaunting her gentleness, her charm, the crystalline sound of her voice, the elegance of her manners, and even her passionate piety. The comtesse then followed him into the cloister. The spring air was driving out the dampness and mustiness of the vaults. The abbess stood back, observing them discreetly with a benevolent smile on her face. He reported the King’s words and handed over the velvet purse. She did not bother to check the contents, but clasped it to her heart with a sigh.

  ‘How can I express my gratitude, Marquis?’

  He remembered another of the King’s mistresses, also in peril, who had called him that.

  ‘By remembering me, Madame, as a faithful and loyal servant of the King,’ he replied.

  ‘I pray heaven, Monsieur, that one day I will again have recourse to your help.’

  ‘You will have it.’

  She asked him to wait a moment. When she returned, she handed him a gold snuffbox decorated with guilloches, its lid adorned with a miniature portrait of Louis XV.

  ‘This is all a poor woman can do to show her gratitude.’

  He bowed. He was not so moved as to prevent himself smiling inwardly, hearing the comtesse, whose fortune was immense – a fortune to which he had just added by bringing her five diamonds, the last gift of an old lover – talk about her poverty.

  ‘Madame, please believe me when I say that I shall never forget this moment.’

  He took his leave of the two women and set off back to Paris, still overflowing with ardour. The crime and treachery weaving their snares around him would meet their match. He would bring down the hydra in whose clutches he had been trapped since Julie’s death. Just as the sun disperses the shadows, so light and justice would unmask the guilty. Rays flooded the inside of the carriage, spraying the threadbare velvet of the benches with shimmering ripples. In these days when everything was uncertain, his happiness swelled with a new determination, freed from sadness and dread.

  Notes – CHAPTER 11

  1. See The Châtelet Apprentice.

  2. This is a real incident which became widely known and caused much mirth amongst Parisians.

  3. Lunch was usually eaten at about eleven o’clock in the morning.

  XII

  THE BATHS OF JUL IAN

  In life, all is a mixture …

  Nothing is one, nothing is pure.

  CHAMFORT

  Sunday 15 May 1774

  After a night of dreamless sleep, Nicolas woke refreshed, his mind alert. He accompanied Marion and Poitevin to early mass at Saint-Eustache, abandoning himself to the reassuring sound of the prayers and chants and the smell of incense, which, in this stormy weather, served as much to disperse the insidious odours rising from the crypt, where the inhabitants of the parish continued to be buried, as to honour the Lord. It was in this same church that he had attended the funeral of Rameau – here, too, he recalled, Madame de Pompadour had been baptised. Then he reproached himself for becoming distracted, as he had so often done at school, and concentrated on his prayers, imploring heaven to help him see that justice was finally done. A pastoral from the Archbishop of Paris, relating the death of the King, was read in the pulpit. The piece, which was eloquent and full of solace, ended with an account of the Dauphin’s gesture of distributing alms to the poor and beseeching them to ask heaven to preserve his grandfather’s days. A fervent murmur rose from the crowd of worshippers.

  Back in Rue Montmartre, the smell of hot bread from the bakery revived his appetite, reminding him that he had not eaten the previous evening. Catherine, a freethinker who usually derided church services and the schemes of priests, greeted them mockingly, her hands on her hips. This attitude saddened old Marion, who was trying without success to convert the former canteen-keeper whom she loved like a daughter come to her late in life. Nicolas sat down to a mountain of brioches and a steaming pot of hot chocolate.

  Despite the sacred character of Sunday, he decided to go to the Châtelet. He wanted to look through his notes and examine his little black book, to bring together all the various elements of the case and try to find a connecting thread. As the weather was increasingly heavy and humid, he went on foot, glad to have donned a white coat of lightweight twill: he hated perspiring. Old Marie did not seem surprised to see him: he had long ago become accustomed to his chiefs’ unpredictable hours. In the duty office, Nicolas was pleased to discover Bourdeau, who was sweating blood over a report.

  ‘Good,’ he said, ‘your presence will save me a good page of writing. I didn’t know you had come back from Meaux. I was doing the best I could for your sake.’

  Nicolas briefly summarised the latest events: his audience with Monsieur de Sartine and his meeting with the new King, leaving until last the unexpected orders which again set them on the trail of an unknown adversary.

  ‘That at least has the merit of being clear,’ said Bourdeau, approvingly. ‘Our motives now coincide with the wishes of the Lieutenant General. No more scruples! I brought the two bodies back to Paris. The coachman’s, made to look presentable, was handed over to his family with a decent sum of money which will assuage their legitimate hunger for explanations. The other body was examined at the Basse-Geôle. The bumps and bruises do indeed come from Catherine’s frying pan. There’s someone who hasn’t lost her touch since Fontenoy! In order not to panic the household, I gathered Cyrus’s testimony in the garden, offering him a piece of biscuit as an incentive. When I showed the brave animal Cadilhac’s clothes, he bristled and foamed with rage. I’ve never seen him in such a state.’

  ‘So Cadilhac was definitely the person who broke into my room?’

  ‘There’s no doubt about it. Finally, I dispatched a whole host of spies under Rabouine’s direction to Rue des Douze-Portes. The traps have been set. Right now, I’m waiting for Tirepot. He’s really one of our best informers: his paraphernalia is so visible, it no longer attracts attention.’

  ‘That’s all well and good,’ said Nicolas. ‘But to attend to the most urgent matters first, we have to put Balbastre and Madame de Lastérieux’s notary Master Tiphaine under lock and key at the Châtelet, and keep them in total confinement. There’s another move I thought of, which we’ll have to discuss with Semacgus: couldn’t Awa talk to Julia, the slave Casimir’s companion? She might do better at getting the poor girl to talk than we would.’

  ‘I think that’s a good idea,’ said Bourdeau. ‘It may help to explain some of the things Casimir said that don’t tally with other observations. You’re right to want to take everything from the beginning. A new look may reveal the whole story.’

  Nicolas took a bundle of papers from a cupboard and spread them on the table. Then he opened his little black notebook and started examining it closely. Meanwhile, Bourdeau seemed to be drawing up a list from which he occasionally crossed out a line, his brow ten
se with concentration. It was while they were thus engaged that Tirepot surprised them. He entered, pursued by an indignant Old Marie, who did not understand how anyone could have the effrontery to bring into such a temple of the law the self-evidently foul instruments of his daily trade, those two buckets linked by a bar and covered with a wax cloth beneath which anyone could sit down and relieve himself for a few liards. To provoke him, Tirepot was singing in a throaty tone his eternal ‘You all know what you need to do!’

  ‘Peace, my lambs,’ said Bourdeau, trying hard to contain his laughter. ‘What did you do to Old Marie, you rogue, to get him so flushed?’

  ‘He was trying to stop me coming in with my gear, Monsieur Pierre, saying it was disgusting. Well, it’s my bread and butter, and I’ve been shouting myself hoarse telling him that, all too aware of the honour you’ve granted me, I emptied my buckets and rinsed everything in the river before coming here. The whole thing’s so clean you could eat your dinner off it. And anyway, I left my convenience at the bottom of the stairs. It’s Sunday, it won’t bother anyone there.’

  ‘Come now,’ said Nicolas, ‘make peace, you two. Old Marie, bring four glasses of your cordial for us to seal it, as friends and Bretons.’

  The usher puffed at his clay pipe and seemed to think for a moment. ‘Only because Tirepot is a Breton, and from Pontivy …’

  He went to fetch the glasses.

  ‘What’s the news?’ Nicolas said at last, addressing Tirepot.

  ‘There’s so much that Rabouine was worried I might forget some of it,’ Tirepot replied. ‘He made me promise not to leave anything out. I’m delivering it still hot. I’ve been repeating it to myself on the way.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘In Rue des Douze-Portes, opposite the parchment seller’s, there’s a house which is neither rich nor poor. On the fourth floor a man lives on his own, apart from an elderly-looking maid, who arrives every morning and leaves at about one o’clock. The man’s habits are somewhat irregular. Since we’ve been watching him, he’s been coming and going at all hours of the day and night. He often has his meals in a little tavern nearby, but never talks to anyone there. He always uses roundabout routes, as if he’s afraid the men of the watch are after him. He’s harder to keep track of than a needle in a haystack. But the fact is, all his wanderings regularly lead him to the d’Aiguillon mansion.’

  ‘Good work!’ said Bourdeau.

  ‘Definitely,’ said Nicolas, boiling with impatience and downing in one go the glass of cordial Old Marie handed him. ‘But you’ve forgotten the most important thing. Who is this man? Did you find out his identity?’

  ‘You know him, and so do I,’ replied Tirepot. ‘It’s Camusot, who used to be the commissioner in charge of the Gaming Division. The one who was in league with La Paulet. A shifty character you had a brush with once before, Nicolas. He nearly did away with you, thanks to his crony Mauval, that thoroughly bad lot you dispatched at the Dauphin Couronné.’

  ‘He was convicted of abuse of authority and suspected of much more,’ said Nicolas. ‘Mauval was his henchman, but the only punishment Camusot received was to be removed from his post at the head of the Gaming Division. I thought he’d retired to the country.’

  ‘Not a bit of it,’ said Tirepot. ‘Rabouine asked me to tell you that the First Minister uses him to do his dirty work for him. He has his own little agency all set up, prepared to do whatever they’re offered provided it’s handsomely rewarded.’

  ‘If Camusot’s involved, anything’s possible,’ said Bourdeau. ‘He knows the way we work better than we do.’

  ‘Rabouine thinks as you do,’ said Tirepot. ‘That’s why he’s changed his plans. His people are keeping more of a distance now, and he’s using old men or children to draw less attention. Rue des Douze-Portes, which is at right angles to Rue Saint-Pierre, is completely locked in. The ends of the street, leading to Rue Saint-Louis and Rue Neuve-Saint-Gilles are being watched by our men, who are installed on the upper floors of buildings. A servant in our pay at the d’Aiguillon mansion is keeping us informed. We just have to tighten the noose.’

  ‘Good, Jean,’ said Nicolas. ‘I’m pleased with you.’

  ‘There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for such a generous countryman!’ Tirepot said, winking and letting his tongue hang out. The commissioner understood the meaning of the gesture, searched in his pockets and took out a few louis, which he slipped into an already extended hand.

  ‘Go and seal your peace treaty with Old Marie,’ he said, ‘and wait for a message for Rabouine. The most important thing is not to ruin what I’m doing: tell him from me to make sure he follows my instructions. Bourdeau and I are going to establish our campaign plan.’

  Delighted, Tirepot left the office. Nicolas and Bourdeau were silent for a moment. It was the inspector who spoke first.

  ‘I think,’ he said, ‘we have to try and connect the man on the road to Meaux with Camusot. This Cadilhac was already working with Camusot fifteen years ago. He tries to kill you and we find Camusot’s address on him. Don’t forget that Camusot doesn’t yet know his hired man is dead – at least we hope so.’

  ‘Let’s try and put ourselves in Camusot’s place,’ replied Nicolas. ‘Presumably informed by Gaspard of my mission for the late King, he has me followed. Several hours have gone by since I was given the box and left for Paris. I’m tailed, and quite naturally an attempted theft follows. But Catherine saves the day. We know what happens next: the road to Meaux, attack, failure and death. But Camusot doesn’t know the last part. He hasn’t heard from Cadilhac. What can he possibly be assuming? If the necessary secrecy has been observed, he has no reason to suspect that his hired killer is dead. The rest follows naturally. He assumes that his accomplice has been bought for a higher price or that, aware of the value of his find, he’s run off to take advantage of the loot. Camusot is well enough informed to have heard the rumour, spread by us, that I was robbed on the road to Meaux.’

  ‘Cadilhac was no fool,’ said Bourdeau. ‘After all, he was privy to Camusot’s tricks for years. Camusot must have assumed he’s grabbed the diamonds intended for Madame du Barry and …’

  ‘And,’ continued Nicolas, ‘he also thinks the man found a document which is likely to be worth even more if he negotiates its return with some highly placed people. You see what I’m getting at. There’s apparently nothing to connect Camusot to the affair, apart from the fact that his address was found in Cadilhac’s coat. We have him under close surveillance. Let’s say we find a way to lure him out, he responds and we nab him. With a little luck we may be able to follow the chain of this plot back to its instigator.’

  ‘Good,’ said Bourdeau reflectively. ‘But what kind of trap can we lay? He’s not small fry. He’ll be all the more suspicious if he knows you’re in the vicinity.’

  Nicolas did not reply: his eyes half closed, he was thinking. He went out for a moment, paced up and down a little, then came back and sat down opposite the inspector.

  ‘We still have to put ourselves in Cadilhac’s skin. What would he do if he really was in that situation? Of course, he might be content with the diamonds. But I don’t think so. He knows that what he has in his hands is the opportunity of a lifetime, the big break he’s always dreamt of. But he has to play a subtle game. He could for example put an advertisement in Le Mercure or La Gazette, something like “Object lost on the road to Meaux handed over for reward.” An obvious objection is that he’d be exposing himself to discovery when he delivered the text.’

  ‘In addition,’ said Bourdeau, ‘there’s nothing to guarantee the advertisement would even be read.’

  ‘In that case … in that case …’ Nicolas murmured, feverishly. ‘Let’s say Cadilhac sends a messenger to Camusot’s lodgings when our man is out, that the letter is handed to the maid and the emissary disappears immediately. Camusot gets the letter, which informs him that his creature is rebelling, and wants to make a deal, with him in the first place, given all they’ve shared
in the past, but if he doesn’t bite then he’ll go and knock at the door of a certain pagoda whose master has just returned to his mansion in Paris. Monsieur de Choiseul would no doubt be delighted to get hold of a document which I strongly suspect implicates him.’

  ‘That’s better,’ said Bourdeau. ‘Let’s see what happens next. To perfect our plan and ensure the safety of our false Cadilhac, we need to specify that the first meeting will be a mere formality, devoted to a preliminary laying-down of conditions. We should also make it clear that the original of the document is in a safe place, together with a denunciatory letter addressed to whom it may concern in case Cadilhac doesn’t come back at the appointed hour to collect his papers.’

  ‘Objection,’ said Nicolas. ‘The person who comes to the meeting has to be recognised by Camusot. If he doesn’t see him, he’ll suspect something’s not right and that’s the end of our plan.’

  ‘We’ll arrest him immediately, that’ll solve the problem.’