He shook his head sadly as he looked in turn at the bread and the jam. Cyrus had jumped down and was trembling with excitement as he watched his master’s antics. After checking that Marion was not in the vicinity Monsieur de Noblecourt promptly grabbed half a roll, smeared a thick layer of jam over it and gobbled down the whole thing in two greedy gulps.
‘My presence really made things very uncomfortable for the Lardins,’ said Nicolas. ‘Now it’s become impossible. Without giving away the secrets of a very tricky investigation, I can say that it must be as obvious to you as it is to me, the person in charge of the enquiry, that I cannot continue to stay in a place where I am supposed to act as judge while still being obliged to them.’
‘Opum contemptor, recti pervicax, constans adversus metus,’2 quoted the magistrate with a self-satisfied look. ‘You certainly cannot remain at Rue des Blancs-Manteaux.’
‘I left this very morning and I’ve come to ask your advice, as I’m unsure whether …’
‘My dear Nicolas, I share Monsieur de Sartine’s high opinion of your personal qualities and your education. I had already offered you my hospitality here. Treat this as your home. There’s no need to thank me as the pleasure is all mine. Marion, Marion!’
He clapped his hands, unleashing an outburst of joy in Cyrus, who started to spin around the bedroom like a top before rushing off to look for the housekeeper.
‘Monsieur, I am overwhelmed by your kindness and I don’t know how …’
‘Come, come … Here are the rules of the house. This is an annex of Rabelais’s abbey of Thélème, where freedom and independence reign. You will stay in the bedroom on the second floor. I know that you’re not scared of books, and the walls are lined with them. They are the overflow from my library, which is already full. You will have your own entrance; a door leads on to a small staircase that goes down to the servants’ quarters. Marion and Poitevin will be at your service. You will have lunch and dinner with me whenever you wish or whenever you can. I am only too aware of the constraints of your job because I have experienced them myself. Consider this house a haven. Where is your luggage?’
‘Downstairs, Monsieur. You can be sure that I will do all I can to avoid being a burden to you for too long. I shall look for …’
‘Monsieur, that’s enough. I shall get angry with you. So the ungrateful fellow is already talking of leaving. I require your obedience. Devote yourself unsparingly to your task and don’t answer back.’
Marion appeared, escorted by an impatient Cyrus who had gone to fetch her from the pantry.
‘Marion, from now on Monsieur Nicolas will be one of us. Prepare the blue bedroom. Ask Poitevin to take our friend’s luggage upstairs. Secondly, on Sunday I shall be hosting a lunch. We’ll also have a little music. There will be five of us, with Nicolas and his friends: Père Grégoire from the Carmelites, and that young seminarist, Monsieur Pigneau, you introduced me to one day at a concert of sacred music; lastly we’ll have Monsieur Balbastre, the organist at Notre-Dame.3 I’ll give you invitations to send out. As for the meal, I’m relying on you, Marion, to do me proud. Priests and musicians are the biggest gourmets of all, with the possible exception of magistrates.’
Marion listened to her master with visible satisfaction, clasping her hands with pleasure. She went away as fast as her old legs could carry her to give Poitevin the good news.
Nicolas was delighted to discover the new bedroom that was to be his. An alcove housed a small bed, and was framed by two bookcases set into the thick wall which were full of books from floor to ceiling. Books always seemed to mount a silent guard around him. As a child he had spent many hours in their company, in the loft of the house in Guérande, and later in the marquis’s library at Ranreuil. Nothing bad could happen to someone who was protected by row upon row of companionable bindings. It was enough to simply open a volume to release the music of its words, always soothing but never the same. A roll-top desk, an armchair, a washstand and a small chimney-piece completed the furnishings in the bedroom, and it was decorated with blue floral-patterned wallpaper. Nicolas had never lived in such luxury. There was no possible comparison with the garret at Rue des Blancs-Manteaux.
After the successful outcome of his visit to Rue Montmartre, and with the help of the fine weather, Nicolas returned to the Châtelet filled with contentment. He searched the area around the gloomy building closely, but there was no sign of the person he was looking for, wise old Tirepot. No doubt his investigations had yet to produce anything. The truth was that they required considerable caution. Nicolas knew that this bold type of approach often put the lives of the informers at risk. It was not fair to criticise them for taking their time and exercising extreme caution when their investigations led them to the heart of Paris’s criminal underworld.
As soon as he arrived he asked the chief gaoler which cell the inspector had put Semacgus into. He was told that Monsieur Bourdeau had spent the whole night locked up with an unknown prisoner registered under the name of Monsieur d’Issy. What was more, the inspector was still there. It was a cell for prisoners with privileges, so it was reasonably comfortable and meals could be brought in from outside the prison. Nicolas admired his deputy’s foresight.
After giving his name, the young man went into the room and was struck by the stale odour emanating from the straw and the acrid smell of sleeping bodies. On top of that the whole place reeked of cold smoke. Semacgus and Bourdeau must have indulged in their shared liking for tobacco. The inspector sat in a frock coat with his cravat undone and his grey hair unkempt. Semacgus was lying asleep on his straw pallet with his tricorn over his eyes. On the table were chicken carcasses, two glasses and three empty bottles, proof that the tragic events in Vaugirard had not in the least dulled the appetites of the two companions. Nicolas felt that this was hardly the behaviour of a suspected murderer. He corrected himself immediately. The observation could just as well suggest the cold-heartedness and insensitivity of a hardened criminal. He took it as a lesson. There were two sides to everything: at face value judgements could be made either way. He now grasped the unreliability of eyewitness reports, which were always subject to mood and first impressions.
He looked at the sleeping Semacgus and asked Bourdeau to go and wash, and then to come back to him. He wanted to be alone with the suspect. Bourdeau obeyed, though not without showing his disappointment at being sent away. In fact Nicolas had his own reasons for not wanting a witness to his interview with Semacgus. He justified it, though not very convincingly, by telling himself that he needed to maintain an air of mystery, and therefore his authority, in the eyes of his deputy. The reality was rather more prosaic: since he had not told Bourdeau the whole truth about his adventures the previous day and the night he had spent at La Satin’s, he did not want to be caught red-handed disguising certain facts.
Nicolas hesitated for another moment before shaking Semacgus by the shoulder. He was reluctant to disturb the sleep of a man threatened by such serious accusations and towards whom his feelings had never wavered. Semacgus sighed and straightened up, knocking his hat to the floor. The fleeting expression of fear on his face disappeared when he recognised Nicolas.
‘Monsieur Bourdeau’s wine has a stronger narcotic and soporific effect than the most concentrated opium solution,’ he yawned. ‘Goodness, I was in a deep sleep. But you’re looking very serious, my dear Nicolas …’
He got up, took a chair and sat astride it.
‘It’s presumably thanks to you that I’ve been put up in this room. I’m grateful for it.’
There was both gratitude and irony in his voice.
‘I think you can indeed thank me for it,’ Nicolas smiled. ‘You might have spent the night in one of those delightful locations known as “Barbary” or “The Chains”. Or, better still, we could have received you in “Comfort’s End”, famous for its reptiles and filth, or even “The Pit”, an inverted cone in which, with your back bent and your feet in water, you would have had ample time to medit
ate on the disadvantages of not trusting your friends.’4
‘Oh, I see. I take that as a jibe in my direction, but it’s one that requires some sort of explanation from you.’
Nicolas sat down on the other chair.
‘I didn’t want anyone else present at this conversation,’ he continued. ‘It’s not an official interrogation. That will come later perhaps, but for the moment I simply wanted to talk to you about certain events in the most open way possible. Don’t see this as malice or slyness on my part. You may well consider it somewhat ingenuous, but that is a part of who I am that I wish to preserve for as long as I can. However, that particular fortress is under attack and you are partly responsible …’
Semacgus listened without any particular sign of emotion.
‘You have not at any point played straight with me. Ever since our meeting in the Basse-Geôle you have been evasive, vague and secretive. Let us go back over things, if you will. You told me that you left La Paulet’s at three o’clock in the morning. Such preciseness surprised me at the time, coming from someone who’d been at a rout. From that moment on you were a suspect …’
‘In Lardin’s murder?’
‘A suspect. You’re the one who has referred to the commissioner’s hypothetical murder, and for the second time. You are also guilty of concealing the truth, since you stated that you had fallen for Louise Lardin once and once only. However, it appears from reliable evidence that your relationship with your friend’s wife continued and is perhaps still going on as we speak. Lastly …’
Nicolas took out of his coat pocket a blank piece of paper and pretended to read from it:
‘“Declared having received one louis d’or to state and affirm that the aforesaid stranger had stayed with her until three o’clock in the morning and not to admit that he had left well before. Questioned on this point said and repeated that the aforesaid stranger had left, without anyone whosoever having been able to see him, via the secret door into the garden through which gamblers withdraw in the event of a police raid. Questioned as to when he left, the aforesaid prostitute replied: ‘A quarter past midnight.’” The name of this prostitute is La Satin. There’s no need to ask whether you know her, is there?’
‘Nicolas, you’re asking the questions and giving the answers. What’s more, does all this have anything to do with Dr Descart’s murder?’
‘That remains to be proven, I admit. I’m simply trying to make you understand that a magistrate who didn’t know you and who was examining your testimony with respect to Lardin’s disappearance would, in all sincerity, have reason to doubt your statements. Now imagine this same magistrate coming across you again in a murder case and, what is more, the murder of a man with whom you had, to say the least, stormy relations, and that this was common knowledge. Piece together this whole combination of circumstances and impressions and you can draw your own conclusions about the outcome. You should realise then how lucky you are to be dealing with me, a friend, who as it happens has discretionary powers over the investigation into both cases and who hopes that you have nothing to do with either of these two tragic events. So consider my position and decide whether the moment has come to be open with me about what really happened and how you were involved.’
A long silence followed this speech which Nicolas had delivered in an assertive tone, frequently emphasising his words by hitting the grimy surface of the table with the palms of his hands. Semacgus stood up with a thoughtful look on his face, took a few steps around the cell, sat down again and then, with a sigh, began to speak.
‘I’m touched, my dear Nicolas, by your words and by the feelings behind them. I hadn’t realised how lucky I was to have a friend as the investigator. Forgive me, but your rise has been so swift that, despite the respect I have for you, I was far from trusting in your abilities, as the circumstances warranted. So I beg you, let’s forget all about my past equivocation. I’m ready to answer all your questions. But I warn you, what seems obvious can sometimes be misleading. These are the words of an innocent man.’
‘My friend, that is what I wanted to hear. I’m first going to ask you to explain – Bourdeau has already provided me with details of the discovery of Descart’s body – the circumstances that led up to you meeting him on the evening of the day before yesterday.’
Semacgus thought for a moment, then began:
‘At about nine o’clock someone rang my doorbell. Awa, who waits incessantly for news of Saint-Louis, rushed to the door. On the floor she found a letter folded into four and closed with sealing wax. Not knowing what to do with it she brought it to me immediately. I opened it …’
Semacgus rummaged in the cuff of his right sleeve and took out a small note that he handed to Nicolas.
‘No address,’ he noted. ‘No mark on the sealing wax. Let’s see … “Come to the house this evening, I shall be waiting for you at half past five. Guillaume Descart.” The piece of paper has been torn …’
‘That’s how it was when Awa gave it to me. But Descart was thrifty, not to say miserly.’
‘Could Awa have cut a piece off?’
‘Impossible. She can’t read, and look at the whole thing: the folds match up, even with the traces of sealing wax.’
‘That’s true. What was your first reaction on reading the note? Descart’s writing must have been familiar to you.’
‘Yes, indeed. During the period when we saw each other more frequently he would send me clients who were unworthy of his skills. So I recognised his writing perfectly well. To tell the truth I was puzzled by how laconic the letter was, but he was an odd character and I took the invitation at face value, as a request for a talk. I did rack my brains about the purpose behind it. Our last meeting – you were there – had come to an abrupt end. I wasn’t really expecting an offer of reconciliation.’
‘You said to Bourdeau that only something serious, something concerning the exercise of your profession, could explain this request to meet.’
‘True, it was possible that he wished to inform me of the current state of his application to get me, a navy surgeon, banned from practising medicine. He delighted in this sort of provocation.’
‘Why did you arrive at Vaugirard early?’
‘I had to leave a herbarium of tropical plants at the Jardin des Plantes. I’d left myself plenty of time. The weather looked threatening, so I went back to Vaugirard and I didn’t think it a crime to turn up at Descart’s a little in advance.’
‘When you discovered Descart’s body, did anything strike you?’
‘I was beside myself, because I immediately realised the trap I’d fallen into: I was a ready-made suspect. I confirmed that he was dead. I saw the lancet. It reminded me of our argument about bleeding and that in this way the weapon used for the crime would also constitute evidence against me. I saw nothing else. Don’t forget that all I had to see by was a candle stub.’
Nicolas made no attempt to break the silence that had fallen. Semacgus put his head in his hands.
‘My friend,’ said the young man, ‘certain facts known to me alone lead me to believe that your account is truthful. But now you are going to have to account to me for what I can justifiably call a pack of lies. At what time did you leave La Paulet’s establishment last Friday?’
‘You’re asking me a question and you already know the answer.’
‘I wanted to hear confirmation of it from your own lips. That doesn’t explain why you concealed it from me the first time. Why all the play-acting with that prostitute?’
‘You are forcing me to admit something that I wanted to hide from you so as not to compromise a third party …’
‘With whom you have not broken off relations and who you continue to see …’
Semacgus stared at Nicolas.
‘I am no longer surprised that Monsieur de Sartine put you in charge of this enquiry. You stay one step ahead of the game. You’ll be a formidable adversary for the criminal fraternity.’
‘Don’t flatter me, Sem
acgus. Explain rather why you went to find Madame Lardin that night. Her husband had just walked out of the Dauphin Couronné in a rage and you must have thought it very likely that he would go back home?’
‘You’re making me go into the sordid details, Nicolas. It had always been agreed between Louise and myself that when she put a lighted candle in the window of her bedroom it meant that the coast was clear. Also, knowing Lardin, it was a safe bet that in his anger he would do the rounds of all the gambling dens until dawn. So there was not much risk for me.’
‘Until what hour did you stay in Rue des Blancs-Manteaux?’
‘Six o’clock. I very nearly bumped into Catherine who was just starting work.’
‘Have you seen Madame Lardin again since that day?’
‘No, not at any point.’
‘You knew that Descart was her lover, you told me so. Didn’t that embarrass you at all?’
‘You’re cruel, Nicolas. Passion makes us do many things that morally we disapprove of.’
‘You told me before that Catherine also knew about Descart. Do you think she shared this knowledge with Marie?’
‘Without the slightest doubt. Anything that could harm Louise was a blessing as far as Catherine was concerned. She had no secrets from Marie, who hated her stepmother. Beneath that prim schoolgirl look of hers, and despite her age, she has a very passionate temperament. She adored her father, and he felt the same way about her.’
Nicolas was thinking. Was it possible that sweet little Marie … He thought again about the footprints found in Vaugirard which were such a close match to the shoes found in the young woman’s bedroom in Rue des Blancs-Manteaux.
‘Semacgus, how can you love Louise Lardin?’
‘I don’t wish you to know the reasons. All I will say is that the worst thing is to love someone you have no respect for. Nicolas, do you have any news of Saint-Louis?’
The Châtelet Apprentice Page 20