Nicolas approved his deputy’s arrangements and now, in a hurry himself, wanted to send for a carriage. Foresighted as ever, Bourdeau pointed to a cab waiting in the street. They would go back to the duty office to await developments, and put on disguises to be ready for any eventuality. Nicolas took his cape and tricorn, then got into the carriage. They rapidly reached their destination since on that Sunday afternoon in late winter Paris was almost deserted. All they came across were a few groups of masked revellers intimidating some frightened citizens. This reminded Nicolas that it was exactly a week since he had got back from Guérande.
Sitting at a small table in the duty office, Bourdeau gave a detailed account of Semacgus’s move to the Bastille. The surgeon had received a friendly welcome from the governor, who already knew him because he had had occasion to dine with him at Monsieur de Jussieu’s. He had been given a large and airy cell with a few items of furniture. Bourdeau had gone back to Vaugirard to pick up clothes and books from a list that Semacgus had given him. Catherine was still consoling Awa, who by now was convinced that she would never see Saint-Louis again. Bourdeau had made use of the visit to check that the seals on Descart’s house were still intact, and that no one had attempted to break in. In any case his spies were keeping a constant watch on the doctor’s residence. As for the reports from Rue des Blancs-Manteaux, Bourdeau was beginning to doubt the sanity and the zeal of his informers. They spoke solely of Madame Lardin returning home when no one had seen her leave, and of her leaving when no one had seen her come home. That side of the mystery was deepening. Mauval had been spotted entering the house several times. Having finished his summary Bourdeau took out his pipe, looked at it thoughtfully, then concentrated on producing a cloud of smoke that in the slowly gathering dusk plunged the room into even deeper darkness.
Nicolas could not shake off the lethargy induced by the delights of Monsieur de Noblecourt’s table. He couldn’t stop thinking about his clumsy comment, an act of pretentiousness which he now realised was merely a sign of his own insecurity. Balbastre had not wanted to hurt his feelings; he had simply ventured a witty remark amidst the sparkling conversation that was the hallmark of a free society. The young man was conscious of how lucky he was to meet men of taste and tact, a reflection of the polished manners of the Court. Revisiting his own weakness, he realised the progress he still had to make before he achieved self-control and could prevent the first gibe directed at him, and the first slight to his self-esteem, from reopening the wound. He was aware that this over-sensitivity was an essential part of his make-up, and something he would have to live with. He had never had the opportunity to talk to anybody openly about it. At one point he had intended to confide in Pigneau but, however kind he was, his friend was still a man of the cloth and tended to treat anything that was said in confidence as if it were spoken in the confessional. He could only see Nicolas’s moral suffering in the context of a faith that took little account of private sorrows, or rather urged that they should be transcended by adoration of the divine.
Drowsy from the effects of the meal, Nicolas began to dream. He was at Château de Ranreuil, near the moat. Isabelle had slipped on the grass and had fallen into the water: she was floating motionless amongst the reeds. On the bank Nicolas was holding out his hands towards the young woman but he was unable to move. He was shouting out in despair but not a sound came from his lips. Suddenly the marquis appeared, his face twisted with hatred, clutching a large crucifix with which he was attempting to hit the young man. He felt a sharp pain in his shoulder …
‘Calm down, Monsieur. It’s me, Bourdeau. You fell asleep. Were you dreaming?’
Nicolas shuddered.
‘I was having a nightmare.’
Night had fallen and Bourdeau had lit a candle that glimmered and guttered.
‘Tirepot has made contact. Our two fellows are currently sitting at a table in a seedy tavern in Faubourg Saint-Marcel, near the horse market. They seem to be regulars. We need to be quick. I’ve informed the watch and they’ll meet us there.’
He handed Nicolas a hat and some old clothes. He himself ran his fingers through the dust on the top of a chest and then rubbed it over his face. He invited the young man to do the same. Their faces now made them look like little Savoyard chimney sweeps. Nicolas picked up the cast-offs that had proved so useful during his investigations in Vaugirard. He wanted to take a sword but Bourdeau dissuaded him, pointing out that this weapon did not go with the rest of his outfit, and that the little pistol he had given him was ample guarantee of safety and discretion. When all was ready they got into the cab driven by one of Bourdeau’s aides. The inspector ordered him to take the quickest route, which meant going over Pont au Change, crossing Île de la Cité, reaching the Left Bank via Petit Pont, then speeding towards Porte Saint-Marcel and entering the faubourg.
The bumpy ride made Nicolas feel drowsy again; he tried to marshal his thoughts. Something was preying on his mind, as if it were trying to send him a message that he was unable to decipher. He thought back to the lunch in Rue Montmartre and to the astonishing discovery of another message from Lardin that was just as incomprehensible as the first. He found it difficult to explain why the commissioner had chosen to make contact with two acquaintances who were not close friends, and who might have had reason to mistrust him: Monsieur de Noblecourt for reasons of caution and reticence, and Nicolas because of his subordinate status. He would have to re-read and compare the two messages. He tried in vain to determine at what point he had become uneasy and doubtful, and what particular detail had triggered his current uncertainty. He relived the episode of the cabinet of curiosities. He saw again the strange crucifix. It vaguely reminded him of something, and he vowed to give the matter some more thought.
Bourdeau respected his silence and continued to surround himself in wreaths of smoke. In his wisdom, he always seemed to know when his superior needed absolute quiet. It was now pitch dark and the lighting was poor because the wind had blown out many of the candles in the street lanterns. Nicolas had heard Monsieur de Sartine think aloud about the changes he wished to make to lighting in the capital to improve the safety of its inhabitants. He also complained of the ever-increasing number of street signs and awnings that cast too much shadow onto the cobbled streets and created areas of dark that were a breeding ground for thieves, pickpockets and other villains. What was more, the awnings, which were often damaged by the weather, tended to fall down and cause accidents.
Occasionally the noise of the carriage lessened, as if it were going over a carpet. A pervasive, musty smell told them that they had just gone past the mansion of some wealthy invalid. The servants of the house had spread dung and straw in front of the door to muffle the noise of the carriages. Elsewhere, ice-covered potholes caved in and the windows were splashed with muddy water. They encountered more groups of masked revellers who bombarded the carriage with little sacks of flour, but Carnival was almost over and the spirit had gone out of it. Shrove Tuesday would signal the end with a bonfire that finished on Ash Wednesday, the start of Lent.
Once they had gone beyond the city limits, Nicolas had the feeling of entering a frozen desert. The faubourg showed itself in its most eerie light. The faint glimmer of the lantern revealed high walls that gradually gave way to indistinct bulky masses. These were religious or charitable institutions, which were numerous in this part of the city. Where nothing had been built, it was left to the imagination to conjure up abandoned areas in which ghostly thickets covered the land with tangled undergrowth, dense with claw-like and frost-encrusted brambles. Small walls reared up, protecting orchards, gardens and yards. The traffic had stopped. Suddenly a nocturnal creature fluttered against the window on Nicolas’s side, pecked fiercely at the glass, then disappeared. He thought about Monsieur de Noblecourt’s premonition, and at the same time he sensed Bourdeau’s anxiety as the inspector trembled beside him.
Tirepot’s messenger had got there before them; he intercepted their carriage near the chur
chyard of Sainte-Catherine. The tavern they were heading for was close by, in Rue du Cendrier. Their guide pointed out a large, badly lit hovel set back from the road. As they approached it a familiar voice greeted Nicolas from behind a collapsed cart by a woodpile:
‘Here you are at last!’ Tirepot murmured. ‘I’m freezing here, waiting for you. Pretend you’re passing water. Your two fellows, an old soldier called Bricart and his crony, Rapace, a former butcher, are sitting at the corner table on the right as you go in. Be careful. It’s a pretty seedy place.’
Nicolas pretended to do himself up.
‘The watch have been informed and are on their way. You stay out of this. I don’t want you to be seen. Off you go now.’
Nicolas went back to Bourdeau, who was rehearsing his role. He began to limp as he rammed his big hat on.
‘Take my arm and hide your face. Keep out of the light.’
They pushed open the door of the tavern and went inside. The room was in semi-darkness. The beams of the low ceiling were blackened with smoke. The only furniture on the uneven mud floor was a dozen or so painted wooden tables with rough-hewn benches on either side. Here and there poor quality tallow candles provided some dim light. The customers were an odd assortment of rag-pickers, beggars and two washerwomen from the toll-gates, who had hoisted their skirts to warm their backsides by the meagre fire. The tavern-keeper was breaking up lumps of sugar and from time to time stirred a large pot hanging from a hook in the fireplace, in which a thick concoction of assorted scraps and roots was bubbling away. One of the human wrecks went up to him and, after paying, received a bowlful of the soup together with a hunk of black bread mixed with bran. Rapace and Bricart seemed in the middle of a lively conversation. There was a growing collection of wine jugs on their table. Lurching around, Bourdeau pushed Nicolas into a dark corner to the left of the fireplace. The spot was well chosen; it allowed a general view of the room and the entrance, but also of the exits to the back. The inspector banged his fist on the table and in a hoarse voice called the host who came to take their order. They asked for two bowls of soup and a pitcher of brandy and paid up immediately. Bourdeau put down his pipe and spat copiously on the floor.
‘Monsieur,’ he whispered, ‘you need to drink the brandy in one go, throwing your head back. Now, crumble the bread into the soup and grab the spoon with your whole hand. Make sure you’re sprawled across the table, and make as much noise as possible while you’re eating. To finish it, drink what’s left straight from the bowl. Let’s be careful. Anyone with an ounce of common sense could see through our disguise. This is going to be a treat.’
He gave him a grotesque wink.
Nicolas became uneasy when he saw the meagre fare arrive. He would long remember this day, in the course of which he had gone from the heights of culinary excellence to the depths of scraps and left-overs. Bourdeau gave him a look of encouragement. He tried to follow his advice and slumped over the grimy wooden table. The bread he had dipped into the broth gradually disintegrated and small flakes of it floated to the top. The first spoonful almost made him pass out, and to settle his stomach he took a quick swig of alcohol. Old Marie’s ‘pick-me-up’ in the Châtelet was sweetness and gentleness itself compared with the river of fire that flooded his chest. He decided to change tactics. He took his courage in both hands, lifted the bowl to his lips and swallowed its disgusting contents. He followed it with another glass of brandy. Bourdeau had difficulty stopping himself laughing out loud. For his part, he had chosen a more devious method: after each spoonful he had a massive coughing fit and spat repeatedly on the floor. In the end Nicolas succumbed to his companion’s jollity. Once he had relaxed and had been pleasantly warmed by the brandy he said to himself that up until then, although they had got on easily and well together, he had not paid much attention to the inspector. Their relationship had been confined to professional matters. He had never wondered about Bourdeau’s past, his reasons for entering the police force or his family life. Suddenly he felt curious to know more about a man who had always been unfailingly helpful and kind to him. As they waited he seized the opportunity to try to make up for lost time.
‘Bourdeau,’ he said in a hushed voice, ‘you’ve never told me about how you came to join the police, have you?’
The inspector remained silent for a moment, making no attempt to disguise how taken aback he was by the question.
‘No doubt, Monsieur, because you’ve never asked.’
There was another pause, during which Nicolas thought of the best way of getting back to the subject.
‘Are your parents still alive?’
‘They’re both dead. They died within a short time of each other. Almost twenty years ago.’
‘What did your father do?’
He sensed that Bourdeau was more relaxed.
‘My father was kennel-keeper of the King’s boar hounds. As far as I remember, he was very proud of his position. Until his accident he was extremely happy.’
‘His accident?’
‘A cornered boar gashed his leg after he had rushed to the help of one of the King’s favourite dogs. They had to sever his leg because of the risk of gangrene. His courage was hardly repaid: they resented his failure to save the dog, which had also been gored … He had to go back to his village an invalid, without the status of a veteran or a pension. From then on he wasted away, deprived of the hunt, which had been his whole life, and separated from the King, his idol. I watched him die of grief. He never forgave himself for having allowed the dog to die. The King had merely complained and had shown not the slightest concern for the injured man. This is how the great of this world are …’
‘The King didn’t know.’
‘That’s what they always say. Oh! If the King knew that … Nicolas, we are the servants of justice and we obey orders, but as a citizen I’m entitled to my own opinion. The King is a man like any other, with his defects and whims. As a young man my father had been struck by his lust for killing. About forty years ago, when he was an apprentice, he witnessed a scene that affected him so much that he often recounted it, though it reflected badly on the person he revered as a god. The King was then about twelve or thirteen and was very fond of a white doe he had fed when it was only a fawn. It had become used to him, and so tame that it ate out of his hand. One day he had a sudden urge to kill it. He ordered it to be taken to La Muette. There he chased it away, then shot and wounded it. Panic-stricken and whimpering, the poor animal ran towards the King in search of protection. He forced it away a second time and killed it.
Nicolas was surprised at Bourdeau’s controlled anger.
‘Sensing that his end was near,’ the inspector continued, ‘my father, who had never asked for anything for himself, reluctantly petitioned his Lordship the Duc de Penthièvre, the Master of the Royal Hunt,1 and the most honourable of men. Shortly before my father died his Lordship sent me to Paris where, after studying at the college of Louis-le-Grand, I read law. With the proceeds from the sale of my parents’ small house, generously supplemented by the duke, I was able to buy my office of inspector and adviser to the King. Thus the damage done by one Bourbon was repaired by another. But what about you, Monsieur? How do you explain your astonishing career?’
Nicolas sensed the hint of irony.
‘How did you come to obtain Monsieur de Sartine’s support to the extent of representing him and acting on his behalf, with even wider powers than a commissioner? Don’t misinterpret my curiosity. But since you were kind enough to enquire about me, allow me to do likewise with equal frankness.’
Nicolas had fallen into his own trap, but he did not regret it. He considered Bourdeau to be sincere and had the feeling that this conversation could only bring them closer together. But it was another Bourdeau he looked at now, someone deeper and more solemn.
‘There’s no mystery to it and my story’s not that different from yours,’ he replied. ‘I was a foundling, without family or fortune and was recommended to Monsieur de Sartine
by my godfather, the Marquis de Ranreuil. Everything followed from that, without me having to take any initiative, except to prove I was competent to perform the necessary tasks.’
Bourdeau smiled.
‘You’re very much the philosopher. You ask questions without giving answers. I’m not one to question what you’re saying, but you must understand that your position is unusual, that tongues in the Châtelet are starting to wag and people are beginning to wonder about you. They think you’re a member of a Masonic lodge.’
‘What! Why is that?’
‘I thought you knew that Monsieur de Sartine was himself affiliated to the lodge of the Arts Sainte-Marguerite.’
‘Certainly not. I have no involvement with such things.’
The truth was that the straightforward fellow Nicolas felt he had by then got to know quite well now appeared in a new light. Nicolas was aware of the incongruity of the situation. Since his return from Brittany he had allowed himself to be carried along by events. He had not sensed how much his relations with the inspector had gradually changed. He had himself accepted this shift unquestioningly and happily. Despite his concerns and his conviction that on occasion he was merely being used by the Lieutenant General of Police, he had overcome this ambiguous position by obtaining, as he thought, the total confidence of his superior. Could he rise so quickly from being an instrument to being his confidant? He preferred not to dwell on this, but to throw himself into the fray. However, he fully realised that Bourdeau was not a simple underling, and that it required unusual magnanimity on his part to accept a young man, an apprentice, as his master, so to speak. Despite all his experience the inspector had been prepared to stay in the background and accept orders. Nicolas thought that he had probably failed to ensure that this reversal of roles had taken place as tactfully and as smoothly as it might have. He must not forget the lesson Bourdeau had just taught him. He remembered that instead of using his Christian name as he had before, Bourdeau now addressed him with a deferential ‘Monsieur’, more appropriate to their new relationship. He nevertheless remained convinced that the inspector was really fond of him, a feeling matched on his part by genuine esteem. He vowed to ensure that he would show it, especially since he was the one who had requested of Monsieur de Sartine that Bourdeau be his deputy.
The Châtelet Apprentice Page 24