Sartine looked at Bourdeau and sighed.
‘I won’t dwell on the danger of these documents being divulged to foreign powers, nor on the fact that it was impossible, Monsieur, for you to take action against the perpetrators of this crime of lese-majesty. But I was convinced that the case of Commissioner Lardin’s disappearance had to be closely linked to the existence of these State papers that had been … let’s say … mislaid.’
‘Why was that?’ asked Sartine.
‘The constant presence of Mauval during the investigation, his spying, his threats and assaults on me could only have been for a very good reason. Lardin was dead, but his murderers had not managed to lay their hands on the documents which the commissioner had endeavoured to hide from them.’
‘Explain to me how they could have learnt of their existence.’
‘The plot, Monsieur, the plot. When Lardin planned to eliminate Descart in agreement with his wife, he informed her that he was in possession of papers that would be extremely valuable for someone to sell. He made it clear to her that these papers were the ultimate guarantee of their impunity. However, the man still retained an element of caution. He added that he had concealed these papers in her cousin Descart’s house. Where better to hide them than in the house that would be passed on to Louise Lardin, Descart’s natural heiress and the wife of his alleged victim? However, he was careful not to tell his wife exactly where he had put the papers.’
‘Nicolas, this is wonderful! It sounds as if you were there! Were you by any chance behind the door and under the beds listening to everything? On what have you based such a confident account of the details of this tale? Is this why you’ve brought me to this godforsaken suburb?’
‘On my intuition and my knowledge of the people I’ve been proud to unmask. There was in fact one imponderable and unexpected element in this well-oiled mechanism. A tiny grain of sand, a stumbling block …’
‘Oh, really? What is it? This is like listening to the worst kind of empirical philosopher!’
‘Conscience, Monsieur, conscience. Commissioner Lardin had long been an outstanding member of your police force. He had spent many years in harness, giving of his best in the fight against crime. Something of this had stayed with him. He was not absolutely sure of the loyalty of a woman whose wanton ways he knew and accepted. He tolerated her relationship with Mauval, but could he really trust this demonic couple who had embarked on this evil enterprise alongside him? In any case his motives don’t much matter. However, I do believe that in a sudden act of lucidity and duty, or with a premonition of his impending death, he wished to leave a trail that would lead to the stolen letters. This trail, Monsieur, is on the table in front of you.’
Sartine leapt out of his armchair and eagerly began to read the three pieces of paper laid out on the table.
‘Explain yourself, Nicolas. This makes no sense – I can’t make head or tail of it.’
‘First I need to tell you how these notes in Lardin’s handwriting came into my possession. I found the first in one of my coats, the second was sent to Monsieur de Noblecourt along with a gift, and the third was entrusted to Marie Lardin who was told how valuable it was. At first sight the whole thing doesn’t tell us very much.’
‘What about at second sight?’
‘They are very informative and I’m going to prove it. Naturally you will already have noted that it mentions returning the secrets of the King.’
‘Is that all you need?’
‘It’s not all I need but it points me in the right direction. I spent a long time searching before I arrived at my conclusions. I moved the papers around as my guardian the canon used to do with the pieces of a puzzle.’
‘What on earth has your guardian to do with this?’ Monsieur de Sartine asked impatiently. ‘Do you want me to die of apoplexy before your very eyes?’
Bourdeau retreated into the shadows, looking worried.
‘I mixed them up time and again,’ Nicolas continued, arranging Lardin’s notes in a different order.
Do two make three?
Enfolded in these arms
Some seek their solace.
Carefully you open them
After so much searching,
Returning to their owner
The secrets of the King
‘And what am I supposed to make of this gibberish?’ said Sartine. ‘Have we come here for rhymes, rebuses or anagrams?’
‘Examine the capital letters at the beginning of each sentence, Monsieur. What do they spell?’
‘D … E … S … C … A … R … T. Well yes, they spell Descart. But where does that get us?’
‘It gets us here, to Vaugirard. It was not for nothing that Lardin devised so many stratagems for these notes to reach their intended recipients. He clearly intended that the secret should be discovered, and that the search should be directed towards this house.’
‘How did you possibly deduce that just the word Descart could lead us to what we’re searching for?’
‘Thanks to Monsieur de Noblecourt’s cabinet of curiosities, Monsieur.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Sartine, turning to Bourdeau, ‘I think he’s lost his senses again. You told me he was wounded yesterday. It must be the loss of blood.’
This time it was Nicolas’s turn to show his impatience.
‘In this cabinet of curiosities, one of the most famous in Paris …’
‘And with which I am very familiar,’ Sartine went on, ‘because I’ve been subjected to our friend’s innocent quirk of always wanting to reveal its horrors to his guests at the end of a fine meal.’
‘Monsieur, a few days ago I noticed in that strange setting a large ebony crucifix with its arms closed. It’s one of those Jansenist items that would prevent you from obtaining a certificate of confession. I was struck by its appearance. It reminded me of an image I had come across earlier. I questioned Monsieur de Noblecourt. The crucifix in question had been given to him recently, much to his surprise, by Commissioner Lardin. Our friend had found a note wrapped round its base, the very same note that you have before you, beginning with the words “Carefully you open them”. Then, when I carried out a search of the Lardins’ house with Bourdeau, I discovered among the commissioner’s papers an invoice from a cabinet-maker in Faubourg Saint-Antoine for two unspecified items. As I couldn’t get the image of the crucifix out of my mind I sought out the craftsman in question. After I had got lost several times, I reached my destination and the man found the order: two ebony crucifixes, each with an ivory Christ …’
‘We are caught between Scylla and Charybdis,’ said Sartine. ‘I don’t know what’s stopping me getting back into my carriage.’
‘Curiosity and hope, Monsieur,’ replied Nicolas with a smile. ‘The craftsman himself expressed surprise at the nature of the work required for one of the items in question. According to him he had been asked to completely hollow out the main part of the cross and to fit it with a lid equipped with a secret catch, a sort of pen box for concealing jewels, louis d’or, precious stones …’
‘Or letters,’ Monsieur de Sartine continued, suddenly calm.
‘Or letters. So I had a name and an object, even if the craftsman had refused to reveal the mechanism to me. That might have been enough, but I wanted to solve the mystery of Lardin’s notes. Let us look at them again, if you don’t mind. “Do two make three?” I translate somewhat freely as “for the pair of crucifixes there are three messages”. “Enfolded in these arms” is a reference to Christ with his arms closed. The rest is obvious. “Carefully you open them, after so much searching, restoring to their owner the secrets of the King.” This Christ will return the King’s papers.’
A long silence followed Nicolas’s demonstration, disturbed only by the guttering of candles and the roar of the wind in the fireplace. Monsieur de Sartine and Bourdeau looked on in fascination as Nicolas got up like a sleepwalker, took hold of a candelabrum and went towards the fireplace. He stopped, raised his arm and the light illu
minated a great ebony crucifix. On it was an ivory Christ with arms closed, Commissioner Lardin’s last gift to his wife’s cousin. Bourdeau hurried over, grabbing a chair, and with one foot on the mantelpiece took down the object, creating a cloud of dust as he did so, and placed it respectfully on the table. The young man invited Monsieur de Sartine to examine the object. The Lieutenant General’s fingers were trembling and all he could feel was the smooth surface of the wood. He looked at Nicolas in desperation.
‘Are you certain of what you have suggested?’
‘It cannot be otherwise, Monsieur.’
Now it was Nicolas’s turn to examine the crucifix. The mysterious words rang in his head: ‘Carefully you open them.’ He leant over the ivory Christ and noticed that the Saviour’s hands were not nailed to the wood of the cross. He took hold of them and tried to press them down. The arms yielded with a clicking sound and the whole object rose slightly. He turned the crucifix over. A small wooden panel had opened up, revealing a small space filled with tightly packed papers. He stepped aside.
‘If you please, Monsieur.’
Sartine took the bundle of letters from their hiding place. He beckoned to Bourdeau to bring some light and began to leaf through them, reading them out.
‘Draft orders to be sent by His Majesty to the Comte de Broglie and to the Baron de Breteuil, twenty-third of February 1760. Letter from the Duc de Choiseul to the Marquis d’Ossun, the King’s ambassador in Madrid, tenth of March 1760. Minute of a letter from Madame de Pompadour to Her Royal and Imperial Majesty in Vienna. Copy of an intercepted letter from Frederick II, King of Prussia, to his sister the Margravine of Bayreuth dated seventh of July 1757 … “Since, my dear sister, you have just taken upon yourself the noble task of working for peace, I beg you to agree to send Monsieur de Mirabeau to France. I shall willingly defray his expenses. He may offer up to five hundred thousand crowns to the King’s favourite …”’2
He looked up thoughtfully.
‘Still the same old story of Prussia attempting to bribe the lady. No proof … But if it were divulged at the present time …’
He collected himself, thrust the bundle of papers into his coat and looked the two policemen up and down sternly.
‘You’ve seen and heard nothing. On pain of death.’
Nicolas and Bourdeau bowed and made no reply.
‘Monsieur Le Floch,’ Sartine continued, ‘for the second time this evening I express my thanks to you, but this time I do so in the name of the King. I must leave you. I have to go to Choisy without delay. In this time of misery and war you have given me the great privilege of being a bearer of good news. The King will not forget this.’
He went up the stairs four at a time and disappeared into the night. Then they heard the sound of the carriage leaving at a fast trot. They looked at each other and burst out laughing.
‘We deserved that,’ Bourdeau said, ‘and it’s only fair. You were extremely impertinent towards the Lieutenant General; you really had to be sure of yourself there. Monsieur, thank you for allowing me to be present at all this. I shall never forget it.’
‘My dear Bourdeau, we’re about to go back to ordinary duties. Events thrust us into prominence. After the success of our investigation we are returning to obscurity. The King has been saved. Long live us! Since everyone has given up on us I have a wicked suggestion to make. We are a stone’s throw away from Semacgus’s house. He can’t refuse us anything. We’re going to invite ourselves to supper. I can already smell the aroma of Catherine’s cooking from here. And, if nothing’s ready, she’ll kill the fatted calf for us.’
Then the two friends disappeared into the cold February night.
Notes – CHAPTER XV
1. (1715–1771). A French philosopher. He was a farmer-general and contributed to the Encyclopédie.
2. At the time there were many rumours of attempts either by Austria or Prussia to bribe Madame de Pompadour, Louis XV’s favourite. Frederick II had asked his sister, the Margravine of Bayreuth, to approach the lady at Versailles via an emissary, her Grand Chamberlain the Chevalier de Mirabeau.
EPILOGUE
‘I am returning your letters of nobility to you; my sense of honour does not extend to being ennobled; it is too sensible for that.’
MARIVAUX
Two months went by. Normality reasserted itself. Nicolas continued to be employed as a supernumerary in various police tasks. Usually he teamed up with Inspector Bourdeau, but they never referred to the events they had taken part in; these were now cloaked in silence. As all guilty parties were dead, no legal measures had been taken.
Nicolas carried out his day-to-day tasks conscientiously. The Lieutenant General of Police had withdrawn the special commission that for a time had given him unlimited powers. There were fewer audiences with the Lieutenant General, and even then they were only for administrative purposes. The young man felt no resentment about this. The thrill of the investigation over the previous weeks had given way to a period of contented calm. The life he was leading suited him. He enjoyed living at Monsieur de Noblecourt’s where he was surrounded by affection and had numerous opportunities to meet the friends of the former procurator of the Parlement, and so extend his circle of useful connections.
He had resumed contact with Pigneau and listened indulgently to his missionary plans. He regularly visited Père Grégoire, who was always pleased to see his former boarder. Lastly, Semacgus’s house was another haven where he often went on Sundays. Catherine strove to lavish her culinary care and attention upon him. The surgeon, whose conversation and knowledge had always fascinated him, engaged Nicolas in interminable discussions from which he learnt a great deal. As for Guérande, he tried not to think about it. After a lengthy inner debate he had decided not to reply to Isabelle’s letter. His life in Paris, his recent but gradually increasing experience of social relations and his realisation of the gulf between the daughter of a marquis and an orphan without name or fortune, was at once a source of pride and a reason to give up all thought of her.
Nicolas still visited Antoinette, though he would have liked her to change her way of life. But she was becoming increasingly self-assured and for her the attraction of easy money was too hard to resist. This friendship therefore took the form of the normal dealings between a policeman and a prostitute, even though they were still fond of one another. Nicolas had twice come across Commissioner Camusot, who still held his post but was no longer head of the Gaming Division. Rumour had it that this demotion was the result of the case in which Nicolas had played an important role. He felt that people had become envious of him, or deferential towards him. Bourdeau, always on the alert for rumours in an establishment he knew so well, told him the gossip and added ironic comments of his own. Nicolas listened, laughed and took no further notice. He had none of the ambitions people ascribed to him.
At the beginning of April Monsieur de Sartine informed him rather bluntly of the death of the Marquis de Ranreuil. The news caused him bitter grief. So he had not been able to make peace with his godfather to whom he owed so much, and without whom he would still be mouldering away in a dusty office in Rennes, doing a job without a future. The Lieutenant General hardly gave him time to come to terms with his feelings. He studied him briefly, then announced that the following day the two of them would be going to Versailles as the King had expressed the wish that Monsieur Le Floch be presented to him. There followed a long series of recommendations about court manners, appropriate dress, the wearing of a sword and the punctuality required. Nicolas had never seen his superior look so nervous. Monsieur de Sartine eventually ended their conversation with an abrupt ‘Your good looks will make up for everything. Breeding always shows.’
That evening Nicolas asked Marion to brush the green coat which he had never had the opportunity to wear. Monsieur de Noblecourt lent him his court sword and the cravat of Bruges lace he had worn at his wedding. Nicolas declined supper and went up to his room. His grief, which he had held back because of the an
nouncement of his audience with the King, now came pouring out. So many images from the past flooded back to him: returning from the hunt, playing chess, the lessons the marquis had taught him and all those insignificant moments of ordinary happiness. All these memories had helped to make him the person he was. He could still hear the authoritarian voice of his godfather. The elderly aristocrat had always shown him unrestrained affection. Nicolas felt sorry that unfortunate circumstances had come between them, leading to an irreconcilable rift. A dim image of Isabelle came to him and then disappeared, leaving in its place blank despair.
The next day brought a host of things to do. The house in Rue Montmartre was turned upside down in the frenzy of preparation. Nicolas attempted to dull the pain of his grief by concentrating on the details of his attire. A barber was sent for to shave him, and then for the first time the young man had to conceal his own hair beneath a powdered wig. When he had put on his coat and tied the precious cravat, he looked at himself in the mirror and failed to recognise the sombre-looking man he saw there. A cab took him to the Hôtel de Gramont, where he was due to meet Monsieur de Sartine. He waited for some considerable time in the main drawing room. The Lieutenant General at first took him to be a stranger. Then, hands on hips, he walked round the young man nodding approval. He was delighted and complimented him on his outfit.
In the carriage taking them to Versailles Monsieur de Sartine respected Nicolas’s silence. He took it to be a sign of the understandable emotion the young man felt at the prospect of such an important event. In fact, though Nicolas was familiar neither with Versailles nor the Court, that feeling was far from his mind. He gazed upon the busy streets with total detachment. One day all these anonymous passers-by would disappear, all these people moving about without so much as a glance at their carriage whose movements he himself observed without making out their faces. They, Sartine and himself, were like living ghosts. The future was nothing more than the gradual approach of a mysterious end that would come in due course. What was the purpose, then, of an existence that regretted the past and feared endless sorrows and grief?
The Châtelet Apprentice Page 34