Читать книгу The Nicolas Le Floch Affair: Nicolas Le Floch Investigation #4 - Jean-Francois Parot - Страница 12

The carriage narrowly missed him; leaping back, he landed with his feet together in a muddy, viscous puddle of melted snow. The splash sent a foul-smelling spray over him, which started dripping from the point of his tricorn. He cursed under his breath. Another good woollen cloak to take to the cleaner. Ever since his youth in Brittany, Nicolas Le Floch, police commissioner at the Châtelet, had liked to wear practical garments. These days, frock coats were all the rage in Paris, and the kind of warm, heavy cloak he liked was the preserve of cavalry soldiers and travelling merchants. Master Vachon, his regular tailor as well as Monsieur de Sartine’s, despairing of his stubborn loyalty to old habits, had nevertheless managed to persuade him to accept a number of extravagances – a particular cut of the collar, buttons on the lower part, a wider flounce, no lining – hoping, without a great deal of conviction, that Nicolas, who was seen both in the city and at Court, would set the fashion.

Nicolas was sure that his low-fronted evening shoes were soaked, their fine gloss soiled, and that there were flecks of mud on his stockings. His cloak would have to suffer the outrage of an over-vigorous cleaning. That might not be too bad as long as the caustic mud did not leave indelible marks on the cloth; however, according to those in the know, it had an unparalleled ability to stick. Come to think of it, it might be better to leave the cloak to the meticulous, affectionate care of Catherine and Marion, the two guardian angels of Monsieur de Noblecourt’s house. It was sad to think that Marion, her body twisted with rheumatism, now only presided in a symbolic manner over the household chores, although everyone strove to make her believe that her toil, however derisory, was as necessary as ever to the smooth running of the house.

This petty incident, so common in the streets of the capital, had briefly dispelled his unpleasant reflections. Now the reasons for his vexation, not to say his anger, came back into his mind. Better to think about it now than when he was trying to sleep. What a New Year season it had been! For days, he had been feeling a gnawing sense of anguish. He always dreaded, and never enjoyed, the transition from one year to the next, and should have become accustomed to it by now, but this year everything seemed to be conspiring to ruin it for him. Somehow, though, the old year had ended, and 1774 was here. Epiphany was being celebrated this Thursday, he recalled, but this detail merely increased his irritation.

A crisis in his relationship with Madame de Lastérieux had been brewing for some time, but truth, like fruit, cannot be harvested until ripe. Anger welled up in him once more, and he stamped his right foot on the ground, again spattering himself with mud. His nose itched, a shiver ran down his spine, and he sneezed several times. That was all he needed: to catch his death of cold, running about like this in the melted snow! He remembered the evening’s events … Everything pointed to the fact that this liaison had gone on for too long. The vessel of their passion had been drifting along, accompanied by all kinds of incompatibilities and irritations which for a long time had been overshadowed by their physical compatibility. It was a far cry from the harmony of their early days, when the woman had been transfigured in his eyes into an object of worship.

He remembered that evening in February 1773. He had been invited to dinner by Monsieur de Balbastre, the organist of Notre Dame, whom he had known for more than ten years via Monsieur de Noblecourt, a great music lover. Their first encounter, when Nicolas was a young man, had been a humiliating experience for him, but that had been followed by other occasions on which a love of music and a veneration for the great Rameau had drawn them together, despite the sarcastic tone the virtuoso loved to adopt. His drawing room was full of guests going into ecstasies over a Ruckers harpsichord, the pride of the host’s collection. Every surface of the instrument, inside and out, had been painted, as meticulously as if it had been a coach, or a snuffbox belonging to a member of a royal household. The outside was decorated with the birth of Venus, and the interior of the lid depicted the story of Castor and Pollux, the subject of Rameau’s best-known opera. Earth, hell and Elysium were all shown, and in the last of these the illustrious composer sat enthroned on a bench, lyre in hand. Nicolas, who had seen Rameau in the Tuileries some time before his death, had judged the portrait a fine likeness.

Against one wall of the drawing room stood a large pedal organ, on which Balbastre performed a fugue, all the while deploring the piercing sound of the instrument and the frightful noise of its keys. He needed it for his exercises, he said, adding with a laugh that it drove his neighbours to despair. A young woman with red-tinged hair and a fine, expressive face, made all the more striking by the grey and black widow’s clothes she was wearing, cried out in enthusiasm at the organist’s virtuosity. As a regular visitor, she was invited to try the harpsichord. She performed a particularly difficult sonata with a great deal of feeling, after which the host took over and played an air by Grétry. The sound of the instrument struck Nicolas as delicate and somewhat lacking in power. He asked the young woman about this, and she explained that the touch was very light because of the use of plectra made from quills. They continued talking, and both left the house at the same time. Nicolas offered to see her home in his carriage. By the time they reached Rue de Verneuil, where she had a large house, Nicolas was already a happy man, having completed the preliminaries. The moments that followed, after she had invited him in to admire a pianoforte in her possession, sealed their alliance. The next few weeks were a whirl of embraces and kisses and languor, and, although they were followed by long periods of absence and impatience, it did not look as though anything would ever put an end to the insatiable hunger that united them.

*

What, after all, did Nicolas have to reproach her with? Her beauty was undeniable: thanks to the young Dauphine – and despite the passionate efforts of Madame du Barry, the King’s official mistress – blonde hair with a tinge of red had come back into fashion. Julie de Lastérieux’s conversation was witty and ornate, and she charmed everyone with the range of topics she could speak on and the originality of the views she expressed. At a young age, directly after leaving her convent school, she had married a navy steward many years her senior, who had been appointed as a financial official in Guadeloupe. Entry into the King’s service had ennobled Monsieur de Lastérieux, who had had the good manners to die almost as soon as he set foot in the West Indies. His widow had been left comfortably provided for, and she had returned to Paris in the company of two black servants.

Even though by nature she tended to wax enthusiastic about everything indiscriminately, when she was with Nicolas she took care to observe a certain reserve, tinged with tender admiration, which impressed him more than any assertion of will. Nevertheless, causes for irritation emerged between them. At first, while their passion was still aflame, these rifts were more than made up for by the delight of their reconciliations. As the months passed, however, these repeated skirmishes grew wearisome. The bones of contention were always the same. She would constantly proclaim that she hoped he would come and live with her. He would refuse, sensing behind this request another unformulated demand which he preferred not to acknowledge. Every time they quarrelled, she would complain about his absences, his enslavement to a profession which so often left him unavailable. He was also endlessly having to tell her not to introduce him as the Marquis de Ranreuil. What he, as an illegitimate son only belatedly recognised, could accept from the King and the members of the royal family as an honour, his pride and sense of decorum rejected from anyone else. He knew how desperate she was to appear at Court, and how much their relationship encouraged her pretensions, and this desire of hers embarrassed him, as if it were something unseemly, a lapse of taste. Last but not least, he could not conceal his annoyance and sadness at Julie’s successive attempts to distance him from his closest friends, apart from Monsieur de La Borde, First Groom of the King’s Bedchamber, to whom every virtue was attributed due to his access to the monarch and his personal prestige. A dinner at Monsieur de Noblecourt’s house had proved a disaster. Despite the effort they had made for Nicolas’s sake, neither the former procurator nor Doctor Semacgus had managed to cheer the young woman. It had taught him never to bring together those he loved, and he was tormented by the idea that his choice did not meet with their approval. As soon as this thought had insinuated itself into his mind, his devotion to her had suffered a fatal blow, and he had realised with a sense of dread that you could not continue to love someone if you were unable to excuse that person’s faults.

The silent dismay of those closest to him had saddened Nicolas, although for a long time he had refused to draw the appropriate conclusions. But eventually he had had to accept that the relationship had been a mistake, and that Madame de Lastérieux was not worthy of him. He had immediately felt it as a blow to his pride that he had yielded to a creature he could not respect – for which there was nobody to blame but himself – but then, although ashamed of loving her, had told himself that she still loved him. What had happened this evening, though, had been the last straw. Why had he agreed to that intimate dinner? Of course, he knew perfectly well why … Accepting her invitation had obliged him to reject Monsieur de Noblecourt, who had planned to share a Twelfth Night cake this evening with some friends: Nicolas, Semacgus, Inspector Bourdeau, and even, if his duties to the King allowed him, Monsieur de La Borde. It was with a heavy heart that Nicolas had had to decline.

When he had arrived at the house in Rue de Verneuil late that afternoon he had found, much to his surprise, that a merry company had already gathered. He was irritated by the ironic pout with which Madame de Lastérieux expressed her dismay at seeing him arrive so early, and by the announcement that there would be a dozen people for dinner, some of whom were already there. Abandoning him, she ran, laughing, to turn the page for a young man who was playing the pianoforte. Balbastre came and greeted him, his plump, outrageously made-up face creased with irony, his dark eyes devoid of warmth. Four strangers, all young, were playing cards at a precious Coromandel lacquer table. Apart from the organist, who was a regular visitor, Nicolas was the oldest person there. He felt a twinge of bitterness, and then immediately reproached himself. It was absurd: why should a young woman in her twenties make him feel as though he were playing the role of some greybeard in a play, some Alceste surrounded by young dandies? He leant back against a window. The angular face of the young man sitting at the pianoforte intrigued him: it seemed to conjure a vague, faded image from the distant past, like the face of a drowned man coming to the surface from the deep. Everything was conspiring to make him feel uneasy. And why hadn’t she introduced him to her guests? One more wound to his pride, to be added to the growing list of daily snubs. Casimir and Julia, her two servants from the West Indies, served syrup, chocolate and macaroons, and a delicious beverage which Nicolas had enjoyed on other, more intimate occasions: a clever mixture of sugar syrup and white rum to which Julia added a slice of bergamot peel and a few drops of a special potion – whenever asked what it contained, she would always laugh loudly and refuse to divulge the secret.

Soon after he arrived, he saw the young man take a book of drinking songs from his coat. Could it be that he was feeling jealous? Julie leant over the young man’s shoulder and threw her head back in a throaty laugh. She cast Nicolas a mocking glance and beckoned him to her. What did she want? When he reached her, she stood up.

‘Monsieur, go and prepare some eggnog for me, my mouth is so dry and I need refreshment.’

She underlined her request by striking him with her lace fan. The aggressiveness of this gesture seemed to Nicolas to open a rift between them. It had happened in the presence of a witness – that provocative-looking young man – and the tone was quite unacceptable. Not to mention the fact that she had revealed a secret of their private life: the eggnog he had prepared for her every night in the early days of their relationship. He had been patient long enough. Now he lost control, unable to conceal his anger.

‘Madame, I shall inform the servants of your wish. I bid you good evening.’

She was staring at him, the lower half of her face stretched taut in a half-smile, her eyes hard. The assembled company had fallen silent. Nicolas bowed and strode across the room so brusquely that he knocked Balbastre’s glass out of his hand and did not even apologise. He threw his cloak over his shoulders, did not wait for Casimir to open the door for him, ran down the steps four at a time, and plunged into the cold and snowy Rue de Verneuil. He had no idea where to go, and stamped frantically on the cobbles. It was at that moment that a carriage had loomed up and he had regained a sense of reality.

His first impulse was to dash to Rue Montmartre and join his friends. He soon changed his mind: it was not fitting, either for him or for them, to make them feel that he was only seeking out their company so that his evening would not be totally ruined. Such an attitude did not sit well with the esteem and respect he had for them. He looked at his repeater watch. It had been a gift from Madame Adélaïde, the King’s daughter, to thank him for retrieving her stolen jewels during an investigation. It was Monsieur Caron de Beaumarchais, watchmaker and factotum to the King’s daughters, who had delivered it to him. A lively character, to whom Nicolas had taken a liking, he had explained the workings of the watch, which rang the hours and the minutes with two different chimes, and given him a great deal of advice: always close the lid – which bore a delicate portrait of the princess – carefully rather than snapping it shut, always wind the mechanism slowly, never leave the precious object on cold marble. Surprised by this, Nicolas had asked why, and had learnt that the cold froze the oil in the mechanism and stopped the cogs from moving. He pressed on a spring, and heard six deep strokes, followed by six crystalline strokes: it was six thirty. On the corner of Rue de Beaune, he was jostled good-naturedly by a group of musketeers out for a good time, who had just left the nearby barracks.1

He reflected for a moment, unsure where to go. No, he was definitely too unhappy to show his face in Rue Montmartre. For some time now, he had been wanting to see the rising new star of the Théâtre-Français, Mademoiselle Raucourt.2 Her debut a year earlier in the role of Dido had been a sensation, and had been duly reported as such in Le Mercure and La Gazette. No other actress in living memory had made such an impression: she was not yet eighteen, and was pretty as a picture, with a voice that was said to be enchanting, an exceptional bearing and a prodigious intelligence in her approach to her roles. Nicolas would go and watch tonight’s play: it would distract him from his worries, and no doubt he would glean in passing some spicy or edifying titbit which would delight Monsieur de Sartine the next day.

The snow had turned to freezing rain by the time he passed the dark mass of the Pont Royal water pump. The lanterns along the right bank of the river and the terrace of the Tuileries glowed feebly through the damp air. Having a permanent pass, he knocked at the window of the guardroom and identified himself. The guard, grumbling at being disturbed in his enjoyment of a mulled wine which had coloured his white moustache red, opened the gate. As soon as he was in the gardens, Nicolas regretted taking this short cut. Instead of making things easier for himself, he found himself in a vast snowy expanse in which all the paths had disappeared. Now he was going to ruin his shoes – a particularly annoying thought, since they were as comfortable as felt slippers, and allowed him to stand for hours on end without feeling any tightness or fatigue. It would have been more sensible to take the longer way round through the colonnades of the Louvre. In the calm of the evening, he could have got the measure of the improvements the city authorities were making in the area, clearing the square and driving out the market stalls that had cluttered it for so many years. The plan was that when the ground had been properly levelled, it would be covered with a series of enclosed lawns which would be pleasant to the eye and permit a clear view of the Point-du-Jour.

The great dark masses of the statues helped him to get his bearings, and he waded in a more or less straight line towards the gate to the swing bridge. At the end of the path, he bumped into Nicolas Coustou’s great statue of Caesar. The octagonal basin faced him, its waters glimmering faintly in the darkness. He had to veer right to get to Passage de l’Orangerie and from there reach the Théâtre-Français. For many years, the company had performed at the Étoile tennis court in Rue des Fossés-Saint-Germain. In 1770, the building being on the verge of collapse, the theatre had moved to Servandoni’s machine room in the Tuileries, left vacant after the Opéra had been rebuilt in the Palais-Royal. Nicolas shared the opinion of the many critics who judged the layout of this temporary theatre ill suited to its purpose.

The performance was about to start. He was greeted at the box office like a regular visitor: he was often on duty there, especially when the theatre was attended by members of the royal family or foreign monarchs who wished to remain incognito. In the foyer, his attention was drawn to an animated group dominated by the tall figure of his colleague, old Chorrey, the second oldest member of the police force. He walked up to the group. A sallow-faced man in a threadbare serge jacket was being held by two French Guards while Chorrey frisked him and placed his finds on a baluster console.

‘And you claim to be innocent, eh? Your clothes are like a fence’s shop in the Temple! Look, here’s Le Floch! You’ve come just at the right moment, my friend. You’re not on duty, though, are you? Or have I got it wrong?’

‘No, my dear fellow. I’m here as a customer.’

‘Well, you’re going to get your money’s worth! This blackguard has his pockets full. Two gold watches, one bronze watch, a double Barbette louis, six English guineas. These, too …’ He held up some coins. ‘Three ducats from Berne, a silver ducat from Venice, a few old French crowns. The whole of Europe seems to be here tonight to see La Raucourt. You’re for the galleys!’

The man was shaking, as if stricken with a fever.

‘Find me the lieutenant of the guards,’ Chorrey said to one of the theatre attendants, ‘and be quick about it.’

Nicolas was surprised that an old policeman with more than forty years’ service should not make the distinction between a lieutenant of the guards, in other words, the bodyguards, and a lieutenant in the Guards, in other words, an officer of the French Guards. He immediately reproached himself for his judgement, realising that his colleague was not as familiar as he was with the Court and its subtleties. The lieutenant, an arrogant-looking fellow, arrived and listened nervously as the commissioner instructed him to take the culprit into custody and to inform the watch to come for him and take him to the Châtelet. Chorrey abruptly turned his back on the officer and drew Nicolas into the auditorium.

‘That impostor infuriates me. I suppose he’s too high-born to consider being polite. To think we have to suffer the snubs of a boudoir dandy like that!’

They took their seats in a box on the left-hand side, with a view of the whole of the auditorium, whose strange layout recalled its original purpose. Amidst a rustle of fabrics and creaking of floorboards, it was gradually filling up in the semi-darkness.

‘Look, the Prince de Conti is here again. The old rogue! He has his eyes on the new girl. He wants her for his collection!’

‘Yes, the young girls in the royal theatres are easy prey,’ said Nicolas. ‘They enjoy, as you know, a very particular privilege. They escape the authority of their parents, and the men who keep them are exempt from all prosecution.’

‘You’re telling me! I’ve lost count of those I have seen start like that and finish up amongst the criminal classes. For the moment, her air of decency and reputation for chastity have made her sought after by the greatest ladies, who smother her in jewels and clothes, overjoyed no doubt that this rare creature is no rival. Besides, her old father is still about, keeping his eye open for trouble. Will it last? Let’s wait for the last act. In any case, she’s a true prodigy, enough to make the most consummate of her rivals die of vexation.’

‘You’ve certainly been around a long time,’ said Nicolas. ‘More than forty years, I believe?’

‘Forty-three, to be exact. Time enough to get a little weary.’

‘But what adventures! We’re never bored in our profession.’

‘Well, that depends,’ said Chorrey, scratching his head under his wig. ‘I’ve always preferred criminal work, much more diverting than civil cases. At the beginning of my career, I was constantly being sent to do house searches, day and night. After that, I seemed to spend all my time keeping an eye on usurers, swindlers and pawnbrokers, before they started the Mont-de-Piété. Some pretty terrible characters there, I can tell you!’

‘But that’s all routine!’ said Nicolas. ‘You must surely have seen some more extraordinary events?’

‘Yes, of course. In 1757, the then Lieutenant General of Police, the worthy predecessor of Monsieur de Sartine—’

‘Who holds you in great esteem.’

Chorrey blushed at the compliment. ‘I’m pleased to hear it. As I was saying, in 1757 I knocked myself out going all over the Arras and Saint-Omer regions and the whole province of Artois, searching out and questioning the relatives of Damiens, the King’s would-be assassin. In 1760, I constantly had to deal with thefts from theatres. That led me to a storehouse full of stolen goods in Briare: a mountain of purses, watches, snuffboxes and all kinds of coins. Finally, last year, I went with a company of grenadiers from Enghien, garrisoned at Sedan, to visit the printing works and bookshops in Bouillon and look for banned books.’

‘Such is the cross we bear!’ said Nicolas with a sigh. ‘Constantly searching for a needle in a haystack!’

*

The footlights had just been lit, and the three knocks interrupted their conversation. The evening’s play was Athalie by Racine. Knowing the work all too well, Nicolas soon found his attention wandering, the details of the actors’ performances proving more arresting than the plot. The newcomer certainly had an attractive countenance, although it was her partner, Lekain, playing the role of Abner to perfection, who impressed him more with his supreme skill: through some miracle of artifice, his prodigious ugliness disappeared and his stern, forbidding expression grew softer. Part of the audience, however, seemed to resent Mademoiselle Raucourt for taking a role in which Mademoiselle Dumesnil and La Clairon had won fame. For weeks now, Monsieur de Sartine’s spies had been reporting that a cabal had been organised by Mademoiselle Vestris. A member of the famous dynasty of dancers as well as of the Théâtre-Français, Mademoiselle Vestris was protected by the Duc de Choiseul, still in exile in Chanteloup since his disgrace, and by the Duc de Duras. These highly placed contacts were the basis of her self-importance and capacity to create trouble.

Suddenly, a cat was heard miaowing. Whether the cat belonged to the establishment or had been surreptitiously brought in, the effect of the animal’s cry was extraordinary: the actors stopped in astonishment, and the youngest members of the choir were swept up in a fit of laughter that spread to the audience. The laughter reached its height when a young man in the stalls cried out in a bright, nasal voice, ‘I wager that’s Mademoiselle Vestris’s cat.’

Hilarity swelled in the auditorium like a wave. Lekain imposed silence and was about to resume the performance when something else interrupted his flow. A man stood up in the stalls and leapt over the footlights on to the stage. There, shoving the actors who tried to drag him away, he declared that his name was Billard and that he had come to Paris to present a play of his own composition entitled The Seducer. This work, he said, had been praised by a number of men of taste but rejected by the ham actors in this theatre. The audience, amused by this second interlude, were listening so attentively that he was encouraged to continue.

He was so tired of being repeatedly rejected, he said, that he had decided to declare open war on the present company. He would denounce its bad taste, condemn its members to a thousand misfortunes, and pride himself on no longer having to depend on such judges. He appealed to the spectators in the stalls: he would read his play to them and, if they judged it worthy, that would force this unworthy assembly to accept it. When they tried to prevent him, he brandished his sword, which was soon torn from him by a French Guard. A confused mass of soldiers and theatre employees dragged him by force into the foyer.

The performance resumed immediately, in order to put an end to the commotion as quickly as possible, but a unanimous cry rose from the stalls, acclaiming the author. The clamour grew and the French Guards came back in force, arresting several spectators. There was an indescribable hullaballoo as members of the audience stood firm, and blows were exchanged.

Nicolas hurried out after Commissioner Chorrey, who had turned crimson and was puffing and blowing. They came out into the foyer to find the author standing on a chair, reading his play to the guards, who were highly amused. When the watch arrived, Chorrey ordered the officer to conduct the culprit to the mad-house at Charenton, pending further information. This sequence of events had been a great distraction to Nicolas’s wounded soul, chasing away the anger and resentment. There was no point in his staying any longer, he thought. He had seen and heard enough of Mademoiselle Raucourt. Certain rather unnatural vocal effects of hers seemed to him to spoil the charms of her appearance and the elegance of her acting. In fact, at moments, it became so rough, hoarse and excessive as to destroy the music of the verse. He took his leave of Chorrey, who made him promise to come to dinner as soon as possible at his little house in Rue Maquignonne, near the police pavilion at the horse market. Nicolas recalled having been present, a dozen years earlier, while still an apprentice in the profession, at the inauguration, by Monsieur de Sartine, of this elegant building. He recalled, too, that Chorrey had a solid fortune, which he had inherited from his father, a horse dealer.

The cold and damp of the night revived his anguish. Once again, as had so often happened in his youth, Nicolas found himself incapable of keeping his imagination in check. Left to itself, it would run wild, stubbornly heading down any path that presented itself, and he would be unable to rest until he had explored them all. It was a kind of mental itch, which he tried to dismiss, but in vain. The slightest upset or vexation, and it returned as strong as ever. If only he could take the middle way, see things in all their simplicity, and accept every fleeting moment of happiness for what it was! Monsieur de Noblecourt, being the honest man that he was, had promised him the cure: wisdom would come with age and the waning of the passions.

Nicolas forced himself to reflect coolly on the current situation. How absurd to make a drama out of a woman’s caprice! A woman on her own, separated from her lover most of the time because of his work, as coquettish as the rest of her sex, susceptible to the attentions of idle young men, and perhaps driven to make him jealous as the only means of gauging the strength of his feelings for her. And he had flown into a rage at the smallest provocation as if he were her lord and master, and had over-dramatised what should only have been a little quarrel intended to reinvigorate their love for each other. He decided to give Julie a surprise and return unexpectedly. No sooner had this idea come into his head than the desire to see her again took him over completely. He hailed a cab in Rue Saint-Honoré, and was driven across a frozen, deserted Paris as far as Rue de Verneuil. He added such a generous tip to the fare that the astonished coachman called him ‘Monseigneur’.

He looked up. The lights were still on in the windows of Madame de Lastérieux’s house, and he could see shadows dancing. His ardour cooled: he had imagined that the house would be empty and dark and his lover tired and ready for bed. But perhaps there was still hope. When he got to the first floor, however, and opened the door with his key, he heard loud laughter and the clinking of glasses. Disappointment overwhelmed him like nausea. How wrong he had been to think that the party had been cut short simply because he had left in a hurry!

Casimir appeared, carrying a tray. Nicolas retreated into a dark corner. When Casimir came back out of the servants’ pantry, his arms were laden with bottles. With an unaccustomed, but welcome, sense of pettiness, Nicolas remembered the bottle of old Tokay from Hungary he had acquired at no small cost from the Austrian ambassador’s butler: the fellow supplemented his wages by selling wine from his country that had been brought in in his master’s baggage, as well as supplying Monsieur de Sartine with interesting information. Julie loved that wine as an accompaniment to truffles, quail and pâté de foie gras in the manner of the Maréchal de Soubise. Nicolas decided to recover the bottle, which he had placed in the servants’ pantry that afternoon. Fortunately, it was still there: doubtless, the veil of dust and spiders’ webs that covered it and the dirty dishes piled around it had prevented it from being used during that evening’s banquet. He slipped it into the inside pocket of his cloak: he had made up his mind to go to Rue Montmartre after all, and there was no point in arriving there empty-handed. He turned, and there, leaning on the doorpost, his right hand on his hip, looking at him mockingly, was the young man who had been playing the pianoforte. Where the devil had he seen that face before? Nicolas walked out past him, shoving him slightly as he did so. Casimir watched in surprise as he raced down the stairs like a madman.

He wandered for a long time along the quais, in the darkness and the mud, accosted at times by whores with toothless mouths uttering obscenities and disgusting propositions. In one of them, excessively made up and with her nose missing, he thought he recognised old Émilie, a ghost from his past, who cut meat from the carcasses of horses in the knacker’s yard at Montfaucon to use in the soup she sold. The memory of the old woman cast him into a whirlpool of images and faces, amongst which the face of the young man in Rue de Verneuil kept coming back like an obsession. He stopped to drink some vile rotgut in a smoky tavern, and after many detours found himself in Rue Montmartre, outside Monsieur de Noblecourt’s house.

The servants’ pantry was so untidy, it was clear the party was a lively one. He shook his head bitterly. This, then, was what his evening boiled down to: rebuffs, escapes, visits to kitchens. A tremendous din of words and laughter was coming from the first floor, dominated by the bass voice of Guillaume Semacgus. Reaching the half-open door of the library, where the table usually stood, he stopped and rested his burning forehead against the wood, the smell of polish filling his nostrils, and listened to what his friends were saying.

‘Faced with such a wonder,’ Semacgus was proclaiming, ‘it is necessary to proceed with the most consummate care. Making a long incision would let in too much air from outside and the contact with the air escaping might well upset a fragile equilibrium and cause the whole thing to collapse. I’m reminded of an operation I once performed in the middle of a storm off Ile Bourbon. It was a trepanation, and the meningeal part—’

‘Pah!’ said Monsieur de Noblecourt. ‘There speaks the navy surgeon! Whatever is he about to tell us? I fear it may detract from our pleasure. What do you think, La Borde?’

‘The King,’ replied La Borde, ‘excels at this kind of operation. He’s both decisive and gentle. It’s just like softening up a courtesan.’

‘Hush now, you rogue!’ said the former procurator, spluttering with merriment. ‘There are ladies present. At my age, I’m not as firm as I used to be and my hand trembles.’

‘Upon my word as a navy surgeon, there’s a statement intended to be moral, but which makes the image all the saucier!’

‘Nicolas would have opened it for you in no time at all,’ said Bourdeau. ‘You just have to make up your mind. To delay too long would spoil its excellence and soften the inner layers.’

‘Ah, yes, we do miss our Nicolas,’ sighed Monsieur de Noblecourt. ‘But he’s in love and, being so delicate in his feelings, too much is not yet enough for him.’

‘Our friend,’ grunted Semacgus, ‘was a livelier companion when he was seeing the young lady in Rue Saint-Honoré.’

A silence followed this allusion to La Satin, the love of Nicolas’s youth, who was now in charge of the Dauphin Couronné. The ties of tenderness that had bound them had never entirely loosened. Nicolas was surprised that they were so familiar with his private life, and comforted to sense no sharpness in their words, but on the contrary a thoughtful and indulgent demonstration of their affection for him.

‘Come on, now,’ said La Borde. ‘While waiting for the return of the prodigal son who doesn’t know what he’s missing, let the magistracy do its work. Ladies, proceed!’

Intrigued by the noises he heard, Nicolas peered through the crack in the door. The scene which presented itself to his gaze reminded him of those so much admired by art lovers at the annual Salons: a vision of an enclosed interior, whose harmony seemed to enhance an enjoyment of the pleasures of nature and society. This charming moment of intimacy was softly illumined by the light from slender candles. In this fine room, three walls of which were covered in light wooden bookcases filled with precious volumes, the four guests sat at an oval table adorned with a silver centrepiece depicting the Abduction of Omphale. Poitevin always polished this object with maniacal care and grumbled whenever a public holiday or special occasion provided an excuse to display it on the table, like the monstrance in a dazzling culinary liturgy. Two candlesticks, also silver, flanked this showpiece. La Borde, Semacgus and Bourdeau were watching as Monsieur de Noblecourt, wearing a large Regency wig and a black coat with jet buttons, prepared to initiate a curious ceremony.

Poitevin stood motionless by the sideboard, holding in his hands a bottle just taken from a cooling pitcher, his eyes fixed on the monumental tower of golden pastry that had been placed before his master. Sitting on a bergère by the window, her chin resting on the pommel of her stick, Marion watched spellbound. Finally, like two Levites assisting the high priest, Awa, Semacgus’s African maid, and Catherine Gauss stood holding between them a thin cloth which they gradually lowered over Monsieur de Noblecourt’s head as he bent to find the best spot at which to cut into the golden splendour. The point of the sharp knife entered the crust, and the religious silence was broken by a kind of hiss, followed by a deep intake of breath from the magistrate and an almost voluptuous moan of pleasure. A cheer went up from the assembled company. Marion, doubtless the inspiration if not the architect of this success, sighed with satisfaction. Poitevin brought the bottle and began serving. The two cooks carefully folded the cloth and the guests applauded the perfection of the ceremonial gesture. With a nimbleness of which he would not have been thought capable, the high priest cut a small hole in the pastry and was making ready to plunge the fork into the well of wonders when Semacgus, who was watching, stopped him.

‘What were you planning to do? You wouldn’t by any chance be thinking of digging into the soft crust to extract the splendours it contains, would you, Monsieur? What about your gout? Do you intend, in the teeth of the Faculty, to extinguish the fire of a good humour that delights your friends, all for the vain pleasure of a greed which will cause your hands, knees and feet to suffer for days? Do you set at nought the pain and sorrow of Marion, author of this bastion of succulence on which you are about to launch an attack as if you were a young blade? It can only lead to a resurgence of your rheumatism, followed by an attack of melancholy for which, Monsieur, I shall hold you entirely responsible. Was it not agreed that we would grant you the unique privilege of breathing in the first odours coming from this dish, a privilege that leaves us weak with envy, having ourselves to be content only with the heaviness of the quintessential products?’

‘I would happily burden myself with that quintessence!’ With a contrite expression, Monsieur de Noblecourt teased the hidden treasures of the culinary fortress with the end of his fork. ‘This is really cruel,’ he muttered, ‘and reminds me of the old Parisian story about a seller of roast meats who, when he demands payment from a customer, is paid with the mere clinking of coins. Well, I just have to resign myself to this sacrifice, I suppose, but I do ask one favour: let me taste a tiny bit of this treasure. A little piece of truffle, for example. It’s only a mushroom after all.’

‘No, no!’ replied Semacgus. ‘Even a little piece of truffle can cause constipation! I suggest a piece of pastry, although even that’s too much.’

‘A curse on old age! It deprives us of everything. Even when the spirit is willing, the body is weak. Does that mean we have to renounce these delights, compared with which our neighbours’ recipes are mere cheap nothings more easily tolerated amongst the Mangageats3 than in a refined climate like ours where cleanliness, delicacy and good taste are, alas, the true object of our zeal?’

‘Philosophise as much as you like, Monsieur, you won’t win us round,’ murmured Semacgus.

Monsieur de Noblecourt slowly savoured the spoils of war, as Catherine cut the smoking fortress into four.

‘Why four pieces?’ he asked in surprise. ‘Have you forgotten that I’m condemned not to have any of it?’

‘What?’ Marion said, equally surprised. ‘Have you forgotten the poor man’s portion? A fine Christian you are! Church warden of Saint-Eustache, to boot! And besides, what if I wanted to keep part of it for Nicolas? I’ll cover the plate and put it on a corner of the oven. That’ll keep it warm but won’t make it too dry. He needs something to sustain him with all the running about he does!’

‘It’s too much for an ingrate who so often deserts our banquets,’ protested Semacgus.

Monsieur de Noblecourt threw him a stern look. ‘Weren’t you young once? And have we done all we could to try and understand him and support him in a difficult situation?’

To divert them, Marion spoke up, her face flushing. ‘If Monsieur so desires, I’ll tell you my recipe.’

‘Go on. The telling is often as succulent as the eating.’

The old cook threw a sideways glance at Monsieur La Borde. ‘First, I must tell you that I got the recipe from Monsieur there.’

The cries of the guest covered her voice. La Borde, feigning embarrassment, hid his face in his napkin. He assumed a pitiful tone. ‘Merely an attempt to relieve the austerity of my host’s life. And besides, this recipe is not even mine. Its author is His Royal Highness Louis-Auguste de Bourbon, Prince de Dombes, governor of Languedoc.’

‘Good Lord!’ said Bourdeau sardonically. ‘A grandson of the great Bourbon, no less!’

‘This promises a fine diversion!’ said Monsieur de Noblecourt. ‘After the aroma, the recitation of my cook’s fine deeds, then my guests feasting, and all I get is a wretched piece of pastry!’

Marion smiled, allowed them their joke, then took advantage of a short silence to resume speaking, anxious to play a role in this celebration.

‘I make some very thin shortcrust pastry,’ she began, ‘and while I’m letting it cool, I prepare the stuffing: foie gras with a lot of grated bacon, parsley, chives, mushrooms and chopped truffles. It’s better to do this early, that way it’ll taste better. I open a few dozen green oysters from Cancale, as many as I need, whiten them in their own water and drain them in a sieve to keep the liquid. Then I put the stuffing in the bottom of the mould, with a layer of oysters over it, and so on. I cover the whole thing with a sheet of pastry brushed with egg to make it turn golden. When the oven’s quite hot, I put it in and let it bake as long as necessary. Meanwhile …’ – and here she pointed to a silver sauce dish – ‘I make a sauce with the water from the oysters, to which I add two pieces of bread with melted butter from Vanvres and finely chopped herbs. Then I season it with lemon juice. It’s a matter of taste, but I find it makes the stuffing nice and moist and gives the oysters their natural flavour back.’

‘And what’s the name of this marvel?’ asked Noblecourt, his eyes bulging with desire. ‘I didn’t know Marion could describe her culinary dexterity in such a poetic fashion.’

‘Ungrateful wretch!’ said Semacgus. ‘She’s been serving him for forty years and he’s only just discovered how good she is!’

‘Forty-three, to be precise,’ said Marion modestly. ‘But, to answer Monsieur, the name is tour farcie aux huîtres vertes. I should add that the secret lies in the shortcrust pastry, which is kneaded for such a long time that it appears quite light and flaky but is actually firm enough to hold the stuffing.’

‘It’s true,’ said La Borde with a smile, ‘that to hear it talked about is to eat it twice.’

‘I wonder,’ said Semacgus, ‘if just hearing this recitation won’t reawaken our host’s gout? That would be the revenge of Comus!’

They all burst out laughing. Nicolas listened to them, feeling sad and happy at the same time. It was strange to be witnessing this feast without his friends being aware of his presence. He could not bring himself to open the door and cross the threshold into the light. The fever was building in him, making him shiver, clutching at his temples. He was assailed by contra dictory feelings: the sadness which went through him in waves, a kind of nostalgia for a past which would never come again, and the temptation to sleep and forget. He tried to get a grip on himself by concentrating hard on the conversation, which was as lively as ever.

‘For a long time,’ said La Borde, ‘His Majesty cooked dinner for his guests and served it himself in his small apartments. If Nicolas were here, he’d be able to confirm it. The King once served him a whole plate of chicken wings, delighted to see that young Ranreuil, as he’s in the habit of calling him, shared his predilection for this delicious dish.’

‘How is the King?’ asked Noblecourt gravely.

‘Both well and ill. He acts like a young man, but feels the fatigues of old age creeping up on him.’

‘Come on, I’m ten years older than he is and I feel like—’

‘Like a man whose friends protect him from the temptations and foolishness which would kill many stronger men,’ said Semacgus.

‘You’re a fine one to talk!’

‘Even I, Monsieur, have been forcing myself to be more careful. I hope to be able to enjoy life as long as you have.’

‘There you have it,’ said La Borde. ‘The King is not reasonable, and the lady takes advantage of the fact, constantly arousing his remaining passions. She’s not La Pompadour and has no political ambitions, but she places her influence at the service of those who do have them.’

This was a clear allusion to the First Minister, the Duc d’Aiguillon, and was greeted with applause. La Borde sighed.

Nicolas recalled that his friend had quarrelled recently with La Guimard, the mistress he shared with the Prince de Soubise. The prince had demanded an end to a situation which had previously suited everyone, on the pretext that Monsieur de La Borde had given the actress a venereal disease, and she had given it to the prince, who had transmitted it to the Comtesse de l’Hospital and she to someone else, the chain of cause and effect swallowed up in the complex web of Court and city liaisons. La Borde had confided to Nicolas that he had been treated, on the advice of the Maréchal de Biron, a colonel in the French Guards, with anti-venereal pills supplied by a quack named Keyser, a remedy which the old soldier had tried out on those of his men who had been corrupted by the city.

‘Is it true,’ asked Noblecourt, ‘that Madame du Barry paid twenty thousand livres for a full-length Van Dyck portrait of Charles I of England, and placed it opposite the King’s portrait to remind him of the fate in store for him if he yields to the parlements?’

‘I don’t know if that’s the correct explanation. But the portrait is certainly there, and I have often admired it. The idea may have been d’Aiguillon’s, hoping to appeal to my master’s morbid tastes. Whatever the truth of the matter, the sight of the painting always makes me uneasy. The fact is, the King is weary. He needs a stepping stone to get on his horse these days. He’s thinking of using that private carriage invented by the Comte d’Eu when he found himself physically unable to hunt: it turns on a pivot and allows the user to follow all the movements of the prey. And he’s always filled with grim thoughts.’

‘My friend the Maréchal de Richelieu,’ said Noblecourt, tipping his wig slightly in honour of this great name, ‘told me that last November, during a game of whist at the Comtesse du Barry’s, the Marquis de Chauvelin, feeling unwell, leant back against the Maréchale de Mirepoix’s armchair and made a joke. Suddenly, His Majesty noticed that his face was all twisted. At that very moment, he fell to the floor, dead.’

‘That’s right,’ said La Borde. ‘They tried to help him, but in vain. His Majesty was quite affected by it all, especially as his old friend was only fifty-seven. Soon after that, alarmed by some slight health problem, the King spoke frankly to his First Surgeon, in whom he has great confidence. He told him how worried he was about the sorry state of his health. “I see that I am no longer so young,” he said, “I have to slow down.” “Sire,” La Martinière replied, “you would do even better to stop.”’

A long silence fell, as if each man were weighing the gravity and implications of these words. Nicolas felt as if his whole body were sweating. That was what happened, he thought, when you rushed around madly in the cold and dark. Suddenly, he slid to the floor, and the venerable bottle of Tokay fell from his hand and smashed to pieces. Cyrus, the old water spaniel dozing at his master’s feet, rose at this noise and started howling loudly. Everyone ran out, except Monsieur de Noblecourt who tried to rise from his armchair, his face pale, his body trembling, his eyes filled with panic.