Читать книгу The Nicolas Le Floch Affair: Nicolas Le Floch Investigation #4 - Jean-Francois Parot - Страница 16

Through the misty clouds that enveloped everything, Nicolas vaguely distinguished the faces of three greybeards shaking their heads and looking at a fourth who was muttering indistinctly, his head covered with a towel. A little old lady, her features obscured by thick black lace, was cutting a Twelfth Night cake with what looked like a billhook. When they were served, the four guests got down to eating their portions of the feast, which seemed to be difficult to chew. This activity was punctuated with brief, inarticulate words. Suddenly, the man whose head was concealed let out a brief cry, plunged his hand beneath the towel, and took out a black charm. Nicolas was wondering about the meaning of this scene when the old man with the hidden face struggled to his feet, seized a crown in his gloved hand, and raised it to his cranium. At the same time, the towel fell, revealing, to Nicolas’s horror, a death’s head, now crowned, laughing and staring at him with its empty eye sockets. The old woman removed her lace and he saw, with an increased feeling of dread, that her emaciated body bore, as if detached from it, the exquisite powdered head of Madame du Barry. He cried out and closed his eyes to dismiss the image …

‘Hold him still, Bourdeau, he’s moving about so much he’s going to fall.’

‘He’s having a nightmare.’

Semacgus took Nicolas’s pulse and placed his hand on his forehead. ‘Seems like it. The fever’s fallen and the pulse is back to normal. Awa’s herbs are invaluable when dealing with these violent attacks. I congratulate myself every day that I stocked up well before I left Saint-Louis.’

‘All the same, he’s been sleeping for twelve hours,’ Bourdeau said, glancing at a large brass watch. ‘It’s nearly one in the afternoon. Do you think he’s strong enough to bear the news?’

‘Without any doubt. Given the situation, we can’t just let him lie here. You said yourself we ought to wake him.’

‘What else can we do, Semacgus? Monsieur de Sartine has asked to see him as soon as possible at police headquarters. All the same, I wonder if we ought to leave it to Sartine to tell him the truth.’

‘That’s a worse risk than the one we want to avoid, blunt as we are. I’m of a mind to ask Monsieur de Noblecourt to talk to him with his usual calm and wisdom.’

‘At your service,’ said the former procurator. He was standing behind them, out of breath from climbing the small private staircase leading to Nicolas’s lodgings. ‘Leave me with him, but first do me a favour and move this armchair closer to the bed.’

‘He’s opening his eyes,’ said Bourdeau. ‘We’ll leave you to it.’

*

Nicolas regained consciousness, and the sight of the familiar setting brought him back to reality. Monsieur de Noblecourt’s grave countenance told him that something was wrong. He remembered the expression on Canon Le Floch’s face when he had announced to him, many years earlier, his final departure from Guérande, and saw the same worried expression, the same affectionate thoughtfulness on the familiar features bending over him.

‘Hello, Nicolas.’

‘Have I been sleeping long?’

‘Longer than you may think. It’s Friday now, and nearly two o’clock in the afternoon. You lost consciousness last night at the door of my library. My friends found you bathing in Tokay. I can think of better uses for a wine like that.’

‘It was meant as a gift for you, to beg forgiveness for deserting the party. I know how ungrateful you must have thought me.’

‘No such feeling could ever exist between us. You are at home here. The wind of Rue Montmartre liberates. I remember saying to you, when you first came to this house, that it was an annexe of the abbey of Thélème, where freedom and independence were revered.’

He underlined these words with a nod of the head. He gave a slight smile, and his large red nose wrinkled in satisfaction.

‘What happened to you?’ he went on. ‘Your coat stank of cheap brandy, and was as dirty and as muddy as a stray puppy on Quai Pelletier. You must have been moving about a lot, to get yourself in a state so contrary to your habits and the dignity of your office.’

‘Alas, you are only too right,’ said Nicolas, feeling like a pupil before his master, ‘and I shan’t weary you with an account of my evening.’

Monsieur de Noblecourt was looking at him with eyes as sharp as they had been in the old days, when he was involved in a criminal investigation.

‘To cut a long story short,’ said Nicolas in a faint voice, ‘I went to Madame de Lastérieux’s house in Rue de Verneuil, where I was supposed to be having dinner. She showed me a lack of consideration, and I left. I went to the Théâtre-Français, where I watched the first act of Athalie. Having calmed down, I decided to go back to Julie’s, but the party was in full swing and I realised I had made a mistake. Feeling angry and offended, I wandered around Paris a little before returning here, like the prodigal son.’

‘For a man of your maturity and experience, you behaved like a child. Did you see anyone you knew at the theatre?’

‘Yes, my colleague Commissioner Chorrey was on duty.’

Nicolas had replied without thinking, but it suddenly occurred to him that Monsieur de Noblecourt was asking him to account for his movements, as if questioning a suspect. ‘May I enquire, Monsieur, why you asked me that question?’

The procurator stroked his mottled jowls with a hand as white as a priest’s. ‘I see you’re getting your senses back, Nicolas. I’m afraid I have some bad news to tell you. I will understand if it distresses you, but I ask you to stay calm. You may have the most pressing need to keep your composure in the hours to come.’

‘What is the meaning of these words, Monsieur?’

‘Their meaning, my boy, is that this morning, at the stroke of ten, an envoy from Monsieur de Sartine came to fetch you. The Lieutenant General of Police wants to see you immediately. Bourdeau was here – he’d come to find out how you were – and he managed to worm it out of him. Be brave! This morning, at first light, Madame de Lastérieux’s servants found her dead. According to an initial examination by a local doctor, it seems she may have been poisoned.’

Long afterwards, Nicolas would remember that his first reaction, fleeting as it was – well before the grief went through him like a knife, a grief made all the more intense by the images of their passion that flashed through his mind – had been one of relief, almost of liberation. For a moment he was speechless, and so pale and haggard that Noblecourt grew worried at his silence.

‘Poisoned!’ Nicolas said. ‘Was it some rotting food? Mushrooms?’

‘Alas, no. From what we know, there is every sign that she was poisoned by malicious intent.’

‘Isn’t it possible that she killed herself?’

‘If you have any evidence suggesting she was in such despair that she may have wanted to take her own life, you must reveal it as soon as possible to those whose task it will be to hear your testimony.’

Nicolas shook his head and said in a barely audible voice, ‘The last time – oh, my God! – the last time I heard her voice – I didn’t even see her, just heard her voice – she was laughing uproariously and there was nothing to indicate that she wanted to die.’

‘You will have to say all that. Everything will require an explanation. Take this calmly, and confront one at a time the unpleasant ordeals which, I fear, await you … Now go and talk to Monsieur de Sartine, and give him my regards.’

Monsieur de Noblecourt adjusted the velvet skullcap covering his balding cranium, an occupation which seemed intended to conceal a growing embarrassment. Nicolas felt sick at heart: it was as if, behind his friend’s outward affirmations, an unformulated question were being asked. No, he had nothing to reproach himself with. He realised at that moment that he had entered unknown and dangerous territory, full of obstacles and concealed traps. The slightest word, the most innocuous remark, a look, an expression of simple concern from a friend could cause him terrible pain, and he would not know if it was merely the result of his own imagination.

The former procurator, angry with himself, tried to make amends. ‘Don’t misunderstand me. You have to see things as they are. Put yourself in the position of an outside spectator, a commissioner at the Châtelet embarking upon an investigation. You will be expected to give a precise account of an evening which you yourself say was full of incident. Make a commitment to explain everything in detail. Monsieur de Sartine knows you too well to have any doubts about your loyalty or your innocence in this tragedy about which we know nothing as yet. And when I say Monsieur de Sartine, I also mean your friends. Don’t think we are indifferent to your grief; it touches us more than you can imagine and from now on our only concern is to assure you of our support, have no fear of that …’

Monsieur de Noblecourt’s voice was at once so tremulous and yet so full of warmth that it chased away any doubts Nicolas might have been harbouring about his mentor’s feelings, even though he still shuddered at the mere mention of the word ‘innocence’. But it made him all the more aware of the risks he would have to face from interrogators, adversaries, accusers, witnesses and judges less well disposed towards him. The horrifying thought struck him that not only had he lost someone dear to him, but that until this affair was resolved he would also have to endure being placed in the position of those who, in the course of his twelve years in the police force, had borne the brunt of his unrelenting determination as an investigator.

The door of the bedroom opened and Bourdeau reappeared, with a worried look on his face.

‘A cab sent by Monsieur de Sartine has just arrived. You know how he is, he must be getting impatient. I’ll let you get ready and then go with you.’

Nicolas smiled weakly. ‘Afraid I’ll try to escape?’ There was such a look of pain on the inspector’s face that he got up and threw his arms around him. ‘Forgive me, Pierre, I shouldn’t have said that, but I’m at the end of my tether.’

‘Come, my children,’ said Noblecourt, ‘let’s not get carried away. Nicolas needs to get ready. Promise to come and see me as soon as you get back and tell me everything.’

He withdrew, leaning on Bourdeau’s arm. Nicolas made an effort to take his time, anxious to appear in the best light to a chief whose sarcastic eye was in the habit of deducing the state of a man’s morals from the propriety of his costume. Any sign of neglect filled him with gloom and made him suspect the most extreme immorality. He took care not to cut himself while shaving, put on a black coat, recently made for him by his tailor, tied an immaculate lace cravat around his neck, combed his hair for a long time – there were a few white hairs starting to come through – and tied his ponytail with a dark velvet ribbon. He only ever wore a wig at Court or on solemn occasions when he was dressed in his magistrate’s robe. He took a last look in the mirror, and realised that he looked younger now that his fever had passed: it almost made him forget the seriousness of the situation. Then he descended the small staircase, and the sight of Bourdeau and Semacgus waiting for him at the entrance brought him back to reality.

Semacgus walked up to him. ‘Remember, Nicolas, that you can ask me for anything,’ he said. ‘I haven’t forgotten that you once proved my innocence and gave me back my freedom.’

Nicolas shook his hand firmly and followed the inspector into the cab. He lapsed into morose brooding. Suddenly, he recalled the graceful figure of Julie, and the image took his breath away and made him feel dizzy. He withdrew into himself, shaking with sobs. Incapable of controlling his imagination, he could not prevent the terrible images that flooded into his mind: a body thrown on a slab in the Basse-Geôle and subjected to the indignities inflicted by those given the task of performing the autopsy, a body whose softness he could still feel … Bourdeau coughed in embarrassment. The city Nicolas loved so much sped past, its houses and its crowds like a stage set painted in faded colours, without life or gaiety. They did not exchange a single word. The carriage soon reached the Hôtel de Gramont1 in Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin. Entering the building, they saw the familiar faces of their police colleagues, and the footmen bowed before them with their usual deference. The elderly manservant smiled when he saw Nicolas.

‘Don’t be surprised if things are a bit different. Monsieur de Sartine only got back from Versailles at midday.’

As Bourdeau was about to sit down on a bench to wait, the servant indicated to him that his presence was also required.

They entered the Lieutenant General’s vast office to be greeted by an unusual sight. A silent assembly of wigs stood on the table in serried rows, like soldiers on parade. Monsieur de Sartine, having spent the night at Versailles, had missed his morning appointment with his precious collection. And, as he could not bear the slightest interruption to his innocent obsession, it was only now that his usual inspection was taking place. That was what the porter had been trying to say. Nicolas, who on any other occasion might have been amused at the spectacle, was wondering anxiously where his chief was, when suddenly one of the wigs moved and Monsieur de Sartine’s sharp face emerged from amongst his inanimate creatures.

Nicolas had grown accustomed over the years to the whole gamut of his chief’s facial expressions, which varied widely according to circumstances; and had today been expecting the irritated, impatient countenance the Lieutenant General wore whenever he was about to show his displeasure with a subordinate. Instead, he was surprised to see Monsieur de Sartine looking at him in a relaxed, affectionate, almost paternal manner.

‘Nicolas’ – the use of the Christian name was also a good omen – ‘where did your late father and my greatly missed friend the Marquis de Ranreuil buy his wigs? I seem to recall they were ideally firm yet supple.’

‘I think, Monsieur, that he found them in Nantes, in a little shop near the dukes’ palace.’

‘Hmm! I’ll have to find out more about it. But for the moment, we have an unfortunate matter to deal with. Very unfortunate, in truth, for it concerns you personally, and, as everyone knows the esteem in which I hold you and the confidence I have in you, some people would be only too pleased to gossip about an incident which might implicate the éminence grise of the Lieutenant General of Police.’

This was said in the pompous tone Sartine used whenever he invoked the dignity of his office. With his hands, he stroked two tiered wigs placed symmetrically like yew trees in a French garden.

‘We need to consider, however,’ he went on ‘that for the moment there is no case. A young woman has succumbed to something that a neighbourhood quack says resembles poisoning. Primo, are we certain of the cause of death? Secundo, if the cause is proven, do we suspect suicide, murder or, quite simply, a domestic accident, which is always possible? When all these reasons have been duly examined, we will still have, tertio, to question witnesses. Eh?’

This interjection, Nicolas knew, did not call for any reply: it was merely there as punctuation, a pause for breath after which the argument would resume its course.

‘According to the information I have received, the body is still in the state in which it was found and has not been taken away. Only the local commissioner knows of the death. Nothing has leaked out, and the two servants are in solitary confinement. Seals have been placed on the bedroom, the servants’ pantry and the drawing room. We must lose no more time. Bourdeau, see to it that the body is taken discreetly to the Basse-Geôle, that it is abundantly salted, even though we are in winter, and that Sanson is summoned as soon as possible. As you know, the duty doctors at the Châtelet are quite incapable, and have given proof of their incompetence on more than one occasion. Ask Semacgus, who has proved himself in previous investigations, to help Sanson in this task.’ He laughed. ‘Those two are used to each other by now! Don’t forget to confiscate anything which might throw light on this matter: glasses, crockery. Look in the servants’ pantry for the leftovers from last night’s dinner – apparently it was given in Nicolas’s honour.’

He gave Nicolas a long hard look.

‘Now, as for this gentleman …’

He pensively twisted a curl on his wig.

‘Commissioner, if you have a statement to make, I am listening. Something you may have on your mind and which you would like to do me the honour of confiding to me. Take your time; what you say to me will determine the course we take, for I shall not depart from whatever line I adopt. In fact, if anyone has my trust, it’s you, and, in my position, there are not many who enjoy it. Eh? What do you say?’

For Nicolas, the open-mindedness of this conclusion tempered the inquisitorial tone of the rest of the speech, a tone which could have been applied to any suspect.

‘Your words do me great honour, Monsieur, and I can only answer as honestly as possible. Yesterday evening, I spent no more than fifteen minutes in Julie de Lastérieux’s house until an unjust remark caused me to leave. Having calmed down, I returned two hours later. I did not see her again, as the party was at its height. I judged that my presence would cast a pall over the guests’ merriment, and so refrained from showing myself. So …’ – he paused for a moment – ‘I wandered a little and then went back to Rue Montmartre.’

‘Nothing else I might learn from any malicious third parties?’

‘Nothing else, Monsieur. I met Commissioner Chorrey on duty at the Théâtre-Français and spent a little time with him.’

Sartine made an impatient gesture. ‘As I’m sure you can imagine, I already know that! In any case, I need to make it clear to you that, being a party in this affair, you cannot be involved in any way in the investigation. Go back to work, but do not attempt to intervene, however remotely. It’s enough that Inspector Bourdeau, your friend …’ – he emphasised the possessive – ‘… should be given the task of dealing with this. Not to mention the fact that the two men who will be opening the body are also close to you. I could easily be reproached for all this, which means—’

‘Nevertheless, Monsieur—’

‘Nevertheless nothing! As I was saying … it means that I must keep you at a distance from this case. Don’t imagine that I don’t understand your feelings, your grief, your legitimate desire to participate in the inquiries into your friend’s death. But circumstances force us to act in a certain way. You would do well to obey. As long as the mystery has not been elucidated, any move on your part would bring the legality of our procedures into question and would place me in a delicate position should we come up against one of those magistrates who share the fashionable tendency to challenge the authority of the King.’

Monsieur de Sartine stood up, walked around his desk – stopping one of the wigs from slipping as he did so – took Nicolas by the shoulder and pushed him gently towards the door.

‘If you want my advice, I think you should take some time off. What would you say to going to Versailles and paying court to His Majesty’s daughters? Only yesterday Madame Adélaïde was asking after you. Or else, visit Madame du Barry, go hunting with the King. In short, a little courtly spirit would not go amiss in the present situation. Versailles is a place where we have to show ourselves often lest we are forgotten!’

As Nicolas, followed by Bourdeau, was about to descend the staircase, he heard Sartine call the inspector back. They spoke for a few moments, but Nicolas could catch nothing of what was said. Bourdeau then rejoined him and walked with him to their carriage without saying a word. Nor did he open his mouth as they rode through the fog-shrouded streets in which people moved like vague shadows. Nicolas, too, remained silent. He did not care where they were going. He was once more in the grip of his perverse imagination, his mind filled with horrible images and interminable and fevered reflections on the causes and consequences of what had happened. Then, as if trying to break through his defences, Monsieur de Noblecourt’s words came back to him, echoed by Monsieur de Sartine’s instructions. They sounded within him like the repeated strokes of a funeral bell, like so many manifestations of the imperceptible dangers with which he suddenly felt surrounded. The cause of Julie’s death had still to be established, and yet everyone was keen to give him advice and recommend him to be careful. The fact was, he told himself, that however friendly and trusting they all appeared to be, he was being treated as if he was presumed guilty. Guilty of what? It was difficult to tell. That was what aroused his unease, this diffuse anxiety, this impression of slipping down a slope without anything to hang on to. He threw a sideways glance at Bourdeau, who was so still it seemed as though he were sleeping with his eyes open. He would have liked to talk to him, but no sound emerged from his mouth, and besides, what would he have said? Solitude had been his companion since his earliest childhood, and now it had reasserted itself in the cruellest, most unexpected way.

The noise of the carriage and horses echoed beneath the sombre archway of the Châtelet. The old walls plunged him into a melancholy so profound that Bourdeau had to pull him by the arm. The errand boy looked at him without recognising in this grim, downcast man the brilliant horseman who usually threw him the reins of his mount with a great laugh. Nicolas walked his usual route like an automaton, and passed Old Marie, the usher, without greeting him or making one of those friendly remarks which the old man cherished as a mark of friendship. He somehow found himself in the duty office. Bourdeau glanced through the register of incidents, then looked Nicolas in the eye and pounded on the old oak table.

‘That’s enough now, you have to pull yourself together. I’ve never seen you in this state, although we’ve been through a lot together! You’ve been wounded, knocked senseless, abducted, threatened. You must have undergone far worse ordeals than this. We must do something.’

Nicolas smiled weakly. ‘Do something? What do you want me to do? I’ve been told to go hunting and pay court to the ladies!’

‘Precisely! That’s exactly what you’re going to do. Or at least, that’s what Monsieur de Sartine has to believe you’re going to do.’

‘What do you mean?’

Bourdeau had opened the wardrobe where, for years, they had been accumulating a whole carnival array of clothes, hats and accessories. This collection, constantly enriched with new finds, was used by officers whenever they had to follow a suspect or were engaged on a mission in a dangerous faubourg and wanted to pass unnoticed. The inspector took out a quilted waistcoat, handfuls of tow, a large shapeless black coat so worn and threadbare that the black was turning green, a pair of thick shoes with brass buckles, a round, wide-brimmed hat, a great antique wig the hair of which seemed to have come from the mane of a dapple-grey horse, a thick linen shirt, a cotton cravat of doubtful cleanliness and equally dubious stockings. He threw the whole lot willy-nilly on the table.

‘Nicolas, get undressed and put on this stuff.’

The commissioner shook his head. ‘What madness are you dreaming up?’ he asked.

‘Just doing what friendship dictates. It being understood – and I say this before knowing anything for certain about Madame de Lastérieux’s death – that I believe you, and that I know you are innocent in this affair, I don’t see why I should deprive myself of your help in an investigation to which you can contribute a great deal.’

‘But how, for God’s sake?’

‘Let’s say a man your height, dressed in your clothes, with a muffler over his nose, comes out, accompanied by your servant, and gets in the carriage. “To Versailles, and don’t spare the horses!” Monsieur de Sartine will immediately be informed of your departure, and he’ll be relieved to know you’re doing as he asked. Meanwhile, you slip out, you meet up with me a few streets from here, and we proceed with the investigation together.’

‘But what should I look like?’

‘What does it matter? You can be an informer, an officer. Or better still, a clerk, there to note down my observations. A scruffy-looking fellow, with his eyes so tired he wears dark glasses.’

He handed him a pair of spectacles with smoked lenses.

Nicolas rose to his full height. ‘I’ll never allow you to commit this folly,’ he exclaimed. ‘If this case is a criminal one, you’re risking your job, perhaps more. There’s no way I can permit this.’

‘What do I care about my job,’ replied Bourdeau, ‘when the man I accepted as my chief when he was twenty years old, the man I’ve followed everywhere, the man I’ve saved from death several times, whose conduct and honour I’ve learnt to respect, finds himself in a difficult situation? What kind of man would I be not to try and remedy it with all the strength at my disposal? And what kind of man would you be, if you rejected my devotion?’

‘All right,’ said Nicolas, moved to tears. ‘I surrender.’

‘Not to mention the fact that, should this affair become complicated, it will be your judgement and experience, as always, which will lead us to a solution.’

Bourdeau had been walking up and down, striking his right leg with his tricorn. Now he stopped to think.

‘We have to find someone just your height, someone we can rely on. Now I come to think of it, Rabouine has a similar physique.’

‘He has a pointed nose.’

‘That doesn’t matter; his face will be hidden by the muffler. And there’s another advantage in using Rabouine. I’ve just remembered he knows that page in Monsieur de La Borde’s service at Versailles. Damn, I can’t remember his name …’

‘Gaspard! He rendered me a signal service in 1761, in the famous Truche de la Chaux case.’2

‘That’s perfect, then. With a note which you’ll write for me, he’ll welcome the disguised Rabouine with open arms, admit him to the palace and hide him in Monsieur de La Borde’s apartments. We just have to decide on a price, the fellow’s quite partial to coin of the realm.’

With nimble fingers, Bourdeau mimed a hand distributing coins.

‘His master is in Paris tonight,’ he went on. ‘He told me last night that he isn’t on duty. He is said to be smitten by a new conquest. Gaspard spreads the gossip: “My master’s friend, young Ranreuil, you know, the commissioner, is resting, he’s not well.” Rabouine abandons your clothes and comes back to Paris in secret. Everyone thinks you’re in quarantine in Monsieur de La Borde’s apartments. Sartine is relieved. There we are, everything’s sorted out.’

Faced with Bourdeau’s almost violent enthusiasm, Nicolas realised that he had to suppress his feelings and do exactly what the inspector wanted. There was a certain revulsion, of course, as he put on these coarse, musty clothes. The breeches were several sizes too big for him, and they had to look for a kind of lace to serve as a belt. The quilted waistcoat made it seem as though he had a large paunch. The wig, a black skullcap and a pair of spectacles transformed the commissioner to such an extent that he did not recognise his own reflection in the window.

‘Right,’ said Bourdeau, ‘I’m going to find Rabouine. He’s never far away at this hour. As soon as he’s dressed in your clothes, I’ll go and distract Old Marie, and he’ll slip past me. Meanwhile, you make your way to Monsieur de Sartine’s office, which is never closed. All you have to do is push the gilded moulding on the third shelf in the bookcase. As you know, there’s a secret passage there. Go down the steps to the little door that leads out to the curtain wall, over on the Grande Boucherie side. That’s where I’ll meet up with you. In the meantime, don’t move. I’ll run now and find Rabouine. To be on the safe side, I’m locking the door.’

Nicolas heard the key turning in the lock. Once alone, he found it hard to rid himself of a sense of anxiety, not for himself, but for Bourdeau. His deputy’s loyalty and devotion was dragging him – a man with a family to support and a reasonable chance of continuing his already long career in peace – down a dangerous path. This doubt was joined by another: could he deceive Sartine so deliberately, when the Lieutenant General had been so honest and patient with him? Nicolas had a remarkable gift for finding himself in these moral dilemmas, which he only resolved through painful exercises in casuistry, vestiges of his Jesuit education in Vannes, which inevitably left wounds in his soul. There was another thought that kept coming back: would he, usually so indifferent, or rather, so accustomed to the terrible sights that were part and parcel of a criminal investigation, be able to bear the sight of Julie’s corpse, or her house overrun by police? Would he be able to keep a cool head, the prerequisite for his capacity for clear thought, when he was so intimately involved? Wasn’t Monsieur de Sartine right in wanting to keep him away from the case, and wasn’t Bourdeau, carried away by his loyalty, setting them both on a very slippery slope?

By the time Bourdeau and Rabouine came for him, he had regained his composure. He was writing the note for Gaspard, which he sealed with the Ranreuil arms after slipping a few louis d’or inside the paper. Before that, not wanting to deceive an old friend whose support had never failed him over the years, he had written a message for Monsieur de La Borde. It was a gesture he considered doubly justified: it would both reassure his friend and cover Gaspard in his master’s eyes. This desire to come clean led him to reflect on human turpitude. Why was it that he had agreed to disobey the Lieutenant General of Police and flout his express instructions, and yet at the same time considered it essential not to act behind La Borde’s back? Doubtless, he thought, because his relationship with Sartine was one of inequality and subordination, and perhaps – although he did not dare think too far along these lines – his attitude was not unconnected with certain rebuffs he had suffered which had left a bitter taste in his mouth, despite his gratitude to, and admiration for, his chief. In the peculiar circumstances in which he found himself, it did not amount to much: a small disobedience, a simple little act of revenge.

‘I’ve sent Old Marie on an important mission,’ said Bourdeau. ‘He’s gone to fetch a pitcher of brandy – he can keep half of it for himself. The time has come. Rabouine knows what he has to do. Give him the letter.’

‘I’d like him to go and see La Borde first and give him this note.’

Bourdeau looked in surprise at the paper, on which the seal was like a bloody stain. ‘Do you really think we need to … ?’

‘Yes, or I won’t do it.’

Rabouine changed, gradually transforming himself, with the help of a short wig, into a very acceptable Nicolas. With a piece of black wool over his face, the collar of his cloak raised, and the tricorn pulled right down, the illusion was complete. For his part, Nicolas adjusted the spectacles and took a few steps.

‘Don’t swagger,’ said Bourdeau. ‘Bend your legs, stoop a bit more, let your shoulders sag. There, that’s it … That’s much better.’

He opened a drawer, took out paper, quills, a penknife and a portable bottle of ink, and gave all these objects to Nicolas.

‘Don’t forget your work tools, if you want to look the part. That’s perfect! Perhaps still a bit too clean, though. Take off your glasses.’

Bourdeau passed his hand over the top of the wardrobe, then smeared the dust on Nicolas’s face, until his complexion turned grey and weary.

‘The coast is clear. Let’s go our separate ways. We’ll meet again where we’ve arranged.’

The inspector left with Rabouine, who was in high spirits and as proud as punch to be acting as commissioner – as an old partner in crime, he would have thrown himself in the Seine for him. Nicolas made his way to Sartine’s office. The silence in the room reminded him of his first interview with the Lieutenant General of Police, when he had arrived fresh from his native province, and a thousand other comic and tragic scenes over the years. The gilded moulding sank back and the bookcase swivelled around, revealing a staircase. The noises of the city rose in the distance. Two floors below, he found the door. Walking out into the street, he was struck by how cold it was, especially now that evening was closing in. He did not have long to wait. A cab stopped, the door opened, and he jumped in.

‘That Rabouine is amazing,’ said Bourdeau. ‘He knows as much of the ways of the world as a bailiff at the Palais de Justice. He’ll fool everyone at Versailles, and by God, he cuts a fine figure in your clothes.’

Nicolas smiled. ‘Thank you on behalf of the clothes! It’s clear you don’t get the bills from my tailor, Master Vachon! As for Rabouine, God save him, he knows what to do in every situation and never spares any effort.’

‘You just smiled,’ said Bourdeau. ‘All is well. Recovery is near.’

The conversation continued in a light tone which gradually calmed Nicolas, making him forget what awaited him. In Rue de Verneuil, a number of officers were keeping a discreet watch on the house. They immediately recognised the unnumbered carriage and Bourdeau’s familiar face. An inspector sitting outside the door, which had been sealed, tried to deny them access. The mention of Monsieur de Sartine’s name smoothed things over: the man had only been trying to defend the prerogatives of the local commissioner. The seals were broken, and Bourdeau and Nicolas entered Madame de Lastérieux’s house.

The shutters were closed, and the rooms were dark and silent. The deserted hall opened on to a corridor which led to the reception rooms. To the right, a door led to the servants’ pantry. At the end of the corridor, a velvet door gave access to a large drawing room, to the left of which, at right angles, were a library and a music room. On the right was a short corridor leading to a circular boudoir, after which came Julie’s bedroom. Adjoining the boudoir was a wardrobe room, then a series of service rooms, leading back to the pantry. The main rooms had a view of Rue de Verneuil, the others looked out on the dark well of the courtyard, where the servants had their quarters. The windows of the library and the music room looked out on Rue de Beaune.

‘Let’s start with the bedroom,’ said Bourdeau.

He glanced round the drawing room. The table had been cleared, although eight chairs still surrounded it.

‘Everything looks so tidy, despite last night’s party.’

‘The two West Indian servants are very good,’ Nicolas said. ‘Julie was a stickler for tidiness. Everything had to be cleaned and put away. She couldn’t bear to see the house looking untidy in the morning.’

‘That’s rather unfortunate. Untidiness has one great merit: it increases the opportunities for observation.’

‘But there’s still a clue here. Parties in this house, as I well know, rarely lasted beyond one in the morning. The tidying must have taken at least two hours. Which means, and the servants will be able to confirm this, that Madame de Lastérieux did not call for help during that time. She could have done so easily from her bed by ringing the bell pull, which sounds in the pantry. Her maid would have come running.’

‘That’s useful to know,’ Bourdeau conceded. ‘Unless she lost consciousness before she was able to call for help.’

At any other time, Nicolas would have been amused by the way their roles had been reversed. Perhaps it was the effect of this ridiculous disguise, but it was Bourdeau who was having the last word – he certainly had the ability and experience for it.

‘How terrible,’ murmured Nicolas, ‘that Julie’s body has been left like that with no one to watch over it!’

Bourdeau responded with an indistinct grunt.

When they opened the door to the bedroom, a sickening odour seized them by the throat. At first, they could make out nothing: the curtains were drawn and the room was in darkness. Bourdeau fetched a candle from the other room and lit the bedroom candles. The flickering light illumined the room. Julie de Lastérieux lay there in her nightdress, her body arched, her legs bent and splayed apart. Death had seized her as she was lifting her hands to her throat. Her head was thrown back on the pillow and surrounded by her flowing hair, and her mouth was open, as if she were screaming. The front of her body was covered in orange-coloured vomit, flecked with blood, which had dripped on the sheets and the carpet. The eyes were bulging, the pupils already clouding over. Nicolas, assailed by memories, was profoundly shocked to see how horribly death had done its work. He had to force himself to carry on. Only by clinging to the idea of dutycould he summon the will power to act as if the poor body lying in its own vomit was not that of a woman he had loved. He had to take charge of the operation. He had noted in the past that, however pusillanimous his emotional reaction to a situation might be, it immediately gave way to a cold determination, even – or especially – when he himself was personally involved.

‘Pierre,’ he said, ‘don’t take another step. You don’t know this room. I do, in great detail – that’s why I want to have a very careful look at it. It doesn’t matter if the cause of death is as yet unknown. When we do know it, and if it does prove to be a case of criminal poisoning, we’ll regret not having been more attentive now. Lift that candlestick so that I can see.’

He stood looking at the room, motionless, deep in thought. Bourdeau, growing impatient, touched his elbow as if afraid he had fallen asleep. ‘Nicolas, we don’t have all that long …’

‘In such circumstances, it’s sometimes useful to take our time.’

‘And what observations have you made?’

‘Some quite surprising ones, actually. First of all, the fire is out, but that’s normal. It’s nearly six o’clock. But the fact that the windows are closed and the curtains drawn – now that’s not in keeping.’

‘Not in keeping with what?’

‘With Julie’s habits. She always demanded a raging fire – which I hate, as you know – and, to make up for it, she kept the windows half open and the curtains half drawn. Now, unless things haven’t been left in the state they were in when the body was discovered, which I don’t believe to be the case …’

‘Why?’

‘Look at those candles on the chest of drawers. The doctor who came examined the body by their light. They weren’t usually kept there, any more than there were usually all these jewels scattered about. When there’s a dead body and it’s winter, it’s best to let the cold in from outside … I also see a half-empty glass of white liquid on the night table, and a plate with what seems to be a chicken wing in sauce. Now that’s impossible, in fact totally absurd.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because Julie hated eating in bed. She would never have had food brought in to her. She never allowed me to satisfy my hunger at her bedside. That’s why the presence of this plate bothers me.’

In the dark, he blushed at the thought of these intimate details.

‘Another thing,’ he went on. ‘Why would she have wanted to eat in bed or during the night when she had just finished a sumptuous dinner? It makes no sense.’

He looked pensively at the little writing case that lay on a rosewood table, surrounded by scattered sheets of paper, along with a quill, a seal and a stick of green wax.

‘So much for the room,’ said Bourdeau. ‘What about the body?’

‘We’ll have to take a closer look at it. It reminds me of the body of an old man who was stung on the throat by wasps in Chaville, one night last summer. The position of the hands was identical. At first sight, poisoning is an obvious conclusion, as is suffocation. The throat looks swollen, even seen from a distance. The autopsy will tell us more, I hope. We need to take the glass and its contents with us, as well as the leftovers on the plate.’

‘There are a lot of footprints,’ said Bourdeau. ‘Muddy ones, too.’

‘The police and the doctor. We won’t get much from them.’

They walked around the room, looking for other clues. Bourdeau pointed to a concealed door in the partition wall. ‘Where does that lead?’

‘To the servants’ pantry, by way of the wardrobe, the toilet and the service rooms.’

Bourdeau opened the door, and walked through a small room full of cupboards which led to a larger one furnished with a mirrored table and a bergère. He opened a second door and found himself in a long corridor with jute-covered walls.

‘Through here, the prints are more distinct,’ he observed. ‘A man seems to have walked along it in both directions.’

Nicolas came and joined him. Bourdeau stared at the floor in amazement.

‘That’s quite strange,’ he said. ‘I’ll be damned if these prints aren’t the same as those your boots are leaving on the carpet. See for yourself.’

They both knelt. After a moment, Nicolas broke the silence.

‘Identical. Absolutely and totally identical.’

Nicolas took a few steps, crouched, took a sheet from his little black notebook and a lead pencil, and noted down the pattern of marks on the parquet floor.

‘In fact, they’re not completely identical,’ he said. ‘There must have been a nail loose on the sole, and it’s scratched the floor. Look.’

‘And what’s more, these prints are fresh,’ murmured Bourdeau, embarrassed. ‘Or at least, from last night.’

‘I see what you’re thinking. There is an explanation.’

He went back to the wardrobe room and opened one of the closets. Hanging on a rail was a cloak which Bourdeau recognised as one of Nicolas’s, and on a side shelf there were folded shirts and handkerchiefs. But something did not correspond to what the commissioner was expecting, and Bourdeau sensed Nicolas’s dejection.

‘Vanished! My second pair of boots, identical to this one, vanished. I always keep some of my things here.’

‘Perhaps the servants took them away to be cleaned.’

‘I’d like to see that!’ said Nicolas. ‘I learnt from my father, the marquis, never to entrust that task to anyone other than myself. Otherwise you’d never obtain the right polish and brilliance. The surface leather has to look like that of a well-rubbed horse chestnut.’

‘All right,’ said Bourdeau, unaccustomed to hearing Nicolas mention his father. ‘But they could be the servants’ prints!’

‘Impossible, they always walk barefoot. Julie hated noise. She would have liked people to slide along the floor.’

‘The fact remains,’ the inspector went on hesitantly, ‘that the only footprints found in this corridor are yours …’

He observed Nicolas’s impatient gesture.

‘Yours, or left by your boots … Let’s follow them, shall we?’

The prints led them to the servants’ pantry, which was spick and span. In a larder, they discovered the remains of a chicken dish, which intrigued Bourdeau, but which Nicolas recognised as having been prepared in the style of the West Indies – it was a dish of which he was particularly fond.

‘We’ll have to collect all this and take it to the Basse-Geôle. Semacgus can take a look at it, and even test it on rats.’

Bourdeau was stooped over, clearly in the grip of an inner dilemma. ‘I ought to report to Monsieur de Sartine …’

‘Oh, of course!’ Nicolas replied in a somewhat brusque tone. ‘And why not also tell him that you were accompanied by a clerk, a man nobody knew, who was wearing a fine pair of riding boots? Who then told you that he kept another pair in a closet, where the said clerk – a stranger, as I said – pointed out clothes belonging to a police commissioner at the Châtelet he’d obviously never met, but whose breeches he recognised! I told you this was a dead end … Now here you are, caught in a trap, and me with you. Our machinations have rebounded on us. I should never have accepted your generous proposition.’

‘Please, God,’ said Bourdeau, ‘let this death be from natural causes! Because if it isn’t …’

Neither of them really wanted to consider the implications of that. What most hurt Nicolas was to think that he himself, in Bourdeau’s place, would not have been able to keep from wondering about those troubling boot prints.