Читать книгу The Nicolas Le Floch Affair: Nicolas Le Floch Investigation #4 - Jean-Francois Parot - Страница 19

Jesuz mab Doue, n’eo bet kredet

Piv en e vro a ve profed?

Jesus, son of God, was not believed.

Who would be a prophet in his own land?

BRETON PROVERB

Instructions had been given, decisions made, and everything was proceeding methodically. Bourdeau was very much in control. Messengers had been dispatched to Doctor Semacgus in Vaugirard, and to Sanson, the Paris executioner, who lived outside the city walls in a house he owned on the corner of Rue Poissonnière and Rue d’Enfer. For a long time now, Monsieur de Paris – as he was known – had been lending his skills to the performance of autopsies in criminal investigations. He was a discreet, cultivated man, although one who could conceal – as Nicolas had previously discovered – unexpected failings. The friendship Nicolas felt for him was genuine and compassionate.

The two practitioners were to be brought to the Grand Châtelet by carriage and there, that very evening, an examination of Madame de Lastérieux’s body would be carried out. It was not a formality: everything hung on the results of this autopsy. If the assumption of premeditated poisoning proved correct, the machinery of the law would immediately be set in motion, with all the measures and procedures that entailed.

With a pang, Nicolas had moved back against the wall to let the porters take the body down to the wagon. As there was a risk that the body might undergo changes as the vehicle jolted over the Parisian cobbles, they had placed it on a bed of straw with the head held in place with splints to withstand the shaking. Beforehand, Bourdeau had plugged all the orifices of the body with shredded linen in order to prevent liquid requiring analysis from escaping.

He had put off interviewing the servants and the dinner guests until later. It was not a priority for the moment. The two men watched as the wagon set off, had the seals put back on the front door of the house, and got back in their carriage. Bourdeau had with him, in a basket he had found in the servants’ pantry, the remains of the food discovered in the bedroom and the kitchen, as well as the white beverage, which had been decanted into a small bottle that had been duly corked.

Nicolas thanked heaven for his disguise. It allowed him to sink into a kind of drowsiness, a mixture of stupor and grief. He felt a sense of foreboding, all the worse now that night had fallen. He looked out with unseeing eyes at the people passing by, all of them wrapped against the biting cold, their faces hidden behind the turned-up collars of their cloaks. A damp fog had descended, blurring the colours of the streets. The street lamps gave off hardly any light. The sight of the hurrying crowd reminded him of a Flemish painting he had seen in the King’s collection, in which, against the background of a snowy sky, faceless people walked in procession towards a cemetery in the distance. Bourdeau tried to suggest to him that they should stop at the tavern in the Grande Boucherie where they usually went to fill their stomachs before autopsies, but Nicolas did not feel like doing anything. The way he was dressed, he observed curtly, risked drawing attention to himself. The tavern-keeper had known them for years and liked nothing better than to chat with his customers: he was sure to see through his disguise.

The noise of the wheels echoing under an archway drew him from these reflections. The carriage came to a halt. With a fatherly air, Bourdeau lifted the muffler over the lower part of Nicolas’s face and made sure that the smoked glasses were well adjusted, then had a careful look at the area around the entrance to the Grand Châtelet. The way was clear. No one was lurking in the shadows and even the errand boys had abandoned the place for warmer retreats. They descended to the Basse-Geôle. At the beginning of his career, Nicolas had organised autopsies in the ogival torture room, near the office of the clerk of the criminal court. Since then, as the number of autopsies had multiplied, a small cellar containing a stone slab with grooves in it had been pressed into service. It had the advantage that the morgue, which was open to the public, was close by. When Nicolas and Bourdeau entered, they were surprised to find Semacgus and Sanson already there, engaged in an animated conversation. But they had not been brought from their respective residences in such a short space of time: they had both been summoned to take part in a delicate gallstone operation on a patient in the Hôtel-Dieu, and when it was over Sanson had invited Semacgus to the Châtelet to admire some new instruments from Prussia, which had just arrived on the mail-coach.

‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ said Bourdeau, smiling.

The two men turned round. Nicolas held back, taking care not to stand within the circle of light thrown by the candles. He noted that Sanson was elegantly dressed in green. It was the first time he had ever seen him without his perpetual puce coat. It made him look younger and compensated for the solemn air his growing paunch gave him.

‘Won’t Nicolas be joining us?’ asked Semacgus, peering inquisitively into the shadows where the false clerk was standing. ‘Not this time,’ said Bourdeau. ‘Monsieur de Sartine did not think it right that he should be involved in an investigation, or rather, in a preliminary inquiry, which touches him so closely.’ He made a sideways movement of his head to indicate Nicolas. ‘Monsieur Deshalleux, clerk of the court. He will make notes on our conclusions.’

Nicolas bowed.

‘Inspector,’ said Sanson, ‘our friend has told me the facts. I’d like you to convey to Commissioner Le Floch how much I feel for him in his hour of grief—’

He was interrupted by the arrival of the stretcher, carried by two men and preceded by an officer. The body was placed on the stone slab, and Semacgus and Sanson began preparing their instruments in silence. There followed a terrible ordeal for Nicolas. He would never know how he had been able to bear the scratch of the scalpel cutting into the skin, the cracking as the ribs were separated on either side of the trunk, revealing the nacreous tints of the organs, and the various noises and smells of the operation. More unbearable still were the comments and remarks which accompanied this work. This body, once so passionately loved, was nothing more than a wretched, bleeding scrap of flesh. Once they had sewn it up again, salted it and wrapped it in a jute sack, Bourdeau and Semacgus conferred for a long time, then spent more time debating politely which of them would dictate the conclusions. In the end, it was Sanson who took it upon himself to sum up their observations. Bourdeau nudged Nicolas with his elbow, to remind him that he had to note down everything that was said.

‘“We,”’ began Sanson, ‘“Guillaume Semacgus, navy surgeon, and Charles Henri Sanson, executioner for the viscountcy and seneschalcy of Paris, residing separately in this city and its dependencies, hereby certify and attest that on this day, 7 January 1774, in response to the summons issued this said day by Pierre Bourdeau, inspector at the Châtelet, we went together to the prison of the Grand Châtelet, and in a cellar situated near the Basse-Geôle performed an autopsy on the corpse of Madame Julie de Lastérieux and are now making a statement of this internal and external examination. We report in all conscience that we found the body of Madame de Lastérieux to be healthy and intact in all its external parts, without wounds or contusions, and in its natural state, apart from stiff joints and stretch marks on the thighs and legs, a natural effect of a violent death. Proceeding to the opening of the corpse, beginning with the lower abdomen, we found the organs healthy on the outside. From the interior of the stomach we took out about a pint of a brownish liquid mixed with clots of blood, the surface of this organ appearing irritated and tinged with a redness which could not be wiped away with a towel. As for the colour—”’

‘If you’ll allow me, my dear colleague,’ Semacgus cut in, ‘I fear you have omitted certain details.’

‘You’re quite right, forgive me. I’ll resume. “The stomach appeared empty of all solid substances apart from a small amount of liquid. As for its strange colour, it was not found again in the first intestine, which was very healthy, as was the rest of the canal. We then proceeded to open the chest. The lungs were healthy, as was the heart. The oesophageal duct appeared very irritated. The muscular and mucous masses of the neck were very swollen. On examination of the mouth, we found no lesions, and no fractures of the teeth, which clearly indicates that no violence was used to make the subject swallow any harmful foreign substance. An examination of the sexual parts of the said corpse showed, from what we were able to collect, that coitus may have taken place not long before death. Accordingly, we salted the corpse of the said Madame de Lastérieux, in order to be able to preserve it for further examination. This statement hereby completed and signed this day, 7 January 1774, by Guillaume Semacgus, Charles Henri Sanson and Pierre Bourdeau, and counter signed by clerk of the court Deshalleux, who has faithfully copied it.”’

Grief-stricken as he was, Nicolas was nevertheless aware that this had been a somewhat unusual session. Even though Bourdeau was conducting the case methodically and with great determination, the autopsy had been carried out with no commentary other than medical jargon. What had been missing as it went on were those ingenuous, commonsensical remarks which only he could make at appropriate moments. Admittedly, this time, the object of the operation was so close to him that he might not have been able to find the words to express his doubts and questions. It was as if he had been listening to a quartet which lacked one instrumentalist, the very one through whom everything was organised and made clear. Admittedly, judicial practice prevented those engaged in such examinations from expressing their opinions, their function being limited to making a certain number of observations which could later be used to help the detectives and the judges form their own opinions. The investigation could only be completed through the finding of further evidence and the interrogation of suspects, even involving torture in the most serious cases. The inspector, probably assailed by the same doubts as his chief, also seemed puzzled and disappointed by what he had just heard.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘that’s all well and good, but I find it hard to discern the most significant elements in what you have said. What of the causes of Madame de Lastérieux’s death?’

Semacgus and Sanson looked at each other. The navy surgeon coughed and put his big hands together, making the finger joints crack.

‘It is still too early to express an opinion,’ he said. ‘It is likely that this woman died as the result of poisoning. That would explain the irritant lesions observed in the organs, especially the curious oedema on the neck. I hesitate to consider it the principal cause of death, but it may have been a major contributory factor.’

‘It’s possible,’ said Sanson, ‘that the swelling of the skin caused her to choke. In which case the heart may have given way.’

Again, silence fell. Bourdeau stared at the body in the sack, apparently lost in thought.

‘There are other observations we could make,’ said Sanson. ‘For example, it is likely that there was carnal conjunction, although the traces are ambiguous.’

Nicolas found this qualification nonsensical.

‘The strange thing,’ Semacgus said, ‘is the absence of food in the victim’s stomach. A few excreta and traces of liquid, and that’s all.’

‘Which makes it all the more vital,’ said Bourdeau, ‘to analyse the whitish beverage found on the victim’s bedside table, a kind of milk. I am surprised, though, gentlemen, that no food was discovered, despite the fact that we know for certain that the victim had just had a large dinner.’

‘Perhaps she rejected what she had eaten?’ suggested Sanson. ‘Does what you observed in her house bear that out at all?’

‘No. The excreta were liquid. Nor did we find any traces on the clothes in her wardrobe. Doctor Semacgus, I’d like you to examine the liquid in question with the greatest care, as well as the left-over food in this basket.’

‘So,’ said Semacgus, ‘it seems as though the solution lies in the liquid. I’ll analyse it as soon as possible, along with the food you recovered. I think we’ve done all we can this evening. Let’s meet again tomorrow at about three in the afternoon, and I’ll let you know what I’ve found.’

Semacgus had cleaned his instruments under the water in a brass fountain, and was now putting them in a leather case. His haste indicated to those who knew him that he was late for a rendezvous and had no wish to linger. He bowed and disappeared beneath the arch of the staircase, his steps echoing in the distance. Sanson was also getting ready to take his leave when the inspector drew him into a corner of the cellar and whispered in his ear. They both turned to Nicolas, smiling.

‘Commissioner,’ said Bourdeau, ‘I’ve found you a refuge for the night. Our friend has agreed to offer you accommodation in his house. No one would ever think of looking for you there.’

He coughed, embarrassed by the words he had just spoken, which might have appeared wounding to Sanson.

‘I’ll meet you at about midday tomorrow outside the Hôtel des Menus Plaisirs1 and we’ll continue with the investigation. For the moment, nothing seems in any way conclusive. Of course, we now know that the victim was poisoned, but the cause and the circumstances remain unclear.’

Nicolas removed his spectacles. ‘I am reluctant to impose on our friend, for fear of getting him into trouble.’

‘Monsieur,’ said Sanson, ‘it will be an honour for me. Have no fear, I shan’t be running any risks. One cannot lose a position one does not hold. And even if one could, I wager there wouldn’t be a large number of people fighting to claim it!’ ‘What do you mean?’ Nicolas said. ‘Isn’t the position yours? Everyone knows you as Monsieur de Paris!’

Sanson gave a bitter smile. ‘My father is still alive and has never relinquished a position which only His Majesty can authorise him to leave. If and when that happens, the King will confirm me in my functions with a lettre de provision.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Bourdeau.

‘My father, Charles-Jean-Baptiste Sanson, was paralysed in the arm in 1754 and retired to the country. That’s why, as I once told you, my uncle Gabriel, executioner of Rheims, joined me for the execution of the regicide Damiens in 1757. He never recovered from that appalling event.’

‘I thought,’ Bourdeau said, ‘that your father still officiated at the execution of Monsieur de Lally, the Baron de Tollendal.’

‘That’s correct. My father had known the baron for a long time. When he was a young officer in the Royal Irish, he took shelter in our house after a torrential downpour. For some reason, he asked to see my father’s instruments. As he passed his finger over the double-edged blade, he observed that the condemned man’s head must be cut off at a single blow, and then uttered these striking words: “If ever fate were to place me in your hands, promise me you’ll remember.”’

‘And what happened?’ asked Nicolas.

‘When he was condemned after the surrender of Pondicherry, supposedly for betraying us to the English, my father remembered the promise he’d made the young officer. He left his home in the country and returned to Paris. He was in despair when he realised that he no longer had the strength to lift the heavy sword of justice. He gave me that honourable but terrible task, but …’ – Sanson bowed his head, his chest heaving with emotion – ‘… the condemned man was sixty-four years old and his long white hair came loose. When the blade came down, it slipped and cut through his jaw. The crowd on Place de la Grève jeered. Monsieur de Lally was writhing in pain on the ground. I no longer knew what to do. My father, with a nimbleness and a power that were quite unexpected in a man of his age, snatched the weapon from my hands, raised it, brought it down, and cut off the condemned man’s head at a single stroke. Then, overwhelmed with emotion as well as failed by his strength, he fell to the ground in a faint.’

‘I don’t imagine you’ve had to perform that kind of execution again, have you?’ said Nicolas.

‘Alas, yes! The Chevalier de La Barre, accused of sacrilege for not taking his hat off when a procession passed, and for mutilating a wooden crucifix on the great bridge at Abbeville, had the misfortune to be placed in my hands. Even though the evidence was far from conclusive, he had been condemned to have his hand cut off and his tongue torn out before being burnt alive. He appealed to the Parlement of Paris, which commuted his sentence. He was to be decapitated before being burnt. The poor young man was nineteen …’

‘Wasn’t he the one whose rehabilitation Monsieur de Voltaire has been clamouring for?’ asked Bourdeau.

‘That’s right. So far without success.’

‘But surely Abbeville is not in your jurisdiction?’

‘True. However, the local executioner of that town had fallen ill and, although there were colleagues in Amiens and Rouen, Chancellor Maupeou ordered me to officiate. He was no doubt hoping to lend more prestige to this execution and please the Church. It went off without mishap, but ever since I’ve been praying to heaven for the salvation of the unfortunate victim. People always imagine we exercise our profession because we like seeing lives destroyed … It’s an absurd fabrication, and we should do all we can to combat it.’

‘We all know that,’ said Bourdeau. ‘But it’s getting late, and I think we must part. How did you come?’

‘I have my carriage, driven by one of my servants,’ said Sanson.

‘Can we trust him?’

‘As you trust me.’

As Bourdeau and Sanson were already moving away, Nicolas walked to the stone slab. With two fingers, he touched his lips then placed them on the shapeless sack, where the head was. He stood like that for a moment, his face expressionless, then joined his friends, who were slowly climbing the stairs. They passed Old Marie, who cast a curious glance at the false clerk.

‘My dear Sanson,’ Bourdeau hastened to say, ‘perhaps you’d be so kind as to drop our clerk, Monsieur Deshalleux, in Rue Saint-Denis. It’s on your way.’

‘I’d be pleased to,’ said Sanson, drawing Nicolas towards the entrance.

In the carriage, Nicolas was unable to find words to keep a conversation going. Respecting his silence, Sanson closed his eyes and appeared to doze off. The carriage turned into Rue Trop-Va-Qui-Dure, opposite the exit from Pont au Change, and went around the Châtelet by way of Rue de la Sonnerie before rejoining Rue Saint-Denis. Paris seemed deserted this winter evening: even the market and the cemetery of the Saints-Innocents, usually so animated, only made their presence felt through the mephitic odour that rose from the area in spite of the cold weather. Gradually, the windows of the carriage misted over with their breaths. Nicolas, too, closed his eyes, appalled by the horrible vision of a ravaged body superimposed over that of his mistress in all her ravishing beauty. He suddenly remembered one of the observations made during the autopsy. Julie had been with a man that night … Not only been with him, but made love with him, if the experts were to be believed. She had been deceiving him. He felt a retrospective pang of jealousy, which he hoped might dispel the grief of his loss. In vain: the two feelings – the bitterness of grief and the raging anger of betrayal – rather than cancelling one another out, simply combined. A pointless question crossed his mind: what would he have done if he had surprised Julie in his rival’s arms? In truth, he did not know, but the uncertainty tortured him. He took a deep breath, making an effort to regain the calm and serenity appropriate to a police officer.

In his disguise, Nicolas had not been in a position to contribute to the discussion during the autopsy. But now his thoughts fell into place with the greatest clarity. If Madame de Lastérieux’s stomach was empty, that was explained by her habits. In order not to further inflame a generous temperament, she never ate meat. What was more, she hated chicken, and in particular chicken cooked in the West Indian manner, with all its spicy seasoning. Eggs and dairy products, fruit and vegetables constituted the basis of her diet. The plate found at her bedside could not possibly have been intended for her. Everything pointed to the fact that she had not been alone. Logically, then, the dish in question would seem to have been intended to appease the hunger of her new lover. But Nicolas knew that this dish was usually prepared for him, and that its presence in the room could mean only one thing: that someone had wanted to make it seem as though he had spent part of the night with his mistress. That supposed a good knowledge of the customs of the house, and the aim of it all had evidently been to make him the prime suspect if the cause of death was indeed established as premeditated poisoning. Personally, he did not believe it had been an accident. There were too many curious details, too many things that had been done to create a web in which to catch him, the powerless victim of a mysterious, invisible predator.

The circumstances were highly unfavourable to him. For a long time now, the law of the land had considered poisoning to be the most serious of crimes, and had punished it with particular rigour, with the aim of putting an end to a form of murder of which the previous century had offered a number of examples still present in many people’s memories. King Louis XIV had reacted with great firmness to this violation of the fundamental laws of nature, especially as the culprits had been so close to the throne. Nicolas knew how harsh the procedure was, as was the punishment: repeated torture, death at the stake, and posthumous infamy. He remembered that in his home province, Brittany, the suspect was made to wear sulphur shoes during questioning: a particularly horrible torture.

After Porte Saint-Denis, the carriage took the left-hand side of the boulevard as far as Rue Poissonnière. Nicolas noted in passing the dark mass of the Hôtel des Menus Plaisirs, where he had an appointment next day with Bourdeau. As they were heading for the corner of Rue d’Enfer, where Sanson lived, it struck Nicolas, as an old Paris hand, that there were actually two streets of this name in Paris, one within the walls, in the Montparnasse district, and the other in this suburban district known as New France, where the nouveaux riches built their houses around the vast holdings of the Saint-Lazare monastery. Monsieur de Sartine’s attention had often been drawn to the frequent accidents along this perimeter.

‘You see,’ said Sanson, who had been thinking along the same lines, ‘this is a highly dangerous place. It is where all the market gardeners come, mostly women carrying baskets full of produce for the city. Every week, several of them break their arms and legs on this narrow strip of muddy, slippery ground along which they’re forced to walk if they don’t want to be hit by the carriages.’

‘I’m very well aware of it,’ replied Nicolas. ‘The monks are reluctant to pay for a decent pavement out of their own pockets.’

Nicolas could still hear Monsieur de Sartine, a Freemason and a Voltairean, ranting against the Priests of the Mission, who were immensely rich, owned some twenty streets in Paris and nearly twenty-five villages in the suburbs and, it was said, ‘begrudged their écus without charity or any sense of the public good’.

As he was thinking this, Sanson’s servant was lifting the heavy knocker at the carriage entrance of an opulent-looking house. It opened and they entered a cobbled courtyard. Sanson beckoned to him to climb the few steps leading to the front door of his residence. Entering the house, Nicolas felt, for the first time in two days, a sensation of well-being, as if someone sympathetic had hugged him. The place had a pleasant smell of wax and wood. Paris and its crimes were suddenly a long way away. Two children, the elder barely more than eight, were standing by the staircase. The elder was holding his brother close round the shoulders and scowling, as if ready to defend him against the intrusion of a stranger, clearly a rare occurrence in this house. Sanson took off his cloak, and burst out laughing when he finally got a good look at his guest’s costume.

‘In that disguise, you’re going to scare away my sons!’ he said. ‘Children, I want to introduce a friend. Don’t let his appearance mislead you about his station. It was absolutely essential that he pass unnoticed. Don’t worry, he’ll get changed. Monsieur, I present to you Henri and Gabriel. Now, come give your father a hug.’

Still intimidated, they bowed to Nicolas, then rushed to Sanson and clambered all over him, covering him with kisses.

‘Come on now, behave yourselves! Run and tell your mother we have a guest. In the meantime, I’ll show him his room.’

He led Nicolas up the stairs and into his quarters, a room redolent of rustic comfort and reminding the commissioner of his childhood.

Sanson left him for a moment, then returned with a shirt, stockings, a lace cravat and a grey cloak which, although a little large for him, made Nicolas look more like his usual self. One of Sanson’s servants brought him a pitcher of hot water, which he poured into the porcelain bowl on the washstand. Beside the stand stood a swing mirror on wheels. The face which confronted Nicolas, once he had removed the layer of dust disguising his features, struck him like a sudden shock. It was no longer a young man’s face. The ordeal he was living through had given his countenance a tragic cast, accentuating the increasing number of lines, and bringing out all the marks left by his open-air childhood and his eventful life as a man.

Sanson returned and they went down to the dining room together. In the doorway, a woman wearing an immaculate lace bonnet and a dark-red serge dress protected by a starched apron gave him a kind of curtsey. She was plump, slightly older than her husband, and with a welcoming air that did not conceal a real sense of authority. Nicolas soon realised that it was she who laid down the law to the members of the household, beginning with her husband. Nevertheless, there was a real look of kindness on her benevolent face.

‘Marie-Anne,’ said Sanson, ‘this is you-know-who. Madame Sanson, my wife …’

‘Monsieur,’ she said, ‘please believe me when I tell you how honoured I am to receive you in this house. I trust you’ll forgive our simple family fare. We were somewhat taken by surprise.’ She threw a stern look at her husband, who bowed his head. ‘Monsieur Sanson should have warned me you would be coming this evening. He’s told me so much about you over the years …’

She gave him a gracious smile, which made dimples in her round cheeks.

‘Madame,’ said Nicolas, ‘I’m terribly sorry to impose on you in this way. However, I thank the circumstances that have given me the opportunity to meet you. It is a privilege for me to be received by my friend Sanson in the bosom of his family.’

He emphasised the word privilege and Marie-Anne blushed with pleasure.

‘Well now, shall we sit down?’

Sanson took his place at the head of the rectangular table, with Nicolas to his right and his wife on his left, and the children on either side. Marie-Anne hesitated for a moment, then stood up, looked Nicolas straight in the eyes, and asked him if he would like to say grace. They all rose. Nicolas, moved to rediscover a custom of his youth in Guérande, recalled the words he had so often heard spoken by Canon Le Floch. This memory revived the shades of the past: his father the marquis, his half-sister Isabelle, Père Grégoire, the apothecary of the Decalced Carmelites – now recalled to God – and all his scattered friends.

‘Benedic, Domine nos et haec tua dona quae de tua largitate sumus sumpturi. Per Christum Dominum nostrum.’

‘Amen,’ they all replied.

Madame Sanson again favoured him with a smile. ‘It’s a sacred custom in our family,’ she said. ‘I find it surprising that at tables where everything is in abundance, and where there is such a great variety of meats, people refuse to pay due homage to the Lord, from whom they have received all these things and to whom they should be indebted.’

The two servants brought in a steaming tureen, and the master of the house set about serving its contents.

‘This is a soup made with capons, knuckle of veal and white onions,’ said his wife. ‘I spent the afternoon skimming it to make sure it would be thin enough.’ She turned to one of the servants. ‘Bernard, serve our guest some of my father’s cider. I remember hearing that he likes it.’

Nicolas thanked her for her kindness. He knew that Madame Sanson’s father was a farmer in Montmartre, and that it was while he was out hunting that Sanson had made the acquaintance of his future wife. Clearly, he was well known in this friendly house. After a moment’s embarrassment, the conversation turned to matters of cooking. Madame Sanson told Nicolas that she knew his good taste and knowledge in this field. The soup was followed by eggs à la Tartufe. The name intrigued Nicolas.

Marie-Anne laughed. ‘It’s because the white conceals the black just as false devotion conceals hypocrisy!’

‘And how on earth do you make this dish?’

‘Oh, it’s simplicity itself! I cut bacon into thin slices and cook it with a little water in a saucepan over a low flame. Then I throw away the juice, to get rid of the salt and the slightly rancid taste. I put it on an ordinary clay plate and add a little wine from a good bottle of red which I’ve first steamed. Over the whole thing, I crack a dozen well-chosen eggs and, for seasoning, add salt, thick pepper and grated nutmeg. The whole thing must be cooked over a low flame, taking great care not to over-cook the yolks, which should be eaten soft.’

‘It’s delicious,’ said Nicolas. ‘I love the combination of flavour and consistency.’

The meal continued peacefully. Nicolas observed that the host did not say much, but that his wife, who never lost her good humour, had an answer for everything. A dish of puréed peas accompanied by a braised pork loin chop was served next, followed by what was left of a huge Twelfth Night cake, and a pot of jam.

‘Forgive the modesty of this dessert,’ said Sanson, ‘but—’

‘But Monsieur Sanson will warn me in future when we have an important guest …’

Nicolas was intrigued by the jam. It was clearly made from cherries, but there was another flavour mixed in with it, giving a slightly acidic overall taste.

‘What do you call this jam?’

She nodded her head, pleased to see his surprise. ‘It’s a family secret, but I don’t mind telling you. It’s made from raspberry-flavoured cherries. All you do is take the stones out of the cherries and replace them with raspberries. You also add the juice of squeezed raspberries and cherries, and make sure you divide the stuffed cherries from the cherries with stones. The ones with stones should be pinched in two places with a pin, to stop them bursting and the stones coming out. You cook them with sugar, as usual.’

‘I shall preserve the memory of this delicacy, and I promise you, Madame, that I’ll guard the secret jealously.’

The supper ended and everyone, including the servants and the cook, gathered at the staircase. Madame Sanson made them all kneel and recited the evening prayers in a firm voice. Then she distributed candles, with the usual instructions. Less timid now, the children came and embraced their father’s friend. Nicolas went up to his room. The warmth of this family evening had calmed him. Now tiredness swept over him and he collapsed into the soft bed, which enveloped him so snugly that he immediately drifted into a dreamless sleep.