Читать книгу The Nicolas Le Floch Affair: Nicolas Le Floch Investigation #4 - Jean-Francois Parot - Страница 23

Experience began to take the place of age, it had the same effect on us as years.

ABBÉ PRÉVOST

Never, thought Nicolas, had Monsieur de Sartine let himself go like this in front of those closest to him. The object of his hilarity must really be worth it. Every time he looked at the stunned expression on Nicolas’s face, not to mention his absurd costume, his laughter started up again, louder than ever, lighting up his face and fleetingly making him look his real age. His usual gravity and composure were cracking like a veneer, revealing a rough sketch of a happy adolescent. But gradually he calmed down, grew serious again and anxiously adjusted his wig.

‘I imagine, Commissioner,’ he said, ‘that you were expecting some fit of anger on my part. It would certainly have been justified. There are many things I could say about your thoughtlessness – if that is not too weak a word. It’s beyond my understanding that you should have heeded the poisoned advice of a friend acting on my orders. To give Bourdeau his due, he was not at all happy at the idea of deceiving you.’

Nicolas cast an indignant glance at Bourdeau, who did not flinch.

‘Oh, you can forgive him. He defended you tooth and nail, being more convinced of your innocence than anyone, even before it had been established that this was a criminal matter. No use looking at me with that air of dismay. You’ve been with me for nearly fifteen years. Have I ever struck you as being so naïve as to take a suspect purely at his word? For, whether you liked it or not, that was what you were, potentially, even though my natural inclination and my warm feelings towards you led me to believe you innocent. Those feelings, anyway, were the man’s, not the Lieutenant General’s. You know my love of secrecy. I wanted to see you at work on an investigation where you would be free to do as you wanted, knowing that Bourdeau would keep me informed of everything.’

‘Monsieur,’ said Nicolas, taking advantage of a pause, ‘one question, just one question. Why has this test – not that I’m complaining about it—’

‘I should hope not! You are hardly in a position to do so, and I note that you don’t exactly seem overcome with remorse.’

‘Why,’ Nicolas pressed on, ‘has this test suddenly come to an end? If you’d let it continue, you’d have been able to back up your judgement even more conclusively.’

‘Now he’s giving me advice! Reason away if you must, but I have my own reasons for acting as I do, and I don’t need to give an account of them to you. Try not to provoke me. I have every justification to be angry with you for your lack of honesty.’

‘But what should I have done, Monsieur?’ protested Nicolas. ‘Should I have come to you and denounced a friend who had thrown me a lifeline? In not doing so, I wasn’t betraying you. I was discreetly helping justice to do its work, since I was best placed, because of my intimacy with Madame de Lastérieux, to sift the truth from the lies.’

‘There speaks a pupil of the Jesuits in Vannes,’ said Sartine. ‘But all I’m concerned with is the facts. Bourdeau’s reports have certainly tipped the balance in your favour. There remains one factor, which will be decisive in restoring the trust I fully concede to you as a man and would like to restore to you as the Lieutenant General of Police too, Nicolas.’

‘I am at your service, Monsieur.’

‘I want you to tell me in as much detail as possible about your second visit to Julie de Lastérieux’s house on the night in question.’

‘That’s easy, Monsieur,’ replied Nicolas. ‘I went back after my visit to the Théâtre-Français, determined to patch things up with Julie. As soon as I let myself into the house, I heard a lot of noise and realised that the party was still going on. That made me angry again and I decided not to show myself. As Monsieur de Noblecourt was giving a Twelfth Night dinner and I didn’t want to go back to Rue Montmartre empty-handed, I went into the servants’ pantry to recover the bottle of old Tokay I had bought for my mistress. On the way out, I bumped into someone I didn’t know, a musician I’d seen for the first time that afternoon playing the pianoforte. As I was in a hurry, I shoved him aside. Then I passed Julie’s servant Casimir and went downstairs.’

‘I can bear witness to the fact,’ said Bourdeau, breaking his silence, ‘that when Nicolas returned to Monsieur de Noblecourt’s house, he lost consciousness and broke the bottle in question.’

‘Thank you,’ said Sartine, handing him a letter. ‘You have the Lieutenant General’s trust and his certainty of your innocence. May it please heaven that everyone is as convinced as I am! An impression, however strong, is not proof, especially to some of our magistrates.’

Nicolas opened the letter. What he read filled him with anger and dread.

7 January 1774

Monsieur

I owe it to myself and to my sense of moral rectitude as well as to the kindness you have always shown me to inform you of the following facts. I have just learnt of the death of Madame Julie de Lastérieux, a close friend and a distinguished harpsichordist, in conditions I cannot find words to describe.

However, rumours are circulating that she may have been poisoned. It so happens that last night I was invited to her house to dine with friends. Your clerk Monsieur Le Floch arrived late in the afternoon and had a violent argument with our hostess. He pushed me aside and ran out like a madman, much to the surprise of everyone present. Two or three hours later, as we were dining, I was told that he had come back and had crept secretly into the servants’ pantry. Far be it from me to make accusations, but it seems that he was surprised tampering in some mysterious way with the dishes.

Whatever the affection I have for him, and all too aware at my age of how human passions may lead us astray, I was determined, Monsieur, to do my duty. I remain at your disposal and assure you that I am, more than ever, your very humble and obedient servant

Balbastre

‘I’ve seldom read anything more ignominious and more hypocritical!’ cried Nicolas. ‘I have always known that the man has borne me a grudge since the very first time we met, without being sure why. Your clerk! He’s always called me that, and in his mouth it’s a genuine insult. As for this “secretly” and “mysterious” …’ Nicolas was waving the letter. ‘The nerve of the man!’

‘Calm down,’ said Sartine. ‘I agree the letter is somewhat sickening. But make no mistake, it contains enough elements to condemn a suspect in a court of law. Imagine for a moment that you had concealed from me the fact that you had gone into the servants’ pantry. What conclusions would I have had to draw from such an omission? We will of course have to look into the reasons for such rank hatred. It’s too well founded not to conceal something else. The organist of Notre Dame truly hates you.’

‘What are we going to do?’ asked Bourdeau.

‘There is no time to lose. We must question the servants. I’ve had them brought here from the police station in Rue du Bac. They’re in my office, under guard. Nicolas, keep your disguise on for a moment. Rabouine, who never went any further than the Jardin de l’Infante, has left your clothes in Old Marie’s box room, so you’ll be able to change later and at last abandon this ridiculous get-up. I intend to carry out the interrogation myself.’

‘Monsieur, one thing more,’ said Nicolas. ‘I don’t quite understand why you are so personally interested in this affair. I don’t dare think that my involvement is the only explanation for your concern.’

Sartine nodded his head with satisfaction. ‘It seems that reason is gradually returning to that mad head of yours. I’m therefore going to answer you as frankly as possible and tell you something which I fear may come as a shock to you. What did you know about Julie de Lastérieux?’

Nicolas opened his mouth, but Sartine did not give him time to reply.

‘Nothing, Monsieur! You knew nothing about her. You merely accepted blindly what she told you. For example, her husband did not die of fever in the West Indies. Pursued for trafficking in accounts and embezzling the King’s money, he took his own life to escape justice. His fortune was confiscated and his property sold. However, a large proportion of this was ceded to his widow for reasons that will soon become clear. You saw her three or four times a week, sometimes less. What do you know of her activities outside those evenings? Very little.’

‘But—’

‘No buts! I know everything about her and you know nothing. Commissioner, imagine a woman who is received in the best houses in Paris, and who receives in her own house, several times a week, courtiers, men of letters, men of the world, and those idlers who are seen everywhere and put their noses into everything. She gave dinners, and the police – my police – paid for them. Her house in Rue de Verneuil – a meeting place for men of all conditions, both good and poor company – was not quite an open house; there were few women and no gambling, and it was a place where everyone spoke freely. I was the only person to know Madame de Lastérieux in her private role. She was very skilful at keeping all this from you. I was informed of what I wanted to know, and in a much more subtle fashion than I would have been by ordinary spies.’

Nicolas was stunned. ‘And she never told me!’

‘She was under strict orders not to, and she knew it was in her own best interests to obey them. I have to admit in your defence, Nicolas, that even in bed, where so many men pour out their secrets, you never divulged any, even though you were privy to so many. And the lady …’ – he laughed – ‘… had been given instructions – forgive me, my dear Nicolas – to ask you many questions. You never yielded. It’s very satisfying for the head of the police force to be so sure of the loyalty of his closest officer.’

‘But, Monsieur,’ said Bourdeau, ‘if she had ever been suspected or denounced, this role would have exposed her to terrible reprisals.’

‘That’s a very sensible remark, Bourdeau. It was a risk we ran, certainly. But there’s nothing for the moment to either invalidate or confirm the theory you’re putting forward.’

Was it conceivable, thought Nicolas, that this woman he had loved so passionately had been deceiving him all that time, that he had been a mere plaything to her?

Sartine was looking at him sympathetically, guessing where his train of thought was leading him.

‘You weren’t part of the game, Nicolas. She was very fond of you and hoped one day to escape the constraints within which we kept her. That explains why she was so obsessed with the idea of your marrying her. She hoped that appearing at Court would free her. But rules are rules. To maintain order and serve the King, the ends justify the means, even when those means may be morally reprehensible.’

‘Or may cost a human life?’

‘Sometimes, yes, although there’s nothing so far to indicate that this was the reason for her death. All the same, we need to throw some light on it. The very salvation of the State is at stake.’

The Lieutenant General led them to his office. Huge logs, specially brought from Vincennes, were blazing merrily away, with much crackling and throwing out of sparks: as usual, when Sartine was at the Châtelet, Old Marie had lit a fire in the great Gothic fireplace. In the centre of the room, Julia and Casimir stood waiting. They were in shackles, and two officers were guarding them. Sartine took up position in front of the fireplace, raised his slender figure to its full height, ordered Julia to be taken outside, and began interrogating Casimir.

In a somewhat singsong voice, the man stated his identity. He was a native of the island of Guadeloupe, about twenty-five years of age, Roman Catholic by religion, and served in Madame de Lastérieux’s household as a slave. He described Thursday evening, when his mistress had held a dinner. There were eight guests. Monsieur Nicolas had dropped by late that afternoon, but had immediately left again. He had no explanation for this departure. The other guests were unknown to him, apart from Monsieur Balbastre, who was a regular, and a young musician who had been coming to the house for the past two weeks, and had even visited Madame de Lastérieux alone several times – staying very late on one occasion. The dinner had passed without incident. As was her custom, Madame had eaten very little. Asked whether he had seen Nicolas again during the evening, he unhesitatingly replied in the negative. He had seen his mistress for the last time when she retired to her boudoir to show the young musician a particular perfume. Julia and he had tidied everything and had gone to bed. Yes, Julia was his wife, even though no priest had blessed their union. He did not know if the young man had left or, if he had, at what time. The next morning, Julia had entered her mistress’s bedroom and found her dead. She had screamed and he had come running.