Читать книгу The Phantom of the Rue Royale: Nicolas Le Floch Investigation #3 - Jean-Francois Parot - Страница 15

Nicolas moved through a suspended city, a city surprised by its own suffering. Everyone had his own version of the events to peddle. Little groups conversed in low voices. Some noisier ones seemed to be pursuing a long-standing quarrel. The shops, usually open at this hour, were still closed, as if observing a state of mourning. Death had struck everywhere, and the spectacle of the wounded and dying being brought back to their homes had spread the news of the disaster throughout Paris, made all the worse by the false rumours inevitably aroused by such a tragedy. People seemed struck by the fact that this catastrophe had happened during the celebrations for a royal wedding. It was a bad omen, and it made the future uncertain and vaguely menacing. Nicolas passed priests carrying the Holy Sacrament. Passers-by crossed themselves, took off their hats or knelt before them.

Rue Montmartre lacked its usual animation. Even the familiar, reassuring smell of freshly baked bread coming from the baker’s shop on the ground floor of Noblecourt’s house had lost its enchantment. Breathing it in, he immediately remembered the terrible, musty odour of wet fire and blood hovering over Place Louis XV. An officer of the watch had lent him a mare, a cantankerous animal which snorted and pulled back its ears. Bourdeau had remained on the scene to help the commissioners from the various districts who had come running as reinforcements.

Nicolas’s first impulse had been to gallop to police headquarters in Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin. But he knew all too well that, despite the gravity of the moment, Monsieur de Sartine would not have tolerated anyone appearing before him with a soot-blackened face and dishevelled clothes. He had often experienced the apparent insensitivity of a chief who did not accept any weakness in himself, and hated having to deal with that of his subordinates. The King’s service was all that mattered, and there was no particular advantage in being injured, bruised and dirty. On the contrary, such a lapse in the proprieties would have brought disfavour on anyone who dared to appear in that way. To Monsieur de Sartine, it would have demonstrated neither courage nor devotion, but rather a contempt for all that his office represented, a licentiousness that went against everything he believed in.

The bells of Saint Eustache were chiming seven o’clock as Nicolas handed the reins of his nag to a young baker’s boy who stood gaping in the doorway. He went straight through to the servants’ pantry where he found his maid, Catherine, slumped beside her stove, fast asleep. He surmised that she had not gone to bed but, having heard of the tragedy, had decided to wait up for him. Old Marion, Monsieur de Noblecourt’s cook, whose age excused her from heavy work, slept later and later these days, as did Poitevin the footman. Noiselessly, he went out to the courtyard and washed himself at the pump, as was his custom in summer. Then he tiptoed upstairs to his room to change his clothes and brush his hair. For a moment he considered telling the former procurator that he was back, but when he thought of the detailed account he would have to give, and the thousand questions that would follow, he changed his mind. He missed being greeted by Cyrus, the little, grey, curly-haired water spaniel. The days were long gone when the dog would jump up and yap excitedly when he arrived. The animal was now quite old and stiff, and only the slow movements of his tail still showed how pleased he was to see Nicolas. He spent all his time on the tapestried rug, from where he observed events surrounding his master with eyes that were still alert.

Nicolas thought about the passage of time. Soon, it struck him, he would have to bid farewell to this witness to his first steps in Paris. The idea occurred to him that the compassion he felt for Cyrus was a way of avoiding having to think of other imminent farewells which were just as inevitable. He gently placed a short note of explanation in Catherine’s lap and left the house without a sound. He went back to his restive mount, and the baker’s boy smiled and handed him a brioche, still hot from the oven. Remembering that he had not had dinner, he wolfed it down. The buttery taste was a delight to the palate. ‘Come on,’ he said to himself, ‘life isn’t so bad. Carpe diem!’ It was a phrase constantly repeated by his sybaritic friend Monsieur de La Borde, who loved female dancers, fine food and works of art, and was currently writing an opera and a book about China.

In Rue Neuve-Sainte Augustin, an unusual amount of activity indicated that the night’s events had left their mark. Nicolas climbed the steps four at a time. The elderly manservant greeted him with a flustered look on his face. He was an old acquaintance, for whom Nicolas was almost part of the furniture.

‘Here you are at last, Monsieur Nicolas. I think Monsieur de Sartine is waiting for you. I’m very worried: it’s the first time in years he hasn’t asked to see his wigs. Is the case so serious?’

Nicolas smiled at this reminder of his chief’s innocent obsession. Contrary to the custom of the house, the servant led him to the library. He had only once before had the opportunity to enter the beautifully proportioned room, with its shelves of white oak and its ceiling painted by Jouvenet. He remembered admiring the work of this artist when his guardian, Canon Le Floch, had taken him one day to the parlement of Rennes, and every time duty called him to Versailles he would gaze in awe at the splendid tribune of the royal chapel, which was decorated by the same painter. He tapped softly at the door and opened it. He thought at first that he was alone, until he heard a curt voice he knew well. Monsieur de Sartine, in a black coat and powdered wig, was perched at the top of a stepladder consulting a red Morocco-bound book embossed with his coat of arms: three sardines.

‘Greetings, Commissioner.’

That gave Nicolas pause. The Lieutenant General only addressed him by his rank when he was trying to master his anger – an anger directed less at his men than at the general inertia or obstinacy of things.

He was looking up at the figures on the ceiling, apparently deep in thought. Nicolas respected his chief’s silence for a few moments, then decided to begin his report. He gave the number of dead which, by early that morning, had been approaching a hundred. Nevertheless, in his opinion, this figure could well be much greater, even by as much as ten times, since many of the injured were unlikely to recover.

‘I know what you did, you and Bourdeau. Believe me when I say that it is a comfort to me to know that you were there to bear witness for our force.’

It occurred to Nicolas that Monsieur de Sartine was ill, and that his illness went deeper than anything he might have imagined. His manifestations of satisfaction were so rare that they were seen as events, and, besides, he never came out with them when a case was in progress. Nicolas saw him opening and closing his book mechanically, as if unsure what to say or do next.

In a low voice, as if speaking to himself, Sartine resumed, ‘“This man has marr’d my fortune, and manhood is call’d foolery when it stands against a falling fabric …”’

Nicolas smiled inwardly and recited aloud, ‘“… The tag whose rage doth rend like interrupted waters, and o’erbear what they are used to bear.”’

Monsieur de Sartine slammed the book shut, slowly descended the stepladder, then turned and looked at Nicolas with ironic severity. ‘You allow yourself to improvise on my words, I think!’

‘I step aside in favour of Coriolanus and continue his.’

‘So, my Shakespearian friend, what is your opinion of last night? “Paint me Nicolas distraught amid these horrors …”’

‘Lack of preparation, improvisation, coincidence and disorder.’

He gave a brief account of the night’s events, without going into details which Sartine surely knew, since Sartine always seemed to be well informed, in some mysterious but effective way, about anything, whether happy or tragic, that happened in the capital with whose care he was entrusted. He mentioned the incident with the major from the City Guards, and described the layout of the area, the absence of any organisation, the initial episode with the fireworks and the disaster that had been its inevitable consequence. He did not fail to mention how certain privileged individuals had distinguished themselves on this battlefield by laying about them with their canes or even their swords and sending their carriages rushing through the crowd, nor how circumstances had left the field clear for crooks and thugs from the faubourgs.

Sartine had sat down in a bergère covered in crimson satin and was listening with his eyes half closed, his chin on his hand. Nicolas noted his pallor, his drawn features, the dark patches on his cheekbones. When he had met Sartine for the first time, it had struck him that he looked older than his age – a fact the Lieutenant General played on to assert his authority when confronted with older interlocutors who might consider him a young upstart. He did not deign to look at Nicolas until the latter’s account of his adventures as a chimney sweep. At that point he looked sharply at his deputy’s clothes, confirming to Nicolas that he had done the right thing in changing them. The satisfied smile that lit up his chief’s face for a fraction of a second was highly gratifying.

‘Yes,’ Sartine said, ‘it’s as I feared …’

He seemed to feel a kind of bitter joy in observing that, once again, events had justified his anxieties. He brought his fist down on the beautiful inlaid backgammon table before him.

‘I did, however, indicate to His Majesty that the city authorities were not in a position to control an event of that size.’ He thought for a moment, then went on, ‘Eleven years with no disasters, no mistakes, and now this Bignon, this cheap, stupid, powerless provost, usurps my authority, poaches on my territory and cuts the ground from beneath my feet!’

‘We’ll soon be able to apportion blame,’ Nicolas ventured.

‘Do you really believe that? Have you ever had to deal with these snakes? At court, the war of tongues can be deadlier than a battlefield. Calumny …’

Nicolas’s body still ached in places, bearing witness to the risks he had taken and the dangers he had confronted, which were just as real as those with which the Lieutenant General was now faced. ‘Monsieur,’ he said, ‘your past, the confidence that the monarch—’

‘Balderdash, Monsieur! Favour is by essence volatile, as our drawing room apothecaries and chemists say! People always remember the bad things we are supposed to have done. Do they ever take into account our efforts and our successes? Well, that’s as it should be. We are the King’s servants, for better or worse, and whatever it may cost us. But that this ridiculous provost, who has used his alliances and relationships to advance himself and who has obtained everything without having to make any effort, and certainly without deserving it, that such a man should be the cause of my disgrace, that’s something I can’t get over. He’s the kind of person who’s puffed up with pride when he mounts a good horse, or sports a plume in his hat, or wears fine clothes. What nonsense! If there’s any glory in those things, it should go to the horse, the bird or the tailor!’

Again he struck the gaming table. Nicolas, astonished by this uncharacteristic outburst, suspected a touch of play-acting in his chief – and suspected, too, that his last words had been a quotation, although he could not immediately identify it.

‘But we’re straying from the point,’ Sartine went on. ‘Listen carefully. You’ve been with me for a long time now and you are the only person I can tell these things. The reason I feel so strongly about this affair is that beneath such struggles for influence, major interests are always at play. You know that I am friendly with the First Minister, the Duc de Choiseul. Even though they had their disagreements and didn’t always trust each other, by and large he was close to Madame de Pompadour …’ He broke off. ‘You had dealings with her, didn’t you?’

‘I often had the privilege of speaking with her and serving her, when I first started working for you.’

‘And even, if I remember correctly, performing some signal services for her.2 The last time our poor friend received me, she was no more than a shadow of her former self … She was burning hot and complained of being frozen, her face looked drawn, and her complexion was pale and mottled …’

The Lieutenant General broke off, as if the memory was too painful to evoke.

‘I’m straying from the point again. My relations with the new favourite are quite different. She has neither the contacts, nor the political grasp, nor the subtle influence of the lady of Choisy,3 who was distinguished by her education, her studied elegance, her sure taste in arts and letters, and her native charm – well, she was born under the sign of Pisces. This one’s a decent enough girl, but she’s been thrown into the subtle ins and outs of the Court without preparation, apart from the wrong kind, perhaps.’

He lowered his voice, and looked around at the shelves of his library.

‘The worst of it is, whatever’s been achieved during the day she undoes at night. By arousing the old King’s senses she ensures her influence. Choiseul is obsessed with getting his revenge on the English. As he’s unsure how long he’ll keep his position, he’s in such a hurry to achieve this end that he has a tendency to rush in and make stupid blunders. He’s antagonized the new mistress or, more precisely, he resents her for having succeeded where his own sister, Madame de Choiseul-Stainville, failed – God knows she put her heart and soul into it! What’s all this to do with me, you will ask. I’ve been dragged into this quarrel against my will. Keep this to yourself: on the King’s orders, I had to go to Madame du Barry and protest my loyalty. I had to promise her, almost on my knees, that I would do everything I could to prevent the publication of scandalous writings, which, unfortunately for me, have multiplied and spread – the work of journalists and printers paid for by Monsieur de Choiseul himself.’

‘I recall, Monsieur, your ordering me to track down a lampoon called The Nocturnal Orgies of Fontainebleau. But where does Provost Jérôme Bignon fit in to all this?’

‘There’s the rub. He’s wooing Madame du Barry. You see, my dear Nicolas, the regrettable position in which last night’s events place me, apart from my sadness at any example of bad administration by the city authorities. I’ll be held responsible, because no one knows that the celebrations were taken out of my hands.’

‘And yet the marriage of the Dauphin does seem like a genuine success on Choiseul’s part. Everyone sees it as his crowning achievement. He always wanted to forge an alliance with Austria.’

‘You’re right, but nothing is closer to a precipice than a summit. You now have all the inside information I can give you – except for one other thing. Last night, His Majesty and Madame du Barry went to Bellevue to see the fireworks from the terrace of the chateau. They didn’t know anything of the tragedy at the time. On the other hand, the Dauphine and the King’s daughters went to Paris. On Cours-la-Reine, they were admiring the illuminations when they heard cries of terror that got them all aflutter. The coaches did an about-turn, with the princess in tears …’

He stood up, checked the position of his wig and readjusted it with both hands.

‘Commissioner, here are my instructions. They must be followed to the letter. You will use every means necessary to draw up a report on the events in Place Louis XV: how they started, who was responsible, who was at fault, who interfered. You will try to determine the exact death toll. Don’t let anything stand in your way. People may try to obstruct you. We should be prepared for the worst: they may even threaten your life. You will report only to me. Should I fall out of favour and be unable to use my authority, or should I lose my life, then speak to the King on my behalf. You have the necessary access, since you hunt with him. This is a personal service I am asking of you, and I would be grateful if you would perform it with the rigour you have always demonstrated. Naturally, all this requires absolute secrecy.’

‘Monsieur, I have a request to make.’

‘You want Inspector Bourdeau to assist you? Your wish is granted. His past record speaks for him.’

‘I’m very grateful. But I had something else in mind …’

Monsieur de Sartine appeared impatient, and Nicolas sensed that he had no desire to prolong an interview in which he had been forced to reveal a number of secrets and confess to a certain helplessness.

‘I’m listening, but be quick.’

‘You know my friend Dr Semacgus,’ Nicolas said. ‘He assisted me all night and, as we were looking over the victims who had been taken to La Madeleine cemetery, our attention was drawn to the body of a young woman who seems not to have been crushed or otherwise injured in last night’s disaster, but strangled. I’d like to pursue the case.’

‘I should have known! It would have surprised me if in the midst of so many dead bodies you hadn’t managed to find one for your personal delectation! Why are so interested in this particular victim?’

‘It could be, Monsieur, that one tragedy is being used to conceal another. Who knows?’

Sartine was thinking. Nicolas had the feeling that he had touched the right chord.

‘And how do you propose to pursue this case, Commissioner?’

‘I’d like Sanson to open up the corpse in the Basse-Geôle. We need to determine if the death occurred as the result of last night’s disturbances or if it was a domestic crime. Finally, may I suggest that this investigation could usefully serve as a cover for the more discreet general investigation you wish me to conduct into the tragedy of Place Louis XV? No one will be able to see the wood for the trees.’

It was doubtless this last argument that swayed the Lieutenant General of Police.

‘You present your case so skilfully that I cannot refuse you. Let us hope it doesn’t drag you into one of those criminal imbroglios whose mysteries you love to complicate even further, so that we never know where they may lead us! With that, Monsieur, I bid you farewell. I suspect the King and Monsieur de Saint-Florentin are waiting to hear my explanations. After all, I’m supposed to be keeping order in the capital of the Kingdom.’

Nicolas smiled inwardly at this refrain. He had heard it many times before, whenever he had had to force Sartine’s hand to let him loose on a case. Monsieur de Sartine turned on his heels and quickly walked out of the library, leaving Nicolas to reflect on the surprising things he had heard and the delicate mission with which he was now entrusted. For a moment he stood there, motionless, staring into space. By the time he got back to the stables, a coach was already speeding out of the building. Through the window he caught a glimpse of his chief’s sharp profile, the very image of despondency. He had never seen him in such a state, he who was always so in control of his emotions, and so anxious not to lose face before his visitors. He seemed weighed down with anxiety, and it was not only, as a superficial observer might have supposed, because he feared for his position. Nicolas knew him too well to think that such selfish matters were all that preoccupied him. He had been wounded by the King’s decision. That this decision had had fatal consequences the previous night merely increased his profound sense of abandonment. He was right to feel aggrieved by this absurd chain of events, so alien to his sense of duty and his total devotion to the monarch whom he had been serving selflessly for so many years. Sartine enjoyed the exceptional privilege of a weekly interview in the small apartments at Versailles, often in that secret study, which even those close to the King knew nothing about, where the monarch studied his agents’ dispatches and reports. In one night, this whole world had come tumbling down like a house of cards. To Nicolas, it seemed as though the image of an infallible chief had disintegrated, to be replaced by that of an unhappy man, a man worthy of pity. This merely strengthened his own determination to see this thing through. Yes, he would do all he could to find those responsible for a tragedy which the city authorities should, in the normal course of events, have anticipated and avoided.

He chose a frisky young chestnut gelding, which stretched its slender head towards him, and had it saddled by a groom. The streets had recovered a little of their animation, but everyone still looked grim and groups were forming. The air, matching the mood of the day, was oppressive. Nicolas could feel his clothes sticking to his body, and his horse gave off a strong odour, as if it were overheated. Slate-blue storm clouds were gathering in the sky. It was almost dark by the time he rode in beneath the archway of the Grand Châtelet. As he was handing over the reins of his mount to the stable boy, a familiar voice hailed him.

‘Ah, there’s my Nicolas, in a hurry as usual!’

He recognised the individual who was addressing him with such familiarity as his fellow countryman, a Breton called Jean, better known on the streets by his nickname, ‘Tirepot’. He was a singular character, a godsend to a populace deprived of privies. He carried two pails that hung from a bar resting across his shoulders. This contraption, hidden beneath a length of tarred canvas, allowed his customers to relieve themselves unseen. Nicolas often used the services of this friendly helper, who was always well informed.

‘What’s new, Jean? What are they saying this morning?’

‘Oh, certainly not good things! Everyone’s licking their wounds and mourning the dead. They’re saying this marriage has got off to a bad start. They’re blaming the watch and’ – he lowered his voice – ‘cursing the police and Monsieur de Sartine for not doing their job properly. People are complaining and gathering together, but things won’t go far – the poor have seen it all before!’

‘Is that all?’

The man scratched his head. ‘I was in Place Louis XV, doing my job …’

‘And?’

‘I quickly put down my trinkets and lent a hand. I heard some things, I can tell you!’

‘Really? What?’

‘Men from the city accusing Sartine early this morning. According to them, he’s to blame for the tragedy.’

‘From the city, you say? Aldermen?’

‘No. City Guards in all their finery. A lot of them were coming out of taverns, hardly able to stand, stinking so much of wine they could have killed flies with their breath. One big fat fellow, who seemed to be their officer, was urging them on, getting them all stirred up.’

Nicolas rewarded him with a crown, which Tirepot caught in mid-air, at the risk of dropping his pyramid.

‘You could do something for me,’ Nicolas said. ‘Go back to the Saint-Honoré district and try to find out where those guards spent the night. As you can imagine, I’m really interested to know that.’

Tirepot winked, loaded everything onto his back, adjusted it and disappeared beneath the archway. For a long time his voice could be heard receding into the distance, yelling his insistent cry: ‘Come one, come two, you all know what you need to do!’

Nicolas was still thinking about Tirepot’s words as he entered the commissioners’ duty office. Bourdeau sat slumped at the table with his head on his arms, snoring loudly. He looked at him tenderly. There was someone who never spared himself! He called Old Marie, the usher, who immediately fetched two cups of coffee liberally laced with Lambic beer, which he smuggled in and which smelled of cider apples. It was this smell that woke the inspector. He shook himself, seized one of the cups, and drank the coffee noisily because it was piping hot. A long silence followed.

‘Methinks,’ said Bourdeau, in a mockingly pompous tone, ‘this coffee is merely an invitation to more solid refreshment.’

‘Methinks,’ Nicolas said, ‘I’ll follow you on that path. I’ve had nothing in my belly since midday yesterday except a brioche. I’m all ears. What do you propose?’

‘The usual place we go when we’re hungry and we don’t have much time, in Rue du Pied-de-Boeuf. I think that’s the perfect choice.’

‘I’m hungry, therefore I follow you. That’s my cogito for this morning.’

‘Especially as I’ve been to see Sanson,’ Bourdeau went on. ‘He’ll join us in the Basse-Geôle on the stroke of noon for the opening of the corpse. Not something to watch on an empty stomach – it might give us the hiccups …’

He laughed, and Nicolas shuddered at the thought of this grim prospect. He agreed, though: opening a corpse was like a journey by sea – both required a full stomach.

Their usual tavern was only a short distance from the Châtelet. The proximity of the Grande Boucherie, although a source of sanies and foul odours, also offered the advantage of fresh products. As soon as they entered the low, smoky room, Bourdeau called to his old friend – they were both natives of a village near Chinon, in the Touraine – and asked him what the kitchen could offer them at that hour of the morning. The fat, ruddy-faced man smiled.

‘What can I possibly serve you?’ he said, giving Bourdeau a dig in the ribs that would have knocked over anyone less steady on his feet. ‘Hmm … What do you say to a calf’s breast pie? I just made one for a neighbour of mine who’s christening his baby. I’ll go and heat it up for you. With two pitchers of red wine from our region, as usual.’

Nicolas, who loved inside information, asked him the recipe for this promising-sounding dish.

‘Only because it’s you, Commissioner. Otherwise, I wouldn’t say a word, even under torture. Here goes. You cut a decent piece of calf’s breast – choose it well: it has to be plump and pearly. Then you cut it up into slices, which you lard with one or two pieces of fat. Make a crust pastry out of lard and lower it into the pie dish. Put in the slices of veal, after seasoning them with bacon, salt, pepper, cloves, nutmeg, herbs, bay, mushrooms and artichoke ends, and cover the whole thing with pastry. Two good hours in the oven. You take it out and, just before serving, you cut a little hole in the top and carefully pour in a white sauce made with lemon juice and egg yolks.’

‘That seems to me perfectly adapted to the emptiness of our bellies,’ said Bourdeau with a gleam in his eye and his lips all aquiver with anticipation.

‘And, to whet your appetite, I’ll serve cherries, the first of the year, cooked in cinnamon wine.’

‘Ideal for a little eleven o’clock meal,’ Nicolas said ingratiatingly.

A pitcher of purple wine was quickly brought. They drank many glasses, calming their raging hunger with a salad of beans mixed with slices of lard. Nicolas informed Bourdeau of the night’s events as he and Semacgus had experienced them, as well as the gist of his interview with Monsieur de Sartine, emphasising the fact that it was their chief who had appointed the inspector to assist him in this delicate case.

‘Let me see if I’ve got this right,’ said Bourdeau, turning red with pleasure. ‘We’re going to concentrate on the case of the strangled girl in order to divert attention from what we’re really up to.’

‘Exactly. But the credibility of our alibi will depend on the result of the autopsy. The marks on her neck could have been caused by attempts to free the body from where it lay with the others.’

‘I don’t think so. Nothing in the state of her clothes or her appearance indicated that there had been any kind of struggle to free her.’

Nicolas was convinced that it was a good policeman’s duty to obey his instincts. From snippets of information, sometimes unformulated impressions, clues, coincidences and assumptions, a policeman used his common sense to organise all the elements of a case. He needed an open mind, a good memory for precedents and the barely conscious ability to refer to a whole collection of human types and situations. Beneath his good-natured appearance, Bourdeau had all these qualities, as well as a remarkable sensitivity. How many times had one of his apparently innocuous remarks sent an investigation along a new line of inquiry which had not previously been explored in depth?

The smell of veal simmered in its spices drew Nicolas from his reflections. Carefully, their host placed his golden pie on the uneven wooden table. He disappeared, only to reappear immediately with a small pan that had seen better days, having been seasoned by hours of exposure in the oven. From it he took a sharp knife and nimbly cut a small hole in the pastry. Steam rose through it, enveloping them in its aroma. The innkeeper gently drizzled white sauce into this opening, so that it soon reached the smallest crannies of the pie. He put down his pan, picked up the dish, moved it from side to side, and set it down again. Nicolas and Bourdeau were already leaning forward when he stopped them.

‘Go gently, my lambs, let the sauce do its work. It has to imbue the meat with its aroma and make it tender. The thing to remember is that I call it calf’s breast pie, but to make it particularly mellow and plump I add a little cartilage. And the sauce! It’ll make your mouth water! It’s not like that miserable stuff that tastes like plaster, put together in a hurry by kitchen boys. It takes hours, gentlemen, for the flour to rise. I may be an insignificant little innkeeper, but I put my heart into my work, just like my great-grandfather, who was sauce chef to Gaston d’Orléans under the great Cardinal.’

Inspired no doubt by this glorious memory, he served them ceremoniously. The dish and its flavours lived up to his introduction. The hot crust, crisp with caramelised meat juices at the edges, enclosed meat perfectly tender from the sauce melted over it. They spent a long time savouring this piece of work so simply and eloquently presented. The cooked cherries were refreshing, acid and sweet at the same time. The two men were overcome with a pleasant drowsiness, made all the stronger by brandy served in porcelain bowls as a precautionary measure. They blissfully let this infringement of the regulations pass without comment. Their host had no licence to serve spirits, the sale of which was reserved for another guild. His modest business allowed him only to supply wines from the cask, not from sealed bottles. Bourdeau, always alert to detail, suddenly realised that they did not have any snuff. It was an old joke between them. They always resorted to snuff when attending autopsies, in order to blot out the musty smell of decomposition pervading the Basse-Geôle. The host obligingly lent them two earthen pipes reserved for his customers, and a pro portionate amount of snuff.

Back at the Grand Châtelet, they went straight to the torture chamber adjoining the office of the clerk of the criminal court. It was in this sombre Gothic room, on one of its oak tables, that bodies were opened up. The operation was still fairly uncommon: the regular doctors attached to the court refused to perform it unless specifically ordered to do so and, even when that was the case, they did not follow the rules, thus rendering the examination imperfect and completely useless from the point of view of an investigation.

A man of Nicolas’s age, dressed in a puce-coloured coat, breeches and black stockings, was laying surgical instruments out on a bench. They glittered in the torchlight. Daylight never entered this room: the casement windows were fitted with metal hoods to prevent screams being heard beyond the walls of the fortress. Charles Henri Sanson was an old acquaintance of Nicolas from his earliest days in Paris. They had begun their careers at about the same time, and both served the King’s justice. An unexpected sympathy – one quite unhoped-for by Sanson – had drawn the young commissioner to this shy, temperate, highly cultured man. Nicolas always found it hard to imagine him as an executioner. He thought of him more as a doctor of crime. He knew that Sanson had been given no choice, but had been forced to take over the family profession. Nevertheless, he accomplished his terrible task with all the care of a compassionate man. Sanson turned, and his grave face lit up when he recognised Nicolas and Bourdeau.

‘Greetings, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I am at your disposal. My one regret is that the pleasure of seeing you again has only been afforded me by last night’s tragedy.’

They shook hands, a custom on which Sanson always insisted, as if this simple gesture admitted him back into the community of the living. He smiled when they lit their pipes and started puffing on them. Semacgus suddenly made his entrance, and his ribald laughter introduced a touch of joviality into the heavy atmosphere of the crypt. The two professionals carefully lined up their instruments and examined them one by one, checking the cutting edges of the scalpels, scissors, stylets, straight knives and saws. They also put out curved needles, string, sponges, tenacula, a trepan, a wedge and a hammer. Nicolas and Bourdeau observed how precise their gestures were. At last they all gathered around the large table on which the unknown girl lay. Sanson nodded towards the commissioner and gestured towards the corpse.

‘Whenever you wish, Monsieur.’

Nicolas began: ‘We are in the presence of a body brought to La Madeleine cemetery on Thursday thirty-first May 1770, presumed to have perished in the disaster of Rue Royale.’

Bourdeau was taking the minutes.

‘It was noticed by Commissioner Le Floch and Inspector Bourdeau on the stroke of six. Their attention was drawn by what were clearly marks of strangulation on the victim’s neck. In these circumstances, the order was given to transport the body to the Basse-Geôle, where, at’ – he consulted his watch before putting it back carefully in the fob of his coat – ‘at half past twelve on the same day, Charles Henri Sanson, executioner to the viscountcy and generality of Paris, and Guillaume Semacgus, naval surgeon, proceeded to open it in the presence of said commissioner and inspector. First, the clothing and objects belonging to the victim were examined. A loose dress of good quality, with a straw-coloured satin bodice …’

Sanson and Semacgus undressed the body as Nicolas spoke.

‘… A white silk corset, very tight over the hips, fitted with whalebones and laced at the back …’

The corset was in fact so tight that Semacgus had to use a penknife to cut the lace.

‘… two petticoats, one of thin cotton and the other of silk, with two pockets sewn inside the first …’

He searched them.

‘Empty. Stockings of grey yarn. No shoes. No other objects, no jewellery, no papers, no clues of any kind seen on the body. Apart from …’

Nicolas took a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully unfolded it.

‘… apart from a black pearl of a mineral resembling obsidian, which was found in the victim’s clenched hand when the corpse was discovered in La Madeleine cemetery. We seem to be in the presence of a young girl of about twenty, of slender constitution and with no distinguishing marks, except for those previously noted at the base of the neck. The mouth is twisted and the face contorted. The blonde hair is clean and very well groomed. The rest of the body is equally clean. Gentlemen, you may now proceed.’

Nicolas had turned to Sanson and Semacgus. The two practitioners approached and meticulously examined the pitiful, recumbent body. They turned it over, observed the purplish tinges on its back, then laid it flat again. Nodding, Semacgus passed his hand over the stomach and looked at Sanson, who bent to do the same. He turned to pick up a probe for a more intimate examination.

‘You’re right, there’s no doubt about it.’

‘The clues speak for themselves, my dear colleague,’ Semacgus said, ‘though we’ll know more after we’ve opened her up.’

Nicolas looked at both of them questioningly.

‘This maiden of yours,’ Semacgus said, ‘was a maiden no longer. In fact, there’s every indication that she had already given birth. Further observations are sure to confirm that.’

Sanson now also nodded. ‘It’s beyond dispute. The disappearance of the hymen proves it, even though some authors say this is not infallible proof. In addition, the fourchette is torn, as is almost always the case in women who have had a child.’ He again bent over the body. ‘Gravis odor puerperii. There’s no doubt about it, labour only took place a few days ago, and perhaps even more recently than that. These stretch marks on the stomach show how distended it was.’

‘Not to mention this brownish line from the pubis to the umbilicus,’ said Semacgus, pointing at what he was describing. As for the swollen breasts, they also speak for themselves. We still have to do a detailed examination. Hold her head steady.’

‘Notice,’ said Sanson, ‘that the joint with the first cervical vertebra lacks normal mobility.’

Nicolas tensed as the scalpel entered the flesh. It was always the same: at first, you found it hard to watch, and you would drag desperately at your pipe or frantically take snuff, but gradually your profession would gain the upper hand over the horror of the spectacle. Curiosity was a strong incentive to succeed, to shed light on the shadowy areas of a case. The body was no longer a human being who had lived, but the object of precise, painstaking labour, with its strange sounds and its colours uncovered by the stylet or the probe. It was an unknown world in which the body was a machine, and the inner drama of a life was offered up for view like meat on a stall before the corruption of the flesh obliterated everything.

Without exchanging a single word, understanding one another by look and gesture only, the hangman and the naval surgeon proceeded. Then, after what seemed like a long time, they put everything back in its place. The incisions were sewn up, the body was cleaned and wrapped in a large sheet which, once closed, was sealed with wax by Nicolas. When they had finished, they rubbed their hands with vinegar, and carefully dried them, still in silence: neither wanted to be the first to speak.

‘Monsieur,’ Semacgus said at last, ‘you are at home here. I won’t encroach on your jurisdiction.’

‘Unofficially, Monsieur, unofficially. I consent, but don’t hesitate to interrupt me. Please do me the honour of supplementing my words.’

Semacgus bowed. ‘I shall, with your permission.’

Sanson assumed that modest, calm air of his, which made Nicolas think of a Lenten preacher.

‘I know, Commissioner, that you would like to obtain as quickly as possible the information which will be of most use to your investigation. I think you will benefit from what we have been able to ascertain. Let me therefore sum up the basic points.’

He took a deep breath and folded his hands.

‘We have here a member of the female sex, about twenty years of age …’

‘Quite pretty, by the way,’ Semacgus murmured.

‘Firstly, we ascertained that she had been strangled. The state of her trachea, the contusions and internal haematoma due to loss of blood – everything clearly pointed to that. Secondly, the victim recently gave birth to a child, although we are unable to fix a precise date.’

‘Undoubtedly no more than two or three days ago,’ said Semacgus. ‘That much is clear from the state of the organs, the breasts and other details of which I shall spare you the description.’

‘And, thirdly, it is difficult to ascertain the exact time of death. Nevertheless, the condition of the body encourages me to make a cautious estimate: between seven and eight o’clock yesterday evening.’

‘In addition,’ Semacgus said, ‘when we cleaned the body, we found … some traces of hay.’

He opened his hand. Nicolas took the strands of hay and put them in his handkerchief next to the mysterious black pearl.

‘Where did you find them?’ he asked.

‘More or less everywhere, but especially in the hair, which is why they were not noticed, given that the subject’s hair is long and fair.’

Nicolas was thinking. As always when he wanted to get to the bottom of things, he resolved to play the devil’s advocate.

‘Is it possible, even if the time of death were much earlier than the tragedy in Place Louis XV, that you could be mistaken – forgive me – and that the wound to the neck, the apparent cause of death, was due to the removal of the body?’

‘No,’ Sanson replied. ‘We’re positive that the wound was inflicted prior to death, and was indeed the cause of it. I shan’t bore you with details, but the evidence is irrefutable. And the clothes are intact, which would be unlikely if the opposite were the case.’

Semacgus expanded on this. ‘It would also be hard to explain the facial expression and the presence of black blood in the lungs.’

‘From what you can see, was the labour normal?’ Bourdeau asked. ‘In other words, is there any possibility that there was an attempt at abortion?’

‘Hard to say. The folds in the skin of the abdomen are undoubtedly similar to those found on a woman who has given birth. However, the marks resulting from a late abortion are generally the same as those following labour, especially when the pregnancy is advanced.’

‘So,’ Bourdeau concluded, ‘there’s nothing to prove that there wasn’t a late abortion?’

‘That’s right,’ Sanson said.

Nicolas began thinking aloud. ‘Were we right to move the corpse and perform this unofficial procedure? If we’d left her where we found her, a spy could have stayed there and informed us if anyone recognised her. We may have interfered with the normal order of things and made our task more complicated …’

Bourdeau reassured him: ‘We’d have arrived on her family’s doorsteps with our accusations, and can you imagine the fuss they would have made? Forget about an autopsy! They’d simply have told us she was crushed in the disaster. And, what’s more, we wouldn’t even have known the poor girl had given birth! I prefer the truth I find for myself to the truth other people expect me to believe.’

This vigorous outburst dispelled Nicolas’s doubts.

‘And besides,’ Bourdeau concluded, ‘as my father, who looked after the dogs for the King’s boar hunts, would have said, at least now we can be sure we won’t mistake the front of the prey for the back. Still, the case doesn’t look as if it’s going to be easy.’

‘My friends,’ Nicolas said, ‘how can I thank you for all the useful information you’ve given me and for the light you’ve thrown on this case.’ Then, addressing Sanson, ‘I’m sure you know that Monsieur de Noblecourt has long wanted you to dine with him, and you’ve long refused.’

‘Monsieur Nicolas,’ said Sanson, ‘the mere fact that he has thought of me is a great honour, which fills me with joy and gratitude. Perhaps a time will come when I can accept.’

He left Semacgus and Sanson deep in an animated discussion on the comparative merits of Beckeri4 and Bauzmann,5 two precursors of the new science of forensic medicine. The commissioner and his deputy walked in pensive silence to the gateway of the Grand Châtelet. The storm had finally broken, and the roadway was inundated with streams of muddy water carrying rubbish along with them. Bourdeau sensed that something was troubling Nicolas.

At last the commissioner spoke. ‘There’s one thing that puzzles me,’ he said. ‘Why did the young woman lace up her corset so tightly?’