Читать книгу The Saint-Florentin Murders: Nicolas Le Floch Investigation #5 - Jean-Francois Parot - Страница 19

There is no true friendship among those

who serve in the same house

LOPE DE VEGA

This majestic announcement only half surprised Nicolas, who had already realised who the lady was. He had glimpsed her on several occasions at Versailles. She was reputed to be sanctimonious and sour-tempered, but he knew how unreliable Court rumours were, how often unjust and biased. Reacting to her with studied indifference had seemed to him the best way to take the sting out of this excessive display of wounded pride. It was, he thought with a smile, a kind of moral purging.

‘Madame,’ he said, ‘I am your obedient servant …’ Without letting her catch her breath, he continued, ‘I’ve been given to understand that Marguerite Pindron was part of your entourage, as a chambermaid.’

‘That’s going a little far, Monsieur. Entourage is a big and noble word. We’re talking about my domestic servants, that’s all – indeed, one of the most subordinate. I don’t know how she came to be working here, it happened quite recently, and, I should add, without my consent.’

Nicolas knew that with this kind of witness, it was necessary to adopt one of two strategies: either attempt to restrain and channel their natural outpourings, or let them have their say and hope that within the flood of their words there would be some interesting flotsam.

‘It’s true,’ resumed the duchesse, ‘that I have never had a word to say in this house, and that most of those who serve me were chosen for reasons which have nothing to do with me and which I prefer not to know. Oh, Monsieur, the misfortune of having to be served …’

On this point, Nicolas observed, the duchesse’s sentiment hardly differed from her husband’s.

‘Servants, Monsieur,’ she continued, ‘are detestable. Even their zeal is offensive and they’re always so clumsy. They complain, but have no idea of the trouble they cause you. After all, they are only in such a position because God has seen fit to reduce them to a situation of servitude in this world in order to aid our infirmity while we remedy their poverty. To be honest, we earn a place in heaven for them by heaping humiliation on their heads, just as we earn it for ourselves by the care we take of them.’

‘In a way, Madame,’ said Bourdeau, ‘they are privileged people who owe their salvation to you.’

She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. ‘This gentleman is right, it is one of the most favoured states. Here are wretches who find themselves living in opulent houses, where they benefit greatly from all that is essential to life. They get good meat and good wine every day, wear nice clothes, are well washed, well bedded, well heated, are given easy jobs to perform, and have too much leisure time. Why should they not be satisfied? I ask you. And when they fail us or make mistakes, should we speak to them with a gracious air, neither too quickly nor too loudly, as my father confessor suggests?’

She collapsed onto a bergère – her dress made a great sighing noise as it was squeezed into the chair – and again began beating the air irritably with her fan.

Nicolas took advantage of the pause to get a word in. ‘May I ask, Madame, how the events of last night in your house were brought to your notice?’

‘Why, by all the noise and commotion my people were making below my windows just before six o’clock. I should point out that I am a light sleeper. Alas, who, in my situation, would be able to rest peacefully?’ She raised her eyes to heaven and her hands shook around the ebony handle of her fan. ‘On the advice of my doctor, I’m accustomed to taking some drops of Hoffman’s solution with syrup of marshmallow and orange flower. If they prove to be ineffective, I use something more efficient, a mixture of ether and alcohol. I often fall into a deep sleep in the early hours of the morning. So there would have to be a lot of noise to wake me, as was the case this morning.’

‘Are you quite sure of the time, Madame?’

‘Monsieur, I am able to tell the time by the clock in my room.’

‘Was it dark?’

‘Completely.’

‘What happened then?’

‘My head chambermaid came into the room in great agitation and told me that something terrible had happened in the servants’ pantry.’

‘Do you remember the exact words she used?’

‘Monsieur, my memory is as good as my sight. When I questioned her about the noise, she said breathlessly that it was bound to happen, and that the Pindron girl had been found murdered in the roasting room.’

‘Was that all she said?’

‘Monsieur!’

‘Forgive my insistence, Madame. I need to know exactly what happened. Did she mention the major-domo?’

‘What do you mean? Why would she have done that?’

‘Because, Madame, the major-domo was found lying, wounded and unconscious, beside Marguerite Pindron’s body, and he is suspected of having murdered her then turned his weapon on himself.’

The Duchesse de La Vrillière seemed so astonished by this that, unless she was an exceptional actress, it was impossible to doubt her good faith.

Nicolas looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Have you seen your chambermaid again since then?’

‘She’s been no good for anything all day,’ replied the duchesse, ‘and I told her to go and rest. These people have no self-control! Another of my maids has the little room next to my bedroom. I went back to bed and heard the duc coming back from Versailles. His coach and horses are so noisy! I woke up at midday and this other girl dressed me.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Jeannette.’

‘And her surname?’

‘Are you mocking me, Monsieur? Do you imagine I clutter my mind with the surnames of servants?’

‘It seems to me, Madame, that you knew Marguerite Pindron’s surname.’

‘That’s possible, Monsieur. My chief maid called her by that name.’

‘And what is the name of your chief maid?’

‘Eugénie.’

‘Did Jeannette talk to you about what happened last night?’

‘How could she, she didn’t know anything! She hadn’t left my apartments and hadn’t seen anybody.’

‘Madame, may I ask what you meant when you said, at the beginning of our interview, that “it was bound to happen”?’

The duchesse rose and with an abrupt gesture snapped her fan shut. Her face seemed suddenly to have hardened. ‘Of course, Monsieur. I was simply repeating what Eugénie said. I didn’t mean any harm by it.’

‘I’m sorry, Madame,’ insisted Nicolas, ‘but you added that you’d been dreading the news for a long time.’

‘Monsieur, please do not persist. The hand of God always strikes houses where his commandments are ignored.’

‘That is a very general statement, and may apply in many cases. Do you think, Madame, that such an assertion would be enough to convince a magistrate, by which I mean a judge or procurator dealing with a murder case?’

‘Are you threatening me? Under my own roof? Do you know to whom you are talking, Monsieur?’

‘I was merely advising caution.’

‘That’s enough. I know what I still have to do.’ With both hands, she gathered her pannier and strode out of the room in a great silky shiver of fabric.

Nicolas sighed. The higher one climbed the ladder of society, the less natural respect was shown for law and order.

‘What a tough nut to crack!’ muttered Bourdeau.

‘Let’s be lenient,’ countered Nicolas. ‘Think of the life she has to lead. The duc is no paragon and she has had a lot to bear. But by her very reticence, the good lady implies many things. Is she suggesting, for example, that the underlying cause of this tragedy lies in the state of her household?’

‘We still have to establish,’ said Bourdeau, ‘if it has something to do with her husband’s dissolute life or some kind of intrigue or rivalry among the many servants. I’m not convinced that this grand lady takes too much notice of what her people do. At most, she lends a distracted ear to her maids’ gossip when they’re dressing her in the morning.’

‘We shall see. Go and fetch the two chambermaids. Provence will help you to find them. He can’t be far away, he’s always roaming the antechambers. At my disposal, admittedly!’

Nicolas walked to the hearth, which was blazing away. He felt cold. These big fires made your throat dry without warming you, except to roast your thighs when you got close to them. What a strange business! Despite the horror of what had happened, it appeared at first sight mundane and unremarkable. Everything seemed to point to an affair of the heart between a man of a certain age and a young girl. Yet there were many details that did not tally with the generally convergent observations and testimonies so far gathered. The picture which presented itself to Nicolas, the one everybody seemed to be trying to make him accept, made him rather suspect that, beneath its plain varnish, there had been a certain amount of retouching. And what of the mysterious fugitive prowling in the shadows of the Saint-Florentin mansion and disappearing after a last bloody embrace with one of the columns of the gate?

He was drawn from his reverie by Bourdeau’s return, accompanied by a woman in an apron and cap. His first reaction was to wonder why she was trying to appear older and uglier than she was. No doubt it was to avoid any comparison with the duchesse. Her hair was drawn back under her cap, making her face more angular, but her features were regular and her complexion splendidly milky. She seemed to be deliberately sucking in her lips, which made her cheeks taut and gave the impression of a strong will. He asked her to sit down, but she shook her head and remained standing, leaning on the back of an armchair. It was late afternoon by now, and the light was gradually fading. The reflection of the flames played over her face, alternately lighting it and plunging it into wavering shadow. Nicolas waited, saying nothing, aware of the effect this silence usually had on witnesses. But no emotion showed on this woman’s face, if indeed she felt any. Only the whiteness of her fingers on the upholstery of the armchair attested to the tension in her hands.

‘Are you Eugénie, head chambermaid of the Duchesse de La Vrillière?’

‘Yes, Commissioner. Eugénie Gouet.’

‘How old are you? Are you married?’

‘I was thirty last Saint Michel’s day. I’m single.’

‘How long have you worked here?’

‘In the service of Madame, since 1762. The mansion hadn’t even been built then. I was still a child …’

‘Are you one of the oldest servants?’

‘Of course. With Provence, Monseigneur’s valet.’

‘Tell me what happened this morning.’

‘I was getting ready in my room on the second floor, when I heard cries. I rushed out to find the kitchen boy, Provence, the caretaker and the Swiss Guard. They all went to the servants’ pantry. Jacques, the boy, had discovered two bodies, that of Marguerite, who was apparently dead, and that of Monsieur Missery, who was still breathing. Thinking that all this noise had woken Madame, I went up to inform her.’

‘Where are your mistress’s apartments?’

‘On the first floor, in the left wing of the mansion. Monseigneur lodges in the right wing.’

‘Good. Let’s take everything in order. What time was it when you went down?’

‘About seven,’ she said, without any hesitation.

‘Was it dark?’

‘Completely.’

That was a point on which everyone agreed, thought Nicolas.

‘Of course,’ he said, ‘Provence had a dark lantern with him.’

It was a crude trap, and he wasn’t sure she would fall into it. It was obvious the blow had struck home, but she recovered immediately.

‘I don’t know … I think … The sight of blood bothered me. It was all lit up. How? I couldn’t say.’

Nicolas did not insist: that would have revealed that he was trying to trick her. The mention of the blood intrigued him. Did she mean the blood at the scene of the crime or the blood on Missery’s body?

‘Was your mistress asleep?’

‘No, she was standing in the space between her bed and the wall, very angry, waiting to find out the reason for all the chaos – that was her word.’

‘Hadn’t she taken her sleeping draught the previous evening?’

She stared at him again with her grey eyes. There was something beautiful in her mixture of sadness and severity.

‘Sometimes she takes it, sometimes she doesn’t,’ she said, slightly too curtly. ‘Sometimes she remembers, sometimes she forgets, sometimes she takes more than she should.’

‘But if she did take the medication, as she herself states, the noise should not have awoken her. And besides, you’re the one who prepares it for her. Did you give it to her last night?’

He had thrown out this assertion at random, and had no evidence to back it up, but he had clearly hit the target, to judge by her agitation.

‘No … Yes … At least what there was of it.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘The bottles had got broken and I was only able to collect a few drops. I was planning to get some more today from the apothecary.’

‘A few drops of the potion?’

‘No, of the ether and alcohol.’

‘Can you show me what’s left of those bottles?’

The question was a specific one, and there was no way of evading it. Nicolas was pressing home his advantage, convinced that he had put his finger on something – something that might be unconnected to the case but certainly seemed to be disturbing the duchesse’s head chambermaid.

‘I threw them into the cesspool, for fear that someone might get hurt,’ she replied. ‘If Madame had found them, it would have disturbed her peace of mind, for which I am responsible.’

These skilful excuses did not need any further commentary. She was a strong sparring partner, thought Nicolas, used to living by her wits and even able to use her own unease as a strength, presenting herself as an honest person who has been thrown into a state of shock.

He changed the subject. ‘What can you tell us about Jean Missery?’ he asked.

Eugénie’s face turned slightly red. ‘I am a chambermaid,’ she replied, ‘and he is a major-domo. Our tasks are different and keep us apart. It’s Madame who deals with the women. However, he does sometimes reprimand us …’

‘What about?’

‘I don’t know. Something about candles. It’s one thing for our masters to exert their authority over us, but to obey those to whom they delegate part of their power, to be the servant of a servant, now that’s something I can’t stand!’

It was such a vehement assertion that Bourdeau, who was standing behind Eugénie, underlined it with an eloquent wink.

‘I see,’ said Nicolas. ‘I suppose that kind of acrimony is perfectly common in large houses. What about the victim? What was your opinion of her? Like you, she worked for Madame, you knew her well. She must have been a friend of yours, with similar interests.’

This time, Eugénie made a contemptuous grimace. ‘You can think that if you like! How could I have anything in common with that creature from the gutter, whose work consisted of emptying the buckets and cleaning the floors? She was introduced here by poor Missery. God knows where he’d met her! Everything about her suggested a dissolute origin. She led him by the nose, believe me. Her engagement here was a trap, and our major-domo fell into it. He lost his head and took advantage of Monseigneur’s trust to impose a girl like that on Madame. If she’d at least been honest with him! But just think, Commissioner, she used to receive a suitor – a young one this time – here, in this very house. She would go out at night, even though Madame demands that we lead a good, regular life. She didn’t suspect a thing! Just think, she’d got her claws into a widower, such a fine man, a major-domo to boot! She didn’t respect him, even though he was so good, and so trusting.’

‘In a word, you’re saying that Marguerite Pindron was Jean Missery’s mistress?’

‘That’s very definitely what I’m saying. Ask anyone. He’d become the laughing stock of the household. He didn’t deserve it, he could have …’

She had been on the point of blurting something out.

‘Could have what?’

‘I know what I mean.’

‘Do you think him capable of punishing himself?’

‘He has a fiery temper. He gets angry quickly, and sometimes can’t control himself. Everything about him is excessive.’

‘One last thing,’ said Nicolas. ‘What did you mean when you told your mistress that it was bound to happen?’

She looked up, and there was a hint of provocation in her expression. ‘That loose morals have fatal consequences. God teaches us that.’

‘I see that we are in a very religious house,’ said Nicolas with a smile. ‘Thank you.’

She withdrew, bumping into Bourdeau as she did so, without a word of excuse. The two police officers looked at each other, each one sifting through his impressions for himself.

‘She certainly has character!’ said Nicolas. ‘A somewhat enigmatic charm and a superb complexion. A bit thin, though.’

‘You’re not exactly sticking your neck out in saying that,’ replied Bourdeau. ‘As for myself, I’m less compassionate. She’s trying to make us believe that butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, but I’d sum her up in this way: self-control, hatred and admiration. Self-control in the skilful way she makes innuendos, hatred towards the victim, even now, and admiration for Missery. But watch out! From admiration to love is but a step … And that step may have been taken.’

‘I noticed that, too, as well as other contradictions,’ Nicolas agreed. ‘Here is a man whose authority is resented, but whose kindness, trust and good nature are praised. All these remarks are important, and I would wager that others will enlighten us on the relationship between the chambermaid and the major-domo. I don’t exclude the possibility that there’s something there. Bring in Jeannette. I assume she’s in the antechamber. I hope Eugénie hasn’t instructed her in what to say.’

As soon as the girl came in, he realised that someone had upset her. Her careworn expression, her tear-stained face, the way she was twisting a handkerchief in her hands: all these things revealed a terror that was in no way justified by the prospect of an interrogation. He felt sorry for her: she was little more than a child.

‘My dear,’ he began, in a fatherly tone, ‘we need your help. What’s your name and how old are you?’

‘Jeannette,’ she murmured in a faint voice, ‘Jeannette Le Bas. I was born in Yvetot, in Normandy, and I’m seventeen.’

‘How long have you been in service?’

‘Two years, Monsieur. Since Saint Jean’s day.’

‘Sit down. Don’t be afraid. Tell me what happened.’

She looked about her like an animal caught in a trap. ‘I have nothing to say … Have pity, Monsieur … They can hear us.’

‘Come now,’ said Bourdeau, ‘enough of this childishness!’ He strode in turn to each of the doors and opened them. ‘As you see,’ he resumed, ‘there’s no one eavesdropping. What are you afraid of?’

She looked up and, as if taking a plunge into deep water, began speaking. ‘Nobody. It’s just that I’m not used to it. This morning, I heard a noise in Madame’s bedroom, and so—’

‘Wait, slow down. Where do you sleep?’

‘On a bunk in the garderobe.’

‘Does the room have an opening?’

‘Yes, Monsieur, a window looking out on the main courtyard.’

‘And you say it was your mistress who woke you?’

She blushed with embarrassment. ‘Because she was using her commode.’

‘Roughly what time was that?’

‘I don’t know, it was still dark. Then Eugénie arrived, yelling so much it was hard to understand what she was saying.’

‘But you understood some of it?’

‘Just that something terrible had happened. She mentioned blood, and a knife. I was so scared I put my fingers in my ears.’

‘What happened then?’

‘Madame went back to bed. I stayed where I was, waiting for her to call me. Which she did at midday.’

‘I’d like to be clear about one thing,’ said Nicolas, gravely. ‘Was your mistress awake when Eugénie arrived?’

‘Wide awake, I’d just seen her in the garderobe. What have I said? Is there something wrong? Oh God, protect me! I don’t want to lose my job.’

‘You won’t lose anything at all if you tell us the truth. I promise you that. Did you know Marguerite?’

‘Of course,’ she replied, sniffling. ‘She was very sweet and kind to me. She even wanted to teach me to read and write. I really liked her, though I shouldn’t say it.’

‘Why not?’

‘Madame and Eugénie thought she was a bad girl.’

‘And what was your opinion?’

‘I think she’d had a lot of bad things happen to her, but despite all that, she had a good heart. For the rest, I don’t judge.’

‘Did she confide in you?’

‘She told me she was very tired.’

‘Tired of her work?’

‘That, too. But especially the things her suitor made her do.’

‘Jean Missery?’

The girl opened her eyes wide in surprise and began trembling. ‘No, not him! The young man who called on her some nights.’

‘Do you know his name?’

‘No, she called him Aide.’

‘Aide? That’s unusual. Are you sure that was his name?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about the major-domo?’

‘Oh, him! … He was always after her, and even …’ Suddenly, she began shaking uncontrollably, she threw her head back, and her limbs tensed. Nicolas’s first thought was that he was again confronted with a phenomenon he had once before observed in a young servant girl. Helped by Bourdeau, he laid her out on a bench. Gradually, the attack receded, and she regained consciousness, surprised to see the two men bending over her.

‘My dear,’ said Nicolas, ‘you must calm down, nothing is going to happen to you. I’ve promised to look after you and I’m going to keep my word. Pierre, be so kind as to walk back with her.’

Once alone, Nicolas reflected. Of course, he was making progress with his investigation, but he had a growing feeling that the case was proving to be more complex than he had thought at first. The paths that might lead to the truth kept dividing, meeting again, merging, with so many abrupt and unexpected turns that you ended up losing your way in frustration. Why had the young servant girl had a sudden seizure just as she was talking about the major-domo? He vowed to mention it to Dr Semacgus. He recalled past conversations about strange cases of girls prone to that kind of attack. Clearly, none of the women or girls in the Saint-Florentin mansion were indifferent to Jean Missery. Bourdeau reappeared, followed by a young man with a waddling gait. Tow-coloured hair framed a regular, pimply face. His forehead was covered in sweat, and he was pulling on the lapels of his linen jacket as if trying to draw it tighter around himself.

Nicolas launched into the interrogation without further ado. ‘Are you Jacques Despiard, the kitchen boy? How old are you?’

‘That’s me, Monsieur. I’m twenty-five.’

‘How did you come to discover the bodies?’

‘Every morning, I open the kitchens and light the stoves and the hearths in the roasting room. It takes a while to get things heated up properly, especially to get rid of the smoke. I always begin with the roasting room, because that’s where the fire takes longest to get going. This morning, no sooner had I entered than I saw all that blood and the two bodies.’

He had started stammering, and passed his hand over his face as if to dismiss the vision. Nicolas took advantage of this pause.

‘So it was light in the roasting room?’

The young man grew agitated, looking wildly from one of the two impassive police officers to the other, as if searching for help or inspiration.

‘Do you understand my question?’ asked Nicolas. ‘At what time did you open the kitchen?’

‘At six, I think.’

‘I see. So it was dark?’

‘If you say so.’

‘The commissioner isn’t saying anything,’ Bourdeau cut in, irritably. ‘This is about you, and we’d be grateful to you if you could remember what happened.’

‘The inspector’s right,’ said Nicolas gently. ‘How could you see the bodies in a dark basement room at six in the morning, at this time of year?’

‘Did you have a candle?’ asked Bourdeau.

‘I can’t remember … I don’t know. You’re confusing me. All that blood … Leave me alone!’

‘Calm down. We’ll come back to that when you’ve recovered. In the meantime, tell me about the victim.’

The young man’s eyes shone through his tears. ‘She was so beautiful! She always had a kind word. What a monster!’

‘Who are you talking about?’

‘The major-domo, Missery, of course. He killed her, he wanted all of them. But they said …’

‘They said what?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You need to understand that, if you withhold the truth, you could well end up in a dungeon in the Châtelet prison, where other means will be used to make you talk. What can you tell us about Missery?’

The young man hesitated. ‘A nasty piece of work,’ he said at last. ‘He takes it out on everyone. He sets traps for us to fall into, so he can throw us out on the street. To replace us with his pets, I suppose. He even threatened Monsieur Charles.’

‘The valet?’

‘Yes, Commissioner. Charles Bibard. Missery was planning to report him to Monseigneur for reselling pieces of candle from the house.’

‘Perhaps Missery is just an honest man who can’t tolerate certain excesses?’

The witness’s face was red with indignation. ‘Him, honest! He’s trading illicitly with all the suppliers, taking a commission on every delivery and building up a nice little nest egg for himself. As if his wife’s fortune wasn’t enough for him. And he may have wept for her, but he’s certainly had plenty of consolation since.’

‘What do you know about that inheritance?’

‘Only what everyone said. In her will, his wife left him all her fortune, but it would revert to her family if he died – unless, of course, he’d remarried and had children.’

‘Thank you for your information. Try to clarify your whereabouts at the time of the murder, and we’ll speak again.’

The young man fled as if he had a hundred devils at his heels. Provence appeared and announced formally, ‘Commissioner, the doctor says that Monsieur Missery has regained consciousness.’

Nicolas and Bourdeau followed him to the other wing of the Saint-Florentin mansion. The inspector noted with curiosity the route they were taking through the maze-like building. On their arrival, and having dismissed the valet, they saw the major-domo sitting up in bed, propped up by pillows, his chest bandaged with pieces of his torn shirt. His eyes were closed and his head drooped over his chest. Monsieur de Gévigland was taking his pulse and passing a bottle of salts under his nose with the other hand.

‘I thought,’ said Nicolas, ‘that your patient had regained consciousness?’

‘So did I,’ replied the doctor. ‘But no sooner was he conscious than he fell into a swoon. It’s only a slight relapse. He’s finding it hard to extricate himself from the mists of sleep.’

At that moment, the man sneezed and his eyes opened then closed again, dazzled by the light. He was shaken by a coughing fit. Moaning, he put his hand on his side, where his wound was. Gradually, his breathing became easier and more sonorous. Meanwhile, Bourdeau was examining every nook and cranny of the room. While the doctor had his back to him, he took, with a wink to the commissioner, several objects from a drawer in the chest. Truly, his deputy was incomparable and never missed an opportunity. He continued his investigations discreetly. Now Missery was staring in surprise at the faces peering down at him.

‘I don’t feel well,’ he said in a thick voice.

Nicolas noticed a strange smell emanating from his mouth.

‘What are you doing in my room?’ asked the major-domo. ‘What’s happened?’

Although his features were drawn, his face was still virile. His sparse grey hair, however, made him look older, forming a kind of crown around the baldness that had already pushed his hairline back off his forehead. His eyes went from one face to another like those of a frightened animal. He was biting his lip, giving the impression that his mind, still wandering in the mists of unconsciousness, was engaged in intense reflection.

‘My dear fellow,’ said the doctor, ‘it is for you to enlighten us. We found you—’

Nicolas seized him by the arm to stop him saying any more. ‘Asleep and wounded,’ he said. ‘I am a police commissioner at the Châtelet. Could you tell us what happened to you?’

‘I have no idea what’s going on,’ replied the major-domo. ‘I went to bed very late, and now I wake up and find you here! Did someone attack me while I was asleep?’

‘Come on,’ said Nicolas. ‘Make an effort to collect your thoughts. We need to know your exact whereabouts last night.’

‘Monseigneur was away. He was at Versailles with the King. Madame, indisposed as she so often is, did not dine. At about eleven o’clock, I had a last look around the house and then came up to bed.’

‘Did you go down to the kitchens?’

The man showed no particular emotion. ‘I had no reason to do so, the fires had been out since Saturday. So I came back to my room.’

‘Did you have a candle?’

‘Yes, you can see the candlestick there, on the desk.’

‘And then?’

‘I undressed, blew out the candle, and fell asleep.’

‘The candle in that candlestick?’

‘Of course.’

‘Where was it?’

‘Here.’ And he pointed to a small marquetry bedside table on his left, half hidden by the bed curtains.

‘Why is it on the desk now?’ asked Nicolas. ‘Was it you who moved it?’

Missery shook his head.

‘You, then, Doctor?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘Go on,’ said Nicolas.

‘I fell asleep.’

‘Did you have any visitors?’

He sensed a kind of imperceptible hesitation in the way the major-domo replied, ‘No, nobody.’

‘Doctor,’ said Nicolas, ‘may I have a word with you for a moment in private?’

He drew him into the corridor, leaving Bourdeau to watch over the wounded man.

‘In your opinion, could that wound, which you described as benign, have led to a significant loss of blood?’

‘It’s strange that you should ask me that question,’ replied the doctor. ‘Just now, when I was replacing the bandage, I had another look at the cut. No vein or major vessel was damaged. There was no haemorrhage. And there are hardly any bloodstains on the man’s breeches!’

‘That tallies with my own observation. So what do you make of his loss of consciousness?’

‘Oh, you shouldn’t let that go to your head: some sensitive people faint at the slightest nick. There’s no accounting for it! Anyway, our man doesn’t appear to be aware of the gravity of the situation, and certainly isn’t reacting like someone who has just tried to kill himself.’

They went back into the room.

‘How is it, Monsieur,’ Nicolas resumed, ‘that you are not in your nightshirt?’

The man touched himself, and seemed only now to become aware of what he was wearing. ‘I have no idea. I put on a freshly ironed nightshirt last night.’

‘It’s nowhere to be found,’ said Bourdeau.

Missery seemed both appalled and frightened by this observation.

‘Monsieur,’ said Nicolas, ‘what was your relationship with the Duchesse de La Vrillière’s chambermaid, Marguerite Pindron?’

For the first time since the beginning of the interrogation, Missery looked up with a kind of contained fury. ‘She’s my mistress. Everyone will tell you that and it’s true, and I defy anyone to …’ He broke off.

‘To what?’ asked Nicolas.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Jean Missery, you have to face certain facts. You are accused and suspected of having murdered your mistress, Marguerite Pindron, and of having tried to kill yourself in order to escape the just punishment for such a crime. As of now, you are in the hands of the law. On my orders, your condition permitting, you will be taken to the royal prison of the Châtelet to await the decision of the Criminal Lieutenant and an investigation of the case. This arrest does not imply a final judgement on your actions, but forms part of the necessary precautionary measures when there has been a murder. I can assure you that everything will be done to either invalidate or confirm the facts and presumptions for which you may well feel the full weight of the law.’

As he listened to Nicolas’s solemn words, the major-domo collapsed on his bed, weeping, gasping and wringing his hands. He was soon nothing but a shapeless heap.

‘Bourdeau,’ said Nicolas, ‘call the officers and have this man conducted to his destination. Make sure he’s bound and guarded.’

Nicolas was still haunted by the memory of a sad case in which a suspect had killed himself in his cell. He felt that a surfeit of precautions and the observation of simple rules was necessary to avoid any recurrence of such a tragedy. Monsieur de Gévigland and Bourdeau helped Missery to his feet. He was made to put on his coat, which the commissioner took hold of for a moment and examined attentively. Bourdeau picked up the shoes and had a good look at them before helping the major-domo to put them on. The officer at the door of the room called his colleagues, and the suspect was taken away, closely guarded by the men from the Châtelet.

Nicolas turned to the doctor. ‘Monsieur,’ he said, ‘I thank you for your valuable assistance and your very helpful comments. We will doubtless have need of your testimony.’

‘I am at your disposal, Commissioner. Rest assured of my continued assistance. In addition, I would be honoured and delighted if one day, at your convenience, you would come to lunch or dinner. I live in Rue Saint-Honoré, opposite the Capuchin monastery. My wife and I would be happy to count you among the regular visitors to our dwelling.’

He wrapped himself in his cloak, adjusted his cocked hat, bowed to the two police officers and went out. Nicolas had been struck by the benevolence emanating from the doctor, and the elegant simplicity of his attire, embellished with a ribbon tying up his natural, unpowdered salt-and-pepper hair. Once the doctor had gone out, Bourdeau gave a slight bow.

‘Everyone kowtows to the marquis,’ he said. ‘No sooner do they know him than they guess his rank, even if he calls himself Le Floch. Monsieur de Gévigland made no mistake! He fell into your snare.’

Nicolas did not reply to this gibe, which his friend had not been able to refrain from coming out with. To him, Bourdeau was all of a piece, with his faults and his qualities, the latter far outweighing the former in his judgement. The inspector was truly devoted to him, had twice saved his life, and had not hesitated to risk his career for his sake. Having fallen from favour together, they were now coming back into the light of day, more united than ever. What accumulated resentment, what brooded-over bitterness nourished these attacks of acrimony which Bourdeau seemed unable to control? The merest trifle could revive an unknown wound. The tragic death of his father, torn to pieces by a boar during a royal hunt, did not explain everything. The cruel game of respect and contempt which underlay a society based on the privileges of birth was something he found hard to accept. There was also a touch of possessive jealousy towards those who yielded to the commissioner’s innate seductive charms. Their attentions disgusted the inspector, who always dreamed of an exclusive friendship. Fortunately, Noblecourt, La Borde and Semacgus escaped this devouring jealousy. They did not in any way threaten long-established habits, and their own feelings for the inspector were a bastion and an anchor in his life. Yes, the sensible thing was not to respond to his remarks. Nicolas dreaded that the regular recurrence of these ideas might one day lead his friend to take up extreme positions, the consequences of which he would be unable to control. It was an abscess that needed to be lanced, and perhaps he would make up his mind to speak to him about it. But the hour had not yet come for that discussion.

‘Did you see the shoes?’ Bourdeau went on. ‘Not a trace of blood. Nothing. Clean and polished.’

‘Perhaps he cleaned them, we’ll have to ask him.’

Nicolas wrote something in his little black notebook, then asked Bourdeau what time it was.

‘That’s what I thought, it’s getting late. But it’s vital that we hear all the testimonies today. Let’s divide up the task. I’ll question the Swiss Guard and you have a word with the caretaker. Then we’ll meet again and see what we’ve come up with.’

*

They again found the valet waiting for them in the shadows of the corridor. Once more, the thought crossed Nicolas’s mind that the valet had not left them for a single second. Was he simply being diligent, to the point of obsequiousness, or had someone told him to keep an eye on everything they did? He led them into a new maze of corridors. They went past the linen room and came to some adjoining quarters. Provence pointed out to Bourdeau the entrance to the caretaker’s lodge, then, taking another staircase, he led the commissioner to the Swiss Guard’s sentry box on the ground floor below, at the corner of the left facade, near the gate. The man, who was tall and stooped, had taken off his wig, and his cranium gleamed in the candlelight. He immediately put his wig back on. He was truly monumental. Nicolas recalled that the largest houses in the city specifically sought out such giants to fill this kind of office. This one was so tall that the commissioner had to look up at him.

‘You know who I am, you welcomed me earlier. What is your name and how old are you?’

‘Pierre Miquete, about forty.’ He did not wait for the questions. ‘This is what I can tell you. There was a loud cry from the courtyard. I should tell you that the window of my bedroom looks out on the gate. I was eating my morning soup. I should tell you that I put in leftover dry bread, which the kitchen boy passes to me. It’s better in soup. So, yes, the cry … I went running. There was Jacques, doing the same. Yes, I should tell you his name is Jacques, like the caretaker. Everyone was crying, “Murder! Murder!”’

‘Everyone?’

‘Provence, Eugénie, the caretaker and Jacques.’

‘Was it light?’

‘I don’t remember. The emotion, you know. Seems to me …’

‘Did you see the bodies?’

‘Certainly not! The slightest drop of blood makes me faint.’

Nicolas risked something that sometimes worked. ‘Were you in love with her?’

The response was rapid, but not what he had expected. ‘With that girl? Of course not. I should tell you, Commissioner, that I’ve accumulated a certain amount since I’ve been in Monseigneur’s service. I need something a bit more substantial than a little streetwalker. But the other one doesn’t want me. And they all warmed his bed, her like all the rest. I could weep, I’m that besotted, but she doesn’t want to know anything about me.’

‘Who are you talking about?’

‘I’m talking about Eugénie burning the midnight oil with Missery, but now that he’s abandoned her, she still won’t look at me.’

Good Lord! thought Nicolas. But he asked only, ‘And where were you last night?’

‘In my room.’

Nicolas went back to his study on the mezzanine. He wondered if he should respond immediately to the minister’s wish to be informed of the initial results of the investigation. Nothing that he could tell him seemed likely to arouse his interest. Should he bother him with a host of bizarre details and vague, contradictory testimonies? Unlike Monsieur de Sartine, the Duc de La Vrillière had little taste for the nitty-gritty of police work: he needed something to get his teeth into. It would be better to hold off for the moment.

Nicolas sat staring at the fire. His mind flew back to the limbo of his childhood, and he saw himself at Guérande, watching rapt as the logs collapsed in a cloud of sparks. Night was falling by the time he returned to reality. This mansion oozed dissimulation and hatred: it was an impression that gripped him like a feeling of suffocation. All the elements had been in place for a tragedy. All the witnesses might have had reasons to hate the victim, but all of them were equally falling over each other to disparage the major-domo. It still remained to be established that the solution did indeed lie within the walls of the Saint-Florentin mansion. What was the role of that mysterious stranger whose bloody footprints had guided him as far as the balcony? Of course, that could have been an attempt to divert suspicion from the inhabitants of the house and to lead the investigators along a false path. He reflected for a long time. When Bourdeau entered the room, now dimly lit by the last gleams of the dying fire, he found him with his chin in his hand and his eyes staring into space.

‘Good hunting, Pierre?’

‘The caretaker, Jacques Blain, twenty-eight years old, well built, a bit of a lady killer, was mad about the chambermaid,’ declared Bourdeau. ‘Didn’t see a thing. Just went to fetch the doctor from Rue Saint-Honoré. He hates Missery, in fact he hates the whole household. This mansion is a real cesspool of wickedness!’

‘What else?’

‘What else? A stew made with three rabbits, for one man. I saw the skins hanging in his window. He did me the honour of letting me try it.’

‘Did you like the seasoning?’

‘The sauce was a little thin. It didn’t even cover the meat.’

‘And what conclusion do you draw from that?’

‘Where I come from, we mix the blood with vinegar to thicken the stew at the last moment and give the sauce more taste. The fact remains, three rabbits are a lot for one man. He even wanted to give me a second helping.’

‘Does the mansion have a rabbit hutch?’

‘Yes, in the inner courtyard.’

‘We’ll have a look. Any other discoveries?’

‘You saw me taking some objects from the major-domo’s chest of drawers. Here they are.’

The inspector had placed two boxes on a pedestal table. Nicolas leaned over them.

‘Well, well! Some Sultana’s Aphrodisiac and some pastilles of cantharides. Does Monsieur Missery have a few problems performing?’

‘And that’s not all,’ said Bourdeau. ‘In Marguerite’s room, I found, hidden at the back of a cupboard, whole sacks full of pieces of candle. There has indeed been trafficking, but she was the culprit!’

‘Three rabbits for a single man, a Don Juan who needs chemical help, and as much wax as you could wish! The plot thickens, and so does our investigation.’