The Saint-Florentin Murders Page 17

  ‘Monsieur, I am quite confused. What happened to me?’

  Nicolas loosened his embrace and gently sat her on the seat. Having had a chance to get a closer look at her, he judged that she might be just over twenty.

  ‘I saw you fall, Madame, and stopped my carriage to come to your aid.’

  She smiled. He noticed that she had perfect dazzlingly white teeth.

  ‘You have saved me, Monsieur. Whom shall I thank?’

  ‘Nicolas Le Floch, commissioner at the Châtelet.’

  There was no reason for him to keep silent about an honourable position. Experience had taught him that doing so inevitably led to further complications.

  ‘Ah,’ she remarked, looking interested. ‘Young Ranreuil.’

  Nicolas’s eyes immediately clouded over. This was encroaching on personal territory, and he felt it as an intrusion. It was his precious link with the royal family. The late King, the current King, Mesdames and, in the old days, the royal mistresses had all used the name to do him honour. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. Had she sensed his irritation? She rolled one of her curls and, with the other hand, squeezed the water from it before wiping it on her bodice.

  ‘We have a mutual friend, Monsieur de La Borde,’ she explained. ‘His wife is a close friend of mine. He never stops singing your praises. I think he’d like to set them to music!’

  She half raised herself as if trying to curtsey. ‘Aimée d’Arranet, your humble servant.’

  He relaxed. His irritation suddenly gave way to an astonishing sense of well-being. The young woman huddled into a corner of the carriage. The silence between them lengthened. Filled with wonder, he was becoming aware of the grace and sweetness she exuded. He felt like a young man again.

  ‘And what were you looking for in this storm?’

  ‘You’re being indiscreet, Monsieur. Nevertheless, it would be bad taste of me not to satisfy your curiosity …’ She opened a cloth pouch hanging from her belt. ‘I was gathering chestnuts, if you must know, when I was caught in the rain.’

  ‘So early in the morning?’

  She gave an irritable little pout. ‘He persists! I was walking at dawn, and to answer your question, Commissioner, the original aim of my stroll was to gather mushrooms. Did you not know that the best mushrooms open at dawn, when there is dew on the ground?’

  The conversation risked coming to an abrupt end if it kept along that track, and he hastened to abandon the subject. Commentaries on autumn fruits were leading nowhere. Was she younger than he had supposed? Her self-assurance was misleading, her self-control, her charm, her lack of affected gestures, her casualness … He rebuked himself: where was this sudden elation leading him? He had not felt anything like this in a very long time, since a certain concert at Balbastre’s house.5 The memory of Julie de Lastérieux came back to him, bitter and sweet at the same time.

  ‘Monsieur, you are suddenly very silent,’ said the young woman. ‘Oh, look, because of me, you’re completely soaked!’

  Before he could stop her, she had taken a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and was wiping his forehead. It was like a caress. He had to restrain himself from taking her hand.

  ‘Mademoiselle, you’re too kind … Where can I take you? The rain is getting heavier.’

  She smiled again. ‘My company is a burden to you, I think, and I have made you late. Come now, don’t blush. That’s how I am, impertinent by nature, always teasing. The house of my father, the Comte d’Arranet, is not far from here, in Avenue de Paris. But before that, could I ask you to fetch my shoes? The poor things must be floating, unless they’ve already sunk!’

  He hurried outside and ran to collect the shoes, which looked quite pathetic. They were filled with water, and he emptied them before bringing them back.

  ‘Oh, well, never mind,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you could drop me at the foot of the front steps. I’ll jump up them in my stockings.’

  She giggled. Nicolas ordered the coachman to drive on. The carriage swayed from side to side under the impact of the wind. A silence fell, while the young woman strove to rearrange her clothes. On the great avenue leading to the palace, Mademoiselle d’Arranet shouted some instructions to the coachman. The carriage turned right into a drive lined with old lime trees, towards an elegant two-storey dressed-stone house. Nicolas saw a swarm of footmen emerge to open the door and help his companion to descend. The house seemed as if it were raised up on a great foot.

  ‘Monsieur, many thanks,’ Aimée d’Arranet said, turning to him. ‘But that doesn’t mean you are free. I’ll run and get changed. Tribord will show you to the library. My father absolutely must make the acquaintance of my saviour.’

  ‘Oh, it was nothing, ‘said Nicolas. ‘I wouldn’t like to exaggerate.’

  ‘Come now, Monsieur, be quiet and obey with good grace.’

  She put a finger on his mouth, and he fell silent. He got out of the carriage and meekly followed the footman in his red and grey livery who answered to this strange name. The man’s face was covered in scars. Noticing Nicolas’s curious gaze, he smiled although the smile was more like a grimace.

  ‘Monsieur should not be surprised: I served with Mademoiselle’s father.’

  Once they had climbed the steps, they went in through the carved bronze double door and found themselves in a bright vestibule with black and white marble flagstones. From here, Nicolas was led into a library with grey and gold moulding on the ceiling, and walls completely covered in bookshelves apart from the fireplace and two windows. Above the mantelpiece, where a pier glass would normally have been, was a full-length portrait of a general officer. At first sight, he looked like a sailor, and Nicolas noticed a naval scene in the background of the painting. The room clearly functioned as a drawing room. Armchairs, pedestal tables and gaming tables were arranged harmoniously. His attention was drawn to an unusual piece of furniture occupying the centre of the room – a low table bearing a coloured plaster reconstruction of a battle at sea. He bent over it to take a closer look at the details of this curious assemblage. Six vessels with English colours seemed to be laying siege to two others, almost completely wrecked, flying a white flag. Everything was rendered meticulously. Each ship, a fragile construction the size of a hand, had its sails, tufts of oakum represented the smoke of cannon-fire, and little balls of lead the cannonballs strewn over the decks. Nicolas even noticed piles of corpses and an officer standing on a poop deck with a telescope under one arm and a raised sword in the other.

  ‘Ah, Monsieur, there you are, leaning over the ship’s rail. I can see you’re intrigued by the spectacle.’

  The voice, which was somewhat coarse, came from behind Nicolas. He turned and saw a tall, well-built man looking at him affably with merry grey eyes. He recognised the original of the painting above the mantelpiece. The man was wearing a dark blue coat of military cut with brass buttons and a sash of Saint Louis. His powdered wig did not in any way detract from the virile energy of a deeply lined, weather-beaten face. He was leaning on a walking stick. He held out his hand to the commissioner, in the English style.

  ‘Thank you for having rescued my scatterbrained daughter who, ignoring my advice that the wind was getting stronger, took it into her head to go wandering in the woods at the crack of dawn.’

  Nicolas bowed. ‘Anyone would have done the same.’

  ‘My daughter seemed pleased that it was you … I am extremely grateful to you. So you’re a friend of La Borde’s? A charming couple. His wife was at convent school with my daughter. I knew your father well, both at Court and in the field … You look like him. A brave man, and what a wit!’

  Beneath his rough exterior, the man was not lacking in the social graces. Everything was said in such a way that it could not wound.

  ‘I am the Comte d’Arranet, Lieutenant General of the Naval Forces. Unemployed. For the moment only, I hope.’

  ‘Might I ask you, Monsieur, to be so kind as to enlighten me about this tableau, which has, I admit, arou
sed my interest and my curiosity? I hope I’m not being indiscreet …’

  His request seemed to delight his host. ‘Please take a seat, Monsieur. Your request pleases and honours me.’

  He himself pulled up a bergère and sat down, making the chair groan under his weight. Nicolas noticed a slight limp, presumably the result of an old wound.

  ‘This relief map depicts the battle of Cape Finisterre. In 1747, my then chief, François des Herbiers, the Marquis de l’Étenduère, had to escort a convoy of boats laden with provisions for the West Indies. What a sight! Imagine a long procession of two hundred and sixty merchant ships escorted by eight vessels, each with seventy or seventy-four cannon … My God, it gives me the shivers even now! Once we had left the harbour at Brest, Rear Admiral Hawke’s English fleet, which was waiting off the cape, tried to cut us off.’

  ‘Did they outnumber you?’

  ‘By almost two to one, alas! They had fourteen large vessels lined up. The marquis, who was an excellent sailor, quickly formed his eight vessels into a line to resist the English attack. We managed to hold our own long enough to allow the convoy to get away, with the wind behind them.’

  ‘And the enemy let you do so?’

  ‘Oh, hardly! Hawke realised that he was risking the failure of his mission, and he dispatched the Lion and the Princess Louisa to chase the convoy. It was a risky move, given the progress of the battle and the state of the sea. Despite all that, they tried to pass in front of our line. As if we were ready to let them make headway! We fired linked cannonballs at them, making it difficult for them to continue their pursuit. Damn, this account is making me thirsty! While the filly’s still rubbing herself down, let’s take advantage. God has my late wife in His holy safekeeping, but looking after her daughter is easily the worst calamity that could befall a man of my character. The strumpet is in charge here!’

  They walked towards a row of books. Inside a false binding were a crystal carafe and two glasses. He poured a fine amber liquid into them and held one out to Nicolas.

  ‘An old rum from Île Bourbon. Do you like rum?’

  ‘Indeed I do. A friend of mine, a naval surgeon, introduced me to it.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Guillaume Semacgus.’

  Monsieur d’Arranet slapped his thigh. ‘Guillaume! Good Lord, I owe him a leg! It was he who pulled out a piece of a sharp spar that had gone through my calf and broken a bone. I would be most happy, Monsieur, to see him again. Please be my ambassador.’

  They drank. The rum had a strong but delicious taste.

  ‘Getting back to my story, Hawke, who was furious, set out to destroy us. He threw his whole squadron at us. The defence was worthy of the attack. He overtook the rear of our line. Several of our vessels were forced to strike their flags after a terrible fight lasting eight hours. By the time the Tonnant surrendered, there was nothing left of it but a burning wreck filled with the dead and the dying. A guard named Monsieur de Suffren, who was twenty years old, wept with rage and absolutely forbade anyone to touch the halyard of the flag on the poop deck.’

  He offered Nicolas another glass of rum, but the commissioner refused. He poured one for himself.

  ‘As you wish! By the time the sun went down, the French squadron was not entirely reduced. There remained the Tonnant, where the admiral had his quarters, and the Intrépide, commanded by Vaudreuil, although, without its masts, the Tonnant was nothing but a piece of flotsam.’

  ‘And where were you, Monsieur?’

  ‘I was Vaudreuil’s first mate. He attempted a desperate manoeuvre. He tacked under enemy fire, even though his shrouds and stays had been cut to shreds by the grapeshot, and lowered a small boat to carry two cables to the Tonnant. All within pistol range of the English. The Intrépide towed the Tonnant behind it, each vessel having its flag pinned to the small mast in its stern. Six days later, the commander of the squadron returned to Brest, but, more importantly, the convoy reached the West Indies and relieved the food shortage there.’

  A merry voice rang out. ‘Father, you’ll never change! There you are holding forth, drinking your infernal liquor, and tiring our guest with your exploits!’

  The comte assumed a contrite air. His daughter flung her arms round his neck and kissed him.

  ‘What you haven’t heard,’ she went on, turning to Nicolas, ‘is that the boat that saved the day was under his command. I see you have become acquainted.’

  The comte winked at Nicolas. ‘Look at how a girl brought up in a convent treats her old father! Did you know, Aimée, that our friend knows Guillaume Semacgus, whom I’ve told you so much about, you know, the man to whom I owe the fact that I’m still on my two legs? What a coincidence, eh? For that, I forgive you your foolishness.’

  ‘He’s a very dear friend, who means a lot to me,’ said Nicolas.

  ‘And where does the old pirate live now?’

  ‘In Vaugirard, near the Croix-Nivert.’

  ‘Monsieur, I’ve just remembered. I’m giving a dinner tomorrow in honour of Monsieur de Sartine, Secretary of State for the Navy. Would you like to come?’ With a knowing air, he went on, ‘I’m hoping for a command. Perhaps the evening will help me get one. He was, they say, your protector with the late King. Your name was enough … and the exploits people attribute to you … No doubt the former Lieutenant General of Police will be pleased to see you again.’

  ‘Monsieur, I don’t know if I can—’

  ‘Come now, I shan’t accept any refusal. It’s an order. At best, a plea.’

  ‘With which I associate myself,’ said Aimée d’Arranet.

  Her smile made his mind up for him.

  ‘In that case,’ said Nicolas, ‘I accept.’

  When he found himself back in his carriage after taking his leave, all he could think about was the young woman’s face as she made a slightly mocking half-curtsey. Back on the avenue, he observed that destiny had sent him to the same place twice – for very near the d’Arranet mansion was the house where the solution to the mystery of the man with the lead stomach had gradually been revealed.

  The wind was reaching its maximum intensity as the sun rose. As soon as the carriage turned in front of the large stables to reach the square, recently renamed Dauphine, Nicolas was gripped by the spectacle of nature in a state of crisis. The proud buildings were lit up as if by invisible barrages of gunfire. Like a tall, dark stem, the chapel stood out against a slate-grey sky that matched the colour of the palace roofs. The lightning accentuated the red hue of the bricks on the facade of the marble courtyard, while the ministers’ wing emerged from the clouds haloed in liquid gold. Gradually, the rays of the sun shifted, striking each of the great windows in turn, causing the frames and panes to gleam. The light rippled, creating a semblance of life in the heart of the palace. Thick, high clouds pushed small purple and pink clouds before them; some escaped and ran towards the nearby forests, while others, tumbling, joined the darkest mass as if drawn to it by a magnet and soon melted into its blackness. There was a resplendent rainbow, which immediately faded. Everything was extinguished in an instant. There was a kind of lull, a moment of silence and calm, before the sky once again caught fire in a cascade of lightning flashes followed soon afterwards by the muted bass notes of thunder. The rain came down even harder, covering the glorious vision of the palace with a hazy curtain of liquid, blotting out the decorations and reliefs, reducing the whole thing to an unstable mass that seemed on the verge of dissolving. The smell of earth and saltpetre filled Nicolas’s chest. His frightened team of horses gave a few kicks and set off again at a full gallop.

  He reached the Hôtel de la Belle Image. Nicolas was familiar with this type of accommodation. The rooms, although cramped, were always clean and well maintained, and there were far fewer cockroaches in the bed linen than elsewhere. Nicolas’s first concern was to find an emissary who could convey the Comte d’Arranet’s invitation to Semacgus. He scribbled a few words of explanation on a page of his black notebook and
sealed it with sealing wax. It did not take him long to discover a wine merchant who was returning to Paris, having completed his business, and who was due to pass through Vaugirard, where he had customers. He was very pleased to take on the errand. Nicolas, whose insides had been warmed by the morning’s rum, offered him a light meal of eggs and bacon, which made the man his friend for life. He then went up to his room to sort out the contents of his trunks. He had plenty of time since there was no chance that he could participate in that morning’s hunt. True, if he hurried up, he would be in time to join the royal cortege, but, in this domain, hurrying was contrary to good manners. The most important thing was to be well informed. You did not venture into the treacherous swamps of the Court without knowing what kind of game was being hunted. Although, for simple shooting parties, elaborate costumes had been tolerated by the late King, this was not the case when it came to hunting roe deer, stags or boar. The new monarch was reputed to be more punctilious than his grandfather in this regard. The usual hunting costume – rich blue with gold braid – was de rigueur and the arrangement of the braid indicated the kind of animal one was going to hunt. How strange it all was! thought Nicolas. Nevertheless, these apparently insignificant details were meaningful: what they meant, above all, was that one had a name and the right to enter the King’s coaches, which was the equivalent, for a man, of being presented at Court for a woman. This privilege was something of which Nicolas could not help feeling proud. Of course, he owed it to his birth, even though it was illegitimate, but, more importantly, it was because of the word of Louis XV that it had been granted to him for ever. He saw himself again on that fateful day when he had found a father, acquired what others took centuries to obtain, and gained the right to serve his King.