The Nicolas Le Floch affair Page 4

  ‘Hold him still, Bourdeau, he’s moving about so much he’s going to fall.’

  ‘He’s having a nightmare.’

  Semacgus took Nicolas’s pulse and placed his hand on his forehead. ‘Seems like it. The fever’s fallen and the pulse is back to normal. Awa’s herbs are invaluable when dealing with these violent attacks. I congratulate myself every day that I stocked up well before I left Saint-Louis.’

  ‘All the same, he’s been sleeping for twelve hours,’ Bourdeau said, glancing at a large brass watch. ‘It’s nearly one in the afternoon. Do you think he’s strong enough to bear the news?’

  ‘Without any doubt. Given the situation, we can’t just let him lie here. You said yourself we ought to wake him.’

  ‘What else can we do, Semacgus? Monsieur de Sartine has asked to see him as soon as possible at police headquarters. All the same, I wonder if we ought to leave it to Sartine to tell him the truth.’

  ‘That’s a worse risk than the one we want to avoid, blunt as we are. I’m of a mind to ask Monsieur de Noblecourt to talk to him with his usual calm and wisdom.’

  ‘At your service,’ said the former procurator. He was standing behind them, out of breath from climbing the small private staircase leading to Nicolas’s lodgings. ‘Leave me with him, but first do me a favour and move this armchair closer to the bed.’

  ‘He’s opening his eyes,’ said Bourdeau. ‘We’ll leave you to it.’

  *

  Nicolas regained consciousness, and the sight of the familiar setting brought him back to reality. Monsieur de Noblecourt’s grave countenance told him that something was wrong. He remembered the expression on Canon Le Floch’s face when he had announced to him, many years earlier, his final departure from Guérande, and saw the same worried expression, the same affectionate thoughtfulness on the familiar features bending over him.

  ‘Hello, Nicolas.’

  ‘Have I been sleeping long?’

  ‘Longer than you may think. It’s Friday now, and nearly two o’clock in the afternoon. You lost consciousness last night at the door of my library. My friends found you bathing in Tokay. I can think of better uses for a wine like that.’

  ‘It was meant as a gift for you, to beg forgiveness for deserting the party. I know how ungrateful you must have thought me.’

  ‘No such feeling could ever exist between us. You are at home here. The wind of Rue Montmartre liberates. I remember saying to you, when you first came to this house, that it was an annexe of the abbey of Thélème, where freedom and independence were revered.’

  He underlined these words with a nod of the head. He gave a slight smile, and his large red nose wrinkled in satisfaction.

  ‘What happened to you?’ he went on. ‘Your coat stank of cheap brandy, and was as dirty and as muddy as a stray puppy on Quai Pelletier. You must have been moving about a lot, to get yourself in a state so contrary to your habits and the dignity of your office.’

  ‘Alas, you are only too right,’ said Nicolas, feeling like a pupil before his master, ‘and I shan’t weary you with an account of my evening.’

  Monsieur de Noblecourt was looking at him with eyes as sharp as they had been in the old days, when he was involved in a criminal investigation.

  ‘To cut a long story short,’ said Nicolas in a faint voice, ‘I went to Madame de Lastérieux’s house in Rue de Verneuil, where I was supposed to be having dinner. She showed me a lack of consideration, and I left. I went to the Théâtre-Français, where I watched the first act of Athalie. Having calmed down, I decided to go back to Julie’s, but the party was in full swing and I realised I had made a mistake. Feeling angry and offended, I wandered around Paris a little before returning here, like the prodigal son.’

  ‘For a man of your maturity and experience, you behaved like a child. Did you see anyone you knew at the theatre?’

  ‘Yes, my colleague Commissioner Chorrey was on duty.’

  Nicolas had replied without thinking, but it suddenly occurred to him that Monsieur de Noblecourt was asking him to account for his movements, as if questioning a suspect. ‘May I enquire, Monsieur, why you asked me that question?’

  The procurator stroked his mottled jowls with a hand as white as a priest’s. ‘I see you’re getting your senses back, Nicolas. I’m afraid I have some bad news to tell you. I will understand if it distresses you, but I ask you to stay calm. You may have the most pressing need to keep your composure in the hours to come.’

  ‘What is the meaning of these words, Monsieur?’

  ‘Their meaning, my boy, is that this morning, at the stroke of ten, an envoy from Monsieur de Sartine came to fetch you. The Lieutenant General of Police wants to see you immediately. Bourdeau was here – he’d come to find out how you were – and he managed to worm it out of him. Be brave! This morning, at first light, Madame de Lastérieux’s servants found her dead. According to an initial examination by a local doctor, it seems she may have been poisoned.’

  Long afterwards, Nicolas would remember that his first reaction, fleeting as it was – well before the grief went through him like a knife, a grief made all the more intense by the images of their passion that flashed through his mind – had been one of relief, almost of liberation. For a moment he was speechless, and so pale and haggard that Noblecourt grew worried at his silence.

  ‘Poisoned!’ Nicolas said. ‘Was it some rotting food? Mushrooms?’

  ‘Alas, no. From what we know, there is every sign that she was poisoned by malicious intent.’

  ‘Isn’t it possible that she killed herself?’

  ‘If you have any evidence suggesting she was in such despair that she may have wanted to take her own life, you must reveal it as soon as possible to those whose task it will be to hear your testimony.’

  Nicolas shook his head and said in a barely audible voice, ‘The last time – oh, my God! – the last time I heard her voice – I didn’t even see her, just heard her voice – she was laughing uproariously and there was nothing to indicate that she wanted to die.’

  ‘You will have to say all that. Everything will require an explanation. Take this calmly, and confront one at a time the unpleasant ordeals which, I fear, await you … Now go and talk to Monsieur de Sartine, and give him my regards.’

  Monsieur de Noblecourt adjusted the velvet skullcap covering his balding cranium, an occupation which seemed intended to conceal a growing embarrassment. Nicolas felt sick at heart: it was as if, behind his friend’s outward affirmations, an unformulated question were being asked. No, he had nothing to reproach himself with. He realised at that moment that he had entered unknown and dangerous territory, full of obstacles and concealed traps. The slightest word, the most innocuous remark, a look, an expression of simple concern from a friend could cause him terrible pain, and he would not know if it was merely the result of his own imagination.

  The former procurator, angry with himself, tried to make amends. ‘Don’t misunderstand me. You have to see things as they are. Put yourself in the position of an outside spectator, a commissioner at the Châtelet embarking upon an investigation. You will be expected to give a precise account of an evening which you yourself say was full of incident. Make a commitment to explain everything in detail. Monsieur de Sartine knows you too well to have any doubts about your loyalty or your innocence in this tragedy about which we know nothing as yet. And when I say Monsieur de Sartine, I also mean your friends. Don’t think we are indifferent to your grief; it touches us more than you can imagine and from now on our only concern is to assure you of our support, have no fear of that …’

  Monsieur de Noblecourt’s voice was at once so tremulous and yet so full of warmth that it chased away any doubts Nicolas might have been harbouring about his mentor’s feelings, even though he still shuddered at the mere mention of the word ‘innocence’. But it made him all the more aware of the risks he would have to face from interrogators, adversaries, accusers, witnesses and judges less well disposed towards him. The horrifying thought
struck him that not only had he lost someone dear to him, but that until this affair was resolved he would also have to endure being placed in the position of those who, in the course of his twelve years in the police force, had borne the brunt of his unrelenting determination as an investigator.

  The door of the bedroom opened and Bourdeau reappeared, with a worried look on his face.

  ‘A cab sent by Monsieur de Sartine has just arrived. You know how he is, he must be getting impatient. I’ll let you get ready and then go with you.’

  Nicolas smiled weakly. ‘Afraid I’ll try to escape?’ There was such a look of pain on the inspector’s face that he got up and threw his arms around him. ‘Forgive me, Pierre, I shouldn’t have said that, but I’m at the end of my tether.’

  ‘Come, my children,’ said Noblecourt, ‘let’s not get carried away. Nicolas needs to get ready. Promise to come and see me as soon as you get back and tell me everything.’

  He withdrew, leaning on Bourdeau’s arm. Nicolas made an effort to take his time, anxious to appear in the best light to a chief whose sarcastic eye was in the habit of deducing the state of a man’s morals from the propriety of his costume. Any sign of neglect filled him with gloom and made him suspect the most extreme immorality. He took care not to cut himself while shaving, put on a black coat, recently made for him by his tailor, tied an immaculate lace cravat around his neck, combed his hair for a long time – there were a few white hairs starting to come through – and tied his ponytail with a dark velvet ribbon. He only ever wore a wig at Court or on solemn occasions when he was dressed in his magistrate’s robe. He took a last look in the mirror, and realised that he looked younger now that his fever had passed: it almost made him forget the seriousness of the situation. Then he descended the small staircase, and the sight of Bourdeau and Semacgus waiting for him at the entrance brought him back to reality.

  Semacgus walked up to him. ‘Remember, Nicolas, that you can ask me for anything,’ he said. ‘I haven’t forgotten that you once proved my innocence and gave me back my freedom.’

  Nicolas shook his hand firmly and followed the inspector into the cab. He lapsed into morose brooding. Suddenly, he recalled the graceful figure of Julie, and the image took his breath away and made him feel dizzy. He withdrew into himself, shaking with sobs. Incapable of controlling his imagination, he could not prevent the terrible images that flooded into his mind: a body thrown on a slab in the Basse-Geôle and subjected to the indignities inflicted by those given the task of performing the autopsy, a body whose softness he could still feel … Bourdeau coughed in embarrassment. The city Nicolas loved so much sped past, its houses and its crowds like a stage set painted in faded colours, without life or gaiety. They did not exchange a single word. The carriage soon reached the Hôtel de Gramont1 in Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin. Entering the building, they saw the familiar faces of their police colleagues, and the footmen bowed before them with their usual deference. The elderly manservant smiled when he saw Nicolas.

  ‘Don’t be surprised if things are a bit different. Monsieur de Sartine only got back from Versailles at midday.’

  As Bourdeau was about to sit down on a bench to wait, the servant indicated to him that his presence was also required.

  They entered the Lieutenant General’s vast office to be greeted by an unusual sight. A silent assembly of wigs stood on the table in serried rows, like soldiers on parade. Monsieur de Sartine, having spent the night at Versailles, had missed his morning appointment with his precious collection. And, as he could not bear the slightest interruption to his innocent obsession, it was only now that his usual inspection was taking place. That was what the porter had been trying to say. Nicolas, who on any other occasion might have been amused at the spectacle, was wondering anxiously where his chief was, when suddenly one of the wigs moved and Monsieur de Sartine’s sharp face emerged from amongst his inanimate creatures.

  Nicolas had grown accustomed over the years to the whole gamut of his chief’s facial expressions, which varied widely according to circumstances; and had today been expecting the irritated, impatient countenance the Lieutenant General wore whenever he was about to show his displeasure with a subordinate. Instead, he was surprised to see Monsieur de Sartine looking at him in a relaxed, affectionate, almost paternal manner.

  ‘Nicolas’ – the use of the Christian name was also a good omen – ‘where did your late father and my greatly missed friend the Marquis de Ranreuil buy his wigs? I seem to recall they were ideally firm yet supple.’

  ‘I think, Monsieur, that he found them in Nantes, in a little shop near the dukes’ palace.’

  ‘Hmm! I’ll have to find out more about it. But for the moment, we have an unfortunate matter to deal with. Very unfortunate, in truth, for it concerns you personally, and, as everyone knows the esteem in which I hold you and the confidence I have in you, some people would be only too pleased to gossip about an incident which might implicate the éminence grise of the Lieutenant General of Police.’

  This was said in the pompous tone Sartine used whenever he invoked the dignity of his office. With his hands, he stroked two tiered wigs placed symmetrically like yew trees in a French garden.

  ‘We need to consider, however,’ he went on ‘that for the moment there is no case. A young woman has succumbed to something that a neighbourhood quack says resembles poisoning. Primo, are we certain of the cause of death? Secundo, if the cause is proven, do we suspect suicide, murder or, quite simply, a domestic accident, which is always possible? When all these reasons have been duly examined, we will still have, tertio, to question witnesses. Eh?’

  This interjection, Nicolas knew, did not call for any reply: it was merely there as punctuation, a pause for breath after which the argument would resume its course.

  ‘According to the information I have received, the body is still in the state in which it was found and has not been taken away. Only the local commissioner knows of the death. Nothing has leaked out, and the two servants are in solitary confinement. Seals have been placed on the bedroom, the servants’ pantry and the drawing room. We must lose no more time. Bourdeau, see to it that the body is taken discreetly to the Basse-Geôle, that it is abundantly salted, even though we are in winter, and that Sanson is summoned as soon as possible. As you know, the duty doctors at the Châtelet are quite incapable, and have given proof of their incompetence on more than one occasion. Ask Semacgus, who has proved himself in previous investigations, to help Sanson in this task.’ He laughed. ‘Those two are used to each other by now! Don’t forget to confiscate anything which might throw light on this matter: glasses, crockery. Look in the servants’ pantry for the leftovers from last night’s dinner – apparently it was given in Nicolas’s honour.’

  He gave Nicolas a long hard look.

  ‘Now, as for this gentleman …’

  He pensively twisted a curl on his wig.

  ‘Commissioner, if you have a statement to make, I am listening. Something you may have on your mind and which you would like to do me the honour of confiding to me. Take your time; what you say to me will determine the course we take, for I shall not depart from whatever line I adopt. In fact, if anyone has my trust, it’s you, and, in my position, there are not many who enjoy it. Eh? What do you say?’

  For Nicolas, the open-mindedness of this conclusion tempered the inquisitorial tone of the rest of the speech, a tone which could have been applied to any suspect.

  ‘Your words do me great honour, Monsieur, and I can only answer as honestly as possible. Yesterday evening, I spent no more than fifteen minutes in Julie de Lastérieux’s house until an unjust remark caused me to leave. Having calmed down, I returned two hours later. I did not see her again, as the party was at its height. I judged that my presence would cast a pall over the guests’ merriment, and so refrained from showing myself. So …’ – he paused for a moment – ‘I wandered a little and then went back to Rue Montmartre.’

  ‘Nothing else I might learn from any malicious thi
rd parties?’

  ‘Nothing else, Monsieur. I met Commissioner Chorrey on duty at the Théâtre-Français and spent a little time with him.’

  Sartine made an impatient gesture. ‘As I’m sure you can imagine, I already know that! In any case, I need to make it clear to you that, being a party in this affair, you cannot be involved in any way in the investigation. Go back to work, but do not attempt to intervene, however remotely. It’s enough that Inspector Bourdeau, your friend …’ – he emphasised the possessive – ‘… should be given the task of dealing with this. Not to mention the fact that the two men who will be opening the body are also close to you. I could easily be reproached for all this, which means—’

  ‘Nevertheless, Monsieur—’

  ‘Nevertheless nothing! As I was saying … it means that I must keep you at a distance from this case. Don’t imagine that I don’t understand your feelings, your grief, your legitimate desire to participate in the inquiries into your friend’s death. But circumstances force us to act in a certain way. You would do well to obey. As long as the mystery has not been elucidated, any move on your part would bring the legality of our procedures into question and would place me in a delicate position should we come up against one of those magistrates who share the fashionable tendency to challenge the authority of the King.’

  Monsieur de Sartine stood up, walked around his desk – stopping one of the wigs from slipping as he did so – took Nicolas by the shoulder and pushed him gently towards the door.

  ‘If you want my advice, I think you should take some time off. What would you say to going to Versailles and paying court to His Majesty’s daughters? Only yesterday Madame Adélaïde was asking after you. Or else, visit Madame du Barry, go hunting with the King. In short, a little courtly spirit would not go amiss in the present situation. Versailles is a place where we have to show ourselves often lest we are forgotten!’