The Châtelet Apprentice (26 page)

Everyone fell silent, contemplating the unspeakable and no longer paying any attention to the other curiosities. Nicolas, less
affected than the others because he had seen much worse things in real life, suddenly noticed a large crucifix placed against one of the display cabinets. He questioned Monsieur de Noblecourt, who smiled.

‘Oh, that's not one of the curiosities, but as I don't want to be suspected of being a Jansenist I've put this gift to one side. It was, would you believe it, a present from Commissioner Lardin. I hadn't realised he was so devout or so eager to convert others. I still wonder about his reason for giving it to me and the purpose of the esoteric little message that accompanied this kind gesture. I still haven't worked out its meaning.'

He unfurled the piece of paper that was rolled around the wood of the cross. Nicolas discovered to his amazement a message matching the one found in his coat in Rue des
Blancs-Manteaux
.

‘Look at the riddle,' Noblecourt continued. ‘The arms of this Jansenist Christ are closed, presumably to open people's hearts better. That's the interpretation I give it.'

‘Will you let me have this piece of paper?' Nicolas asked in a low voice.

‘Of course. I understand that all this may be important.'

The merriment of the meal had vanished. The visit to the elderly procurator's cabinet of curiosities had opened up a Pandora's box. It was as if each guest had put on a mask and retreated into
sadness and silence. Noblecourt tried in vain to make his friends stay on but gradually each one took his leave. Monsieur de La Borde said goodbye to Nicolas with a strange ‘We are relying on you.' After promising Pigneau and Père Grégoire to see them more often, the young man remained alone with Monsieur de Noblecourt, who looked worried.

‘I'm too old for these sorts of gatherings,' he sighed. ‘I've over-indulged. I'm afraid I'll have an attack of gout and then be told off by Marion, quite rightly as usual. I shouldn't have given in to La Borde's inquisitiveness. I conjured up the devil and broke the spell.'

‘Don't be sorry, Monsieur. There are certain things that some people cannot face up to.'

‘Wisely spoken. What's more, I noticed that you showed little emotion at that spectacle.'

‘I've seen worse things than a wax representation and …'

Marion suddenly burst into the room, looking outraged.

‘Monsieur, there's an Inspector Bourdeau asking for our Nicolas.'

‘Go, Nicolas,' said the magistrate, ‘but take care of yourself. I have a premonition of something nasty. It must be the gout. It is the gout!'

B
OURDEAU
was waiting beneath the carriage entrance. He came straight to the point, explaining to Nicolas why he had disturbed him”: Tirepot had picked up the trail of the two suspects and had sent a messenger to say he was tailing them. As soon as he had run them to ground, he would make contact. Bourdeau's man had already gone off to meet him, and the inspector had come to collect Nicolas to take him back to the Châtelet where all the information would be pieced together.

Nicolas approved his deputy's arrangements and now, in a hurry himself, wanted to send for a carriage. Foresighted as ever, Bourdeau pointed to a cab waiting in the street. They would go back to the duty office to await developments, and put on disguises to be ready for any eventuality. Nicolas took his cape and tricorn, then got into the carriage. They rapidly reached their destination since on that Sunday afternoon in late winter Paris was almost deserted. All they came across were a few groups of masked revellers intimidating some frightened
citizens. This reminded Nicolas that it was exactly a week since he had got back from Guérande.

Sitting at a small table in the duty office, Bourdeau gave a detailed account of Semacgus's move to the Bastille. The surgeon had received a friendly welcome from the governor, who already knew him because he had had occasion to dine with him at Monsieur de Jussieu's. He had been given a large and airy cell with a few items of furniture. Bourdeau had gone back to Vaugirard to pick up clothes and books from a list that Semacgus had given him. Catherine was still consoling Awa, who by now was convinced that she would never see Saint-Louis again. Bourdeau had made use of the visit to check that the seals on Descart's house were still intact, and that no one had attempted to break in. In any case his spies were keeping a constant watch on the doctor's residence. As for the reports from Rue des Blancs-Manteaux, Bourdeau was beginning to doubt the sanity and the zeal of his informers. They spoke solely of Madame Lardin returning home when no one had seen her leave, and of her leaving when no one had seen her come home. That side of the mystery was deepening. Mauval had been spotted entering the house several times. Having finished his summary Bourdeau took out his pipe, looked at it thoughtfully, then concentrated on producing a cloud of smoke that in the slowly gathering dusk plunged the room into even deeper darkness.

Nicolas could not shake off the lethargy induced by the delights of Monsieur de Noblecourt's table. He couldn't stop thinking about his clumsy comment, an act of pretentiousness which he now realised was merely a sign of his own insecurity.
Balbastre had not wanted to hurt his feelings; he had simply ventured a witty remark amidst the sparkling conversation that was the hallmark of a free society. The young man was conscious of how lucky he was to meet men of taste and tact, a reflection of the polished manners of the Court. Revisiting his own weakness, he realised the progress he still had to make before he achieved self-control and could prevent the first gibe directed at him, and the first slight to his self-esteem, from reopening the wound. He was aware that this over-sensitivity was an essential part of his make-up, and something he would have to live with. He had never had the opportunity to talk to anybody openly about it. At one point he had intended to confide in Pigneau but, however kind he was, his friend was still a man of the cloth and tended to treat anything that was said in confidence as if it were spoken in the confessional. He could only see Nicolas's moral suffering in the context of a faith that took little account of private sorrows, or rather urged that they should be transcended by adoration of the divine.

Drowsy from the effects of the meal, Nicolas began to dream. He was at Château de Ranreuil, near the moat. Isabelle had slipped on the grass and had fallen into the water: she was floating motionless amongst the reeds. On the bank Nicolas was holding out his hands towards the young woman but he was unable to move. He was shouting out in despair but not a sound came from his lips. Suddenly the marquis appeared, his face twisted with hatred, clutching a large crucifix with which he was attempting to hit the young man. He felt a sharp pain in his shoulder …

‘Calm down, Monsieur. It's me, Bourdeau. You fell asleep. Were you dreaming?'

Nicolas shuddered.

‘I was having a nightmare.'

Night had fallen and Bourdeau had lit a candle that glimmered and guttered.

‘Tirepot has made contact. Our two fellows are currently sitting at a table in a seedy tavern in Faubourg Saint-Marcel, near the horse market. They seem to be regulars. We need to be quick. I've informed the watch and they'll meet us there.'

He handed Nicolas a hat and some old clothes. He himself ran his fingers through the dust on the top of a chest and then rubbed it over his face. He invited the young man to do the same. Their faces now made them look like little Savoyard chimney sweeps. Nicolas picked up the cast-offs that had proved so useful during his investigations in Vaugirard. He wanted to take a sword but Bourdeau dissuaded him, pointing out that this weapon did not go with the rest of his outfit, and that the little pistol he had given him was ample guarantee of safety and discretion. When all was ready they got into the cab driven by one of Bourdeau's aides. The inspector ordered him to take the quickest route, which meant going over Pont au Change, crossing Île de la Cité, reaching the Left Bank via Petit Pont, then speeding towards Porte Saint-Marcel and entering the
faubourg
.

The bumpy ride made Nicolas feel drowsy again; he tried to marshal his thoughts. Something was preying on his mind, as if it were trying to send him a message that he was unable to decipher. He thought back to the lunch in Rue Montmartre and to the astonishing discovery of another message from Lardin that was just as incomprehensible as the first. He found it difficult to explain why the commissioner had chosen to make
contact with two acquaintances who were not close friends, and who might have had reason to mistrust him: Monsieur de Noblecourt for reasons of caution and reticence, and Nicolas because of his subordinate status. He would have to re-read and compare the two messages. He tried in vain to determine at what point he had become uneasy and doubtful, and what particular detail had triggered his current uncertainty. He relived the episode of the cabinet of curiosities. He saw again the strange crucifix. It vaguely reminded him of something, and he vowed to give the matter some more thought.

Bourdeau respected his silence and continued to surround himself in wreaths of smoke. In his wisdom, he always seemed to know when his superior needed absolute quiet. It was now pitch dark and the lighting was poor because the wind had blown out many of the candles in the street lanterns. Nicolas had heard Monsieur de Sartine think aloud about the changes he wished to make to lighting in the capital to improve the safety of its inhabitants. He also complained of the ever-increasing number of street signs and awnings that cast too much shadow onto the cobbled streets and created areas of dark that were a breeding ground for thieves, pickpockets and other villains. What was more, the awnings, which were often damaged by the weather, tended to fall down and cause accidents.

Occasionally the noise of the carriage lessened, as if it were going over a carpet. A pervasive, musty smell told them that they had just gone past the mansion of some wealthy invalid. The servants of the house had spread dung and straw in front of the door to muffle the noise of the carriages. Elsewhere,
ice-covered
potholes caved in and the windows were splashed with muddy water. They encountered more groups of masked
revellers who bombarded the carriage with little sacks of flour, but Carnival was almost over and the spirit had gone out of it. Shrove Tuesday would signal the end with a bonfire that finished on Ash Wednesday, the start of Lent.

Once they had gone beyond the city limits, Nicolas had the feeling of entering a frozen desert. The
faubourg
showed itself in its most eerie light. The faint glimmer of the lantern revealed high walls that gradually gave way to indistinct bulky masses. These were religious or charitable institutions, which were numerous in this part of the city. Where nothing had been built, it was left to the imagination to conjure up abandoned areas in which ghostly thickets covered the land with tangled
undergrowth
, dense with claw-like and frost-encrusted brambles. Small walls reared up, protecting orchards, gardens and yards. The traffic had stopped. Suddenly a nocturnal creature fluttered against the window on Nicolas's side, pecked fiercely at the glass, then disappeared. He thought about Monsieur de Noblecourt's premonition, and at the same time he sensed Bourdeau's anxiety as the inspector trembled beside him.

Tirepot's messenger had got there before them; he
intercepted
their carriage near the churchyard of Sainte-Catherine. The tavern they were heading for was close by, in Rue du Cendrier. Their guide pointed out a large, badly lit hovel set back from the road. As they approached it a familiar voice greeted Nicolas from behind a collapsed cart by a woodpile:

‘Here you are at last!' Tirepot murmured. ‘I'm freezing here, waiting for you. Pretend you're passing water. Your two fellows, an old soldier called Bricart and his crony, Rapace, a former butcher, are sitting at the corner table on the right as you go in. Be careful. It's a pretty seedy place.'

Nicolas pretended to do himself up.

‘The watch have been informed and are on their way. You stay out of this. I don't want you to be seen. Off you go now.'

Nicolas went back to Bourdeau, who was rehearsing his role. He began to limp as he rammed his big hat on.

‘Take my arm and hide your face. Keep out of the light.'

They pushed open the door of the tavern and went inside. The room was in semi-darkness. The beams of the low ceiling were blackened with smoke. The only furniture on the uneven mud floor was a dozen or so painted wooden tables with
rough-hewn
benches on either side. Here and there poor quality tallow candles provided some dim light. The customers were an odd assortment of rag-pickers, beggars and two washerwomen from the toll-gates, who had hoisted their skirts to warm their backsides by the meagre fire. The tavern-keeper was breaking up lumps of sugar and from time to time stirred a large pot hanging from a hook in the fireplace, in which a thick concoction of assorted scraps and roots was bubbling away. One of the human wrecks went up to him and, after paying, received a bowlful of the soup together with a hunk of black bread mixed with bran. Rapace and Bricart seemed in the middle of a lively conversation. There was a growing collection of wine jugs on their table. Lurching around, Bourdeau pushed Nicolas into a dark corner to the left of the fireplace. The spot was well chosen; it allowed a general view of the room and the entrance, but also of the exits to the back. The inspector banged his fist on the table and in a hoarse voice called the host who came to take their order. They asked for two bowls of soup and a pitcher of brandy and paid up immediately. Bourdeau put down his pipe and spat copiously on the floor.

‘Monsieur,' he whispered, ‘you need to drink the brandy in one go, throwing your head back. Now, crumble the bread into the soup and grab the spoon with your whole hand. Make sure you're sprawled across the table, and make as much noise as possible while you're eating. To finish it, drink what's left straight from the bowl. Let's be careful. Anyone with an ounce of common sense could see through our disguise. This is going to be a treat.'

He gave him a grotesque wink.

Nicolas became uneasy when he saw the meagre fare arrive. He would long remember this day, in the course of which he had gone from the heights of culinary excellence to the depths of scraps and left-overs. Bourdeau gave him a look of
encouragement
. He tried to follow his advice and slumped over the grimy wooden table. The bread he had dipped into the broth gradually disintegrated and small flakes of it floated to the top. The first spoonful almost made him pass out, and to settle his stomach he took a quick swig of alcohol. Old Marie's ‘pick-me-up' in the Châtelet was sweetness and gentleness itself compared with the river of fire that flooded his chest. He decided to change tactics. He took his courage in both hands, lifted the bowl to his lips and swallowed its disgusting contents. He followed it with another glass of brandy. Bourdeau had difficulty stopping himself laughing out loud. For his part, he had chosen a more devious method: after each spoonful he had a massive coughing fit and spat repeatedly on the floor. In the end Nicolas succumbed to his companion's jollity. Once he had relaxed and had been pleasantly warmed by the brandy he said to himself that up until then, although they had got on easily and well together, he had not paid much attention to the inspector. Their relationship had
been confined to professional matters. He had never wondered about Bourdeau's past, his reasons for entering the police force or his family life. Suddenly he felt curious to know more about a man who had always been unfailingly helpful and kind to him. As they waited he seized the opportunity to try to make up for lost time.

‘Bourdeau,' he said in a hushed voice, ‘you've never told me about how you came to join the police, have you?'

The inspector remained silent for a moment, making no attempt to disguise how taken aback he was by the question.

‘No doubt, Monsieur, because you've never asked.'

There was another pause, during which Nicolas thought of the best way of getting back to the subject.