The Saint-Florentin Murders (13 page)

‘And what lessons do you draw from all this, Monseigneur?’ asked Nicolas softly.

‘My dear Nicolas, two names are currently in the spotlight. One is that of d’Aiguillon whose dubious intrigues you yourself have suffered.
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The other is Choiseul, my protector, to whom I have, since his fall from favour, remained secretly loyal. He has superior talent and intelligence and the dazzling memory of a long and glorious ministry.’

Nicolas sighed, thinking of his Micmac friend, Naganda, and all those orphaned by the abandonment of New France. What was so glorious about the loss of Canada and the Indies?

‘In addition,’ Sartine went on, ‘he has the support of the
parlements
, whom we always have to go along with, the better to control them. The philosophers’ party constantly praises him to the skies. Only the King is against him, having been led to believe that he poisoned his father. Gossip picked up along the way by his nurse, Madame de Marsan, and taken up by his aunts. That’s all Mesdames ever talk about, the birdbrains!’

‘What about Maurepas?’ said Nicolas.

‘He carries no weight in this matter, and it will blow up in his face in the end. Maurepas is a puppet, an automaton from the past. Ingratiating and fickle, a subject for amusing anecdotes. He’s just for show! He’ll fizzle out, he has the same faults as the King. We will have to choose. The Queen will make all the difference, she hates d’Aiguillon.’

He sank gracefully into his armchair and immediately plunged his hands into the wig spread out in front of him, as if trying frantically to untangle its curls.

‘Many ministers of the late King are still in place,’ he went on. ‘They are obstacles that will have to be put aside.’ He struck the flat of his desk with his hand. ‘The Duc de La Vrillière first of all. I gather he’s given you the task of investigating a death that took place in his mansion? Your fall from favour has been brief, you have bounced back even higher than before.’

‘Yes, Monseigneur.’

‘Yes for the investigation, or for the bouncing back?’

The tone was inquisitorial: this, Nicolas thought, was the Lieutenant General of old.

‘You should know,’ said Sartine, ‘that, contrary to what you think, the master was not at Versailles last night, but in Paris for a romantic assignation – if my information is correct, and it usually is, as you know better than anyone.’

‘I will take note of it, Monseigneur,’ answered Nicolas prudently.

‘It is not enough to take note of it, Monsieur Le Floch. You must also get down to work and, if you believe me, put me in a position to help you.’

‘I am your humble servant.’

‘This affair is bound up with our interests. Anything that helps to bring down La Vrillière will hasten Choiseul’s return. The salvation of the State is at stake. And should you feel any misgivings, think of the unworthy manner in which that depraved individual treated you at the time of the King’s death.’

Nicolas, who had not lost his independence of judgement,
recalled that Louis XV had shamelessly chosen him as the instrument of a final intrigue. All that La Vrillière had been doing was following his master’s example. But, although long initiated into the ins and outs of the secret world, he was left speechless by Sartine’s proposition. Sartine himself walked towards the hearth, seized the poker and again began stirring nonexistent embers. Nicolas saw in this gesture a sense of unease perhaps equal to his own. The minister knew his loyalty and rectitude. He could therefore imagine the revulsion his suggestion must have provoked, and might well be regretting having exposed himself to such a degree.

Nicolas was torn between a number of feelings. Of course, he could take all this quite simply as a mark of the renewed confidence placed in him by Monsieur de Sartine. However, he recalled some unfortunate previous examples of the man’s love and inclination for manipulating things behind the scenes. Beneath the veneer of the courtier, beneath the punctilious courtesy of the gentleman, there sometimes reappeared the coldness and inflexibility of someone dealing in hidden things that crouched in the darkness like nocturnal animals. Nicolas, despite his affection and gratitude, suspected him of finding a strange pleasure in such things, a pleasure nourished by a deeply felt contempt for human beings that was born of long years of familiarity with crime and human baseness. In so doing, was he not trying to exert an obsessive control over Nicolas, like the trainer of an animal that has finally been tamed tugging the end of its lead to make sure it is truly submissive? Or perhaps he just wanted to feel that his trust was still considered a favour and thus convince himself that all was not lost in this sad world. As
for Nicolas, whatever answer he gave would place him in an ambiguous position. Whether he agreed or refused to yield to Sartine’s injunctions, the reasons ascribed to him would not be the correct ones, and the most plausible would appear the least convincing. Bowing to his former chief’s request would certainly make him lose his own self-esteem. He was a police officer, not an informer. He decided to be himself and to trust in fate, which had got him out of difficult situations so many times before.

The silence which had fallen was broken by Sartine. ‘I asked you a question.’

‘There is no doubt, Monseigneur, that you are best placed to make allowances.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You have just demonstrated once again that you are the first to be informed of all things. However quick I am, reporting to you would be pointless. In addition, I cannot suppose that the Lieutenant General of Police, who knows everything, will not hasten to respond in detail to any demand you see fit to make of him. Why should I, a poor subordinate, interfere between two such powers?’

Sartine’s face turned pale and tense. He began muttering, and Nicolas thought he made out the words ‘disciple of Loyala’ and ‘emulator of the Jesuits of Vannes’. But then he calmed down, and looked at the commissioner with a kind of indulgent commiseration.

‘You will never change! Fourteen years in the highest echelons of the police, and here you are, just as you were before, filled with honour and scruples and … mental limitations. But not devoid of skill, oh no! Yes, the marquis would be proud of you. The head of
a Ranreuil and the skull of a Breton. Stubborn, but still a little innocent – apparently …’

‘That’s the second time in two days.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘That I’ve been called innocent. Last night, Monsieur de Noblecourt …’

‘He’s absolutely right. Well, be that as it may. At least promise me you’ll let me know if anything in this case is likely to tarnish the throne. You certainly can’t refuse that request.’

‘I’ll do my best, Monseigneur.’

‘Now go on, get out of here, you rascal. I suppose you’re rushing off to meet up with your usual accomplices and cut up some bloody body or other in order to stimulate that famous intuition of yours.’

Nicolas laughed. ‘It’s impossible to hide anything from you. Even the future.’

Sartine, half smiling, half angry, wagged a threatening finger at him and sighed.

Nicolas was walking towards the river, his face aflame. Although the interview had ended pleasantly enough, it had left him with a bitter taste in his mouth. He was torn between his joy at having seen his former chief again and a sense of anguish. How difficult life was! In a flash, he saw his father, the Marquis de Ranreuil, striding about the lower hall in the family chateau. While Nicolas, then a little boy, crouched beneath the chimney hood and looked on, the marquis, usually so ready to embrace change, cursed the mediocrity of the times. He missed the heroic days when history
was made with great sweeps of the sword and the only skill lay in knowing how to die. He condemned that degenerate nobility ‘of parquet floors and wood panelling, cut off from its roots, whose only world is one of ridicule and disputes over etiquette in the drawing rooms of Versailles’. Once again, Nicolas had the feeling of emptiness that had come over him so often since the death of Louis XV. Everyone was acting as if his successor was of no significance. Even Sartine gave the impression that he had broken the sacred bond connecting him with the new monarch. He was no longer the same man, and he seemed interested in nobody but Choiseul, dazzled by a star which Nicolas, colder or less committed, had long judged to be on a declining orbit. He would not have wagered a farthing on the possibility of the hermit of Chanteloup returning to affairs. Everyone knew the distaste, even the revulsion, which the former minister inspired in the monarch. In this situation, who was the real innocent? Sartine no doubt had ambitions to occupy the position of Minister of the King’s Household, which had previously escaped his grasp. He still hoped to achieve it with the help of the Queen and Choiseul. The gods always blinded those they sought to bring down. As for himself, if he could prevent yet another disappointment for his protector, he would do so without hesitation.

The foamy ochre Seine was carrying all kinds of doubtful flotsam on its autumn tides. He spotted the carcass of an animal swirling round and round in an eddy, and recalled his
conversation
with Lenoir. Could that pestilential disease really spread to the whole of the kingdom and infect both animals and people? He continued thinking about this until he reached the gates of the old Châtelet. He sighed, feeling a kind of weariness at the thought of
what was about to take place in the secrecy of the cellars of the Basse-Geôle. As he passed, he glanced mechanically at the grim slab where the latest bodies lay, washed and salted. He noted that the watch had been diligent and that the poor wretch fished out of the waters near the Quai des Tuileries was already resting beside his companions in misfortune. He heard the sounds of conversation, and was delighted to recognise the voices of his friends.

‘Here is our Nicolas!’ exclaimed Dr Semacgus in his bass voice.

He was carefully removing his doublet. Ever since he had abandoned himself to the tender tyranny of a relationship with his maid, the surgeon was always extremely well dressed and took as much care of his appearance as a young man. Beside him, Bourdeau sat on a stool, calmly smoking an old pipe. Nicolas took his snuff box from his pocket. The sight of it brought a pang to his heart: it was a present from Madame du Barry, and the lid bore the face of a young, smiling Louis XV. He shook Sanson’s hand and offered him a pinch of snuff. There followed a pleasant session of sneezing.

‘In this damp, cold weather,’ said Sanson sententiously, ‘tobacco protects against congestion and catarrh. Nicolas, Madame Sanson has asked me to tell you that our doors are always open to you and that she would deem it a great honour if you came at your convenience for lunch or dinner.’ He blushed and hesitated. ‘I should add that the children would be pleased to see their father’s friend again.’

‘A thousand thanks to your wife,’ replied Nicolas. ‘I would be glad to come, once this case has been cleared up.’

‘Come, gentlemen,’ said Semacgus solemnly, ‘this is not a drawing room. Let’s raise the curtain on the autopsy.’

With a grand gesture, he pulled the jute cloth off the victim’s body. Bourdeau had risen, and they all leaned over the table where Marguerite Pindron lay. The torchlight cast their elongated, dancing shadows on the dark walls. Nicolas explained the circumstances under which the crime had been discovered, and also indicated his own estimate of the approximate time of death.

‘A fine-looking girl,’ said Semacgus. ‘What’s the temperature in the kitchens of the Saint-Florentin mansion?’

‘It was as cold as outside,’ said Bourdeau. ‘No food had been served the previous night, Sunday, and the furnaces, chimneys and stoves had all been out since Saturday night.’

The two practitioners kneaded the body. Semacgus looked at his watch, said a few words in a low voice to Sanson, and seemed to be thinking hard.

Sanson cleared his throat. ‘We believe death occurred sometime between ten and twelve o’clock.’

Nicolas could not conceal his surprise. ‘I’m pleased to see that your expertise confirms my own impressions so closely. However, to truly enlighten me, would it not be possible for you to be more precise? Please understand that the peace of mind of the innocent depends on your observations.’

‘The young rascal’s trying to teach us our job,’ grumbled Semacgus, ‘even after we let him witness the birth of criminal surgery.’

They all started laughing. An overjoyed Bourdeau took several enthusiastic puffs at his pipe and Nicolas let out a long and very satisfying series of sneezes. He was not mistaken: proximity with the most tangible and terrifying forms of violent death often
brought about these bursts of artificial and somewhat forced relaxation. Each man took advantage of them to conceal his emotions – sometimes, his horror.

‘Alas,’ said Sanson, ‘your question contains its own answer. The coldness of the place no doubt slowed down certain natural phenomena. This context complicates our ability to judge and makes it difficult for us to deliver a more exact verdict.’

‘As for the rest …’ resumed Semacgus, who had just taken several shiny instruments from a small varnished wooden case and had noticed Nicolas’s curious glance at this fine object. ‘You’re admiring my casket. You’ve never seen this one. I acquired it in the Dutch Indies. It’s the only one of its kind. Cut to measure from a single stump of rot-proof ironwood.’

‘Perfect, I imagine,’ continued Nicolas, completing his friend’s description, ‘for avoiding erosion by dampness and salt while crossing the seas and oceans.’

‘Precisely, the essential thing being to preserve my instruments from rust. As for the rest, as I was saying, in other words, the cause of death, it’s perfectly obvious. What do you think, my dear colleague?’

Sanson smiled contentedly at this appellation. They leaned over the body. As always at an autopsy, Nicolas could not help comparing them to two crows he had seen as a child on a path on the edge of Vilaine, busy with the carcass of a dead animal. For a while, the usual ceremonial went through its obligatory phases. Constantly coming back to the neck wound, they proceeded with all the necessary examinations.