The Saint-Florentin Murders (25 page)

The minister adjusted his wig with both hands, a gesture which always indicated that he was highly satisfied. ‘We haven’t really looked into the question yet,’ he said, ‘but your observations have enlightened me in no uncertain manner. I’m planning to carry out some on-the-spot investigations. I shall start with a study journey to Brittany, concentrating on the administration of our ports and arsenals. I plan to dig new dry docks and increase the capacity for building vessels of the line. What would you say, Admiral, to helping me prepare for this visit and coming with me? I really need the opinion of a man who has sailed, fought and commanded! Later, once a plan of action has been drawn up, we’ll be joined by another officer of great merit, the Chevalier de Fleurieu, who at the moment is trying to improve the navy’s precision clocks to make the calculation of longitude easier. The King will like the man, he’s very fond of that kind of research.’

‘Monseigneur, I am at the minister’s service,’ said a delighted d’Arranet, half rising in his chair.

‘That’s settled then! Present yourself at my offices as soon as you can. My clerks will have orders to settle you in immediately.
We shall work in concert. Nicolas, tell us a little of the news of the city; I miss it. That’ll cheer us up after this grim conversation.’

‘Most of the rumours,’ replied Nicolas, ‘are about the opera and the theatre, as usual! It’s said that in Vienna, the Emperor has become very fond of Chevalier Gluck and doesn’t want him to leave his Court any more. In order to make sure of this, he’s just granted him a pension of two thousand crowns. Out of consideration for his sister, our Queen, and in order not to deprive him of the advantages he has in France, the Emperor has given him permission to come here every year to put on some of his works.’

‘Her Majesty won’t appreciate the way her brother treats her favourite musician.’

‘She was very grateful to Monsieur de Vaucanson for his choice of music yesterday, after the flute player played some tunes by Gluck.’

‘It should be said,’ remarked La Borde, ‘that Ranreuil has caused quite a stir at Court. The whole of Versailles is buzzing with his return to favour. A private audience with the King, an intimate interview with Madame de Maurepas, a conversation with the First Minister, and, to crown it all, an interview with the Queen away from the prying eyes of Madame de Noailles. Last but not least, they say he amiably resolved a domestic drama …’

‘For a newly-wed who’s withdrawn from the world,’ said Nicolas, ‘I find you’re extremely well informed. You are violating my discretion. Let us talk rather of the exploits of our actresses. The second rumour concerns the quarrel between Mademoiselle Arnoux and Mademoiselle Raucoux, which has degenerated into open war. It’s said that Mademoiselle Arnoux’s lover, Monsieur
Bellenger, the draughtsman of the Menus,
2
has taken up the cudgels on her behalf against the Marquis de La Villette, Mademoiselle Raucoux’s knight errant. Words were exchanged – more than words, threats, and in the presence of many witnesses. Fearing the marquis’s wrath, Bellenger brought a criminal complaint. However, others have mediated and the two rivals have come to the rather absurd arrangement that they will meet one another with their swords in their hands and that then they will immediately be separated. This ludicrous reconciliation has given rise to a story in the Persian manner condemning the marquis’s cowardice.’

‘Where is the honour in all that?’ cried the Comte d’Arranet. ‘It’s a farce, and a fine example of the madness that affects such people over totally trivial matters!’

‘May the former Lieutenant General of Police remind you, gentlemen,’ said Sartine with a laugh, ‘that duelling is forbidden and that the King has vowed never to pardon the slightest disobedience regarding this.’

Sweets now appeared on the table, then the host rose and led his guests into the library. Sartine drew Nicolas into a corner of the room.

‘The navy is not the police,’ he began, in the tone of someone talking to himself. ‘I am alone there, under observation and without support. Age has increased Maurepas’s egoism, and I fear that the one aim of his ministry is to avoid any upheaval, to abstain from any great measure that might disturb his peace and quiet. All he wants is to keep his position and live the rest of his life with no problems! But how are you getting on with your case?’

The question was abrupt, but it had the merit of getting straight to the point.

‘Quite well, as far as the murder weapon is concerned,’ replied Nicolas. ‘There is no doubt that it was an artificial hand, made of silver, similar to the one once given by the late King to Monsieur de Saint-Florentin after a hunting accident. The fact remains that—’

‘A silver hand …’ murmured Sartine, pensively. ‘Imagine that!’

‘When I asked the Duc de La Vrillière to explain this coincidence, his answers were vague and prevaricating. Apparently he uses a wooden replica, and claims not to know the whereabouts of the original. He’s not even sure if it was stolen or lost. He suggests it may have happened at Madame de Cusacque’s house in Normandy.’

‘Ah, the Beautiful Aglaé! Well, well! Now that’s something new; I congratulate you. And you think—’

‘I try not to think, Monseigneur. I merely observe that the duc is now a suspect, especially as he refuses to give an account of his whereabouts that night.’

He told the minister about the discovery of a second victim.

‘Did the King talk to you about this case?’ Sartine asked, with a thin-lipped smile.

‘He did in fact enquire about it.’

‘Please keep me informed of any new developments, Nicolas.’

He was about to rejoin the company when Nicolas detained him.

‘Is there something else?’

‘Yes, Monseigneur. An unexpected encounter which I’d like
to bring to your attention. Yesterday, in the lower gallery of the palace, I met a man who appeared to be wearing makeup and had spectacles with tinted lenses. He fled when he saw me approach.’

‘Did you recognise him? Who was he?’

‘Lord Ashbury, with whom I had dealings in London. That mission with which you are familiar …’

Sartine reflected for a moment. ‘The head of British intelligence in Paris! That’s as strange as it’s disturbing. I don’t like it. Inform Lenoir. Find out what foreigners entered our ports and Paris. We need to know what false name he’s using. Nicolas, we’ve never stopped working together, and the future … But don’t forget to check up on Bourdier. The navy is waiting for its system of codemaking.’

Nicolas was pleased that Sartine had not reiterated his obsession with the return of Choiseul. He was under no illusions about the sincerity of a man whose capacity for secrecy and devious intrigues he had often observed. Working beside him every day for many years had convinced him that Sartine tended to conceal the true reasons behind his actions. He kept his secrets close to his chest and, like all good politicians, always had several irons in the fire. In addition, one area of his activities was still a closed book to the commissioner: his membership of the Freemasons. Did his work in the lodge lead him to embrace the theories of the philosophers’ party? In doing so, was he conforming to the spirit of the times, or had he compromised with this hidden influence the better to control it?

In truth, what bound Nicolas to Sartine, apart from a grateful loyalty reinforced by the vicissitudes of the investigations and
tribulations they had been through together, was the certainty that this Frenchman from Barcelona, who did not belong to the high nobility – less even than the commissioner himself – constantly demonstrated at every moment a devotion, a passion, a love of the public good in the person of the King. It was not for nothing that the ermine that adorned his magistrate’s gown, a symbolic part of the mantle of ceremony, represented the authority and exercise of a justice delegated to him by the monarch.

As for Nicolas, he felt himself to be above all these political choices. The religious debate which had scarred the century only preoccupied him as a cause of public unrest. What made him indignant was the mingling of opposites, the unnatural collusion between the pious, the Jansenists and the
parlements
. The constant aggressive opposition from the
parlements
, briefly brought down by the imperious will of Maupeou with the support of the late King, made him fear the future, especially as Louis XVI’s youth and inexperience made it unusually hard to predict. But he would do his duty, trying to remain an honest man amid the compromises required by his position.

Midnight was approaching when the Comte d’Arranet walked the minister to his carriage. The scene was illumined by the torches of the servants, who stood in a semicircle. Semacgus offered Nicolas a lift back to the Hôtel de la Belle Image in his carriage. La Borde was returning to Paris, where his young wife was waiting for him. As he was leaving the house, Nicolas thought he caught a glimpse of a face at the top of the staircase, a face that could only be Aimée’s. Sartine’s proposal had filled the admiral with excitement. Clearly, the prospect of leaving this period of inactivity behind delighted a man who, like so many
general officers of his age and seniority, feared he would no longer be able to serve. They all promised to see each other soon, and Nicolas was asked to regard this house as his own.

Semacgus’s carriage slowly turned into the drive which led to the Avenue de Paris. As it was about to go through the gate, it suddenly came to a halt.

Distant voices echoed in his head. They faded then came back again, sounding more distinct. There was some kind of pressure on his left temple. Where was he? In what kind of dream? He could not open his eyelids, they were too heavy … He had an overwhelming desire to let go, to spiral slowly down into a bottomless pit. To sink, to sink for ever …

‘Damnation! He’s fainting again. Pass me the vinegar, Mademoiselle.’

‘It’s a good thing he has a hard head,’ said d’Arranet. ‘And that the shot went wide. And that you’re here, my dear Semacgus.’

‘It’s my coachman you should thank. His reflexes were good; without him we’d be holding a wake!’

‘Trying to kill my guests at my door, in Versailles! Could the real target have been the minister?’

‘Anything’s possible,’ said Semacgus. ‘This isn’t the first time they’ve tried to kill him. It’s been a bad year for him, this is the third time. Ah, now he’s getting a bit of colour back.’

Nicolas opened his eyes. He was lying on a bed in a richly decorated room. Semacgus was looking at him anxiously, the Comte d’Arranet standing beside him. Aimée was sitting on the bed, holding his hand. He tried to sit up, and the pain went to
his head. But it was no worse, he thought, than when he’d been hit while playing with his schoolmates in Guérande.

‘Don’t move,’ said Semacgus. ‘A bullet grazed your temple. With that kind of wound, you lose a lot of blood and you faint. But you’ve been through worse. I’m going to put a bandage on. Mademoiselle will now tear your beautiful shirt to shreds.’

To his embarrassment, Nicolas realised that he was
bare-chested
.

‘And you will sleep here, Monsieur,’ said d’Arranet. ‘That’s an order. The idea of someone trying to kill people on my property! I feel responsible for your condition …’

Nicolas tried to protest.

‘Not a word. I’m going to check the surrounding area. Tonight, everyone will take turns on watch. Tribord will see to that. Semacgus, you will sleep here, and don’t argue.’

‘Why did they miss me?’

‘Heavens!’ said the surgeon with a laugh. ‘I fear the wound has made him stupid. Instead of congratulating yourself! My coachman, caught by surprise when that long face appeared, hesitated for a moment and then struck the individual with his whip. The lash was red with blood. Watch out for people with scars from now on. That deflected the shot from its intended trajectory and saved you.’

‘Didn’t you catch him?’

‘There’s gratitude for you!’ retorted Semacgus, showing him his blood-spattered grey doublet. ‘You fell into my arms. For all I knew, you were dying. Was I supposed to leave you there?’

‘I’m sorry, Guillaume. I’m not quite myself yet.’

Could it be that this attempt had some connection with the
progress of his investigation into the murder at the
Saint-Florentin
mansion? Semacgus cauterised the wound with rum, as if he were back on board ship and tending the wounded during a sea battle. He made his patient take a large swig of the liquor, lightly bandaged his head, told him he ought to get some sleep, and snuffed out the candles. He would look in on him again tomorrow. There was a certain amount of bustling about as a room was got ready for the doctor. For some time after that, Nicolas could hear the master of the house giving orders to his servants. Aimée took a last glance at the wounded man and went back to her room. The d’Arranet mansion went to sleep, protected by the comte’s men, who were posted about the grounds with lanterns.

Nicolas woke with a start. The parquet floor was creaking so much that it was impossible to mistake the source of the sound: someone had entered the room. His heart began to pound. He forced himself to remain still and tried to control his breathing. Perhaps because of the emotion, the pain in his temple, he realised, had receded. Someone had very carefully turned the key in the lock and was now approaching the bed. He was surprised to find that he did not feel afraid. He breathed in a smell of verbena, and another aroma, that of a warm body. A moist finger touched his mouth and a hand slid over his chest. He sensed rather than heard a garment being impatiently removed and falling to the floor. His mind was a mixture of confusion and expectation. Suddenly, he was submerged in a stream of hair. He put out his hands, touched a naked body, and at the contact that body collapsed on him. His mouth found another mouth, lips
that opened. The satiny softness of a shoulder devastated him. Slowly, he turned over. Between the kisses sighs replaced words. More tender, more complex, more ardent, they responded to the sensations, marked their stages, and the last sigh of all, which hung suspended for a time, told Nicolas that he should render thanks to love.