The Man with the Lead Stomach E-Book

Jean-François Parot

• Herausgeber: Pushkin Vertigo
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Nicolas Le Floch Investigates
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 472

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

October 1761An unusual death during a society evening at the Opera reveals something sinister at the heart of the French court . . .Newly-promoted Commissioner Le Floch on duty at a Royal performance of Rameau's latest work. Events take a dramatic turn and Nicolas is soon embarked on his second major investigation when the body of a prominent courtier's son is found.The initial evidence points to suicide, but Le Floch's instincts tell him he is dealing with murder of the most gruesome kind.

Leseprobe

Praise for The Châtelet Apprentice

‘Reading this book is akin to time travel: it is an exhilarating portrait of the hubbub and sexual licence of Paris during an eighteenth-century carnival … The period detail is marvellously evocative, Le Floch is brave and engaging, and even though the story takes place almost 250 years ago, it is curiously reassuring that in many ways, Paris, and human nature, have not changed at all.’ Economist

‘Parot succeeds brilliantly in his reconstruction of pre-revolutionary Paris, in splendid period detail.’ The Times

‘A solid and detailed evocation of pre-revolutionary France – the poverty and squalor, side by side with the wealth and splendour, are brought lovingly to life. And the plot has all the twists, turns and surprises the genre demands.’ Independent on Sunday

‘Jean-François Parot’s evocation of 18th century Paris is richly imagined and full of fascinating historical snippets … the first in a promising series of French period mysteries, and if the other titles are half as good as this one, they will certainly be worth looking out for.’ Mail on Sunday

THE MAN WITH THE LEAD STOMACH

JEAN-FRANÇOIS PAROT

Translated by Michael Glencross

Pushkin Vertigo

For Marcel Trémeau

CONTENTS

Praise

Title Page

Dedication

Background to The Man with the Lead Stomach

Dramatis Personae

The Man with the Lead Stomach

I SUICIDE

II RECONNAISSANCE MISSION

III THE WELL OF THE DEAD

IV OPENINGS

V COMMEDIA DELL’ ARTE

VI THE TWO HOUSES

VII GRENELLE

VIII MADAME ADÉLAÏDE’S HUNT

IX UNCERTAINTIES

X THE LABYRINTH

XI REVELATIONS

XII TRUCHE DE LA CHAUX

Notes

About the Author

By the Same Author

Copyright

Background to The Man with the Lead Stomach

In the first Nicolas Le Floch investigation, The Châtelet Apprentice, the hero, a foundling raised by Canon Le Floch in Guérande, is sent away from his native Brittany by his godfather, the Marquis de Ranreuil, who is concerned by his daughter, Isabelle’s, growing fondness for the young man.

On arrival in Paris he is taken in by Père Grégoire at the Monastery of the Discalced Carmelites and on the recommendation of the marquis soon finds himself in the service of Monsieur de Sartine, the Lieutenant General of Police of Paris. Under his tutelage, Nicolas is quick to learn and is soon familiar with the mysterious working methods of the highest ranks of the police service. At the end of his apprenticeship he is entrusted with a confidential mission, one that will result in him rendering a signal service to Louis XV and the Marquise de Pompadour.

Aided by his deputy and mentor, Inspector Bourdeau, and putting his own life at risk on several occasions, he successfully unravels a complicated plot. Received at court by the King, he is rewarded with the post of commissioner of police at the Châtelet and, under the direct authority of Monsieur de Sartine, continues to be assigned to special investigations.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

NICOLAS LE FLOCH : a police commissioner at the Châtelet

PIERRE BOURDEAU : a police inspector

MONSIEUR DE SAINT-FLORENTIN : Minister of the King’s Household

MONSIEUR DE SARTINE : the Paris Lieutenant General of Police

MONSIEUR DE LA BORDE : the First Groom of the King’s Bedchamber

AIMÉ DE NOBLECOURT : a former procurator

The VICOMTE LIONEL DE RUISSEC : a lieutenant in the French Guards

The COMTE DE RUISSEC : a former brigadier general and father of the vicomte

The COMTESSE DE RUISSEC : the vicomte’s mother

The VIDAME GILLES DE RUISSEC : the vicomte’s brother

LAMBERT : the Vicomte de Ruissec’s manservant

PICARD : the major-domo of the Ruissec household

ARMANDE DE SAUVETÉ : the vicomte’s betrothed

MADEMOISELLE BICHELIÈRE : an actress

TRUCHE DE LA CHAUX : a Life Guard at Versailles

PÈRE MOUILLARD : a Jesuit, Nicolas’s former teacher in Vannes

JEAN-MARIE LE PEAUTRE : a fountaineer

JACQUES : Le Peautre’s deaf-and-dumb helper

GUILLAUME SEMACGUS : a navy surgeon

CATHERINE GAUSS : Monsieur de Noblecourt’s cook

PÈRE GRÉGOIRE : the apothecary of the monastery of the Discalced Carmelites

CHARLES HENRI SANSON : the hangman

OLD MARIE : an usher at the Châtelet

PELVEN : the doorkeeper at the Comédie-Italienne

RABOUINE : a police spy

LA PAULET : a brothel-keeper

GASPARD : a royal page

MONSIEUR DE LA VERGNE : the Secretary to the Marshals of France

MONSIEUR KOEGLER : a jeweller

I

SUICIDE

‘The laws in Europe are ferocious towards those who kill themselves: they are made to die twice, as it were; they are dragged in ignominy through the streets; they are branded with dishonour; their property is confiscated.’

MONTESQUIEU

Tuesday 23 October 1761

Carriages were streaming on to Rue Saint-Honoré as Nicolas Le Floch advanced cautiously over the slippery cobbles. Amidst the din of the vehicles, the shouting coachmen and the whinnying horses, a coach arrived at great speed and almost overturned in front of him, one of its metal wheels sending up a shower of sparks. Nicolas negotiated his way with some difficulty through the forest of blazing torches, which a host of manservants was waving aloft in the darkness to provide their masters with as much light as possible.

How much longer, he thought, would such ostentatious and dangerous displays be tolerated? Candlewax ran down clothes and hairstyles; wigs and hair were in danger of being set alight – there had already been numerous fatal incidents. The same scene would be repeated on the steps of the Opéra at the end of the performance, but then there would be even greater chaos with the wealthy spectators trying to hurry home.

Nicolas had made his thoughts on the matter known to Monsieur de Sartine, who had merely rejected his remarks in a way that was both evasive and ironic. However committed he was to the common good and to public order in the capital, the Lieutenant General of Police had no desire to antagonise the Court and the Town by regulating a practice that he occasionally found convenient himself.

The young man pushed his way through the crowd blocking the steps of the great staircase. There was an even greater crush in the confined space of the foyer of this grand edifice, which had been built for Cardinal Richelieu and in which Molière himself had performed.

Nicolas always experienced a thrill on entering this temple of music. The audience recognised and greeted one another. They spoke of the forthcoming performance, as well as of the latest news or rumours, which in a time of war and uncertainty were the subjects of animated debate. On this particular evening, talk was divided between several topics: the recommendation that the bishops of France were due to submit to the King concerning the Society of Jesus,1 Madame de Pompadour’s fragile state of health, and the generals’ recent military successes – in particular those of the Prince de Caraman, whose dragoons had pushed the Prussians back beyond the Weser that September. There was also mention of a victory by the Prince de Condé, but the news had not been confirmed.

All these people, shimmering in silk, waded through dirt. There was a disconcerting contrast between their luxurious clothes, and the foul-smelling remnants of wax, earth and horse droppings with which they were soiled.

Trapped in the middle of this throng, Nicolas felt his usual disgust at the mixture of odours filling his nostrils. The stench wafting up mingled with the smell of face powder and poor-quality candles but still did nothing to cover up the sourer and more obtrusive smell of unwashed bodies.

Some women looked on the point of passing out and were frantically waving their fans or sniffing perfume bottles to revive themselves.

Nicolas managed to extricate himself by slipping behind the French Guards on duty on the staircase. He was not attending the Opéra for pleasure but had been sent on official business. Monsieur de Sartine’s orders were to watch the audience. It was no ordinary performance that evening. Madame Adélaïde, the King’s daughter, together with her retinue, was due to attend.

Since Damiens’s attempt on the King’s life, a general sense of anxiety had haunted the royal family. In addition to the spies positioned in the theatre stalls and the wings, the Lieutenant General of Police wanted to have his own man on the spot who was totally dedicated and enjoyed his complete trust. It was Nicolas’s role to hear and observe everything whilst remaining visible to his superior in his box. As a commissioner from the Châtelet he was entitled to call in the forces of law and order, and to take immediate action if necessary.

To carry out his duties Nicolas had chosen to stand near the stage and orchestra where he could be sure of a full view of the auditorium without losing sight of the stage, another possible source of danger. This location had the incidental advantage of putting him in the best possible position to judge the quality of the orchestra, the performance of the actors and the tessitura of the singers, whilst avoiding the vermin that infested the woodwork and the velvet seats.

How often on returning home had he needed to shake out his clothes over a bowl of water to rid himself of those wretched jumping and biting insects …

No sooner had the young commissioner taken up his place than the match-cord began to rise up slowly, like a spider swallowing its thread. Once it was high enough, it moved across the candle wicks of the great chandelier, lighting them one after another. Nicolas loved this magical moment when the auditorium, still dark and buzzing with conversation, emerged from the gloom. At the same time a stagehand lit the footlights. From the boards to the flies shades of gold and crimson appeared in all their splendour, along with the blue of the French coat of arms decorated with fleurs-de-lis, which dominated the stage. Coils of dust, now made visible, filtered the light that spread softly across the clothes, the dresses and the jewellery, in a silent prologue to the magic of the performance.

Nicolas berated himself. When would he grow out of his habit of daydreaming? He shook his shoulders. He needed to keep an eye on the auditorium, which was filling up now, the volume of noise rising.

*

One of Nicolas’s main concerns on duty at the Opéra was to establish exactly who was present or absent, as well as to spot any strangers and foreigners. This particular evening he noticed that, unusually, given the generally blasé nature of the public, the boxes were nearly all taken. Even the Prince de Conti, who often made a point of arriving, with the majestic indifference of a prince of the blood, when the performance was already under way, with the majestic indifference of a prince of the blood, was already seated and talking with his guests. The royal box was still empty but servants were busy making it ready.

Nicolas only fulfilled this duty when members of the royal family attended a performance. On other evenings his colleagues were assigned to this task. The police’s priority was to seek out and keep a watch on agents suspected of trading with or spying for countries currently at war with France. England in particular was flooding Paris with hired emissaries.

Feeling a light tap on the shoulder, Nicolas turned and was pleased to see the friendly face of the Comte de La Borde, First Groom of the King’s Bedchamber, dressed magnificently in a pearl-grey coat embroidered with silver thread.

‘What a doubly happy day! Nicolas, my friend, I am so pleased to you again!’

‘And may I ask what other agreeable event is implied by your greeting?’

‘Aha! You devil … What about the pleasure of an opera by Rameau? Does that mean nothing to you?’

‘It certainly does, but you’re rather a long way from your box,’ said Nicolas, with a smile.

‘I like the smell of the stage and enjoy being near to it.’

‘Near to it, or near to someone?’

‘All right, I’ll confess. I’ve come for a closer view of a most gentle and graceful creature I admire. But, Nicolas, I must say we feel you’re being very elusive at the moment.’

‘We?’

‘Don’t you try to beat me at my own game. His Majesty enquires about you often, in particular during the last hunt in Compiègne. I do hope you have not forgotten his invitation to join the royal hunt. Because he never forgets anything. Show your face soon, for goodness’ sake! He remembers you well and frequently mentions the account you gave of your investigation. At his side you have a most powerful advocate: the Good Lady thinks of you as her guardian angel. Believe me, you should make use of such rare influence and not cut yourself off from your friends. Such elusiveness harms nobody but you, as your friends will not easily tolerate it.’

He pulled a small gold watch from his coat pocket, looked at it and went on: ‘Madame Adélaïde should be here very shortly.’

‘I thought our princess and her sister Victoire were inseparable,’2 said Nicolas. ‘However, if my information is correct she is attending tonight’s performance alone.’

‘How very astute of you. But there has been a row between the King and his second daughter. He refused her a set of jewels and out of annoyance Madame Victoire retorted with some biting remark about how the King would have treated a similar request from Madame de Pompadour. There’s a Court secret for you, my dear fellow, but as you are the soul of discretion … That said, Madame Adélaïde will not be alone; she will be chaperoned by the Comte and Comtesse de Ruissec. Members of the old military nobility, as stern, pious and doddering as you could wish. They are part of both the Queen and the Dauphin’s entourages, which says it all. Though the comte—’

‘What a sharp tongue you have today!’

‘The Opéra inspires me, Nicolas. I assume our friend Sartine will be coming?’

‘He will indeed.’

‘Madame will be well protected. But nothing ever happens when our lieutenants of police are present. Our performances are so uneventful. Only the cabals and the claques liven them up a little, and Les Paladins by the esteemed Rameau should not cause a storm. Both the Queen and the King’s corners will be content.3Le Mercure’s account says that it combines Italian and French tastes very skilfully, even if the daring mixture of comic and tragic may go beyond propriety.’

‘It won’t go too far; the passions in it are quite innocent.’

‘My dear friend, have you ever been to London?’

‘Never. And with things as they are, I fear that I may not have that opportunity for some time.’

‘Don’t be too sure. But what I was going to say is that a visitor from France is always astonished when he enters a London theatre to find there is no police presence. Of course, the price of this freedom is uproar and fighting.’

‘It must be the sort of country our friends the philosophers dream of; they say our theatres have the “foul smell of despotism” about them.’

‘I know who said that and the King did not appreciate the remark,’ said La Borde. ‘Discreet as ever, Nicolas, you did not name him. But please excuse me: I am off to pay court to Madame Adélaïde. And quickly, because the object of my attentions appears in the prologue.’

He sauntered across the stalls, bowing this way and that to the beauties of his acquaintance. Nicolas was always pleased to see the Comte de La Borde. He recalled their first meeting, and the dinner when La Borde had kindly rescued him from an awkward situation. Monsieur de Noblecourt, the elderly procurator with whom he lodged and for whom Nicolas was like a son, had often emphasised that such heartfelt affection was a privilege and could be useful. The young man went back over the rapid succession of events since the beginning of the year. The First Groom of the King’s Bedchamber would always be associated in his mind with his extraordinary meeting with the King. He knew the secret of his noble birth; he knew that he was not only Nicolas Le Floch but also the Marquis de Ranreuil’s natural son. However, he remained convinced that this fact had played no part in La Borde’s spontaneous friendship for him.

A loud roar brought him back to reality. The whole house had risen to its feet and was clapping. Madame Adélaïde had just appeared in the royal box. Fair-haired and shapely, she had an air of grandeur. Everyone agreed that she was far more beautiful than her sisters. Her profile and eyes resembled the King’s. She smiled and gave a courtly bow, to even louder cheers. The princess was very popular: her affability and friendliness were well known. She seemed to be enjoying the prospect of an evening on her own and, after bowing, continued to nod graciously. Nicolas saw Monsieur de Sartine enter his box after accompanying the King’s daughter to her own.

The curtain rose for the prologue, and La Borde hurriedly rejoined Nicolas. To the accompaniment of a triumphant chorus, the goddess of Monarchy appeared on the steps of a classical temple. Young children held her train, which was decorated with fleurs-de-lis. Suddenly the figure of Victory, in breastplate and helmet, emerged on a chariot pulled by the spirits of war; she stepped down from it to crown the goddess with laurels. The chorus rose to a climax and repeated its refrain:

We pay this homage

Worthy of our King,

To crown his glory

And proclaim his might.

Deities waved palm branches. Monsieur de La Borde squeezed Nicolas’s arm.

‘Look, the fair-haired girl on the right … the second one wearing a tunic. That’s her.’

Nicolas sighed. He knew as well as anyone the sad fate awaiting these young girls from the Opéra. They began their careers in the chorus or as dancers, but then, still barely more than children, fell prey to a world in which loose morals and the power of money prevailed. Unless they managed to navigate the dangerous waters of libertinism, which required skill and caution, and reached the privileged status of kept women, inevitably once the charms of their youth had faded they were condemned to lives of squalor and degradation. At least this pretty little thing might fare rather better with a decent sort like La Borde. Perhaps.

The splendid strains of the prologue continued to ring out. This style of composition had gone out of fashion years ago: Rameau himself had ended it, replacing this standard device with an overture linked to the entertainment. Nicolas had been surprised by this spectacular opening, which lauded the monarchy and glorified its military successes, when the reality was a series of short-lived victories and uncertain setbacks, hardly a reason for bombastic celebration. But carried away by force of habit, everyone continued to pretend. It was not a bad policy in the view of those in authority who looked on from the shadows for any hint of public disaffection. The curtain fell and Monsieur de La Borde sighed; his goddess had disappeared.

‘She will be on once again in the third act,’ he said with a sparkle in his eye, ‘in the dance of the Chinese pagodas.’4

The performance resumed and the plot of Les Paladins followed its tortuous and conventional path. Ever attentive to the music, Nicolas noted the overlap with vocal elements already used in Zoroastre,5 the importance given to accompanied recitatives and the clear reference to Italian opera in the extensive use of ariettas. Carried away by the orchestration, he paid little attention to the plot: the depraved love of the elderly Anselme for his ward, Argie, herself in love with the paladin Atis.

In the first act Nicolas delighted in the dance tunes, whose gaiety was enlivened by the virtuoso horn accompaniment.

At the end of the second act, during the singing of the aria ‘I Die of Fear’, Nicolas, keeping a watchful eye on the auditorium, noticed that something was happening in the royal box. A man had just entered it and was whispering to a military-looking old man sitting to the right behind the princess and who must have been the Comte de Ruissec. Then the elderly gentleman himself leant towards an old lady with white hair and a black lace mantilla. She became agitated and Nicolas saw her shake her head in disbelief. Although from a distance this whole scene appeared to be taking place in silence, the King’s daughter became concerned and turned round to learn the cause of the disturbance.

At that moment the curtain fell for the end of the act. Nicolas then saw the same man enter Monsieur de Sartine’s box and speak to him. The magistrate rose to his feet, leant towards the auditorium to peer into the stalls and, after finally spotting Nicolas, summarily signalled him to come up. The commotion was growing in the royal box and Madame Adélaïde was dabbing Madame de Ruissec’s temples with a handkerchief.

Later, going back over these moments, Nicolas would remember that this was when the whole monstrous mechanism was set in motion, to end only once destiny had been sated with death and destruction. He bade farewell to Monsieur de La Borde, then hurried to join the Lieutenant General of Police as quickly as the public, now on its feet and talking in tightly knit groups, would allow.

Monsieur de Sartine was not in his box. He must have gone to the princess’s. After parleying with the officials of her Household, Nicolas managed to gain admittance. Madame Adélaïde was speaking to the Lieutenant General in a low voice. Her beautiful, full face was scarlet with emotion. Monsieur de Ruissec was kneeling at his wife’s feet, fanning her as she sat semi-conscious in her seat. A man in black, whom Nicolas recognised as a police officer from the Châtelet, was standing stock-still against the partition wall, looking terrified. Nicolas drew near and gave a deep bow. The princess, taken by surprise, replied with a slight nod of the head. He was moved to see in her youthful face a close resemblance to the King.

Monsieur de Sartine resumed: ‘Your Royal Highness may rest assured that we shall do everything necessary to accompany the comte and comtesse back to their mansion and attempt to settle this matter discreetly. However, some observations do need to be made. Commissioner Le Floch here will accompany me. The King knows him and holds him in high esteem.’

A royal look fell upon Nicolas without seeming to notice him.

‘We rely on you to do your utmost to allay the distress of our dear friends,’ said Madame Adélaïde. ‘And above all, sir, have no concern for my person but deal with what is urgent. The officials of our Household will watch over our person and besides the Parisians love us, both my sisters and myself.’

Monsieur de Sartine bowed as the elderly couple – the comtesse trembling uncontrollably – took their leave of the princess. They all left to return to their carriages. It took some time to gather up the coachmen, who had gone off for a drink or two. A court carriage set off with the Ruissecs, since they had come in procession from Versailles with the princess. It was soon followed by Monsieur de Sartine’s coach. The flames from the sputtering torches cast flickering shadows over the houses in Rue Saint-Honoré.

The Lieutenant General remained silent for some considerable time, lost in thought. A disorderly jam of carriages brought the vehicle to a standstill and the young man took advantage of the moment to venture an observation.

‘One day, sir, it would be useful to introduce regulations with respect to vehicles waiting outside theatres and opera houses. It might even be appropriate to force them to go one way only, in order to make our streets less congested and easier to negotiate.6 If the roads were also better lit, safety would definitely improve.’7

The observation elicited no reply. Instead the Lieutenant General drummed on the windows of the carriage in apparent irritation. He turned towards his subordinate.

‘Commissioner Le Floch …’

Nicolas stiffened. He had learnt from experience that when the Lieutenant General of Police addressed him by his title instead of calling him by his first name, as he normally did, it meant that he was not in a good mood and that trouble was brewing. He listened carefully.

‘We have before us, so I believe, a case that requires particular tact and lightness of touch,’ Sartine continued. ‘I am, moreover, hostage to the promises I gave to Madame Adélaïde. Does she think this kind of procedure is simple? She knows nothing of the world or of life. She gives herself over to her instinct for kindness. But what relevance have feelings of sorrow and pity for me? Have you nothing to say?’

‘First, sir, I would need to have a little more information on the situation.’

‘Not so fast, Nicolas. It suits me far better to let you know as little as possible. Otherwise I am only too well aware what the result will be. Your lively imagination will immediately start to run wild. We’ve seen what happens when I loosen your reins. You take the bit between your teeth and bolt. Suddenly we’re off in all directions, picking up bodies on every street corner. You are shrewd and throw yourself into your work, but if I am not there to put you back on the right track … I want you to retain a completely open mind so that I can benefit from your initial impression. We must not put the hounds off the scent!’

After two years of working for him, Nicolas was accustomed to Sartine, who could at times be monumentally unfair. Only Monsieur de Saujac, the president of the Parlement of Paris, whose reputation for unfairness was legendary, could have taught him anything on that front. So Nicolas was not taken aback by his comments, which another might have found hurtful. He was well acquainted with the sudden mischievous twinkle in his superior’s eye and the involuntary twitching to the right of his mouth. Monsieur de Sartine did not believe what he was saying: it was just an affectation, his particular way of imposing his will on people. Only the less perspicacious let themselves be taken in, but he treated everyone in the same manner. Inspector Bourdeau, Nicolas’s deputy, claimed that it was his way of manipulating his puppets to check they remained loyal to him and agreed with what he said, however outrageous it might be. What was more surprising was his tendency to prove cantankerous and irascible to those close to him when he had a reputation for being a gentle, secretive and extremely courteous man.

Monsieur de Sartine’s apparent mood was a cover for his distress and anxiety. What would they find at the end of their night ride through Paris? What drama lay ahead of them? The Comtesse de Ruissec had looked so distressed …

Whatever spectacle fate had reserved for them that evening, the young man vowed not to disappoint his superior and to take careful note of everything. Monsieur de Sartine was once more locked away in a gloomy silence. The effort at concentration that showed on his face further emphasised the lines in his angular features, which had lost all their youthfulness.

They stopped outside the half-moon gateway of a small mansion. A large stone staircase opened on to a cobbled courtyard. Monsieur de Ruissec entrusted his distraught wife to a chambermaid. The comtesse protested and tried to hang on to her husband’s arm but he freed himself firmly from her grasp. This scene was played out by the light of a candelabrum held by an elderly retainer, but Nicolas was unable to work out the layout of the broader premises, which were still cloaked in darkness. He could barely even make out the wings of the main building.

They climbed the steps leading into a flagstoned entrance hall with a staircase at the far end. The Comte de Ruissec staggered and had to lean against an upholstered armchair. Nicolas studied him. He was a tall, wiry man, somewhat stooped, despite his concerted efforts to stand straight. A broad scar, now red from emotion, ran across his left temple, probably the mark of a sabre. He was biting his inner lip, his mouth pursed. The austerity of his severe dark coat further emphasised by the cross of the Order of St Michael hanging from a black ribbon, contrasted with a single note of colour, the insignia of the Order of St Louis fastened to a bright red sash, which hung over his left hip. The sword he wore to the side was no ceremonial weapon but a sturdy blade of tempered steel. Nicolas, well versed in such matters, remembered that the comte had been escorting Madame Adélaïde and might in certain circumstances have had to protect her. Monsieur de Ruissec straightened up and took a few steps. Whether it was the result of an old wound or the effect of age, he walked with a limp and sought to conceal this infirmity by raising and thrusting forward his whole body with every stride. He gave his old retainer an impatient look.

‘We do not have a moment to lose. Take us to my son’s bedroom and give me your account of events on the way.’ The authoritative voice was still young, its tone almost aggressive. He led the small group, leaning heavily on the bronze handrail.

Wheezing, the major-domo began his story of the evening’s events.

‘Your lordship, around nine o’clock in the evening I had just taken some logs to your rooms and had gone back downstairs. I was reading my Book of Hours.’

Nicolas caught the wry look on Monsieur de Sartine’s face.

‘His lordship the vicomte arrived. He seemed in a great hurry and his cloak was wet. I went to take it from him but he brushed me aside. I asked him if he needed me. He shook his head. I heard his bedroom door slam, then nothing more.’

He stopped for a moment, short of breath.

‘That wretched bullet again. Sorry, General. As I was saying, then nothing more until suddenly a shot was fired.’

The Lieutenant General intervened. ‘A shot fired? Are you quite sure?’

‘My major-domo is a former soldier,’ said the comte. ‘He served in my regiment. He knows what he’s talking about. Carry on, Picard.’

‘I rushed up but found the door shut. It was locked from the inside. There was not a sound or cry to be heard. I called out but there was no answer.’

Having gone down a corridor at the end of the landing, the procession was by now in front of a heavy oak door. Monsieur de Ruissec had suddenly become stooped.

‘I was unable to force it open,’ Picard went on, ‘and even if I’d had an axe I would not have had sufficient strength. I went back downstairs and sent her ladyship’s chambermaid off to the nearest guard post. An officer came running but despite my pleas he refused to do anything unless someone with greater authority was present. So I immediately sent for you at the Opéra.’

‘Commissioner,’ said Sartine, ‘please find us something with which to open or knock down this door.’

Nicolas seemed in no hurry to obey. Eyes closed, he was carefully going through his coat pockets.

‘We are waiting, Nicolas,’ said his superior impatiently.

‘To hear is to obey, sir, and I have the solution to hand. There is no need to go in search of tools to force an entry. This will do the job.’

He was holding a small, metallic object similar to a penknife, which, when opened, revealed a series of hooks of various sizes and designs. It had been a gift from Inspector Bourdeau, who already possessed one himself and had confiscated another from a bandit and given it to Nicolas.

Sartine raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘The thieves’ picklock comes to the rescue of the police! The designs of the Great Architect often follow crooked paths,’ he murmured.

Nicolas smiled inwardly at this Masonic parlance, knelt down and, after carefully deciding on the most suitable hook, inserted it into the lock. Immediately a key was heard to drop on to the wooden floor of the bedroom. He studied his hooks again, chose another and set to work. Only the wheezy breathing of the comte and of his major-domo, and the sputtering of the candles, disturbed the silence of the scene. After a moment the lock mechanism could be heard creaking and Nicolas was able to open the door. The Comte de Ruissec rushed forward but was just as swiftly stopped in his tracks by the Lieutenant General of Police.

‘Sir,’ the old man said indignantly, ‘I will not allow this. I am in my own home and my son …’

‘I beg you, your lordship, to permit the officers of the law to proceed. Once the initial observations have been made, I promise you that you will be able to go in and that nothing will be hidden from you.’

‘Sir, have you forgotten what you promised Her Royal Highness? Who do you think you are to disobey her orders? Who are you to oppose me? A petty magistrate who has barely emerged from his ancestors’ herring-barrels and whose name is still redolent of the grocer’s shop …’

‘I shall not tolerate anything that breaches the law and I take my orders from His Majesty alone,’ replied Sartine. ‘I vowed to deal with this matter with discretion and that is the only promise I made. As for what you have said to me, your lordship, were it not for the dignity of my office and royal condemnation of the practice, I would challenge you to a duel. The best thing you can do is to proceed immediately to your apartments and wait for me to call for you. Or rather I shall come to fetch you myself.’

Eyes blazing, the elderly nobleman turned and left. Nicolas had never seen Monsieur de Sartine look so pale. Purplish rings had appeared under his eyes and he was furiously twisting one of the curls of his wig.

After taking a candle from the candelabrum Picard was carrying, the young man stepped cautiously into the room, followed by his superior. He would remember his first impressions for a very long time.

At first he could see nothing but immediately felt the chill in the bedroom, then detected the smell of brackish water mingled with the more irritant odour of gunpowder. The flickering flame shed a dim light on an enormous room decorated from floor to ceiling with pale wood panelling. As he moved forward he saw on his left a large, garnet-red marble fireplace topped by a pier glass. To the right an alcove hung with dark damask stood out from the gloom. A Persian carpet and two armchairs hid from view what seemed to be a desk, placed in the corner opposite the doorway. Here and there were chests covered with weapons. These and the disorderly state of the room showed that its occupant was a young man and a soldier.

It was when he neared the desk that Nicolas noticed a figure stretched out on the ground. A man lay face up, his feet pointing towards the window. His head seemed shrunken, as if out of proportion to his body. A large cavalry pistol lay beside him. Monsieur de Sartine moved closer and then recoiled. It was truly a sight to shock the most hardened individual.

Nicolas, who had not flinched when he leant over the body, suddenly realised that his superior had had few opportunities to witness death in its more gruesome forms. He took him firmly by the arm and forced him to sit down on one of the armchairs. Monsieur de Sartine let himself be led like a child and did not utter a word; he took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow and temples whilst airing his wig, then slumped down, his chin drooping on to his chest. Nicolas was amused to note that Monsieur de Sartine’s pale face had now turned a greenish colour. Having scored a point over his superior – he allowed himself such little victories – he resumed his examination of the scene.

What had horrified the Lieutenant General of Police was the dead man’s face. The military wig had slipped down on to his forehead in the most grotesque fashion. It further emphasised the already glazed look in the eyes that seemed to be staring at death itself. But where a gaping mouth should have completed the expression of horror or pain, all that could be seen were sunken cheeks and a chin that almost touched the nose in a twisted grin. The face had been so disfigured that it immediately brought to mind an old man who had lost all his teeth or the contorted features of some sculpted monster. The wound that was the cause of death had not bled, but it was too soon to draw any conclusions from this. The bullet seemed to have struck the base of the neck at point-blank range and to have singed the fabric of the shirt and the muslin of the cravat.

Nicolas knelt down beside the body to look at the wound. It was black, and the tear in the skin, the width of the bullet, seemed already to have been closed over by the epidermis; a little congealed blood was visible but it had mainly spread out into the flesh. The young commissioner noted down his observations in a small notebook. He described the way the body was lying and added that the victim was wearing civilian clothes. He was struck by the state of the hands and the fact that they were clenched. The fancy boots were muddy and all the lower part of the body was soaked with foul-smelling water as if the young man had crossed through a pond or an ornamental fountain before returning home to put an end to his life.

Nicolas walked over to the window and studied it carefully. The inner shutters of light oak were bolted. He undid them and noted that the window was also shut. He put everything back in place, picked up the candle and lit the hurricane lamp on the desk. The room suddenly emerged from the half-light. A voice behind him made him turn.

‘May I be of assistance, sir?’

The door was still open and on the threshold stood a young man, wearing livery but wigless. Monsieur de Sartine had not detected his presence since the back of the armchair hid the stranger almost completely. His uniform was neat and buttoned up but Nicolas was surprised to see he was in stockinged feet.

‘May I ask what you are doing here? I am Nicolas Le Floch, a commissioner of police from the Châtelet.’

‘My name is Lambert and I am the manservant and factotum of Monsieur the Vicomte de Ruissec.’

Nicolas was shocked by his slightly provocative tone of voice. He did not admit to himself that he hated tow-coloured hair and eyes of differing colours: on his first day in Paris his watch had been stolen from him by a brigand with just such eyes.8

‘And what are you doing here?’

‘I was asleep in the servants’ quarters when I heard Madame the comtesse’s cries and so I quickly dressed and hurried here. Please forgive me,’ he said, nodding towards his feet. ‘In my haste … my eagerness to be of assistance …’

‘Why did you come here first?’

‘I met old Picard in the entrance hall. He explained what had happened and his fears for my master.’

Nicolas rapidly made a note of everything he was told, registering the possible contradictions and the contrasting impressions that the valet’s words had on him. The fellow’s tone of voice held more than a hint of mocking sarcasm, something unusual for a person of his station when addressing his betters. The man was not as straightforward as he at first appeared. He claimed to have dressed in a hurry, whereas his uniform was immaculate down to his knotted cotton cravat, and yet he had failed to put on his shoes. Nicolas would need to check which way he had come and compare his statements with Picard’s. Was it necessary to go outside and then through the courtyard to get to the vicomte’s rooms or was there a secret passage via the staircases and corridors connecting all the buildings in the Ruissec mansion? Lastly, the man seemed quite unmoved, though admittedly he might not have seen the corpse as it was hidden by the armchairs and by Nicolas himself. As for Monsieur de Sartine, he remained impassive and silent, and was contemplating the back-plate of the fireplace. Nicolas decided to get straight to the point.

‘Do you know that your master is dead?’

He had moved closer to the manservant, who screwed up his pockmarked face into an expression that could have been interpreted either as a fatalistic acceptance of the fact or as a sudden feeling of sorrow.

‘My poor monsieur. So he finally kept his word!’

As Nicolas remained silent, he went on: ‘Over the past few days he had become sick of life. He had stopped eating and was avoiding his friends. A disappointment in love or at cards, or both, if you ask me. All the same, who would have believed he would have done it so soon?’

‘He kept his word, you said.’

‘His promise, to be more precise. He kept saying that he would create a stir, one way or another. He had even mentioned the scaffold …’

‘When did he make such a strange remark?’

‘About three weeks ago at a rout with his friends in a tavern in Versailles. I was there to serve them and supply them with drink. It was quite a party!’

‘Can you name these friends?’

‘Not all of them. I only really know one of them: Truche de La Chaux, a Life Guard at the palace. He was a close friend, even though he is only gentry.’

Nicolas noted that failing common in footmen of adopting their masters’ prejudices. In this way contempt for others was to be found at all levels of society, permeating the nobility and their servants alike.

‘When did you see your master for the last time?’

‘Only this evening.’

At his reply, the Lieutenant General of Police jumped out of his armchair; Lambert recoiled in surprise at this pale apparition, leaping up like a jack-in-the-box, with a ruffled, precariously perched wig on his head.

‘Well, Monsieur, please tell me about this evening in detail.’

Lambert did not ask who he was dealing with and recounted his story.

‘My master was on guard last night. The Queen and many of her entourage were at cards. After coming off duty he rested until midday. He then went for a walk around the park on his own, instructing me to be in the forecourt at four o’clock with a carriage. He wanted to spend the night in Paris, so he said. We arrived this evening at about nine o’clock, without incident. He then told me to leave as he no longer needed me. I was tired, so I went to bed.’

‘You were due back on duty tomorrow morning, were you?’

‘Yes, indeed. At seven o’clock I would have brought hot water up to his lordship.’

‘Was the weather fine in Versailles?’ Nicolas interrupted, to the evident annoyance of Monsieur de Sartine, who did not see the point of this digression.

‘Misty and gloomy.’

‘Was it raining?’ He stared at the manservant.

‘Not at all, sir. But perhaps this question relates to the state of my poor master’s clothes. I suggested he change before leaving Versailles. Lost in melancholy thoughts, he had slipped during his walk and fallen into a small drainage canal. That was the explanation he gave me when I expressed my concern at the state of his clothes.’

Nicolas was trying hard not to give in to his instinctive mistrust of the manservant. He kept repeating to himself that to judge somebody on first impressions always carried the risk of serious error. He recalled Inspector Bourdeau’s words. In his youth the inspector had usually trusted his initial judgements. He had attempted to correct this tendency, but as he had grown older experience had taught him the value of his first reaction – when instinct alone had its say – and he had returned to the habits of his youth as a surer means of discovering the truth about a person.

Annoyed by this introspection the young man decided to wait until later to marshal his thoughts. At present it would not be justified to hound the manservant when the case seemed a clear-cut one of suicide. He merely needed to clarify the circumstances in order to understand what had led the unfortunate young man to commit the fateful act. So with Monsieur de Sartine’s agreement Nicolas dismissed Lambert, advising him to remain in the corridor; he wanted first of all to question the major-domo.

At this point some police officers appeared. He asked them to wait until the initial investigations were complete and instructed them to keep an eye on Lambert and not allow him to speak to anyone.

When he went back into the room, Sartine was again slumped in the armchair, apparently grappling with his thoughts. Nicolas did not disturb him, but returned instead to the body.

Candlestick in hand, he examined the scene, starting with the wooden floor. He spotted a few recent scratch marks, which could have been caused either by gravel sticking to the sole of the boots or by something quite different.

His attention was then drawn to the desktop. Under the hurricane lamp in the middle of the desktop leather he found a sheet of paper and, scribbled in large capitals, the words: ‘FORGIVE ME, FAREWELL’. To the left of this sheet lay a quill next to an inkstand. The position of the armchair behind the desk indicated that the person who had written this message had then stood up, pushed the chair back and made off to the right towards the door, presumably to go round the front of the desk and to end up where the body now rested.

He looked at the corpse once more, paying special attention to the hands, and tried unsuccessfully to close the eyes. He then had a thorough look around the room and noticed to the left of the entrance a huge, elaborately carved wardrobe that almost reached the ceiling. Its doors were ajar. He pushed one open and looked inside; it was dark and cavernous, reminiscent of the box beds of his childhood in Brittany. A strong smell of leather and earth filled his nostrils. In the bottom part was a collection of boots, some in need of a good brushing. He pushed back the polished door of the wardrobe, then drew a plan of the apartment on a page of his notebook.

Continuing his inspection, Nicolas spotted a break in the moulding of the wainscoting. To the left of the alcove a door opened on to a dressing room with deal half-panelling and an adjacent water closet. The room was tiled in Lias9 and black marble. The walls were hung with wallpaper depicting exotic birds. It was lit by a bull’s-eye, which he checked was closed. He stood in thought for some time before the dressing table and its fine porcelain bowl, admiring the toilet case with its razors and mother-of-pearl and silver-gilt instruments carefully laid out on a white linen towel. He also subjected the brushes and combs to the same scrutiny, as if mesmerised by the sight of such splendours.

When Nicolas returned to his superior, Monsieur de Sartine was pacing to and fro in the bedroom, carefully avoiding the corpse. His wig was straight again and the colour had returned to his bony cheeks.

‘My dear Nicolas,’ said Sartine, ‘I am in the most terrible predicament. Like me, you are convinced that the young man took his own life, is that correct?’

Nicolas was careful not to answer and, taking his silence to be tantamount to assent, the Lieutenant General carried on, though not before checking in the pier glass that his wig was properly back in place.

‘You know the procedure in such cases. The assumption is one of suicide, and the commissioner who has been informed goes to the scene without his gown and draws up a report without the least fuss or publicity. Then at the request of the grieving relatives, but equally to preserve the conventions, the magistrate requires the parish priest or requests him via his bishop to conduct the funeral service for the deceased and to bury him quietly. As you are also aware …’

‘Until recently the bodies of those who committed suicide, since they were deemed to be their own murderers, were tried and sentenced to be dragged along on a large timber frame attached to a cart. I know that, sir.’

‘Very good, very good. However, notwithstanding this appalling public ordeal on the hurdle, the body was hanged and denied burial in consecrated ground. Fortunately a more enlightened philosophy and our more compassionate times now spare the victim and the family such distressing and shocking excesses. However, we have just such a tragedy here. The elder son of a noble family with a promising future ahead of him has just died. His father is close to the King, or rather to the entourage of the Dauphin. Foolishly – because one should not speak of death to royalty – Madame Adélaïde was informed of the vicomte’s suicide and quickly gave in to the Comte de Ruissec’s entreaties. Without weighing her words she gave me some recommendations, which I pretended to take as orders, though in fact she is not entitled to give me any. However, it is difficult to deny her wishes and I need to deal carefully with a family that has her support. Nevertheless …’

‘Nevertheless, sir?’

‘I’m thinking aloud here, Nicolas. Nevertheless …’ The tone was again warm and frank, the Lieutenant General’s usual way of speaking to Nicolas. ‘Nevertheless, on behalf of the King, I am also responsible for law and order in Paris, which is no easy task. Too strict an application of the rules could lead to trouble. The wise thing to do would be to make the body presentable, send for a priest and a coffin, and spread the word that the young man mortally wounded himself while cleaning a firearm. The funeral Mass would take place, the princess be obeyed, the parents grief-stricken but their reputation intact, and I would have no more problems, having satisfied all concerned. Can I in all conscience act in such a way? What is your feeling? I trust your judgement, even if you are sometimes overhasty and your imagination runs away with you.’

‘Sir, we must give the matter careful thought. We are accountable to both the ideal of law with justice and of wisdom with prudence.’

Sartine nodded approval of this carefully worded preamble.

‘Since you do me the honour of asking my opinion I feel it appropriate, given the current state of the investigation, to sum up our dilemma. We know that suicide is an act that offends against the divine order, a misfortune that visits opprobrium on an honourable family. The body we see before us is not that of a man of the people, not a pauper driven to this extreme by hardship. Here we have a gentleman, a young man of good education, who knows perfectly well what his actions will mean for his parents and close relatives, and who without further reflection performs the irrevocable deed without offering his family any means of escaping the shame. Do you not find it strange that he did not write to you, as many do, in order to avoid any difficulties after their death?10 All he left was this.’

He picked up the sheet of paper on the desk and handed it to Sartine.

‘Lastly, sir, I have to say that it will be very difficult to keep the news quiet. It has already spread to the Opéra and around town; it will soon reach the Court. The princess will certainly have mentioned it and everyone will repeat her words. A dozen or so people have already been informed: police officers, servants and neighbours. No one will be able to stop the rumour and uncertainty will only make it grow. It will be a godsend for the hawkers of handbills.’

Monsieur de Sartine was rhythmically tapping the wooden floor with his foot.

‘Very well put, but where does it get us and how will all your meanderings extricate us from this maze? What do you suggest?’

‘I think, sir, that without divulging any details and without dismissing the idea of an accident or a fit of madness, we should have the vicomte’s body taken to the Basse-Geôle11 in the Châtelet to be opened up and examined in the greatest secrecy. That will in the first instance allow us to gain some time.’

‘And in a few days we’ll be back in the same position but with a scandal blown up out of all proportion. Not to mention the task you’ve presumably left me of informing the Comte de Ruissec that I’m going to hand over his son’s body to the medics. For goodness’ sake give me a more convincing argument.’

‘Sir, I do not think you have taken in the full implications of my proposal. If I am suggesting that the Vicomte de Ruissec’s body should be opened up it’s precisely in order to preserve his memory and the honour of his family, because in my opinion the examination will show that he was murdered.’

NOTES – CHAPTER I

1. It was submitted to Louis XV on 30 November 1761.

2. Victoire de France (1733–1799), the second daughter of Louis XV and Maria Leszczyńska.

3. The names given to the two opposite sides of the auditorium where supporters of the French or Italian styles of opera gathered at the time of the ‘quarrel of the corners’.

4. The comic sequence of the opera Les Paladins that was strongly criticised at the time.

5. A tragic opera in five acts by Jean-Philippe Rameau, first performed on 5 December 1749, in which, amongst other innovations, the composer replaced the prologue with an overture.

6. This suggestion of Nicolas’s was in fact implemented by Sartine in 1764.

7. Lenoir, the Lieutenant General of Police, improved the lighting of Paris by introducing streetlamps to replace candle lanterns.

8. See The Châtelet Apprentice, Chapter I.

9. A fine, hard-grained limestone.

10. It was common practice at the time to send precautionary letters to the Lieutenant General of Police.

11. The morgue, situated in the cellars of the Châtelet (cf. The Châtelet Apprentice).

II

RECONNAISSANCE MISSION

‘The truth is perhaps what you do not want to hear; but if I do not tell you it now there will be no point in my revealing it to you on another occasion.’

QUINTUS CURTIUS

Monsieur de Sartine did not immediately reply to this calmly delivered statement. He reacted only with a doubtful expression followed by a sort of wince. He took a deep breath, put his hands together and, having cleared his throat, finally spoke.