The ship waiting for them was in fact a large fishing boat, and the skipper, fearing to miss the tide, immediately cast off. A favourable wind took them all the way to Calais. Throughout the crossing, Nicolas had to suffer the officers’ incoherent stories, punctuated by screams from the one who was delirious. Early next morning, he again set foot on French soil, older, wiser in the ways of secrecy, and the possible father of a boy of thirteen who, he suddenly realised, bore the first name of his own father, Marquis Louis de Ranreuil, as well as that of his master, the King. Abandoning the members of the sad company to their colleagues in the port, he asked for the best charger at the post house and set off at full tilt, hoping to get back to Paris as soon as possible.
Notes – CHAPTER 6
1. Popular card game of the period.
VII
CONFUSION
It is the hour of ice for the truth
And the hour of fire for lies.
LA FONTAINE
Tuesday 18 January 1774
Nicolas’s return journey to Paris had been a nightmare. The horses supplied at the post houses were of variable quality and had twice thrown him, landing him in potholes of mud and ice. It was not that the horses were defective or temperamental, and he had spoken to them with skill and tenderness, but they had slipped on patches of ice, startled by the ghostly clouds rising from the road after a constant succession of rain and fog, which seemed to their weary eyes like so many threatening obstacles. During the brief halts, he had scoffed down a little food and immediately resumed his journey, determined to reach his destination come what may.
On Saturday morning, he had at last reached Rue Montmartre and dropped from the saddle. The boys from the bakery on the ground floor had carried him, almost paralysed, up to his room. Everyone had done what they could, Poitevin had cut open his boots in order to take them off, Marion had stoked the fire and heated water, and Catherine, a former canteen-keeper, who had learnt her trade on the battlefields of Europe, had undressed him and rubbed him down like an animal, with a soothing mixture of schnapps and peasant ointments. He had fallen into a sleep that lasted two days, and had not woken until Monday morning. Feeling refreshed, he had come through the servants’ pantry half naked, bounded out into the courtyard, and vigorously worked the lever of the pump until he was covered in cold water, singing at the top of his voice, before raiding the kitchen and teasing an alarmed Marion and Catherine. Then he had gone to see Monsieur de Noblecourt, who was delighted at the return of the prodigal son, and they had chatted away about trifles: more serious subjects could wait. Newly shaved, combed and dressed, he had walked to the Grand Châtelet, knowing he would find Bourdeau there at that hour. He was like a man reborn, all his passion and appetite for living revived.
It was not until he saw the familiar outline of the royal prison that the dread reality of the situation came back to him: he was still the prime suspect in a terrible murder. None of those closest to him thought him guilty, but everything seemed to have been contrived to confirm the suspicions of a great many others. He was still lost in conjecture as to who could have been behind the various attempts on his life. What did seem clear, though, was that some mysterious coalition of powerful interests was intent not only on tarnishing his honour but on doing away with him altogether. How would Sartine and, above all, the King judge the very moderate success of his mission to London? And, to add to this ominous prospect, he also had to investigate the past of a child, now an adolescent, whose future might be of great personal concern to him. But that, he thought, could wait a while: thirteen years of silence were justification enough for proceeding with caution.
Bourdeau was sitting in the duty office, looking through the book in which the previous night’s incidents had been noted. It was a comforting scene, redolent of everyday routine. And Nicolas was deeply touched when his friend leapt from his chair and came and gave him a thump on his back, crying joyfully, ‘By God, it’s good to see you again! Where on earth did you get to?’
At the same time, Nicolas felt embarrassed. How to explain his absence? Bourdeau wasn’t supposed to know anything.
But it was Bourdeau himself who said, ‘I know, I know. Affairs of State! Monsieur de Sartine told me just enough, so I’m not going to ply you with questions. As for the rumours …’
‘I missed you!’ cried Nicolas, relieved. ‘One day, I’ll tell you all about it. But what’s new here?’
‘Hats keep getting taller and taller,’ replied Bourdeau, as serious as a pope. ‘To be more specific, I can reassure you about the rumours. Madame du Barry’s people kept going on about an encounter on the road north with a certain marquis who’s also a commissioner … When the Lieutenant General heard about it, he flew into a rage, tore off his wig and promised the rack to those gossips – he used a stronger word – who had endangered the life of his best commissioner. So you can understand how anxious I’ve been and how happy I am to see you alive and well.’
‘I see. But enlighten me: how far have we got with the case?’
‘Adagio ma non troppo. In order, and briefly: primo, you are Madame de Lastérieux’s heir; secundo, we received an anonymous letter implicating you in a mysterious act; tertio, Casimir, your friend’s slave, underwent torture but didn’t tell us anything – though I’d like to know what you think of the interrogation.’
‘Right, let’s look at all that in order.’
‘I found the name of Madame de Lastérieux’s notary. As you predicted, he’s quite close by, even if not in the immediate vicinity. His name is Master Tiphaine, and his practice is in Rue de la Harpe, opposite Rue Percée. I went to see him, and he produced from his files a will written, dated and signed by your friend, making you her sole legatee.’
Nicolas, overwhelmed, bowed his head.
‘That’s nothing, there’s worse to come! The document was signed three days before her death.’
‘In what circumstances? Did she visit the notary? Did she summon him to Rue de Verneuil? Was the seal intact?’
‘All good questions! No visits, no witnesses, and the will was deposited at the notary’s office by an unknown bearer.’
‘What about the signature?’
‘There are several, apparently genuine according to an expert at the Palais de Justice, and the red seal was intact. You know as well as I do how easy it is to make a mistake in such things. To tell the truth, we can never be certain. The will may be genuine or a fake. If it’s a fake, it may throw suspicion on you as the person who benefits … But if it’s genuine, well, the same thing.’
Nicolas thought this over. ‘A genuine signature isn’t enough,’ he said. ‘The document itself must be entirely written by hand, and the date, too. All three conditions are required for this particular category of will to be legally recognised. That’s been common law in Paris since an amendment brought in by the Parlement in 1581 to curtail the prerogatives of the Notaries Royal, who were the only people authorised to draw up wills. In any case, my dear Pierre, I suggest you find out more about this notary. I’m an old Paris hand, but this is the first time I’ve ever heard his name.’
‘You’ve put your finger on the dubious part of all this,’ replied the inspector. ‘This Tiphaine has only just been admitted to the Company. Nobody knows how he was able to get the money together to buy a practice that had been suddenly abandoned by a family that had held it for centuries. That kind of takeover is quite rare, and usually only happens when someone marries into the family. It’s quite an awkward process and takes a lot of diplomacy. But how come you know so much about the subject?’
‘Don’t forget it was my intended profession. I was even a notary’s clerk before my exile to Paris.’
They both laughed.
‘What do you advise me to do?’ asked Bourdeau.
‘It might be an idea to approach Master Bontemps, the senior member of the Company of Notaries Royal. He’d be able to tell us more about this Tiphaine. We can talk to Monsieur de Noblecourt, they’re more or l
ess the same age and I know they’re good friends. Now what about this anonymous letter you mentioned?’
Bourdeau opened a register and took out a small stained sheet of paper, covered in printed characters.
‘This was thrown into Monsieur de Sartine’s carriage. Handwriting disguised to look as featureless as possible, common paper and ink. No usable clues.’
He read the missive aloud. ‘Ask Nicolas Le Floch what he threw in the river at the corner of the quai by Pont Royal, opposite Rue de Beaune, on the night of 6 to 7 January 1774. May justice be done!’
‘That doesn’t make any sense,’ said Nicolas, who could feel that morning’s sense of elation gradually fading. ‘Who on earth is so determined to destroy me, and why? The murder of Julie, other things I can’t tell you about, the will … When is there going to be an end to all this?’
‘When we’ve arrested the guilty party or parties. About this latest point, though, I’ve had an idea. While you were away, Monsieur de Sartine asked me to be present on his behalf at an experiment presented by an inventor to a commission of the Academy of Sciences.’
‘And what has that experiment to do with this case?’
‘Let me explain. The inventor will demonstrate a new machine which he claims allows him to stay underwater for at least an hour, without any communication with the surface. He maintains that he can reach a depth of thirty feet. Do you follow me? The bed of the Seine isn’t as deep as that. I know what you’re going to ask. Yes, we’ve already dragged the river at that spot, without any result. The experiment is due to take place in two days’ time. We simply have to request that it be performed at the corner of the
‘Extraordinary as it is, your idea seems to me an excellent one. I’d like to be present.’
‘There’s no reason why not. Monsieur de Sartine has decided, with His Majesty’s agreement, that you can accompany me during this investigation, without any disguise this time – although, come to think of it, carnival’s on its way.’
‘You mentioned a third thing,’ said Nicolas with a sigh.
Bourdeau handed him a sheet of paper covered with the spidery scrawl of a clerk of the court. ‘The transcript of the interrogation of Madame de Lastérieux’s slave Casimir.’
Nicolas shook his head. ‘We don’t regard these people as free men, but when it comes to torture they’re no different from their masters. We listen to what they have to say, and their word’s as good as anyone else’s!’
‘There speaks your good heart,’ said Bourdeau, ‘and I share your sentiments entirely. I should tell you that since this affair came to light, your name hasn’t been mentioned, but the same can’t be said for Casimir! Someone informed the Minister of the Navy, and there was a great fuss and a demand that light be thrown on a crime they consider exceptionally serious. Just think, a murder of a white woman, the widow of a financial official in the navy, by a black slave – and on French soil, to boot! Think of the salutary effect on the colonies if news of the episode was held back until a severe punishment had already been meted out! A great deal of pressure was put on Monsieur de Sartine to act firmly – and you know his enlightened views on slavery, and on torture.’
‘I assume he resisted!’
‘Of course. He gave Sanson instructions to go gently on Casimir, and our friend, being the humane person that he is, observed these instructions to the letter. The torture was done only faintly. It was more a matter of scaring the prisoner into telling the truth than hurting him for the sake of getting him to say just anything. The torture instruments are impressive enough in themselves to break down the resistance of a poor slave accused of a crime a thousand leagues from his native island!’
Nicolas took the document and read it aloud. ‘“In the year 1774, on 15 January in the royal prison of the Châtelet, I, Pierre Bourdeau, inspector of police, by extraordinary authority of the Criminal Lieutenant and in the presence—”’
‘You can skip all that,’ said Bourdeau. ‘Mostly, he repeated word for word what he’d said before. I’ve underlined in pencil the passage where there are a few new details.’
Nicolas resumed reading. ‘“… for the second time, said Casimir was subjected to torture. Questioned as to whether or not he had attempted to poison his mistress, he answered that he had not, and stated that she had never mistreated him, but confessed that he had often asked her to set both him and his companion free, and that she had always refused, which made said suspect very unhappy. Questioned as to whether he had spoken of this to a third party, he answered that he did not want to reveal the identity of the person who advised him to go back to the West Indies, that the only unknown factor had been having sufficient money. Questioned as to whether he knew that such an action would amount to desertion and that he was exposing himself to being pursued and severely punished if he was caught, he answered that he did know that but that his freedom had no price. Questioned as to how he obtained the spices he sometimes used for cooking, he answered that they were seeds from Santo Domingo called piment bouc, which were commonly consumed in his native country. Questioned again on the presence of Monsieur von Müvala on the evening of his mistress’s death, he answered that he knew nothing and had seen him for the last time that evening when his mistress was showing him the perfume about which he had enquired. Questioned as to why he was called at that moment by his mistress, he answered that she had asked him to post a letter, that he had done so immediately and that he did not know to whom it was addressed, being unable to read or write. Questioned as to whether his mistress was having carnal relations with Monsieur von Müvala, he answered that he was certain she was not and that his mistress was too besotted with Monsieur Le Floch to look for pleasure elsewhere.’
Bourdeau handed him another paper. ‘This is the procurator’s indictment.’
‘“In the name of the King,”’ read Nicolas, ‘“I demand, in expectation of the results of the investigation and the gathering of evidence, that said Casimir, a black slave, be sentenced to be burnt alive on a pyre, which will be built and lighted to this effect on Place de Grève in this city. Said Casimir to be previously subjected to ordinary and extraordinary torture in order to reveal his accomplices.”’
‘Obviously, all this is just routine, to speed things up. Some people just can’t wait to see the prisoner convicted and punished! The only problem is, there’s no evidence against him. When it comes to poisoning, extreme measures have often been advocated. One magistrate we know1 has said that when the condemned man arrives at the place of execution and mounts the scaffold, he should be lowered into a cauldron of boiling water.’
‘The horror of it!’
‘What do you think of Casimir’s testimony?’ asked Bourdeau.
‘A mysterious person giving advice, an unknown poison, uncertainty about Julie’s feelings for Müvala, a letter sent in the middle of the night, why and to whom? This interrogation raises more questions than it answers! It’s a paltry thing, really.’
‘Exactly. I’ve organised an unofficial war council for this evening. Semacgus has agreed for us to go to his house in Vaugirard. For once, Sanson has accepted his invitation. We’ll examine the case calmly, from all angles – if you agree, that is. Catherine will come and help Awa with the cooking, so it’s sure to be good! Monsieur de Noblecourt would happily have come, too, but his presence might have scared off Monsieur de Paris.’
‘I’m happy to fall in with your plan. I need as many friends around me as possible right now. Not to mention the pleasures of French cooking.’
The words had escaped without his volition. He bit his lip: what an idiot he’d been! Bourdeau made no comment, but his eyes creased with suppressed irony. To create a diversion, Nicolas stood up and looked in the pigeonhole where mail that had arrived for him at the Châtelet was kept. His heart missed a beat: on a square little envelope with a red seal, he had recognised Madame de Lastérieux’s handwriting. But this first feeling was followed by incomprehension when he saw that the address read: To Mon
sieur Nicolas Le Floch, Commissioner of Police at the Châtelet, Rue Montmartre, at the house of Monsieur de Noblecourt opposite Passage de la Reine de Hongrie. Why, despite such specific directions, had the letter come to the royal prison? Forgetting that Bourdeau was there, he opened and read it.
Nicolas, he who will not marry us exposes himself to the risk that the object of his passion will make him feel her displeasure, so great is her despair at this desertion. My love will even wish for you to fall. I am not claiming to justify an all too real mistake, nor to minimise it. Believe me, I despise myself as much as it is possible to do so for having yielded to a momentary impulse and given you the impression that I was so weak as to take advantage of the presence of that young man who means nothing to me and who is the least likely person to take me from you. Whatever the fate you have in store for me, so frightened was I by your reaction, in which I saw all the tenderness you have for me, that you can be sure I will never feel punished enough, for I admit that there is nothing more unbearably odious than a woman who flirts for no reason. Come, I beg you, as soon as you can; one can only raise oneself above those whom one misses by forgiving them.
Your loving and faithful Julie.
Her voice had reached him from beyond the grave. He should have been moved, but the affected style struck him as strange and inappropriate. Without thinking, he handed the letter to Bourdeau. The inspector glanced through it, looked at the address, and turned it over several times in his hands, seemingly lost in thought.
‘To be honest,’ he said at last, ‘the mystery appears to be deepening. So many assumptions, but so few certainties! Let’s be clear and direct about this. First of all, we have the physical evidence gathered by our friends during the autopsy on Madame de Lastérieux’s body, which was not very conclusive. Now, unless the woman was lying – which, let’s not forget, she’d been doing ever since she met you, by concealing her secret activities from you – this letter throws a new light on the evening of 6 January and the events that followed. It seems strange that she should have written it and given it to Casimir in the presence of Müvala. In addition, I’m puzzled by what happened to this letter. According to the servant, it was placed in the box that very night. The first thing to do is check where the nearest post box is.’
The Nicolas Le Floch affair Page 17
