‘You would probably have been disappointed,’ replied Nicolas. ‘I’ve been told the divine Molière veered towards the comical in his performance, with a lot of grimacing and buffoonery, and that he soon handed the role over to young Baron.’
‘No, don’t destroy my illusions!’ protested Noblecourt. ‘Listen to this perfect fusion of form and content:
Oh, nothing can compare to what I feel for you,
And in its ardour to declare itself to all,
My love will even wish for you to fall.
Don’t you feel it? The man who wrote that really lived and suffered. So much truth can only lead to perfection. There’s a kind of moral music in that piece. But what’s the matter? You look so pale! Sit down.’
Nicolas had taken Madame de Lastérieux’s letter from his pocket. In a low voice, he told his friend all about the latest developments in the case.
‘This letter,’ he said, ‘puzzled me when I read it, because it was so unlike what I knew, or thought I knew, of Julie. I found it affected and full of hand-me-down phrases. I’ve just realised the reason why. There’s one sentence in it – “My love will even wish for you to fall” – which is shamelessly borrowed from Molière.’
‘I suspect you’re wrong,’ replied Monsieur de Noblecourt. ‘It might just be a coincidence. The idea is an unusual one, I grant you, but your friend was refined enough to have thought of it for herself. Or perhaps it was buried deep in her memory and she copied it without realising.’
‘Say what you like, you won’t convince me. A woman writing to her lover in the heat of passion wouldn’t start looking for quotations. Either this letter reveals a treacherous woman with a heart of stone, or it’s a fake, and I incline to the latter hypothesis. Nor is that the only suspicious document.’
He told him about the will which made him the victim’s sole heir.
‘Are you telling me,’ said Noblecourt, ‘that both the will and that letter are forgeries?’
‘There are plenty of people in Paris skilled enough to do that kind of work. Even the King is surrounded by secretaries who write and sign letters in his place, and you’d have to be very clever to spot the difference between the original and a copy!’
‘If I understand you correctly,’ said Noblecourt pensively, ‘you’d like me to facilitate your introduction to Master Bontemps, the senior member of the Company of Notaries Royal, the famous “cat man”.’
‘Cat man?’
‘You will understand when you climb his stairs. He’s an original. We’re old cronies, even though he’s appreciably older than me. I shall write to him immediately.’
Monsieur de Noblecourt rose nimbly from his chair, disturbing poor Cyrus, who had been dozing at his feet, as he did so, and took a sheet of paper from a writing desk. He filled it with his small, rapid handwriting, dried the ink with a handful of sand, folded it into a letter, lit a candle, held a piece of red wax in it, spilt a few drops on the paper, and pressed in his seal.
‘Don’t be surprised by his welcome. He affects a certain incivility which it’s best to ignore. As for your mysterious journey,’ he said, sitting down again, ‘don’t worry, I’m not going to pry. Curious as I am to know what happened, I will never pry into State secrets. Bourdeau warned me.’
Nicolas smiled at this chain of warnings, passing from Sartine to Noblecourt via Bourdeau, imposing discretion and reserve on friendship.
‘On the other hand,’ the former procurator went on, hitting the armrests of his chair, ‘I am indignant that my friends – my children, rather – are going away and leaving me all alone in Rue Montmartre, where I shall be sitting full of envy, imagining their sumptuous banquet this evening!’
Nicolas laughed. ‘You’re hardly the one to complain. You’re surrounded by friends who are concerned about your health and who, knowing your natural appetites, wanted to spare you temptation. It would only have brought on a massive attack of gout, whereas here you are, strong, lively, fresh as a daisy, talkative, looking twenty years younger …’
‘Flatterer!’
‘Not at all, I describe things as I see them. And anyway, the main reason we didn’t invite you was not to scare off Sanson. He has so much respect for you that your presence would paralyse him. And we need him in order to discuss our case.’
Noblecourt smiled. ‘That’s a rather more persuasive argument, Jesuitical as it is. But I’ll get my revenge in Lent. I shall serve you all fish smelling of herring barrels!’
Laughing, Nicolas left the room and went back up to his apartment to get ready. He was about to leave when he suddenly remembered his keys. He searched in the pockets of the cloak he had worn in England but did not find them. This was worrying: his keys, which included those to Monsieur de Noblecourt’s house and Madame de Lastérieux’s apartments, had been tied with a blue ribbon his mistress had given him. Could they have slipped out when he had fallen into the arms of the baker’s boys after his mad ride back to Paris? He went down and asked Poitevin, Marion, and the baker’s boys. None of them knew anything about the keys. So, unless Catherine, who was already at Semacgus’s house in Vaugirard, could throw some light on the matter, they were well and truly lost. With a chill, he remembered the incident at Ailly-le-Haut-Clocher. At the time, nothing seemed to have been stolen. He could not recall the last time he had held the bunch of keys in his hand. Was it after his last visit to Rue de Verneuil? He made an effort to remember: on that terrible night, he had come back to Rue Montmartre and had found the door open, as it usually was when Monsieur de Noblecourt had guests. Had the keys gone missing when he was wandering the streets on the night of the murder, the details of which still escaped him, or when he had fallen from his horse on the road from Calais to Paris? Suddenly, a detail came back to him. When he had changed vehicles in Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs, he had been afraid of losing his keys and had clutched them in his hand inside his pocket to stop them falling out. That narrowed it down to his journey to England. He asked Poitevin to leave the key to the little staircase leading to his room in the corner of a window where nobody would think of looking for it. In any case, he did not want to wake him when he came back late from Vaugirard.
His carriage took him back to the Châtelet. There was a lull in the bad weather, and the lights of the city were coming on. Sanson in a green coat and Bourdeau in mouse grey were waiting for him at the entrance. With them was Rabouine, who informed Nicolas that he was still trying to find out more about Müvala: so far, there was nothing to indicate that he had left France. The carriage set off, taking the same route Nicolas had travelled several times a month since he had first met Semacgus. The Pont Royal, the great mass of the Invalides and the Vaugirard tollgate sped past. A few stars began to show through the gaps in the cloud cover, but the heights of Meudon were still shrouded in thick, inky-blue clouds. The slate-grey sky stretched as far as the faubourgs to the west. The snow had not settled, and the wheels of the cab splashed black mud on the few pedestrians hurrying home.
Semacgus’s massive residence came into sight, a haven of peace. Lanterns illumined the exterior. Through the windows, they glimpsed a household busying itself for the arrival of guests. The tall figure of the navy surgeon was framed in the doorway of the servants’ pantry. The neighing of the horses had alerted him to their arrival. He had taken off his coat and was wearing an apron. A particularly warm welcome was reserved for Sanson, who imme diately emerged from the silence he had observed throughout the journey.
‘I was just giving Catherine and Awa a hand,’ said Semacgus.
‘And what operation are you performing?’ asked Sanson, bending curiously over the dishes being prepared.
‘Ah, the delicate operation of poaching black pudding made from foie gras and capon! It’s poached in milk, which shouldn’t be brought to the boil but has to be left to simmer gently to avoid destroying the harmony of the ingredients and above all to stop the delicate casing from bursting.’
‘That sounds promising,’ said Bourdeau, his
nostrils flaring and his head lifted like a pointer. ‘And what do you put in these fragile marvels?’
‘A finely chopped quarter-pound of pork fat, a mince made from foie gras and capon meat in equal quantities, herbs, chives, salt, pepper, nutmeg, ground cloves, and six raw egg yolks. I mix the whole lot together and put it in the little pork casings.’
Semacgus led them into his study, where the table had been laid. They sat down by the fire which was roaring in the big stone hearth. The room was cluttered with curiosities collected by their host on his voyages across the seas: exotic stuffed animals, minerals, primitive fabrics, herbariums and many other objects. Nicolas always felt transported a long way away when he was in this room: it gave him the same feeling of strangeness as when he read tales of the exploits of travellers and navigators, and aroused in him a hunger for the open sea.
Catherine brought in a bottle of ratafia and served it to the guests.
‘A reminder of the good old days at the Dauphin Couronné,’ said Semacgus. ‘La Paulet used to regale her customers with ratafia that she’d been sent by one of her admirers in the West Indies.’
This allusion brought Nicolas’s obsession back to the surface. He recalled with a pang in his heart that the navy surgeon had briefly been La Satin’s lover when she was a resident of the brothel. But then he remembered that the child had been born long before, and his anxiety subsided.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Bourdeau, ‘we are gathered here to celebrate our friendship and at the same time to help Nicolas elucidate this sad business with which you are all familiar. You’ve all had time to think about it. What new ideas have you come up with?’
‘I made a discovery that may interest you,’ said Semacgus. ‘Tell me what you think. As you know, I am engaged on a largescale project, putting together a general herbarium. I therefore often visit the Jardin du Roi and its excellent collections. Some time ago, I met a man I greatly respect, an expert on the subject: Monsieur Duhamel du Monceau,2 who is both a herbalist and the most eminent practitioner in our navy.’
‘How did you come to meet him?’ asked Nicolas.
‘He is the author of a work on how to ensure good health on the King’s vessels, and he was keen to benefit from the experience of a navy surgeon who had travelled widely. During our meeting, I happened to mention our famous seeds. He’s quite positive: if it was piment bouc, it couldn’t have caused the toxic effects we observed. He suggested to me that perhaps the seeds were used to conceal another, more poisonous substance.’
‘Casimir’s testimony is making us go round in circles,’ said Bourdeau. ‘He cooks a chicken, but the poison isn’t in the chicken, it’s in the eggnog prepared for Madame de Lastérieux. Casimir sees Nicolas when he comes back to the house, but claims that he didn’t. He tells us Müvala spent the whole evening there, yet seems unwilling to accept that his mistress might have been having a relationship with the man. That’s a lot of contradictions!’
‘Well, I questioned him,’ said Sanson, ‘and my modest experience – or rather, my intuition – leads me to believe he was lying.’
‘But why?’ asked Bourdeau. ‘It’s as if someone is forcing him to conceal the truth.’
‘Let’s sum up,’ said Semacgus. ‘It seems to me that Bourdeau is asking the right question. In whose interest is it to make sure that all the evidence points to a commissioner at the Châtelet? A jealous colleague, a rival, a criminal convicted in the past as a result of our friend’s efforts?’
Nicolas felt powerless, unable to put his friends on the right course by revealing to them the hidden aspect of the case: the fact that Madame de Lastérieux had been working secretly for the police. It was quite likely that she had been the victim of blackmail. And what of the attempts on Nicolas’s life, whose connection with the crime in Rue de Verneuil was yet to be proved? Why did his invisible enemy hate him so much, accumulating false evidence against him, as if wanting not only to destroy him but to dishonour him on the way to the scaffold? What would have become of him without the help and trust of his friends and of the Lieutenant General of Police, not to mention the King?
These reflections were interrupted by a great burst of laughter. Catherine, draped African-style in an undulating mass of yellow and red, her broad snub-nosed face surmounted by a superb knotted madras, had come in to announce that dinner was ready. Behind her, beating her sides with amusement at the guests’ surprise, was Awa. The men took their seats at the little table that had been placed near the window. Semacgus took a paper from his pocket.
‘Gentlemen,’ he announced, ‘here is the menu. A galantine of sorrel and beans, Breton style, in your honour, Commissioner. Then ears of pork à la barbe Robert, followed by black puddings of foie gras and capon. Last, but by no means least, a great fish stew prepared by Catherine Gauss, former canteen-keeper to the King’s armies. A dessert of cauliflower with Parmesan, a Bavarian cake and a brioche stuffed with rosehip jelly.’
There were cries of enthusiasm.
‘And what nectars will water all that?’ asked Bourdeau.
‘A Bordeaux claret from Fronsac, a gift from the Maréchal de Richelieu to Monsieur de Noblecourt, who gave me a few bottles as a way of being present at this dinner despite everything. They will be drunk to his health. And …’ – he took out a long bottle from a cooling pitcher – ‘… a Rhine wine, an Eiswein. Imagine the grape forced to ripen by the autumn mist: what is known as a Traubendrücker. A sudden frost, and the water reduced to ice remains on the press, leaving an extract of sweet and scented oils in the vat.’
‘And where is this marvel found?’
‘In the German Rheingau, near Johannisberg.’
‘I didn’t know you spoke German,’ said Nicolas.
‘There are many things you still don’t know about me,’ replied Semacgus, enigmatically.
The dinner unfolded like a well-constructed symphony. After his initial reserve, Sanson proved a very talkative guest, much more so than when his wife was present. The smoothness of the ice wine and the alacrity of the Fronsac helped to keep the conversation lively. Awa whirled around them, her hand resting occasionally with unfeigned tenderness on Semacgus’s shoulder. Their new complicity was obvious to all: the incorrigible libertine seemed to have settled down at last. Nicolas assumed that worry about his health had made the navy surgeon rethink his way of life and convinced him of the charms of a welcoming home, where his temperament found freedom in the pleasures of a relationship with his maid. The results of this conversion could clearly be seen on the features of a man long accustomed to nights of abandon: his pink, relaxed face shone with a new dignity, without the marks of the old days. The summit of the dinner was reached with the appearance of the fish stew. Catherine was summoned to recite the recipe.
‘Well, gentlemen, first you make a mince of eel and carp. Awa kept the carp in a tub of water for a week to get rid of the smell of silt. Then you season the mince with salt, pepper and nutmeg and put it in a little clay pot with a lid, the sides of which have been smeared with fine butter. You place the carp skins all around the inside, you cover the bottom of the pot with the mince, to a height of half an inch, and then you fill the rest of the pot with truffles, morels, pike livers and carp tongues, kneading the whole thing with butter. You cover the whole thing with the forcemeat, put a silver plate on top and cook it in front of the fire, turning occasionally. Finally, you tip it over on to a hollow plate and sprinkle it with lemon juice and shelled pistachios.’
There was a round of applause, which turned Catherine’s face red with pride.
‘What’s really delicious,’ said Nicolas, always a lover of contrasts in cooking, ‘is the crustiness of the surface and the softness of the inner layers.’
‘I think it’s the tongues and fish livers,’ said Bourdeau. ‘They thicken the mixture without making it too heavy and really bring out the aroma.’
‘Let’s drink, let’s drink!’ sang Sanson, who had taken off his beautiful green coat and was brandishing his
glass. ‘Here is the veritable nepenthe3 which makes us merry and delivers us from dark thoughts!’
They chatted away about the latest fashionable entertainments and the gossip currently doing the rounds. Semacgus mentioned the rumour that a number of police officers had been arrested in London for trying to assassinate the notorious pamphleteer Théveneau de Morande. Nicolas made no reaction. Later, as they sipped, as was the custom of the house, an old rum from Semacgus’s collection which had been round the world at least twice, the conversation once again touched on the affair of the murder in Rue Verneuil. It was Bourdeau who brought their wandering minds back to the subject.
‘Gentlemen, there’s a detail I’d like to see clarified for the sake of the investigation and Commissioner Le Floch’s peace of mind.’
The solemnity of these words jolted them out of the drowsiness induced by too much eating and drinking.
‘Did Madame de Lastérieux,’ he went on, ‘have carnal relations on the night of her death? Neither of you made a clear statement one way or the other during the autopsy.’
Sobering up, Sanson and Semacgus looked at each other. Neither seemed to want to speak first.
‘The thing is,’ the navy surgeon said at last, ‘nothing is certain as far as that’s concerned.’
‘Is that a yes or a no?’ said Bourdeau.
‘To tell the truth, both possibilities exist.’
‘The state of the organs did not rule out either hypothesis,’ added Sanson.
‘Can’t you be more specific?’
‘You have to bear in mind,’ said Semacgus, ‘that there are various factors which may make it seem as though intercourse took place when it didn’t in fact do so …’
‘I insist,’ said Bourdeau. ‘It’s a crucial point. The mystery of what happened on that evening and its consequences largely centres on what the unseen puppet master is trying to make us believe: that Nicolas spent part of that night with his mistress.’
The Nicolas Le Floch affair Page 19
