They examined the body. The man was about fifty, very corpulent, with a greying moustache. Bourdeau leant over to get a good look at him.
‘Well, I could swear I know the fellow. I’m almost certain it’s Cadilhac.’
‘Cadilhac?’
‘Yes, a real gallows bird, always suspected, never arrested. He used to rob lucky gamblers on the way out of the dens. It was said he enjoyed protection. In my opinion, he was a creature of Commissioner Camusot, your colleague from the Gaming Division whose schemes you brought to light fourteen years ago. This Cadilhac and Mauval were two of a kind – you remember, the other bastard you dispatched so neatly at the Dauphin Couronné.’1
‘Now there’s a coincidence!’ said Nicolas. ‘And here’s another one. Look at this.’
He removed the white woollen wig to reveal the dead man’s bald head covered in greenish bruises: wounds which, it seemed to him, were likely to have a connection with a recent event.
‘These bruises are instructive, Bourdeau. Judging by their colour, wouldn’t you say they might be what’s left of the blows good old Catherine inflicted with her frying pan on my untimely visitor the other night?’
With a grunt, Bourdeau tugged at the dead man’s clothes, and pointed to the hem of the maroon coat, where a triangle of serge fabric was missing, clearly torn off.
‘And that’s the mark of Cyrus! For an old dog, he has good teeth.’
They continued examining the corpse. Searching the coat pockets, they found a dagger, a check handkerchief, a piece of chewing tobacco, a powder horn and a few bullets. The pistol had rolled on the ground. It occurred to Nicolas, who often used his cuffs to keep his black notebook in, to search Cadilhac’s cuffs. He discovered a small piece of paper folded in four, bearing an address: Rue des Douze-Portes, opposite the parchment seller’s, fourth floor.
‘Now that’s interesting,’ said Nicolas. ‘A clue at last!’
‘That’s all very well, but what are we going to do?’ retorted Bourdeau, making a sweeping gesture that took in the whole scene of carnage.
‘I’m on a mission, as I’m sure you’ve guessed. I won’t attempt to conceal it from you: I need as soon as possible to get to the place where a certain lady has been exiled.’ He thought for a moment. ‘The simplest thing, my dear Pierre, would be for you to take over from the coachman and get the two bodies to Paris. We’ll put them in the carriage. I’ll take Cadilhac’s horse, yours will follow you. Do what you can for the poor coachman and his family. As for this other fellow, to the Basse-Geôle with him, and make sure this is kept as secret as possible. I want the people who sent him to think that he’s disappeared, or better still, that he’s deceived them, that, having done away with me as planned, he decided to keep the fruits of his aggression for himself. To make it more credible, spread the rumour, through your informers, that I was attacked by a bandit and robbed. This rumour will get back to whoever was behind this and confirm the hypothesis that Cadilhac has made off with the loot. My poor Pierre, I’m sorry to entrust you with such an unpleasant task.’
‘I’d rather be taking back these two than a commissioner!’ said Bourdeau. ‘From what you say, I deduce that you are carrying something valuable.’
‘Nothing escapes you,’ said Nicolas, his finger on his lips.
They carried the bodies to the carriage, placed them inside and carefully adjusted the curtains. Bourdeau’s horse was harnessed to the frame of the carriage.
They separated, and while Bourdeau pulled the carriage off the verge Nicolas took possession of Cadilhac’s horse. It was a fine white gelding, heavy and slightly lazy, but inquisitive and willing. He spoke in the horse’s ear for a moment and stroked the soft skin of its nostrils. The animal’s ears pointed forward, with interest and understanding. Everything was going to be all right. He leapt into the saddle and set off for Meaux at a spirited gallop, as happy as his mount to be riding with his nose in the wind, smelling the countryside, amidst clouds of dandelion seeds blown from the adjoining fields. He made an effort not to think about this latest of many attempts on his life, which once again had been thwarted by chance. If Bourdeau had arrived a few moments later, it would have been his, Nicolas’s, body being taken back to Paris right now. The resurgence of a long-forgotten past was disturbing and anomalous: it seemed to pose a new threat and present him with yet more questions. What would they find at the address he had recovered from the assailant? Where was the investigation leading them?
He avoided Meaux, fearing that other would-be assassins might be waiting for him in the town. One question nagged at him: it was impossible for everything that had happened to have come about only because he was being watched. Someone had known about the mission entrusted to him by the late King. The treacherous, shadowy forces coiling like snakes around the throne had chosen him as their prey in a hunt that had begun months earlier, the starting signal for which had been the crime in Rue de Verneuil.
His destination was situated in a small valley near a village. It was a place where the ladies of the royal family always stopped on the way to Reims for a coronation. The massive grey buildings soon appeared. He came to a halt in a little wood and put on his magistrate’s robe. Luckily, he had brought with him the safe-conduct signed by the King making him his plenipotentiary for his journey to England. It was of little value now that the King was dead, but anyone who glanced at it might still be impressed by the royal signature and seal. He got back on his horse and rode at a walking pace through the open gate of the convent. He entered a vast inner courtyard surrounded by dark buildings, including barns, woodsheds, press-houses and stables. The ground was paved with large, loose cobbles on which his horse slipped. One look was all it took to see how grim and dirty the place was, and Nicolas could well imagine the impression it must have made on the comtesse after the splendours of Versailles and Louveciennes. Clearly, the convent was not well maintained, and its prison-like aspect was more apparent than its religious purpose.
After tying the gelding to a ring, he raised the heavy knocker on the main door. There was no response to its dull echo. He noticed a handle sticking out of the wall, which presumably corresponded to a bell inside, and pulled it. In the distance, he heard the expected ring. Before long, the wicket opened and a shadowy figure behind the wooden grille asked him what he wanted.
‘Sister,’ he replied, ‘I have an urgent message to convey to your mother superior, Madame de La Roche-Fontenilles.’
It was La Borde who had given him the necessary information during their return to Versailles.
‘Who shall I say wants her, Monsieur?’
‘Nicolas Le Floch, secretary to the King in his counsels, police commissioner at the Châtelet, and magistrate.’ He had not skimped on the titles.
‘Who sent you?’
‘Monsieur Gabriel de Sartine, on behalf of the King.’
This was not an irrelevant point in a place like this, which was not only a convent, but a genuine State prison under the jurisdiction of the Lieutenancy General of Police, where women issued with lettres de cachet were sent.
‘I’ll go and see,’ said the nun.
The wicket closed with a sharp click. He waited a moment, then the heavy door opened. Without a word, the nun, who was wearing a white robe with a wimple, a black veil and a scapular, beckoned to him to follow her. The interior of the convent looked even gloomier than the exterior. Water dripped to the floor from the old Gothic vaults, and oozed from mould-covered walls. Nicolas shivered, remembering his first visit to the Bastille. The nun opened another door and stepped aside to let him through. The huge room was bare, its only adornment a large black wooden crucifix above a rectangular oak table, behind which stood the tall figure of the mother superior. He approached and bowed. There was no response.
‘May I know, Commissioner, what brings you within these walls?’
‘I have been entrusted, Reverend Mother, with a mission by the Lieutenant General of Police. I need to speak with the Comtesse du Barry a
s soon as possible.’
A look of surprise came over the mother superior’s emaciated face. ‘Are you unaware, Monsieur, that I have very specific orders to keep her in solitary confinement? They come from very high up and must be obeyed with absolute rigour. In addition, I consider it important not to disturb the poor young woman’s rest and tranquillity.’
It was immediately clear to Nicolas that the mother superior had already fallen under the comtesse’s spell.
‘Madame, my orders are from the King, and I cannot shirk them.’
With a sweeping theatrical gesture, he took out his plenipotentiary letter and presented it to the mother superior at arm’s length. Whether because she could not imagine it possible that he was not telling the truth, or because – as he strongly suspected – she needed glasses but, holy as she was, did not want to use them, or because the authority of the gesture confused her, she yielded.
‘Monsieur, I cannot oppose the orders of the King. But, if it pleases you, I should like to be present at this interview.’
He acquiesced, only too happy that he had succeeded so easily. She clapped her hands, and the door opened. The nun who had shown him in appeared and was asked to fetch the comtesse. A minute or two later, Madame du Barry entered. She was in full mourning: in black lace with a mantilla on her head. Nicolas was grateful to her for not choosing white, the mourning colour of the queens of France. Her eyes looked big and red, but her grief-stricken face, devoid of make-up, gave her a younger appearance. It was as if she had regained that freshness and youth that had so captivated the King. She returned Nicolas’s greeting, and it was immediately clear from her expression that she had grasped the situation and that, as a woman who knew all about Court intrigues, she would make no objection.
‘Madame, the reverend mother has given me permission to speak with you.’
He drew her away from the table, without Madame de La Roche-Fontenilles doing anything to oppose it or hear what he had to say to the prisoner.
‘I don’t have a great deal of time. The King entrusted me with something I was to give to you.’
He was standing in such a way that his wide magistrate’s robe hid what he was doing. He gave her the casket, which she had no difficulty in opening: a sign that she was familiar with it. She removed the contents and gave the box back to him. Her hands were shaking as she broke the seal on the document. She looked at it and her expression changed. She screwed up the paper, then emptied the contents of the purse on to her palm: five grey pebbles. She clenched her fist in anger and he thought she was about to throw the stones in his face.
‘Monsieur,’ she said in a low voice, ‘this is disgraceful! A blank sheet of paper and a few pebbles! You are mocking a disgraced woman and adding betrayal to her misfortunes.’
‘Madame, I beg you to hear me. How could you possibly imagine that, having forsaken honour as you believe, I would then come and expose myself to your anger? I came here at great risk to my life, to keep the promise I made to my King as he lay dying. I lied and deceived Madame de La Roche-Fontenilles to get to you and fulfil my duty. How could you imagine I would betray the King’s trust? Have I ever given you occasion to doubt my fidelity and loyalty? I would rather run on my sword than let you believe such a slander.’
He had raised his voice, and the mother superior was nodding her head, trying to understand the strange game being played between the commissioner and the comtesse.
‘Monsieur,’ Madame du Barry went on, calmer now, ‘I am inclined to believe you. You sound sincere and your past services for the King speak in your favour. But you must understand my confusion …’
‘I promise, Madame, that I will clear up this matter and recover the contents of this box. All I can tell you is that the King placed some diamonds in it, together with a document which, he said, would be a safe-conduct to the next reign for the person who possessed it.’
‘Very well, Monsieur. I shall wait and pray with these saintly ladies that your quest reaches a successful outcome.’ She hesitated a moment, then held out her hand, which he kissed. ‘I should like to believe in you,’ she murmured.
She withdrew like a shadow. Nicolas thanked Madame de La Roche-Fontenilles, who seemed uncertain what to think of the scene of which she had had mere glimpses. The visitor did not linger. He rode back to Meaux, where he had to requisition a horse at the post house: the white gelding, willing as it might be, was exhausted and would not have been able to take him all the way back to Paris.
It was already quite dark by the time he passed the tollgates. Throughout the ride, his thoughts ever more fevered, he had tried to make sense of what had happened. What had most affected him was the stain on his honour. He knew he would never forgive himself if he was unable to convince the comtesse that he had acted correctly. The first thing he had to do was question Monsieur de La Borde, the only witness to the scene between Nicolas and the late King: perhaps he could throw light on the hidden aspects of the mission.
His friend kept an apartment in town, a mezzanine in Rue de la Feuillade. Nicolas looked at his watch: it was already eleven. It was only with some difficulty that he managed to have the front door of the building opened to him. His friend greeted him in a nightshirt. Nicolas recounted his adventures on the road to Meaux and the torments through which he had passed since his discovery that the contents of the casket had disappeared. La Borde insisted that he knew nothing more of the matter. The King had not told him anything, and he knew only what Nicolas knew. As they were speculating on how the diamonds and the document could have gone missing, a servant entered and informed his master that a priest was asking to see him. La Borde asked Nicolas to excuse him and withdrew to his antechamber. He returned after some considerable time, a dejected expression on his tired features.
‘Nicolas,’ he said, collapsing into a bergère, ‘steel yourself. What do you think of Gaspard?’
‘A dedicated fellow, clever, helpful, pleasant – but, in my opinion, much too keen on personal gain to be trusted completely.’
‘A perceptive comment, which shows up my own stupidity. I always considered him entirely devoted and discreet. It was I who recommended him to the King.’
‘What has he done for you to question your judgement?’
‘He’s been betraying us for a long time. The priest who asked to see me has just heard his confession. He’s in a small room at the top of the house, where my servants live. He’s been ill ever since we got back from Versailles. The doctor I consulted has diagnosed smallpox of the worst kind.’
‘I seem to remember that, when the servants were asked to leave the King’s bedchamber, he said he wasn’t afraid, because he’d already had it.’
‘He lied to us. Since witnessing His Majesty’s death, he’s believed himself to be doomed and wants to relieve his conscience. He asked the priest to speak to me, which is what I’ve just been doing. It appears that the man was spying on the King and reporting everything that happened around him. Being greedy by nature, as you observed, he was cashing in on all sides. He was being paid by both Choiseul’s and d’Aiguillon’s people. He didn’t mind whom he spoke to. Unfortunately for him, he was given strict orders by his masters to remain in the King’s apartments, even if it meant catching the disease.’
In a flash, Nicolas saw again the audience in the council chamber when the King, in the presence of Monsieur de Sartine, had given him instructions before his departure for England. Gaspard could not have been far away, since it was he who had come to fetch him after the mass. That presumably explained all the things that had happened to him on the way to London.
‘Without any doubt,’ La Borde went on, ‘he was there when the King gave you the box, hidden behind the curtains in the bedroom. He came out once the King had fallen asleep. Do you remember? We were walking in the clock room before the King woke up and asked me to fetch Madame du Barry.’
‘That’s all well and good,’ said Nicolas. ‘But it still doesn’t explain how the contents of the box w
ere replaced. And if that had already been done, then why was I attacked on the road to Meaux?’
‘It may simply be that there were a number of parallel conspiracies, and those behind one didn’t necessarily know about the other. Be that as it may, he’s asking for your forgiveness. He says you were always very good to him, and he regrets having done you any harm.’
‘I hope he recovers. He can rest assured that, since I never trusted him in the first place, I don’t bear him any grudge. But I would ask one favour. Let it be known that he’s dead. That will protect both him and you, especially as we have no idea what the future has in store and what use we might be able to make of his revelations.’
‘All right, I will. What are you going to do now?’
‘Let you get some rest, you need it! Tomorrow morning, I intend to report everything to Sartine and ask his advice Do you think I should let him in on the secret of my mission?’
‘The King is dead. That doesn’t release us from our vow of loyalty, but it does authorise us to reveal whatever may help his last wishes to be carried out. Besides, the Lieutenant General of Police had our master’s full confidence, and knew all his secrets. Except this one, perhaps.’
Nicolas got back to Rue Montmartre to find Catherine waiting up for him. She immediately gave him the keys for the new locks which had been fitted that very day. While waiting for him, she had been baking tarts, using the first cherries from a tree in the garden of Monsieur de Noblecourt’s house. He collapsed on to a chair in the servants’ pantry. Seeing how tired he was, Catherine decided he needed something sweet. She cut a number of uneven triangles out of the leftover pastry and plunged them in hot oil, where they twisted and swelled as if animated by an inner breath. She recovered them with a skimmer just before they turned brown and placed them on a grate to drain before sprinkling them with sugar. Either because his nerves were on edge or because he was genuinely hungry, Nicolas gobbled up a good dozen of them, which he washed down, as was his custom, with a bottle of cider. Then he went up to his apartment and collapsed exhausted on his bed.
The Nicolas Le Floch affair Page 29
