The Châtelet Apprentice (23 page)

‘What do you make of it, Bourdeau?' he asked.

‘I think, Monsieur, that this piece of paper might well belong to the main part of a letter and might have been cut out afterwards, for a particular purpose.'

‘I see that we're in agreement on this point. What we still have to discover is who pieced it together, and why. I must congratulate you on the trouble you went to in Vaugirard. I saw Rabouine and he was very useful, just like your man in Rue des Blancs-Manteaux.'

Bourdeau turned pink with pleasure and seemed to have fully recovered from his disappointment.

‘The man gave me a report after he'd been relieved,' he said. ‘He saw Madame Lardin go out at nine o'clock and …'

‘Impossible,' exclaimed Nicolas, ‘he told me himself that he hadn't seen her come back all night. Or else he fell asleep, which he couldn't be blamed for in this cold.'

‘I was about to point that out to you. My man assures me he didn't fall asleep and I'm inclined to believe him. I've often put him to the test and never had any cause for complaint.'

‘Come on, we must find the answer. Every mystery has an explanation. Increase the surveillance of the Lardins' house. Perhaps we should have the commissioner's wife followed. What do you think?'

‘I took the liberty of organising it this morning.'

‘You're brilliant, Bourdeau.'

‘So brilliant that the important facts are kept from me.' Nicolas had spoken too soon. He bit his lip. He still didn't have enough experience of people. However, he managed to find a way out of the situation by bursting out laughing.

‘Monsieur Bourdeau, you're a fool. Didn't you understand that I wouldn't have got a thing out of a man of Semacgus's age and character if I'd questioned him in front of a respectable man of his own age like you? I thought you'd realise that it was nothing personal. Just to prove it, here's a summary of the situation. Semacgus lied to us. He left the Dauphin Couronné at a quarter past midnight to be with Madame Lardin, and he stayed with her until six o'clock. As for the Vaugirard business, I'm convinced he's not involved. Rabouine must have told you that there was someone in the house when you were at the scene of the crime and that they subsequently went through it from top to bottom. So my dear Bourdeau that
should be enough to repair the damage to your self-esteem.'

Bourdeau nodded without answering.

‘Talking of Rabouine and the other informers, Monsieur,' he went on, ‘I must give you a statement of expenses and fees I have paid myself, since Monday, in connection with the two cases that concern us. I advanced the sums spent from my own pocket. You have here the details of the operations and their cost. The statement needs to be signed by Monsieur de Sartine, then sent to the head of the financial and legal office of the Inspection of Accounts who ultimately sends out a money order for the appropriate amount. It's a slow process.'

‘An investigation that's out of the ordinary incurs expenses that are out of the ordinary too. Monsieur de Sartine has given me the wherewithal as far as expenditure is concerned.'

With great concentration Nicolas examined the piece of paper handed to him by Bourdeau. Printed on the left were the reasons for the expenses and on the right were columns giving the breakdown of time spent by the officers and constables of the watch, as well as their totals. He was intrigued to see the extra expenditure incurred by the officer (Bourdeau) and his observers as well as the number of cabs and sedan chairs used as transport during the investigation. The activities of the various informers were also set out, as well as the fees for Sanson and the two doctors at the Châtelet. Plus the travel costs to Montfaucon and Vaugirard, as well as the special-privilege cells for old Émilie and Semacgus. The overall total amounted to eighty-five pounds, which Nicolas wanted to pay out of the contingency fund from Sartine. He realised that his lump sum of twenty
louis d'or
, which already had quite a dent in it, would not be enough. He divided up what was left and gave half of it to Bourdeau.

‘Here's an advance. I'll see about the rest. Give me a receipt.'

Bourdeau scribbled a few words on the back of the statement of accounts.

‘I'm going to give you a note for Monsieur de Sartine to inform him of the latest developments, to ask him for money and to request his signature on a
lettre de cachet
so that Semacgus can be kept safely at the Bastille. You will take him there under armed guard. I am not concerned that he'll try to escape, rather it's for his own protection. We simply do not know who we are dealing with. Meanwhile I have certain things to verify. I forgot to tell you, Bourdeau, that I've moved. I couldn't remain with the Lardins, given the circumstances. In any case Madame Lardin literally threw me out. So for the time being I'm lodging with Monsieur de Noblecourt in Rue Montmartre. You know him.'

‘My house is at your disposal, Monsieur.'

‘You're very kind, Bourdeau, but you have a family to think about.'

Nicolas sat down to write the note for Sartine. He took leave of the inspector and left the Châtelet. Eager to discover the contents of Isabelle's letter, he strode off towards the Seine.

T
HE
Seine flowed at Nicolas's feet. The banks were covered with an uneven layer of frozen snow and mud, revealing in places the oozing sludge. The grey, rushing waters sped past too quickly to be followed by the naked eye. Tree trunks uprooted further upstream rose and fell in the swirling floodwater. A counter-current roared up the banks then retreated down the sheet of ice like backwash. If he closed his eyes Nicolas could imagine himself beside the ocean. This impression was strengthened by the shrill cries of hovering seabirds, their wings spread out against the wind, on the lookout for carrion drifting in the current. Only the smells that came from the thawing sludge loosened and quickened by the water destroyed the illusion. Gazing at the river had not stilled the doubts that raced through Nicolas's mind. For the third time he re-read Isabelle's letter. The words swam before his eyes. The message seemed so worrying, confused and contradictory that he was unable to make out what it meant:

Once again the young man attempted to tease out the reasons for his unease. The joy of receiving a letter from his friend had gradually turned into a nagging anxiety as he read on. His foremost concern was for his godfather's health. All else was just a source of uncertainty, made worse by the choice of words and the turns of phrase. During the two years he had spent in Paris he had had the opportunity to go to the opera. Isabelle's letter could have come straight out of a badly written libretto. The feelings expressed seemed forced. Without being able to say why, he suspected her of a kind of play-acting, almost a form of flirtatiousness that was inappropriate to the seriousness of the
situation. He remembered having a similar impression when they had been reunited at Château de Ranreuil. The scene they had both enacted then was a familiar one in the repertoire: the lovers' tiff, so common in the comedies of Monsieur de Marivaux. Was it possible that his total commitment was matched only by Mademoiselle de Ranreuil's play or pretence at passion, intended simply to offer her the superficial emotions of a sentimental comedy? Perhaps he had invented a lover for himself without weighing up the risks of indulging in such a dream. In his heart of hearts he sensed that a love that needs protecting like a land under threat, that has to be explained and defended in the way a barrister would address a court of law, is perhaps a love that cannot last. And had he not himself become involved in this attachment too lightly and thoughtlessly, simply because they had been children together and because he was attracted by the aura of a powerful and noble family? How could he have dared to believe that a foundling could have aimed so high, and aspired to go so far beyond his station? A wave of bitterness swept over him, unleashing too the pent-up resentment of past humiliations. Occasionally he began to hope again, and Isabelle's words immediately took on a different meaning. Eventually he decided to postpone this inner debate, and after wandering for a while lost in his thoughts, he found himself once again in front of the Hôtel de Ville.

He had wasted a considerable time on these idle musings. He was annoyed with himself, then decided that in fact he had nothing more pressing to do at that moment. He chose to go the long way. Leaving the Hôtel de Ville on his left he walked along the river, reached the church of Saint-Gervais and, avoiding the bustle of the Marché Saint-Jean, arrived at the beginning of Rue
Vieille-du-Temple. The workshop of Vachon the master tailor did not look out onto the street. One had to go through the carriage entrance of a mansion whose owners had been forced by straitened circumstances to rent out their ground floor and outhouses to craftsmen. The tailor had recently explained to Nicolas that as his professional reputation was already well established, the fact that his shop was tucked away in a cobbled courtyard was a positive advantage to his wealthy customers. Carriages could drop off their occupants at the tailor's door, without them becoming the object of misplaced popular curiosity or dirtying themselves in the muck of the street.

Nicolas's visit had several aims. He wanted to renew his wardrobe which was showing signs of wear and tear and had been depleted by the loss of the clothes he had left behind in Saint-Eustache, and he was also planning to make Master Vachon talk about another of his customers, Commissioner Lardin.

When Nicolas opened the door he was struck by the drawbacks of the location for the shop's interior. The darkness had to be addressed by having more light in the workshop, and this could only be achieved with the use of a very large number of candles. So to the unsuspecting customer this temple of elegance seemed like a brilliantly lit chapel. Dressed in grey, Master Vachon was holding forth and at the same time hitting the ground with one of those canes that had been fashionable in the previous century. His remarks were addressed to three apprentices who sat cross-legged on a pale oak counter, surrounded by a sea of material.

‘What wretched times, when the King tolerates this vile breed of financiers,' Vachon was proclaiming. ‘All it needed
was for a Comptroller General of Finance to burden us with excessive taxes for it to provoke the most idiotic reactions. Everyone is now of the opinion that we are all impoverished. So people become excessively mean, not in order to prove the minister wrong, but as a joke. And since in France everyone just follows the latest fashion, they all try to outdo each other with their economising. So no more folds, gentlemen, no more gussets, no more ornaments: everything has to be taken in, coat tails shortened, fronts low-cut to save on material … The thread, you dolt, longer thread … I never stop telling you, but it's like talking to the wall.'

He thundered at one of his apprentices who in the face of the storm crouched down until he almost disappeared amidst the satin.

‘Then there's the embroidery. Thriftiness not to say miserliness there, too. The master jewellers are in despair: precious stones are being replaced by mere sequins, aventurine glass and paste, that appalling foreign invention.
1
Oh! What a life! … Thank you so much Monsieur de Silhouette!
2
We'll hang up an effigy of him, like a shop sign. The tradesmen curse him and … Well, if it isn't Monsieur Le Floch honouring us with a visit.'

Monsieur Vachon bowed and his sallow, aged face broke into a charming smile. He was a tall, thin man of about sixty, and for such a loud voice to come from a body as puny as his was always a surprise.

‘Good day to you, Master Vachon,' said Nicolas. ‘I can see that you are in fine fettle, if your fieriness is anything to go by.'

‘I beg you not to repeat my words. You know how touchy tradesmen are when their interests are threatened.'

‘I would never dream of it. I've come to renew my wardrobe. I'm thinking of a coat for the daytime, something strong and hard-wearing, a greatcoat, breeches and perhaps something a bit more daring, more elegant, that can be worn both around town and at the opera. But you know about these things better than I do and it's your advice I'm after.'

Vachon bowed once more, set down his cane and contemplated the mountains of material stored on the shelves. He kept looking back and forth between the different cloths and the customer.

‘A young man … Often goes out … Something comfortable. This brown cloth looks as if it should suit you. I suggest it for a braided coat, with olive-shaped buttons to stop it flapping about in the wind, and the same for the breeches. Don't mention the word greatcoat again. They're good enough for travelling provincials and for cavalry soldiers, but they're no longer fashionable. A frock coat is what you need, a handsome frock coat in woollen cloth, lined and overlined. It'll be very warm for this freezing cold winter. I'll make you – and, as it's you, for the same price – two cloaks instead of one, never mind Monsieur de Silhouette. For what we'll call the formal coat I have an idea. What do you say to this?'

He carefully removed from its silk-paper wrapping a
dark-green
velvet coat, discreetly highlighted with silver embroidery.

‘I was left with this magnificent garment on my hands after the sudden departure of a Prussian baron. He was about your size. There'll be just a few adjustments to make, and I will need to remove the insignia that was embroidered to order. Would you like to try it on?'

Nicolas followed him into a closet furnished with a cheval
glass. After removing his clothes he put on the green coat without paying much attention. When he raised his head to examine himself in the mirror he thought he was looking at a stranger. The coat fitted him perfectly. It made him look slimmer, bringing out the elegance of his figure. This new person, who gave him a guarded, surprised look, reminded him of those unapproachable lords he had secretly observed as a child in Marquis de Ranreuil's drawing room. He turned and walked back into the shop. Vachon, who was reprimanding one of his apprentices, stopped suddenly, and everyone held their breath at the nobility of the sight, heightened by the shining decoration on the chest. For a moment Nicolas felt as if he were in another world. The tailor broke the spell. He seemed embarrassed.

‘It suits you only too well, I mean perfectly. All you need is a sword and you could appear at court in Versailles. What do you think of it?'

‘I'll take it. Have the embroidered insignia removed and let out the breeches a little. When can it be ready by?'

‘By tomorrow. I'll have it delivered to you at Commissioner Lardin's. How is he?'

Nicolas was delighted. Without being asked, Vachon had given him the opening he was after.

‘Is it some time since you last saw him?'

‘It was just after Epiphany. He's not one of my customers but he came to order four black satin capes with masks to go with them, and also one of those leather doublets he's been so keen on for years.'

‘Were they all the same size, these capes?'

‘Identical.'

‘Did you deliver them?'

‘Certainly not. The commissioner came to collect them at the very end of January. But you're worrying me, Monsieur. Were they not satisfactory?'

‘I might as well tell you now, Master Vachon, that Monsieur Lardin has not returned home since 2 February and the police – yours truly – are searching for him.'

Nicolas had thought that the abruptness of this
announcement
would have provoked some comment from Master Vachon. But none came. After his initial stupefaction, all he talked about was trivial details, taking measurements, giving obsequious assurances that no effort would be spared to satisfy Monsieur de Sartine's protégé, who left him his new address.

As soon as he was back in Rue Vieille-du-Temple Nicolas decided to go on to Rue des Blancs-Manteaux, which was quite near. He immediately spotted the new police spy who had just come on duty, and he went over to him. Madame Lardin was at home. As soon as the rumour of the cook's dismissal had spread around the neighbourhood, several matronly looking women and one young one had come to offer their services. The spy, who was a handsome young lad, had got into conversation with them quite easily; they were only too pleased to give him a bitter account of how roughly they had been treated. Received by a surly and disdainful Louise, they had been told that ‘no one is needed in this house' and the door had been promptly slammed in their faces. During the last night he had spent in the house Nicolas had noticed how shabby it had become. For instance, Catherine would never have left game to go off in the cellar. A thousand and one details about the inside of the house were evidence of its total neglect. How could someone as refined and
demanding as Madame Lardin tolerate such domestic disorder? Nicolas strongly sensed that she no longer wanted any witnesses in her house. That was why Catherine and he had been thrown out, and Marie sent away.

The spy also told Nicolas that someone who looked like Commissioner Lardin had appeared at the door of the
Blancs-Manteaux
church. He had rushed inside the building as soon as he'd caught sight of the lookout who had immediately run after him, but in vain. Clearly the monastery had other exits. When asked why he thought it had been the missing person, the lookout replied that he had recognised the leather doublet so typical of the commissioner but he had not been able to glimpse the man's face.

Having had nothing to eat since Monsieur de Noblecourt's hot chocolate and soft rolls, Nicolas was feeling famished. However, there was still something he had to do. Now that Descart was dead, who would inherit his property and money? According to what some people had said, La Paulet in particular, it constituted a considerable fortune. Luckily Nicolas had heard the Lardins mention the name of Descart's notary in connection with the sale of an orchard in Popincourt; the commissioner had decided to part with it because of his heavy debts. His name was Master Duport, and his practice was in Rue de Bussy on the Left Bank. As the weather was still fine, Nicolas decided to go there on foot. The air was clear and ice-cold and burnt the throat like a swig of brandy. The radiant early-afternoon sunlight was reluctant to fade. The city seemed renewed by the brightness and the frost. Not wishing to linger too long in the district of Saint-Avoye, the young man took the shortest route, with the intention of having a bite to eat at one of the stalls in Rue des Boucheries-Saint-Germain.