The Châtelet Apprentice (27 page)

‘Are your parents still alive?'

‘They're both dead. They died within a short time of each other. Almost twenty years ago.'

‘What did your father do?'

He sensed that Bourdeau was more relaxed.

‘My father was kennel-keeper of the King's boar hounds. As far as I remember, he was very proud of his position. Until his accident he was extremely happy.'

‘His accident?'

‘A cornered boar gashed his leg after he had rushed to the help of one of the King's favourite dogs. They had to sever his leg because of the risk of gangrene. His courage was hardly repaid: they resented his failure to save the dog, which had also been gored … He had to go back to his village an invalid, without the status of a veteran or a pension. From then on he wasted away, deprived of the hunt, which had been his whole life, and separated from the King, his idol. I watched him die of
grief. He never forgave himself for having allowed the dog to die. The King had merely complained and had shown not the slightest concern for the injured man. This is how the great of this world are …'

‘The King didn't know.'

‘That's what they always say. Oh! If the King knew that … Nicolas, we are the servants of justice and we obey orders, but as a citizen I'm entitled to my own opinion. The King is a man like any other, with his defects and whims. As a young man my father had been struck by his lust for killing. About forty years ago, when he was an apprentice, he witnessed a scene that affected him so much that he often recounted it, though it reflected badly on the person he revered as a god. The King was then about twelve or thirteen and was very fond of a white doe he had fed when it was only a fawn. It had become used to him, and so tame that it ate out of his hand. One day he had a sudden urge to kill it. He ordered it to be taken to La Muette. There he chased it away, then shot and wounded it.
Panic-stricken
and whimpering, the poor animal ran towards the King in search of protection. He forced it away a second time and killed it.

Nicolas was surprised at Bourdeau's controlled anger.

‘Sensing that his end was near,' the inspector continued, ‘my father, who had never asked for anything for himself, reluctantly petitioned his Lordship the Duc de Penthièvre, the Master of the Royal Hunt,
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and the most honourable of men. Shortly before my father died his Lordship sent me to Paris where, after studying at the college of Louis-le-Grand, I read law. With the proceeds from the sale of my parents' small house, generously supplemented by the duke, I was able to buy my office of
inspector and adviser to the King. Thus the damage done by one Bourbon was repaired by another. But what about you, Monsieur? How do you explain your astonishing career?'

Nicolas sensed the hint of irony.

‘How did you come to obtain Monsieur de Sartine's support to the extent of representing him and acting on his behalf, with even wider powers than a commissioner? Don't misinterpret my curiosity. But since you were kind enough to enquire about me, allow me to do likewise with equal frankness.'

Nicolas had fallen into his own trap, but he did not regret it. He considered Bourdeau to be sincere and had the feeling that this conversation could only bring them closer together. But it was another Bourdeau he looked at now, someone deeper and more solemn.

‘There's no mystery to it and my story's not that different from yours,' he replied. ‘I was a foundling, without family or fortune and was recommended to Monsieur de Sartine by my godfather, the Marquis de Ranreuil. Everything followed from that, without me having to take any initiative, except to prove I was competent to perform the necessary tasks.'

Bourdeau smiled.

‘You're very much the philosopher. You ask questions without giving answers. I'm not one to question what you're saying, but you must understand that your position is unusual, that tongues in the Châtelet are starting to wag and people are beginning to wonder about you. They think you're a member of a Masonic lodge.'

‘What! Why is that?'

‘I thought you knew that Monsieur de Sartine was himself affiliated to the lodge of the Arts Sainte-Marguerite.'

‘Certainly not. I have no involvement with such things.'

The truth was that the straightforward fellow Nicolas felt he had by then got to know quite well now appeared in a new light. Nicolas was aware of the incongruity of the situation. Since his return from Brittany he had allowed himself to be carried along by events. He had not sensed how much his relations with the inspector had gradually changed. He had himself accepted this shift unquestioningly and happily. Despite his concerns and his conviction that on occasion he was merely being used by the Lieutenant General of Police, he had overcome this ambiguous position by obtaining, as he thought, the total confidence of his superior. Could he rise so quickly from being an instrument to being his confidant? He preferred not to dwell on this, but to throw himself into the fray. However, he fully realised that Bourdeau was not a simple underling, and that it required unusual magnanimity on his part to accept a young man, an apprentice, as his master, so to speak. Despite all his experience the inspector had been prepared to stay in the background and accept orders. Nicolas thought that he had probably failed to ensure that this reversal of roles had taken place as tactfully and as smoothly as it might have. He must not forget the lesson Bourdeau had just taught him. He remembered that instead of using his Christian name as he had before, Bourdeau now addressed him with a deferential ‘Monsieur', more appropriate to their new relationship. He nevertheless remained convinced that the inspector was really fond of him, a feeling matched on his part by genuine esteem. He vowed to ensure that he would show it, especially since he was the one who had requested of Monsieur de Sartine that Bourdeau be his deputy.

The silence continued until Bourdeau, swearing under his
breath, drew Nicolas's attention to what was happening in the room. The two suspects had got up and after downing a last glass were on their way out of the tavern. The inspector whispered to Nicolas to count slowly up to thirty. Only then could they themselves leave without raising the alarm, and without running the risk of bumping into the men they were tailing. Bourdeau had given orders to their guide to keep a discreet eye on the two rogues as they left, so as not to lose track of them. He advised Nicolas to pretend to be drunk. They staggered to their feet, leaning on each other, and then left the seedy tavern, knocking into tables as they went.

The cold took them by surprise. It had started snowing again. Bourdeau pointed to the footsteps in the snow and the impression left by the wooden leg. The weather was on their side: all they had to do was follow the tracks. They did not have far to walk; a few hundred feet from the tavern was the entrance to a dead-end, a narrow cart track with faggots of brushwood on either side. A shadowy figure pointed in the direction of the alleyway and disappeared. A wooden gate covered with some kind of awning closed off the access to a piece of land. Through the gaps in the fencing a massive warehouse or barn could be glimpsed in the darkness. No sound could be heard. The inspector whispered in Nicolas's ear that if there were two ways out they ran the risk of letting their quarry get away, and since the constables had not yet arrived they had to act alone and straight away. Nicolas nodded his approval.

Bourdeau pushed the gate gently. It opened with a creak. They groped their way into the enclosure. Immediately Nicolas felt a hood of coarse material being put over his head as the tip of a knife was pressed against his ribs. He heard a dull thud next
to him followed by the sound of a body falling to the ground. A voice rang out:

‘Hell, this beggar's had it. These loaded sticks are good for smashing heads in. We'll see about the body later. Let's get to work on his mate to find out what they were up to.'

Hands tied, Nicolas was thrust forward. His head was covered with a sack tied tight round his neck, which was half choking him. He realised they were going into a building. Someone struck a light, and he was able to see dimly through the material. They sat him down on a stool and the sack was roughly pulled off him. A torch fastened to a ring on the stone wall lit up a barn cluttered with objects and assorted items of furniture. In the midst of this chaos he immediately recognised Semacgus's elegant cabriolet. Despite his ordeal, he could not help thinking that at last he was nearing his goal or that at the very least a significant new stage had been reached.

His next thought was for Bourdeau. Was he dead? Perhaps these would be his final reflections. He had to find a way of leaving a trace, a message, a clue. But how?

In front of him stood a person of average height with thin, dirty-yellow hair and eyes of differing colours that reminded him of that suave young man who had stolen his watch when he had first come to Paris. His face was pitted with the marks of smallpox. He was pointing a large knife at Nicolas. The other person must have been standing back, and he could not see him.

‘Keep your pistol trained on him. Got to be careful. So, my young Monsieur, you've been following us. Grubbing around, eh? Let's have a closer look at what you're hiding.'

He began to search Nicolas methodically. The young man was pleased he had left all his personal belongings behind at the
Châtelet. He hoped that the little pistol tucked away inside the old frock coat would go unnoticed, but the man gave a triumphant grunt when he discovered it.

‘Well, what's this, then? Look what I've just fished out.'

He pushed the barrel of the weapon against Nicolas's mouth so violently that his lip split. Nicolas tried to put him off the track.

‘Monsieur,' he replied – and immediately regretted this mark of politeness that betrayed him – ‘my friend and I were looking for Monsieur Chauvel's house. Could you tell me if it's in these parts?'

‘Well, if this fine one here ain't trying to have us on. I reckon he's scared. You hear that, Bricart? Just look at them pretty little hands. All that don't go with the rest. You wouldn't be one of them spies by any chance? And dressed up for Carnival, to top it all!'

Nicolas shuddered. The man did not even bother to disguise their names. It was a bad sign if he were really dealing with hardened criminals.

The other man came nearer. He was older, and had a thick white moustache and a wooden right leg. His clothes were a strange combination of threadbare items of military kit and civilian rags. He was leaning on a cudgel and held a loaded pistol in his hand. He went up to Nicolas to sniff him and stayed by his side.

‘Smells of wallflowers. A real swell. Believe me, dear young Monsieur, your number's up and you might as well tell us all you know. Give him a prod, Rapace.'

‘Ain't I just going to make him spit it all out. I've got what it takes to make him blab.'

He prodded Nicolas in the chest, right on his wound, which
started to bleed again. The young man could not hold back a cry of pain.

‘And sensitive with it. Come on, talk. Talk or I'm going to bleed you …'

Rapace was about to continue when there was a sharp, cracking sound. The barn door suddenly burst open and Bourdeau's voice yelled out:

‘You're surrounded! Don't move. Throw your weapons down.'

Bricart was flabbergasted and looked all around him,
panic-stricken
.

‘Keep calm! He's having us on. He's on his own,' said Rapace.

He grabbed Bricart's pistol and pointed it at Bourdeau.

‘You there, the ghost, hands up.'

While doing what he was told Bourdeau shouted out:

‘Over here, watchmen!'

‘Shut up or I'll shoot.'

A few seconds passed, agonisingly slowly. They were all frozen in anticipation. Nothing happened.

‘For an old soldier, you've lost the knack, Bricart.'

‘I just don't understand it. I heard his skull explode.'

‘If you don't want me to chop your little friend into bits,' Rapace continued, ‘you're going to explain to me what you were looking for.'

The knife was getting nearer to Nicolas's neck, making his heart thump painfully. So everything was going to end here then, in the depths of this godforsaken
faubourg
… Suddenly a shot rang out and, with a look of surprise, Rapace fell like a log, a bullet in the middle of his forehead. With a jerk, Nicolas
knocked over the stool he was tied to and shoved Bricart, who lost his balance and fell to the floor. Bourdeau leapt forward and threw his full weight onto the old soldier before disarming him. He tied his hands behind his back with a leather strap lying on the floor, then freed Nicolas.

‘Bourdeau, I thought you were dead. Thank God, you're safe. I owe you my life.'

‘Let's say no more about it. Monsieur de Sartine would never have forgiven me for failing to keep my promise to protect you, and I wouldn't have forgiven myself either.'

‘But, Bourdeau, explain this miracle to me.'

‘Well, Monsieur, each time I set out on an expedition that might prove dangerous I wear a hat of my own making.'

He showed him a large Regency felt hat. The bottom of it was lined with an iron skullcap, held in place by silk netting.

‘But what about the gunshot?'

‘The hat again. My little pistol, the twin brother of the one I gave you, is fitted to the side, behind the right-hand brim. They never search hats. Needless to say it takes some getting used to and I've done a lot of target practice to get a result I'm quite proud of. The only drawback is that you can only fire it once because this miracle of design doesn't have a repeat mechanism. I'll get you a hat made to go with your pistol.'

‘But why didn't you fire straight away?'

‘It would have been very risky. I preferred to wait. What shall we do now? Do we wait for the watch?'