The Phantom of Rue Royale (30 page)

‘What substance was it?’

The apothecary hesitated for a moment. ‘A new substance called laudanum, extracted from the sap of the white poppy. It soothes pain and calms the patient.’

‘Can it send him into a deep, prolonged sleep?’

‘Of course, if the prescribed dose is exceeded.’

‘To get back to my original question, who bought it from you?’

From under the counter, the apothecary produced a large register bound in calfskin, which he looked through, wetting his finger every time he turned a page.

‘Ah, here we are! Twenty-seven May this year. When it comes to these delicate products, we write everything down.
Twenty-seven
May, Monsieur Jean Galaine, one bottle of laudanum. I remember it well. The young man told me he needed it for a toothache. They’re neighbours, and Charles Galaine is an honourable tradesman, highly regarded in the little world of the trade guilds, although there have been rumours about his financial difficulties, which I’m sure are only temporary. I hope that answers your questions, Commissioner. No one more is concerned than I about the maintenance of order in our city.’

‘I’m most grateful. You’ve been a great help.’

As his carriage drove along the
quais
towards Pont Neuf, Nicolas thought about this new element that clearly pointed to one of the suspects. So it was Jean Galaine, whose attitude had been evasive from the start, whose relationship with his cousin was still shrouded in mystery and who hadn’t been able to account for his whereabouts on the night of the murder, who had bought the product intended to drug Naganda. It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps all these Galaines were in cahoots, that perhaps they had committed the crime together and woven a tissue of untruths and false leads to conceal their guilt. What could Restif de la Bretonne possibly tell him? He was convinced that the man’s presence outside the Deux Castors was not merely fortuitous.

When they reached Place du Pont Saint-Michel, Nicolas ordered the coachman to turn left into Rue de la Huchette. He remembered Semacgus’s suggestion and suddenly felt hungry – a hunger that was all the stronger for being held back until now. As a great connoisseur of the capital, Nicolas was not unaware that, at any hour of the day or night, cooked food could be bought in this street. Roasting spits turned constantly, like the damned stoking the fires of hell, and smoke only stopped rising
from the chimneys during Lent. Monsieur de Sartine, concerned as ever about risk and the ways to minimise it, often prophesied that, if a fire broke out in this narrow street, which was made all the more dangerous by its old wooden houses, it would be impossible to extinguish. The members of the last diplomatic mission from the Ottoman Empire had been delighted with this street because of the wonderful smells that pervaded it.

Nicolas ordered the coachman to stop, lowered the window, called to a young kitchen boy who was admiring his horses and ordered half a chicken, which was immediately brought to him on an oil-paper with a little coarse salt and a new onion. He devoured it with enormous pleasure and, remembering his chief’s tastes, ascertained that the wings of the chicken, perfectly roasted, were indeed a dish fit for a king. He next stopped at a fountain on the corner of Rue du Petit-Pont to quench his thirst and wipe the grease from his mouth.

Rue de la Vieille-Boucherie, however, was impossible to find in this maze of alleys, colleges and impasses. Nicolas abandoned his carriage and continued his search on foot. He lost his way, was sent off on wild goose chases and was eventually directed to a shabby-looking house where a slovenly woman told him that the good-for-nothing he sought was now living in Collège de Presles, a few streets away in the Écoles district. At last he came to an almost ruined building. In its courtyard, he approached an old man who was picking up litter with a spike and asked him which floor ‘Monsieur Nicolas’ lived on. The man held up all five fingers of his left hand. Climbing the rickety, rubbish-strewn stairs left the commissioner breathless. Through an open door, he saw a room furnished only with a trestle bed, a table and a
straw-bottomed 
chair. A young girl in a
chenille
, not much more than a child, was washing her legs in a chipped washbowl. She threw him a mischievous, questioning look.

‘Are you looking for Papa Nicolas?’

‘Yes, I am, Mademoiselle. Are you his daughter?’

She burst out laughing. ‘Yes and no, and many other things besides.’

This, he thought, tallied with certain malevolent rumours that had reached the ears of the police, especially the inspector from the morals division.

‘You won’t find him here; he’s already gone.’

‘Where could I find him, then? Would you be so kind as to tell me?’

‘Why not, as you’re asking so nicely? He’s been invited by Mademoiselle Guimard, who’s giving a big party tonight at Chaussée d’Antin. But he won’t be there before ten – he had a lot of things to do in town first.’

‘Would I be taking advantage of your kindness if I asked you whether or not he’s planning to come back tonight?’

‘Go ahead, take advantage, I’m used to it … No, I don’t think so … In fact, I’m sure he won’t.’ She laughed mischievously. ‘He’s bound to find another dainty little pair of feet …’

‘Would you mind explaining that?’ said Nicolas.

‘You know what I mean. He never gets home before dawn. We could wait for him together …’

It was said casually, with a wink and an engaging sway of the hips.

‘Alas, my business is much too urgent,’ said Nicolas, ‘but I’m grateful for the offer.’

She gave a little curtsey, like an actress acknowledging applause at the end of a play, and without a word went back to her washing.

Nicolas retraced his steps through the warren of alleys until he found his carriage. Half past four had just sounded, and trying to find Restif now was to attempt the impossible. But if he had announced that he was going to see Mademoiselle Guimard, the most famous dancer at the Opéra, Nicolas was convinced that he would indeed respond to an invitation from such a goddess, who was always surrounded by a court of admirers. He recalled the lady’s file, which he had consulted quite recently, out of simple curiosity, after learning from a report that his friend La Borde was protecting her – not surprisingly, as the First Groom of the King’s Bedchamber had long had a taste for pretty young dancers. Marie-Madeleine Guimard had begun as a member of the
corps de ballet
and for the past ten years or so had been one of the leading attractions of the Opéra. A number of powerful men, such as the Bishop of Orleans and the Maréchal de Soubise, had ruined themselves over her. It was said that she had commissioned the architect Ledoux to draw up plans for a house and a private theatre on a long, narrow site looking out on Chaussée d’Antin, where there was to be a frieze depicting the coronation of Terpsichore, the muse of the dance, riding in a procession on a chariot pulled by cupids, bacchantes, graces and fauns. As permission had not so far been granted and construction was yet to begin, Nicolas assumed that Mademoiselle Guimard was giving a reception on the site she had chosen for her mansion.

After much thought, he decided to go back to Rue Montmartre and change before going on to Chaussée d’Antin, where the likely
presence of Monsieur de La Borde would gain him admission. For a moment, he was tempted to use this time to arrest Major Langlumé, but there was no reason to suppose that he would find him at home and he suspected himself of merely wanting to satisfy a personal grudge.

In Rue Montmartre, he was told that a weary Monsieur de Noblecourt had agreed to respond to the combined entreaties of Marion and Catherine and drink a good purgative herb tea to counter the consequences of the extreme diet authorised by a doctor whom the two women could not condemn strongly enough. They were taking advantage of this lull to make cherry jam, and the sour smell of it wafted through the house. Nicolas, remembering how, as a child, he had loved cleaning out the preserving pans, regretted that he no longer had the time. He told them that he was going to have a thorough wash, naked, at the large fountain in the courtyard. They protested: not only would he be offending against modesty with such an insane practice, but he would catch
malmort
.
2
Only Poitevin, who was usually silent, spoke up in his defence, observing that what was good for horses could not be bad for human beings. They laughed a lot at this sally, and Nicolas left the kitchen, chased out by the two
half-delighted
, half-furious women.

After washing, he went back upstairs to dress, and stopped for a moment to look at himself in the mirror. His body had broadened out since his youth, and his face had grown harder without becoming fleshy. The scars he had had since his adolescence, as well as other more recent ones, emphasised the seriousness of an affable countenance on which lines were beginning to form. Reaching thirty had not modified his youthful
appearance: he looked like a man who had barely been touched by the trials he had been through, which made his one white hair seem quite incongruous. He selected a plum-coloured satin coat and a cravat of Bruges lace, letting it flow through his hands and appreciating its lightness. He tied his hair with a ribbon that matched the colour of his coat and adorned his shoes with shiny silver buckles. After all, he had not been invited, and there was no point appearing in a costume that would not argue in his favour. The presence of La Borde justified the extra care he was taking: he did not want to shame a friend who was the arbiter of elegance in Paris and Versailles.

At ten o’clock, Nicolas went to find his coachman, who had taken a rest and changed horses. Chaussée d’Antin was not far from the Comédie-Italienne, where a case had taken him a few years earlier. The area towards Les Porcherons, to the south of the Butte Montmartre, was still rural, and Chaussée d’Antin had just started to expand as a result of the sale of property belonging to various religious orders. For the moment, it was still nothing but a vast space filled with gardens and marshes, with a few scattered houses. But it was beginning to attract the wealthy, who saw it as a place to build sumptuous mansions.

They rode around for quite a long time before seeing a multitude of carriages, and footmen carrying torches. Parallel to the road, in the middle of an orchard, a long wooden building with
trompe l’oeil
decorations had been erected. Beneath the antique-style archway, black men in ribbons lit the way for guests. A silent crowd, held at a distance by the valets, gaped in awe at
this display of riches. Nicolas got out of his carriage and approached. A major-domo was collecting the invitations, which were tied with bronze-coloured ribbons. He looked Nicolas up and down. The commissioner, preferring not to rely on his rank, asked him if Monsieur de La Borde was present. This request, reinforced by the elegance of his costume, seemed to do the trick, and he was admitted. The pavilion comprised several large rooms, richly furnished and bedecked with flowers. They were arranged in two semi-circles, leading to a vast reception room that looked out on the garden, the doors to which were open thanks to the clement weather on this June night. Buffet tables offered a sumptuous spread of dishes and pyramids of fruit. An army of valets was opening bottles of champagne and Romanée wine, and holding out flutes and glasses to the guests pressing around them. Walking through this noisy, laughing crowd, Nicolas finally spotted a group forming a deferential circle around a deity in a diaphanous silk gown studded with gold. He recognised Mademoiselle Guimard. In the front row of her courtiers was Monsieur de La Borde, playing the host. As soon as he saw Nicolas, he let out a cry of joy.

‘Dear Nicolas, I must be dreaming! Madeleine didn’t tell me you were coming! What a pleasant surprise!’

‘Alas, my dear fellow, I haven’t been invited, and I was only admitted because I was well dressed and mentioned your name. I’m looking for someone I need to question. A strange man, a writer, a printer, an unrepentant skirt-chaser and many other things besides.’

‘I know him well! You’re talking about Restif. He’s been invited this evening to add spice to the party, being such a great
talker, indeed much more interesting in his conversation than in his appearance.’

The hostess approached, giving a half-amused, half-serious pout. ‘Darling, you’re neglecting me.’ She greeted Nicolas. ‘Good evening, Monsieur. Is it thanks to you that I’ve been abandoned?’

‘Beloved, let me introduce Monsieur de Sartine’s right-hand man, Nicolas Le Floch. The King is mad about him.’

‘But of course! I know Monsieur by reputation. The Maréchal de Soubise …’

La Borde made a face.

‘… who knew his father, the Marquis de Ranreuil, used to speak very highly of him. It’s said he performed some signal services for the late Madame de Pompadour.’

Nicolas bowed. ‘Madame, you are too indulgent …’

‘I invited him,’ said La Borde. ‘He’s not a man to be neglected.’

‘In that case, I wish I’d invited him myself! You are most welcome, Monsieur.’

‘Thank you, Mademoiselle. May I be so bold as to confess that I have long been an admirer of yours? Your charm both onstage and off and the perfect taste of your performances are inimitable.’

She smiled and held out both her hands, which he kissed. Monsieur de La Borde thanked him with a look, asked to be excused and followed her out.

Time passed quickly as Nicolas circulated among the groups, catching snatches of conversation and spotting a number of illustrious guests. A young girl took hold of his arm. She was a younger friend of Mademoiselle Guimard, and admitted quite openly that she was looking for a protector, rich of course, but
also young and good-looking. He was forced to disappoint her. He stayed as close as he could to the room nearest the entrance. At about half past eleven, he saw a curious character answering to the description he had been given of ‘Monsieur Nicolas’ come in. He was slightly hunchbacked, and moved in such an awkward, tightly wound way as to appear like a savage. Neither fat nor thin, he had lively eyes beneath unattractively thick eyebrows, a long face, a slightly hooked nose, a ruby-red mouth and a bushy grey beard, all of which made for a very disparate overall impression. As for his attire, it was neither clean nor dirty, and between grey and black in colour. What he looked like, it struck Nicolas, was the foreman of a workshop in Faubourg Saint-Antoine. He went up to him, and the man drew back in alarm.