The Saint-Florentin Murders (19 page)

‘And the enemy let you do so?’

‘Oh, hardly! Hawke realised that he was risking the failure of his mission, and he dispatched the
Lion
and the
Princess Louisa
to chase the convoy. It was a risky move, given the progress of the battle and the state of the sea. Despite all that, they tried to pass in front of our line. As if we were ready to let them make headway! We fired linked cannonballs at them, making it difficult for them to continue their pursuit. Damn, this account is making me thirsty! While the filly’s still rubbing herself down, let’s take advantage. God has my late wife in His holy safekeeping, but looking after her daughter is easily the worst calamity that could befall a man of my character. The strumpet is in charge here!’

They walked towards a row of books. Inside a false binding were a crystal carafe and two glasses. He poured a fine amber liquid into them and held one out to Nicolas.

‘An old rum from Île Bourbon. Do you like rum?’

‘Indeed I do. A friend of mine, a naval surgeon, introduced me to it.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Guillaume Semacgus.’

Monsieur d’Arranet slapped his thigh. ‘Guillaume! Good Lord, I owe him a leg! It was he who pulled out a piece of a sharp spar that had gone through my calf and broken a bone. I would be most happy, Monsieur, to see him again. Please be my ambassador.’

They drank. The rum had a strong but delicious taste.

‘Getting back to my story, Hawke, who was furious, set out to destroy us. He threw his whole squadron at us. The defence was worthy of the attack. He overtook the rear of our line. Several of our vessels were forced to strike their flags after a terrible fight lasting eight hours. By the time the
Tonnant
surrendered, there was nothing left of it but a burning wreck filled with the dead and the dying. A guard named Monsieur de Suffren, who was twenty years old, wept with rage and absolutely forbade anyone to touch the halyard of the flag on the poop deck.’

He offered Nicolas another glass of rum, but the commissioner refused. He poured one for himself.

‘As you wish! By the time the sun went down, the French squadron was not entirely reduced. There remained the
Tonnant
, where the admiral had his quarters, and the
Intrépide
, commanded by Vaudreuil, although, without its masts, the
Tonnant
was nothing but a piece of flotsam.’

‘And where were you, Monsieur?’

‘I was Vaudreuil’s first mate. He attempted a desperate manoeuvre. He tacked under enemy fire, even though his shrouds and stays had been cut to shreds by the grapeshot, and lowered a small boat to carry two cables to the
Tonnant
. All within pistol range of the English. The
Intrépide
towed the
Tonnant
behind it, each vessel having its flag pinned to the small mast in its
stern. Six days later, the commander of the squadron returned to Brest, but, more importantly, the convoy reached the West Indies and relieved the food shortage there.’

A merry voice rang out. ‘Father, you’ll never change! There you are holding forth, drinking your infernal liquor, and tiring our guest with your exploits!’

The comte assumed a contrite air. His daughter flung her arms round his neck and kissed him.

‘What you haven’t heard,’ she went on, turning to Nicolas, ‘is that the boat that saved the day was under his command. I see you have become acquainted.’

The comte winked at Nicolas. ‘Look at how a girl brought up in a convent treats her old father! Did you know, Aimée, that our friend knows Guillaume Semacgus, whom I’ve told you so much about, you know, the man to whom I owe the fact that I’m still on my two legs? What a coincidence, eh? For that, I forgive you your foolishness.’

‘He’s a very dear friend, who means a lot to me,’ said Nicolas.

‘And where does the old pirate live now?’

‘In Vaugirard, near the Croix-Nivert.’

‘Monsieur, I’ve just remembered. I’m giving a dinner tomorrow in honour of Monsieur de Sartine, Secretary of State for the Navy. Would you like to come?’ With a knowing air, he went on, ‘I’m hoping for a command. Perhaps the evening will help me get one. He was, they say, your protector with the late King. Your name was enough … and the exploits people attribute to you … No doubt the former Lieutenant General of Police will be pleased to see you again.’

‘Monsieur, I don’t know if I can—’

‘Come now, I shan’t accept any refusal. It’s an order. At best, a plea.’

‘With which I associate myself,’ said Aimée d’Arranet.

Her smile made his mind up for him.

‘In that case,’ said Nicolas, ‘I accept.’

When he found himself back in his carriage after taking his leave, all he could think about was the young woman’s face as she made a slightly mocking half-curtsey. Back on the avenue, he observed that destiny had sent him to the same place twice – for very near the d’Arranet mansion was the house where the solution to the mystery of the man with the lead stomach had gradually been revealed.

The wind was reaching its maximum intensity as the sun rose. As soon as the carriage turned in front of the large stables to reach the square, recently renamed Dauphine, Nicolas was gripped by the spectacle of nature in a state of crisis. The proud buildings were lit up as if by invisible barrages of gunfire. Like a tall, dark stem, the chapel stood out against a slate-grey sky that matched the colour of the palace roofs. The lightning accentuated the red hue of the bricks on the facade of the marble courtyard, while the ministers’ wing emerged from the clouds haloed in liquid gold. Gradually, the rays of the sun shifted, striking each of the great windows in turn, causing the frames and panes to gleam. The light rippled, creating a semblance of life in the heart of the palace. Thick, high clouds pushed small purple and pink clouds before them; some escaped and ran towards the nearby forests, while others, tumbling, joined the darkest mass as if drawn to it
by a magnet and soon melted into its blackness. There was a resplendent rainbow, which immediately faded. Everything was extinguished in an instant. There was a kind of lull, a moment of silence and calm, before the sky once again caught fire in a cascade of lightning flashes followed soon afterwards by the muted bass notes of thunder. The rain came down even harder, covering the glorious vision of the palace with a hazy curtain of liquid, blotting out the decorations and reliefs, reducing the whole thing to an unstable mass that seemed on the verge of dissolving. The smell of earth and saltpetre filled Nicolas’s chest. His frightened team of horses gave a few kicks and set off again at a full gallop.

He reached the Hôtel de la Belle Image. Nicolas was familiar with this type of accommodation. The rooms, although cramped, were always clean and well maintained, and there were far fewer cockroaches in the bed linen than elsewhere. Nicolas’s first concern was to find an emissary who could convey the Comte d’Arranet’s invitation to Semacgus. He scribbled a few words of explanation on a page of his black notebook and sealed it with sealing wax. It did not take him long to discover a wine merchant who was returning to Paris, having completed his business, and who was due to pass through Vaugirard, where he had customers. He was very pleased to take on the errand. Nicolas, whose insides had been warmed by the morning’s rum, offered him a light meal of eggs and bacon, which made the man his friend for life. He then went up to his room to sort out the contents of his trunks. He had plenty of time since there was no chance that he could participate in that morning’s hunt. True, if he hurried up, he would be in time to join the royal cortege, but, in this domain,
hurrying was contrary to good manners. The most important thing was to be well informed. You did not venture into the treacherous swamps of the Court without knowing what kind of game was being hunted. Although, for simple shooting parties, elaborate costumes had been tolerated by the late King, this was not the case when it came to hunting roe deer, stags or boar. The new monarch was reputed to be more punctilious than his grandfather in this regard. The usual hunting costume – rich blue with gold braid – was de rigueur and the arrangement of the braid indicated the kind of animal one was going to hunt. How strange it all was! thought Nicolas. Nevertheless, these apparently insignificant details were meaningful: what they meant, above all, was that one had a name and the right to enter the King’s coaches, which was the equivalent, for a man, of being presented at Court for a woman. This privilege was something of which Nicolas could not help feeling proud. Of course, he owed it to his birth, even though it was illegitimate, but, more importantly, it was because of the word of Louis XV that it had been granted to him for ever. He saw himself again on that fateful day when he had found a father, acquired what others took centuries to obtain, and gained the right to serve his King.

He was annoyed to see some stains on the patina of one of his rifles. Nothing ought to tarnish the splendour of the royal gift. He did his best to wipe them off. His mind flew from object to object. When would such trifles be regarded with indifference? Once, coming back from a choral concert with his friend Pigneau de Behaine, now bishop of the mission in Cochinchina, he had heard him describe the religion of the Buddhist monks, which taught its followers to renounce all things, to become detached from all ties,
in order to attain supreme indifference and the peace of the soul. He had rebelled against that idea, considering it an inaccessible dream, a kind of moral suicide in a universe in which nothing any longer had a price or a meaning. Pigneau had gently observed that this renunciation was not so different from the communion of the mystics and the saints with the power of the Lord, and that Christ, too, had called for asceticism in old age … I’m becoming quite a philosopher, he thought. In a corner of his mind, the laughing eyes of Aimée d’Arranet were staring at him with a touch of mockery. In the end he decided to go to the ceremony of the removal of the King’s boots. He would glean the latest news, would enquire about the kind of hunting due to take place the next day, and would also have a chance to investigate the strange story of the Trianon garden. However well-organised and
far-sighted
he was, he was not unaware that at Court any plan was subject to whims and chance.

Nicolas dressed in half-mourning, intending to get to the palace on foot. At the sight of the potholes in the roadway, he immediately realised that he had made a mistake and that his costume would not withstand the mud. He resigned himself to hiring a sedan chair, a means of transport he hated above all others, its swaying making him nauseous and the use of his fellow men seeming to him an insult not only to their dignity but also to his.

He passed through all the cordons like a peer of the realm and came to the foot of the ambassadors’ staircase. He proceeded to the room where the removal of the boots took place, where, on questioning the guards, he realised that he had a little time to spare before everyone got back from the hunt. This would be an
opportunity to stroll through the palace. He went down to the ground floor, where large stone galleries filled with a buzzing crowd welcomed those whom the rain had chased from the gardens. Idle courtiers were conversing in small groups, peering at the bourgeois ladies and their maids who had come to gawp at the surroundings. Nicolas remembered how surprised foreign visitors always were to discover that the place was a kind of permanent fair. The setting up of shops and stalls had long been tolerated. They had gradually spread, and now filled the vestibules, corridors and even the landings of the great staircase, and, although they were eyesores, everyone was so used to them, they had stopped seeing them. The Queen, while still the Dauphine, had often lingered over these stalls, much to the horror of Madame Victoire and Madame Adélaïde. The two aunts did manage to get a perfume seller who had colonised the vestibule of the marble staircase to leave – with the support of the royal princes and the maréchals of France, who were the only people who had the right to bring their coaches up to the steps of the palace.

Nicolas suddenly sensed that someone was staring at him. He turned and saw a potbellied little man wearing a curious white wig. The individual, realising that he was being observed, immediately lowered his tinted glasses over his eyes, did an about-turn, and vanished into the crowd. Nicolas was about to set off after him to find out the reason for such strange behaviour when an arm held him back. By the time he had turned again, the man was out of sight and out of reach. Angrily, Nicolas was about to rebuke the busybody who had stopped him when he recognised the gentle face of La Satin looking at him with an expression of sweet adoration.

‘Antoinette? You here, in Versailles? You made me … No, it doesn’t matter.’

‘The thing is,’ she said, ‘an opportunity presented itself to increase my little business.’ She was talking very quickly as if out of breath. ‘I’ve done a deal with Marie Mercier, a widow who owns a perfume shop with her sister in Rue de Satory in Versailles.’

‘How did you meet them?’ he said, immediately regretting his inquisitorial tone.

‘They often go to Paris to replenish their stocks. They liked what I sell. We talked and the idea of forming a partnership gradually grew. After each season, it’s the custom for
well-dressed
ladies and the Queen’s entourage to sell off their dresses and lace finery once they’ve been worn. We’ve obtained the exclusive right to buy and sell them.’

‘Of course,’ he said, ‘that must make everybody happy.’

She lowered her head like a child caught doing something wrong.

‘And what about your shop in Rue du Bac?’

‘I’m only at Versailles for two days. I’ve hired an assistant. The rest of the week, she looks after the house and does the shopping.’

He found it hard to disentangle his confused feelings. Of course, he was pleased to see La Satin so committed to her new life, but, on the other hand, her presence at Versailles could not help but disturb him. It was pointless trying to hide it: seeing his worlds come together like this disturbed him greatly. His annoyance increased the guiltier La Satin looked. They talked about Louis and the start of his school career. Both were waiting impatiently for his first letters. But even that did not bring them
closer together. A wall had gradually risen between them. He blamed himself, but was unable to dismiss his unease. They bade each other farewell like strangers. He suddenly remembered the unknown man in the wig. What was Lord Ashbury, a member of the British secret service,
6
doing in Versailles, and why had he fled at his approach?