The Man with the Lead Stomach (16 page)

As they entered Choisy, Nicolas made the carriage stop outside a small, pretty-looking tavern, attracted by its
vine-covered
façade, which still bore clusters of dried grapes left at the previous harvest. In a whitewashed room he ordered a pitcher of new wine, its recently pressed juice having been clarified by the use of wood chips. He was also served a few slices from a ham hanging in the fireplace and some freshly baked bread to go with it. The wine proved to be a pleasant surprise. He was expecting it to be as rough as usual but it was unexpectedly clear, bright red in colour, fresh and with the slightly wild aroma of redcurrant. Amused by the incongruousness of the image, he eventually concluded that the best comparison was with a redcurrant crushed on the fur of a polecat. The smell of this small wild animal had remained with him since childhood: the Marquis de Ranreuil wore a collar made of this fur on one of his cloaks and there had been no way of removing the smell. Those of his dogs who were unaccustomed to the smell would bark at his heels.

Nicolas suddenly noticed a young man in the uniform of the Life Guards. He was seated at another table watching him, but turned his head away under Nicolas’s gaze. Nicolas was surprised to see him there but thought no more of it; the King was not in Choisy but, after all, whoever served the sovereign could also serve his favourite.

At half-past two he set off again and the carriage made its way up to the chateau at walking pace. The vehicle came within sight of a magnificent gate opening on to an immense avenue with a double row of trees. He noticed several forks in the road, leading off into the surrounding countryside. The building rose up before him, its two wings decorated with pediments. To the left a huge building served as the staff quarters and the stables. Nicolas alighted in front of the central main steps, where a man with a staff in his hand who seemed to be waiting for him greeted him with great formality.

‘Do I have the honour of addressing Monsieur Nicolas Le Floch?’

‘Your servant, Monsieur.’

‘I am the intendant of the chateau. My mistress has asked me to take a tour with you. She is a little unwell and will receive you later.’

The man took Nicolas off towards the chapel. There he was able to admire Van Loo’s painting of St Clothilde, Queen of France, before the tomb of St Martin. He then visited the ceremonial rooms of the chateau, the main gallery decorated with pier glasses and Parrocel’s painting of the battle of Fontenoy. Nicolas thought that the marquise was showing her devotion to the King even down to the decoration of her houses. The dining room was embellished with six views of royal houses, and the buffet room with hunting scenes. The King’s particular interests: war, buildings and hunting, were all depicted in this residence. His guide led Nicolas outside to admire the view from the terrace, the most attractive feature of the chateau. The Seine flowed peacefully at his feet. A pavilion that was used as a summer dining
room stood at the centre. A breathless servant ran up to them: the Marquise de Pompadour was ready to receive Monsieur Le Floch.

He was shown into a grey and gold boudoir. The curtains had been closed and the room was in semi-darkness. In the great pale marble fireplace dying embers glowed. As he entered he was greeted by a little black barbet who, after inspecting him quickly but cautiously, celebrated his arrival. This little game created a diversion.

‘Monsieur Le Floch,’ said the marquise, ‘I have every reason to believe in your loyalty and I notice that Bébé thinks the same.’

Nicolas bowed, thinking that the smell of Cyrus on his breeches and stockings must have had quite a lot to do with the trust Bébé showed him. He looked up at the marquise. She had changed considerably within a few months. Admittedly there was still the same oval-shaped face, but her chin had become heavier. The skilful application of white powder and rouge probably concealed the other ravages of time. Her eyes, ever inquisitive and lively, watched Nicolas with some amusement. A white lace headscarf allowed a glimpse of her ash-grey hair. A white taffeta cape covered a double-flounced black silk skirt. Long cuffs covered what she considered to be unattractive hands. Nicolas wondered if that was why the King so disliked seeing ladies wearing rings, thereby drawing attention to a part of the body he could not admire in the marquise. The overall effect felt rather sad, even austere to him, in keeping with her new-found reputation for piety, but then he remembered that the Court was in mourning for a German prince.

 ‘Do you know, Monsieur, that on two occasions the King was concerned for your safety?’

This was intended both as a criticism and a piece of advice but it was also a way for her to charm and flatter the person she was addressing. Nicolas was not fooled. There was nothing to say in reply and so he bowed.

‘You are too discreet. Remember that for the King you are the Marquis de Ranreuil and all you have to do is to … Do you not regret your decision?’

Her look became more intent. Nicolas sensed the trap: the woman who was speaking was not of noble birth.

‘The Marquis de Ranreuil, my father, taught me that worth is not something that one is born with. Everything depends on what one makes of one’s life.’

She raised her eyebrows and smiled, no doubt appreciating this sidestep.

‘Even so, Monsieur, you ought to follow my advice. You are a hunter, so you should go hunting. That is where you will meet your master.’

However accustomed Nicolas was becoming to the manners of the Court, he nevertheless found this a somewhat long-winded preamble. La Borde had already passed on the message that he had to put in an appearance at the King’s hunt.

‘All this is to say that one is assured here and elsewhere of your loyalty,’ continued the marquise.

She motioned to him to sit.

‘Monsieur de Sartine has entrusted you with an investigation into the, let us say, unexplained death of the Vicomte de Ruissec … I know what happened and also the strange circumstances of
his mother’s death. I have requested that Monsieur de
Saint-Florentin
and the Lieutenant General of Police spare the King the details of these deaths. He would be only too inclined to dwell on them.’

She remained thoughtful for a moment. Nicolas remembered the sovereign’s morbid curiosity when he had recounted the examination carried out on a body found in the knacker’s yard at Montfaucon. This strange interest in macabre details had become more marked, it was said, since Damiens’s attempt on the King’s life.

‘Monsieur, what do you think lies behind these deaths?’

‘Madame, I am convinced that we are confronted with two cases of murder. For the time being there is nothing to indicate a connection between the two but nothing either to prove the opposite. In the case of the Vicomte de Ruissec the circumstances are quite extraordinary. I am investigating the victims and their pasts, on the understanding, as you are no doubt well aware, that these murders have not been officially recognised, that the course of justice has been impeded and that my inquiry is personal and undertaken at my own risk.’

She gave an elegant nod of the head. ‘Whatever the
circumstances
you will continue to enjoy my protection.’

‘It is of the most precious assistance, Madame.’

He did not believe a word of it. The protection of the King’s favourite was good as far as the door of this boudoir. As soon as he left Choisy, a good sharp sword and Bourdeau would be infinitely more useful.

‘Perhaps, Monsieur, you would do well to believe that this decision to stop the investigation was merely a device to avoid scaring away the game one wishes to trap.’

This obviously opened up new perspectives. As was often the case – and he sometimes did the same thing himself – Monsieur de Sartine had doubtless concealed part of the truth from him. Or else the favourite had reserved for herself the privilege of informing him. The game was becoming decidedly more
complicated.
His own side had just castled, he thought, like the good chess player he was.

As he did not respond, she continued, ‘That does not seem to come as a surprise to you. You had already thought of it. I must confide to you how anxious I am … Public misfortunes are causing me great distress. Threats are being made against the King and I am constantly the victim of insults. If only I could withdraw to a retreat … To Ménars, for example.’

She was interrupted by the crash of a falling log. From what Nicolas knew, Ménars was not a particularly austere type of retreat.

‘I am tired and sick,’ continued the marquise. ‘I might as well tell you, Monsieur. You have already saved me once. Look at this piece of paper that I found on the door of my apartments. And it is not the first.’

She handed him a printed sheet. He read it through to the end.

When Nicolas looked up from reading he saw her face was in her hands. The dog jumped on to her lap and whined quietly.

‘Madame, leave this rag with me. I shall find the source.’

She raised her head again.

‘You will find it is a hydra with heads that constantly grow back. I foresee more insidious dangers. I have reason to fear the Ruissec family whom the King holds in little esteem. It is plotting with the pious, the Jesuits and all who wish to see the back of me. I cannot tell you more. This case must be solved. In truth I fear for the King’s life. Look at Portugal: the newspapers announce the
execution
of the Jesuit Malagrida. He is an accomplice to the murder of the King of Portugal. It is reported that he met Damiens some time ago in Soissons. So many plots! Time and again they try.’

‘But, Madame, many people around you and the King are watching over you.’

‘I know. All the Lieutenant Generals of Police have been my friends – Bertin, Berryer and now Sartine. But they are taken up by more important matters and their time is divided between many tasks, just like the minister, Monsieur de Saint-Florentin. I put my trust in you, Monsieur le Marquis.’

Nicolas felt that the Good Lady could have spared herself this new attempt at flattery, which was, nevertheless, a good
indication
of her distress. She could count on him but he would have liked her to give more detail at points where she had clearly held back as she spoke to him She had not laid out all the facts in her possession. It was regrettable that the normal course of an investigation should be subject to so many refusals to disclose information. She held out her hand for him to kiss. It was as feverish as on their previous meeting.

‘If you wish to see me again, Monsieur de La Borde will inform me.’

As the carriage moved along the main driveway it passed a rider whom Nicolas recognised as the Life Guard in the tavern. He spent the return journey to Paris deep in thought. His private talk with Madame de Pompadour had left a bitter taste in his mouth. On the one hand he had found an unhappy woman, worried to the point of extreme anxiety about the threats to the King – but Nicolas was sharp enough to see that concern about her own fate also played a part in this anxiety. More generally, he had observed her reluctance to speak of certain things and her ambiguous choice of words, which he felt was a sure sign that she knew more than she would say.

The idea that stopping the investigation was a manoeuvre, a pretence intended to deceive the enemy, seemed too good to be true. It was most probably a ploy slipped into the conversation to encourage him to persevere. In any case it mattered little because with Monsieur de Sartine’s blessing he intended to see the investigation through.

One last question remained: did the Good Lady’s wishes and orders have the King’s approval?

At Porte Sainte-Antoine he ordered his coachman to go to the Châtelet where he was hoping to find Bourdeau. Would he tell the inspector about his interview at Choisy? Should the meeting be kept secret? He thought about it long and hard. The inspector
gave good advice and Nicolas had absolute confidence in his discretion. Sartine had urged him not to brush him aside. In any case the coachman would most probably talk, as he was not under instructions. Despite the choice of Choisy as somewhere distant and discreet Nicolas could have been recognised; his rapid promotion had made him conspicuous.

He was held up by a tangle of vehicles on Rue Saint-Antoine, where a carriage had overturned after the horses had become uncoupled. A herd of passing cows destined for the butchers had taken fright; the chaos was indescribable. It was after seven o’clock by the time he reached the Châtelet. He found Bourdeau in a calm mood, smoking his clay pipe.

‘Was the hunt successful, Nicolas?’ He went over to close the office door.

‘I was at Choisy. The mistress of the house wished to see me.’

Bourdeau’s face remained impassive. He merely took a few quick puffs of his pipe. He was obviously in the know.

‘Did you discuss our case at all?’

‘It was at the heart of the conversation.’

Nicolas gave him a detailed account of his talk with the marquise.

‘With such influential protectors we’d be very unlucky to fail in our efforts. Even though the Good Lady doesn’t have the upper hand at the moment. As Choiseul’s influence is growing, hers is on the decline. On top of that the minister is at odds with Bertin on matters of finance, Bertin himself being one of the marquise’s protégés. His brother-in-law, the Comte de Jumilhac, is governor of the Bastille.’

‘It’s both an advantage and a disadvantage for us. Everything
is allowed within certain limits that are unknown to you and me. But not everything is appropriate or useful. Monsieur de Sartine told me as much this morning. There are too many higher interests at stake, and they are beyond us. This murder, these murders, conceal something else. That’s the marquise’s opinion and I’m tending more and more towards it myself. We need to gather more information about the vicomte. We must find out everything about his life, meet his brother the vidame, his betrothed, his commanding officers and his friends.’