The Saint-Florentin Murders (18 page)

Nicolas went back up to his room, which had been deserted by Mouchette: the strumpet shared her favours, and sometimes preferred to nestle in Cyrus’s fur, where she soon began to purr with the regularity of an automaton. That reminded Nicolas of the promise he had made Monsieur de Sartine to investigate Bourdier, the eminent creator of the library of wigs and the inventor of a new encoding machine. With this thought, he undressed and went to bed.

Monsieur de Sartine grimaced as he manipulated the ivory and ebony keys of his library. The mechanism was no longer playing the joyful music of Rameau, but a grim chant, a kind of
Dies Irae
.
The drawer sprang out with a snap. Sartine clutched Nicolas, who was horrified to see, instead of the expected wig, the bloodstained body of a young woman. He turned. The minister had
disappeared
, and cut flowers were strewn on the ground. In a panic, he saw a man striking the trunk of a great oak with an axe. He seemed to be moved by strings, like the puppets sold on Pont-Neuf. Nicolas recognised Bourdeau’s impassive face. He saw the flash of the blade as it struck his chest, but felt nothing except a light tap. He opened his eyes. Mouchette was treading on him, and affectionately pressing her nose to his chin.

As he dressed, he felt weighed down by this nightmare, whose meaning eluded him. He prepared his trunk, checked the rifles Louis XV had given him, then brushed his spare coats, his ceremonial dress, and his hunting costumes. Since Monsieur de La Borde no longer had an apartment in the palace, Nicolas was putting up at the Hôtel de la Belle Image in Versailles. His arms and his clothes now had to follow him wherever he went, an inconvenience which was a source of silent irritation. He did not wake the household, where even Catherine was still sleeping. A baker’s boy from the shop on the ground floor ran to find him a carriage. Day had not yet risen, and it looked as if rain was on the way. It began to fall as soon as he had passed the Porte de la Conférence and did not stop, accompanied by a squally wind.

Nicolas, haunted by dark thoughts and sombre presentiments, remembered Monsieur de Noblecourt’s fainting fit. He thought of how much he owed the former procurator and how fond of him he was. He felt a sense of anguish at the fleeting nature of life. Of all those who had mattered to him, many had already gone. His guardian, Canon Le Floch, to whose affection and
kindness he owed his moral conscience. His father, the Marquis de Ranreuil, a model of intelligence and courage. Sartine, who had taught him so much. Even Commissioner Lardin,
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whose death he had avenged without underestimating his faults, and whose cold, grim face often came back to him. Without showing Nicolas any real friendship, he had been an efficient, demanding and conscientious master.

The carriage drove along the Champs-Élysées, which looked wild and sinister in the pale light of this early morning storm. The late King, with his benevolence, had reinforced the innate devotion Nicolas had felt as a child seeing his finely chiselled face on the
louis d’or
. In their different ways, Sartine, Bourdeau and Semacgus had also made him the man he had become, and of course Noblecourt had had a very special place in those years when his character had been moulded. He realised with a kind of almost sacred terror that, in their concern for him and their generosity, they had been like a succession of fathers to him. All of them had prepared him for life and its threats, had armed him from head to foot. Yes, he really did owe them a lot. This thought chased away his feelings of gloom, and encouraged him to face his destiny with renewed strength, in the service of the King – God and Saint Anne willing.

Just before Versailles, as the carriage was crawling through the Fausses Reposes woods, the storm increased in intensity. It was one of those heavy, blustery autumn downpours that lashed the ground and laid waste to everything. Nicolas was gazing out, spellbound, at this upheaval when something strange attracted his
attention. At first, it was a blur, like something seen through the lens of a badly focused telescope. An indistinct shape had collapsed on the ground not far from him. He knocked on the partition to stop the carriage. The vehicle swerved and slid, and finally came to a halt in a chorus of cries and neighing. He rushed outside. A woman was lying unconscious on the ground. He bent down and took her in his arms to raise her. She was so light that he quickly got her into the carriage. She had a thin, pale face framed by unruly brown curls that tumbled down over her bodice. There rose from her warm, wet body an imperceptible scent of verbena, along with wilder autumn aromas, the smell of wet earth and dead leaves. He took his handkerchief and wiped her hands, which were covered in scratches from the gravel. She stirred, moaned, and stretched her body against his. Her mouth brushed his chin. He thought of Mouchette, so fragile … She regained consciousness completely, and colour came back into her face. Her eyes opened inquisitively; grey, he noted, with dark-blue flecks. She folded her spotted lace fichu over her chest and sat up.

‘Monsieur, I am quite confused. What happened to me?’

Nicolas loosened his embrace and gently sat her on the seat. Having had a chance to get a closer look at her, he judged that she might be just over twenty.

‘I saw you fall, Madame, and stopped my carriage to come to your aid.’

She smiled. He noticed that she had perfect dazzlingly white teeth.

‘You have saved me, Monsieur. Whom shall I thank?’

‘Nicolas Le Floch, commissioner at the Châtelet.’

There was no reason for him to keep silent about an honourable position. Experience had taught him that doing so inevitably led to further complications.

‘Ah,’ she remarked, looking interested. ‘Young Ranreuil.’

Nicolas’s eyes immediately clouded over. This was encroaching on personal territory, and he felt it as an intrusion. It was his precious link with the royal family. The late King, the current King, Mesdames and, in the old days, the royal mistresses had all used the name to do him honour. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. Had she sensed his irritation? She rolled one of her curls and, with the other hand, squeezed the water from it before wiping it on her bodice.

‘We have a mutual friend, Monsieur de La Borde,’ she explained. ‘His wife is a close friend of mine. He never stops singing your praises. I think he’d like to set them to music!’

She half raised herself as if trying to curtsey. ‘Aimée d’Arranet, your humble servant.’

He relaxed. His irritation suddenly gave way to an astonishing sense of well-being. The young woman huddled into a corner of the carriage. The silence between them lengthened. Filled with wonder, he was becoming aware of the grace and sweetness she exuded. He felt like a young man again.

‘And what were you looking for in this storm?’

‘You’re being indiscreet, Monsieur. Nevertheless, it would be bad taste of me not to satisfy your curiosity …’ She opened a cloth pouch hanging from her belt. ‘I was gathering chestnuts, if you must know, when I was caught in the rain.’

‘So early in the morning?’

She gave an irritable little pout. ‘He persists! I was walking at
dawn, and to answer your question, Commissioner, the original aim of my stroll was to gather mushrooms. Did you not know that the best mushrooms open at dawn, when there is dew on the ground?’

The conversation risked coming to an abrupt end if it kept along that track, and he hastened to abandon the subject. Commentaries on autumn fruits were leading nowhere. Was she younger than he had supposed? Her self-assurance was misleading, her self-control, her charm, her lack of affected gestures, her casualness … He rebuked himself: where was this sudden elation leading him? He had not felt anything like this in a very long time, since a certain concert at Balbastre’s house.
5
The memory of Julie de Lastérieux came back to him, bitter and sweet at the same time.

‘Monsieur, you are suddenly very silent,’ said the young woman. ‘Oh, look, because of me, you’re completely soaked!’

Before he could stop her, she had taken a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and was wiping his forehead. It was like a caress. He had to restrain himself from taking her hand.

‘Mademoiselle, you’re too kind … Where can I take you? The rain is getting heavier.’

She smiled again. ‘My company is a burden to you, I think, and I have made you late. Come now, don’t blush. That’s how I am, impertinent by nature, always teasing. The house of my father, the Comte d’Arranet, is not far from here, in Avenue de Paris. But before that, could I ask you to fetch my shoes? The poor things must be floating, unless they’ve already sunk!’

He hurried outside and ran to collect the shoes, which looked quite pathetic. They were filled with water, and he emptied them before bringing them back.

‘Oh, well, never mind,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you could drop me at the foot of the front steps. I’ll jump up them in my stockings.’

She giggled. Nicolas ordered the coachman to drive on. The carriage swayed from side to side under the impact of the wind. A silence fell, while the young woman strove to rearrange her clothes. On the great avenue leading to the palace, Mademoiselle d’Arranet shouted some instructions to the coachman. The carriage turned right into a drive lined with old lime trees, towards an elegant two-storey dressed-stone house. Nicolas saw a swarm of footmen emerge to open the door and help his companion to descend. The house seemed as if it were raised up on a great foot.

‘Monsieur, many thanks,’ Aimée d’Arranet said, turning to him. ‘But that doesn’t mean you are free. I’ll run and get changed. Tribord will show you to the library. My father absolutely must make the acquaintance of my saviour.’

‘Oh, it was nothing, ‘said Nicolas. ‘I wouldn’t like to exaggerate.’

‘Come now, Monsieur, be quiet and obey with good grace.’

She put a finger on his mouth, and he fell silent. He got out of the carriage and meekly followed the footman in his red and grey livery who answered to this strange name. The man’s face was covered in scars. Noticing Nicolas’s curious gaze, he smiled although the smile was more like a grimace.

‘Monsieur should not be surprised: I served with Mademoiselle’s father.’

Once they had climbed the steps, they went in through the carved bronze double door and found themselves in a bright vestibule with black and white marble flagstones. From here, Nicolas was led into a library with grey and gold moulding on the ceiling, and walls completely covered in bookshelves apart from
the fireplace and two windows. Above the mantelpiece, where a pier glass would normally have been, was a full-length portrait of a general officer. At first sight, he looked like a sailor, and Nicolas noticed a naval scene in the background of the painting. The room clearly functioned as a drawing room. Armchairs, pedestal tables and gaming tables were arranged harmoniously. His attention was drawn to an unusual piece of furniture occupying the centre of the room – a low table bearing a coloured plaster reconstruction of a battle at sea. He bent over it to take a closer look at the details of this curious assemblage. Six vessels with English colours seemed to be laying siege to two others, almost completely wrecked, flying a white flag. Everything was rendered meticulously. Each ship, a fragile construction the size of a hand, had its sails, tufts of oakum represented the smoke of cannon-fire, and little balls of lead the cannonballs strewn over the decks. Nicolas even noticed piles of corpses and an officer standing on a poop deck with a telescope under one arm and a raised sword in the other.

‘Ah, Monsieur, there you are, leaning over the ship’s rail. I can see you’re intrigued by the spectacle.’

The voice, which was somewhat coarse, came from behind Nicolas. He turned and saw a tall, well-built man looking at him affably with merry grey eyes. He recognised the original of the painting above the mantelpiece. The man was wearing a dark blue coat of military cut with brass buttons and a sash of Saint Louis. His powdered wig did not in any way detract from the virile energy of a deeply lined, weather-beaten face. He was leaning on a walking stick. He held out his hand to the commissioner, in the English style.

‘Thank you for having rescued my scatterbrained daughter who, ignoring my advice that the wind was getting stronger, took it into her head to go wandering in the woods at the crack of dawn.’

Nicolas bowed. ‘Anyone would have done the same.’

‘My daughter seemed pleased that it was you … I am extremely grateful to you. So you’re a friend of La Borde’s? A charming couple. His wife was at convent school with my daughter. I knew your father well, both at Court and in the field … You look like him. A brave man, and what a wit!’

Beneath his rough exterior, the man was not lacking in the social graces. Everything was said in such a way that it could not wound.

‘I am the Comte d’Arranet, Lieutenant General of the Naval Forces. Unemployed. For the moment only, I hope.’

‘Might I ask you, Monsieur, to be so kind as to enlighten me about this tableau, which has, I admit, aroused my interest and my curiosity? I hope I’m not being indiscreet …’

His request seemed to delight his host. ‘Please take a seat, Monsieur. Your request pleases and honours me.’

He himself pulled up a
bergère
and sat down, making the chair groan under his weight. Nicolas noticed a slight limp, presumably the result of an old wound.

‘This relief map depicts the battle of Cape Finisterre. In 1747, my then chief, François des Herbiers, the Marquis de l’Étenduère, had to escort a convoy of boats laden with provisions for the West Indies. What a sight! Imagine a long procession of two hundred and sixty merchant ships escorted by eight vessels, each with seventy or seventy-four cannon … My God, it gives me the
shivers even now! Once we had left the harbour at Brest, Rear Admiral Hawke’s English fleet, which was waiting off the cape, tried to cut us off.’

‘Did they outnumber you?’

‘By almost two to one, alas! They had fourteen large vessels lined up. The marquis, who was an excellent sailor, quickly formed his eight vessels into a line to resist the English attack. We managed to hold our own long enough to allow the convoy to get away, with the wind behind them.’