he considered doubly justified: it would both reassure his friend and cover Gaspard in his master’s eyes. This desire to come clean led him to reflect on human turpitude. Why was it that he had agreed to disobey the Lieutenant General of Police and flout his express instructions, and yet at the same time considered it essential not to act behind La Borde’s back? Doubtless, he thought, because his relationship with Sartine was one of inequality and subordination, and perhaps – although he did not dare think too far along these lines – his attitude was not unconnected with certain rebuffs he had suffered which had left a bitter taste in his mouth, despite his gratitude to, and admiration for, his chief. In the peculiar circumstances in which he found himself, it did not amount to much: a small disobedience, a simple little act of revenge.
‘I’ve sent Old Marie on an important mission,’ said Bourdeau. ‘He’s gone to fetch a pitcher of brandy – he can keep half of it for himself. The time has come. Rabouine knows what he has to do. Give him the letter.’
‘I’d like him to go and see La Borde first and give him this note.’
Bourdeau looked in surprise at the paper, on which the seal was like a bloody stain. ‘Do you really think we need to … ?’
‘Yes, or I won’t do it.’
Rabouine changed, gradually transforming himself, with the help of a short wig, into a very acceptable Nicolas. With a piece of black wool over his face, the collar of his cloak raised, and the tricorn pulled right down, the illusion was complete. For his part, Nicolas adjusted the spectacles and took a few steps.
‘Don’t swagger,’ said Bourdeau. ‘Bend your legs, stoop a bit more, let your shoulders sag. There, that’s it … That’s much better.’
He opened a drawer, took out paper, quills, a penknife and a portable bottle of ink, and gave all these objects to Nicolas.
‘Don’t forget your work tools, if you want to look the part. That’s perfect! Perhaps still a bit too clean, though. Take off your glasses.’
Bourdeau passed his hand over the top of the wardrobe, then smeared the dust on Nicolas’s face, until his complexion turned grey and weary.
‘The coast is clear. Let’s go our separate ways. We’ll meet again where we’ve arranged.’
The inspector left with Rabouine, who was in high spirits and as proud as punch to be acting as commissioner – as an old partner in crime, he would have thrown himself in the Seine for him. Nicolas made his way to Sartine’s office. The silence in the room reminded him of his first interview with the Lieutenant General of Police, when he had arrived fresh from his native province, and a thousand other comic and tragic scenes over the years. The gilded moulding sank back and the bookcase swivelled around, revealing a staircase. The noises of the city rose in the distance. Two floors below, he found the door. Walking out into the street, he was struck by how cold it was, especially now that evening was closing in. He did not have long to wait. A cab stopped, the door opened, and he jumped in.
‘That Rabouine is amazing,’ said Bourdeau. ‘He knows as much of the ways of the world as a bailiff at the Palais de Justice. He’ll fool everyone at Versailles, and by God, he cuts a fine figure in your clothes.’
Nicolas smiled. ‘Thank you on behalf of the clothes! It’s clear you don’t get the bills from my tailor, Master Vachon! As for Rabouine, God save him, he knows what to do in every situation and never spares any effort.’
‘You just smiled,’ said Bourdeau. ‘All is well. Recovery is near.’
The conversation continued in a light tone which gradually calmed Nicolas, making him forget what awaited him. In Rue de Verneuil, a number of officers were keeping a discreet watch on the house. They immediately recognised the unnumbered carriage and Bourdeau’s familiar face. An inspector sitting outside the door, which had been sealed, tried to deny them access. The mention of Monsieur de Sartine’s name smoothed things over: the man had only been trying to defend the prerogatives of the local commissioner. The seals were broken, and Bourdeau and Nicolas entered Madame de Lastérieux’s house.
The shutters were closed, and the rooms were dark and silent. The deserted hall opened on to a corridor which led to the reception rooms. To the right, a door led to the servants’ pantry. At the end of the corridor, a velvet door gave access to a large drawing room, to the left of which, at right angles, were a library and a music room. On the right was a short corridor leading to a circular boudoir, after which came Julie’s bedroom. Adjoining the boudoir was a wardrobe room, then a series of service rooms, leading back to the pantry. The main rooms had a view of Rue de Verneuil, the others looked out on the dark well of the courtyard, where the servants had their quarters. The windows of the library and the music room looked out on Rue de Beaune.
‘Let’s start with the bedroom,’ said Bourdeau.
He glanced round the drawing room. The table had been cleared, although eight chairs still surrounded it.
‘Everything looks so tidy, despite last night’s party.’
‘The two West Indian servants are very good,’ Nicolas said. ‘Julie was a stickler for tidiness. Everything had to be cleaned and put away. She couldn’t bear to see the house looking untidy in the morning.’
‘That’s rather unfortunate. Untidiness has one great merit: it increases the opportunities for observation.’
‘But there’s still a clue here. Parties in this house, as I well know, rarely lasted beyond one in the morning. The tidying must have taken at least two hours. Which means, and the servants will be able to confirm this, that Madame de Lastérieux did not call for help during that time. She could have done so easily from her bed by ringing the bell pull, which sounds in the pantry. Her maid would have come running.’
‘That’s useful to know,’ Bourdeau conceded. ‘Unless she lost consciousness before she was able to call for help.’
At any other time, Nicolas would have been amused by the way their roles had been reversed. Perhaps it was the effect of this ridiculous disguise, but it was Bourdeau who was having the last word – he certainly had the ability and experience for it.
‘How terrible,’ murmured Nicolas, ‘that Julie’s body has been left like that with no one to watch over it!’
Bourdeau responded with an indistinct grunt.
When they opened the door to the bedroom, a sickening odour seized them by the throat. At first, they could make out nothing: the curtains were drawn and the room was in darkness. Bourdeau fetched a candle from the other room and lit the bedroom candles. The flickering light illumined the room. Julie de Lastérieux lay there in her nightdress, her body arched, her legs bent and splayed apart. Death had seized her as she was lifting her hands to her throat. Her head was thrown back on the pillow and surrounded by her flowing hair, and her mouth was open, as if she were screaming. The front of her body was covered in orange-coloured vomit, flecked with blood, which had dripped on the sheets and the carpet. The eyes were bulging, the pupils already clouding over. Nicolas, assailed by memories, was profoundly shocked to see how horribly death had done its work. He had to force himself to carry on. Only by clinging to the idea of dutycould he summon the will power to act as if the poor body lying in its own vomit was not that of a woman he had loved. He had to take charge of the operation. He had noted in the past that, however pusillanimous his emotional reaction to a situation might be, it immediately gave way to a cold determination, even – or especially – when he himself was personally involved.
