He reflected for a moment, unsure where to go. No, he was definitely too unhappy to show his face in Rue Montmartre. For some time now, he had been wanting to see the rising new star of the Théâtre-Français, Mademoiselle Raucourt.2 Her debut a year earlier in the role of Dido had been a sensation, and had been duly reported as such in Le Mercure and La Gazette. No other actress in living memory had made such an impression: she was not yet eighteen, and was pretty as a picture, with a voice that was said to be enchanting, an exceptional bearing and a prodigious intelligence in her approach to her roles. Nicolas would go and watch tonight’s play: it would distract him from his worries, and no doubt he would glean in passing some spicy or edifying titbit which would delight Monsieur de Sartine the next day.
The snow had turned to freezing rain by the time he passed the dark mass of the Pont Royal water pump. The lanterns along the right bank of the river and the terrace of the Tuileries glowed feebly through the damp air. Having a permanent pass, he knocked at the window of the guardroom and identified himself. The guard, grumbling at being disturbed in his enjoyment of a mulled wine which had coloured his white moustache red, opened the gate. As soon as he was in the gardens, Nicolas regretted taking this short cut. Instead of making things easier for himself, he found himself in a vast snowy expanse in which all the paths had disappeared. Now he was going to ruin his shoes – a particularly annoying thought, since they were as comfortable as felt slippers, and allowed him to stand for hours on end without feeling any tightness or fatigue. It would have been more sensible to take the longer way round through the colonnades of the Louvre. In the calm of the evening, he could have got the measure of the improvements the city authorities were making in the area, clearing the square and driving out the market stalls that had cluttered it for so many years. The plan was that when the ground had been properly levelled, it would be covered with a series of enclosed lawns which would be pleasant to the eye and permit a clear view of the Point-du-Jour.
The great dark masses of the statues helped him to get his bearings, and he waded in a more or less straight line towards the gate to the swing bridge. At the end of the path, he bumped into Nicolas Coustou’s great statue of Caesar. The octagonal basin faced him, its waters glimmering faintly in the darkness. He had to veer right to get to Passage de l’Orangerie and from there reach the Théâtre-Français. For many years, the company had performed at the Étoile tennis court in Rue des Fossés-Saint-Germain. In 1770, the building being on the verge of collapse, the theatre had moved to Servandoni’s machine room in the Tuileries, left vacant after the Opéra had been rebuilt in the Palais-Royal. Nicolas shared the opinion of the many critics who judged the layout of this temporary theatre ill suited to its purpose.
The performance was about to start. He was greeted at the box office like a regular visitor: he was often on duty there, especially when the theatre was attended by members of the royal family or foreign monarchs who wished to remain incognito. In the foyer, his attention was drawn to an animated group dominated by the tall figure of his colleague, old Chorrey, the second oldest member of the police force. He walked up to the group. A sallow-faced man in a threadbare serge jacket was being held by two French Guards while Chorrey frisked him and placed his finds on a baluster console.
‘And you claim to be innocent, eh? Your clothes are like a fence’s shop in the Temple! Look, here’s Le Floch! You’ve come just at the right moment, my friend. You’re not on duty, though, are you? Or have I got it wrong?’
‘No, my dear fellow. I’m here as a customer.’
‘Well, you’re going to get your money’s worth! This blackguard has his pockets full. Two gold watches, one bronze watch, a double Barbette louis, six English guineas. These, too …’ He held up some coins. ‘Three ducats from Berne, a silver ducat from Venice, a few old French crowns. The whole of Europe seems to be here tonight to see La Raucourt. You’re for the galleys!’
The man was shaking, as if stricken with a fever.
‘Find me the lieutenant of the guards,’ Chorrey said to one of the theatre attendants, ‘and be quick about it.’
Nicolas was surprised that an old policeman with more than forty years’ service should not make the distinction between a lieutenant of the guards, in other words, the bodyguards, and a lieutenant in the Guards, in other words, an officer of the French Guards. He immediately reproached himself for his judgement, realising that his colleague was not as familiar as he was with the Court and its subtleties. The lieutenant, an arrogant-looking fellow, arrived and listened nervously as the commissioner instructed him to take the culprit into custody and to inform the watch to come for him and take him to the Châtelet. Chorrey abruptly turned his back on the officer and drew Nicolas into the auditorium.
‘That impostor infuriates me. I suppose he’s too high-born to consider being polite. To think we have to suffer the snubs of a boudoir dandy like that!’
They took their seats in a box on the left-hand side, with a view of the whole of the auditorium, whose strange layout recalled its original purpose. Amidst a rustle of fabrics and creaking of floorboards, it was gradually filling up in the semi-darkness.
‘Look, the Prince de Conti is here again. The old rogue! He has his eyes on the new girl. He wants her for his collection!’
‘Yes, the young girls in the royal theatres are easy prey,’ said Nicolas. ‘They enjoy, as you know, a very particular privilege. They escape the authority of their parents, and the men who keep them are exempt from all prosecution.’
‘You’re telling me! I’ve lost count of those I have seen start like that and finish up amongst the criminal classes. For the moment, her air of decency and reputation for chastity have made her sought after by the greatest ladies, who smother her in jewels and clothes, overjoyed no doubt that this rare creature is no rival. Besides, her old father is still about, keeping his eye open for trouble. Will it last? Let’s wait for the last act. In any case, she’s a true prodigy, enough to make the most consummate of her rivals die of vexation.’
‘You’ve certainly been around a long time,’ said Nicolas. ‘More than forty years, I believe?’
‘Forty-three, to be exact. Time enough to get a little weary.’
‘But what adventures! We’re never bored in our profession.’
‘Well, that depends,’ said Chorrey, scratching his head under his wig. ‘I’ve always preferred criminal work, much more diverting than civil cases. At the beginning of my career, I was constantly being sent to do house searches, day and night. After that, I seemed to spend all my time keeping an eye on usurers, swindlers and pawnbrokers, before they started the Mont-de-Piété. Some pretty terrible characters there, I can tell you!’
‘But that’s all routine!’ said Nicolas. ‘You must surely have seen some more extraordinary events?’
‘Yes, of course. In 1757, the then Lieutenant General of Police, the worthy predecessor of Monsieur de Sartine—’
‘Who holds you in great esteem.’
Chorrey blushed at the compliment. ‘I’m pleased to hear it. As I was saying, in 1757 I knocked myself out going all over the Arras and Saint-Omer regions and the whole province of Artois, searching out and questioning the relatives of Damiens, the King’s would-be assassin. In 1760, I constantly had to deal with thefts from theatres. That led me to a storehouse full of stolen goods in Briare: a mountain of purses, watches, snuffboxes and all kinds of coins. Finally, last year, I went with a company of grenadiers from Enghien, garrisoned at Sedan, to visit the printing works and
