of ten, an envoy from Monsieur de Sartine came to fetch you. The Lieutenant General of Police wants to see you immediately. Bourdeau was here – he’d come to find out how you were – and he managed to worm it out of him. Be brave! This morning, at first light, Madame de Lastérieux’s servants found her dead. According to an initial examination by a local doctor, it seems she may have been poisoned.’
Long afterwards, Nicolas would remember that his first reaction, fleeting as it was – well before the grief went through him like a knife, a grief made all the more intense by the images of their passion that flashed through his mind – had been one of relief, almost of liberation. For a moment he was speechless, and so pale and haggard that Noblecourt grew worried at his silence.
‘Poisoned!’ Nicolas said. ‘Was it some rotting food? Mushrooms?’
‘Alas, no. From what we know, there is every sign that she was poisoned by malicious intent.’
‘Isn’t it possible that she killed herself?’
‘If you have any evidence suggesting she was in such despair that she may have wanted to take her own life, you must reveal it as soon as possible to those whose task it will be to hear your testimony.’
Nicolas shook his head and said in a barely audible voice, ‘The last time – oh, my God! – the last time I heard her voice – I didn’t even see her, just heard her voice – she was laughing uproariously and there was nothing to indicate that she wanted to die.’
‘You will have to say all that. Everything will require an explanation. Take this calmly, and confront one at a time the unpleasant ordeals which, I fear, await you … Now go and talk to Monsieur de Sartine, and give him my regards.’
Monsieur de Noblecourt adjusted the velvet skullcap covering his balding cranium, an occupation which seemed intended to conceal a growing embarrassment. Nicolas felt sick at heart: it was as if, behind his friend’s outward affirmations, an unformulated question were being asked. No, he had nothing to reproach himself with. He realised at that moment that he had entered unknown and dangerous territory, full of obstacles and concealed traps. The slightest word, the most innocuous remark, a look, an expression of simple concern from a friend could cause him terrible pain, and he would not know if it was merely the result of his own imagination.
The former procurator, angry with himself, tried to make amends. ‘Don’t misunderstand me. You have to see things as they are. Put yourself in the position of an outside spectator, a commissioner at the Châtelet embarking upon an investigation. You will be expected to give a precise account of an evening which you yourself say was full of incident. Make a commitment to explain everything in detail. Monsieur de Sartine knows you too well to have any doubts about your loyalty or your innocence in this tragedy about which we know nothing as yet. And when I say Monsieur de Sartine, I also mean your friends. Don’t think we are indifferent to your grief; it touches us more than you can imagine and from now on our only concern is to assure you of our support, have no fear of that …’
Monsieur de Noblecourt’s voice was at once so tremulous and yet so full of warmth that it chased away any doubts Nicolas might have been harbouring about his mentor’s feelings, even though he still shuddered at the mere mention of the word ‘innocence’. But it made him all the more aware of the risks he would have to face from interrogators, adversaries, accusers, witnesses and judges less well disposed towards him. The horrifying thought struck him that not only had he lost someone dear to him, but that until this affair was resolved he would also have to endure being placed in the position of those who, in the course of his twelve years in the police force, had borne the brunt of his unrelenting determination as an investigator.
The door of the bedroom opened and Bourdeau reappeared, with a worried look on his face.
‘A cab sent by Monsieur de Sartine has just arrived. You know how he is, he must be getting impatient. I’ll let you get ready and then go with you.’
Nicolas smiled weakly. ‘Afraid I’ll try to escape?’ There was such a look of pain on the inspector’s face that he got up and threw his arms around him. ‘Forgive me, Pierre, I shouldn’t have said that, but I’m at the end of my tether.’
‘Come, my children,’ said Noblecourt, ‘let’s not get carried away. Nicolas needs to get ready. Promise to come and see me as soon as you get back and tell me everything.’
He withdrew, leaning on Bourdeau’s arm. Nicolas made an effort to take his time, anxious to appear in the best light to a chief whose sarcastic eye was in the habit of deducing the state of a man’s morals from the propriety of his costume. Any sign of neglect filled him with gloom and made him suspect the most extreme immorality. He took care not to cut himself while shaving, put on a black coat, recently made for him by his tailor, tied an immaculate lace cravat around his neck, combed his hair for a long time – there were a few white hairs starting to come through – and tied his ponytail with a dark velvet ribbon. He only ever wore a wig at Court or on solemn occasions when he was dressed in his magistrate’s robe. He took a last look in the mirror, and realised that he looked younger now that his fever had passed: it almost made him forget the seriousness of the situation. Then he descended the small staircase, and the sight of Bourdeau and Semacgus waiting for him at the entrance brought him back to reality.
Semacgus walked up to him. ‘Remember, Nicolas, that you can ask me for anything,’ he said. ‘I haven’t forgotten that you once proved my innocence and gave me back my freedom.’
Nicolas shook his hand firmly and followed the inspector into the cab. He lapsed into morose brooding. Suddenly, he recalled the graceful figure of Julie, and the image took his breath away and made him feel dizzy. He withdrew into himself, shaking with sobs. Incapable of controlling his imagination, he could not prevent the terrible images that flooded into his mind: a body thrown on a slab in the Basse-Geôle and subjected to the indignities inflicted by those given the task of performing the autopsy, a body whose softness he could still feel … Bourdeau coughed in embarrassment. The city Nicolas loved so much sped past, its houses and its crowds like a stage set painted in faded colours, without life or gaiety. They did not exchange a single word. The carriage soon reached the Hôtel de Gramont1 in Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin. Entering the building, they saw the familiar faces of their police colleagues, and the footmen bowed before them with their usual deference. The elderly manservant smiled when he saw Nicolas.
‘Don’t be surprised if things are a bit different. Monsieur de Sartine only got back from Versailles at midday.’
As Bourdeau was about to sit down on a bench to wait, the servant indicated to him that his presence was also required.
They entered the Lieutenant General’s vast office to be greeted by an unusual sight. A silent assembly of wigs stood on the table in serried rows, like soldiers on parade. Monsieur de Sartine, having spent the night at Versailles, had missed his morning appointment with his precious collection. And, as he could not bear the slightest interruption to his innocent obsession, it was only now that his usual inspection was taking place. That was what the porter had been trying to say. Nicolas, who on any other occasion might have been amused at the spectacle, was wondering anxiously where his chief was, when suddenly one of the wigs moved and Monsieur de Sartine’s sharp face emerged from amongst his inanimate creatures.
Nicolas had grown accustomed over the years to the whole gamut of his chief’s facial expressions, which varied widely according to circumstances; and had today been expecting the irritated, impatient countenance the Lieutenant General wore whenever he was about to show his displeasure with a subordinate. Instead, he was surprised to see Monsieur de Sartine looking at him
