you. Let us hope it doesn’t drag you into one of those criminal imbroglios whose mysteries you love to complicate even further, so that we never know where they may lead us! With that, Monsieur, I bid you farewell. I suspect the King and Monsieur de Saint-Florentin are waiting to hear my explanations. After all, I’m supposed to be keeping order in the capital of the Kingdom.’
Nicolas smiled inwardly at this refrain. He had heard it many times before, whenever he had had to force Sartine’s hand to let him loose on a case. Monsieur de Sartine turned on his heels and quickly walked out of the library, leaving Nicolas to reflect on the surprising things he had heard and the delicate mission with which he was now entrusted. For a moment he stood there, motionless, staring into space. By the time he got back to the stables, a coach was already speeding out of the building. Through the window he caught a glimpse of his chief’s sharp profile, the very image of despondency. He had never seen him in such a state, he who was always so in control of his emotions, and so anxious not to lose face before his visitors. He seemed weighed down with anxiety, and it was not only, as a superficial observer might have supposed, because he feared for his position. Nicolas knew him too well to think that such selfish matters were all that preoccupied him. He had been wounded by the King’s decision. That this decision had had fatal consequences the previous night merely increased his profound sense of abandonment. He was right to feel aggrieved by this absurd chain of events, so alien to his sense of duty and his total devotion to the monarch whom he had been serving selflessly for so many years. Sartine enjoyed the exceptional privilege of a weekly interview in the small apartments at Versailles, often in that secret study, which even those close to the King knew nothing about, where the monarch studied his agents’ dispatches and reports. In one night, this whole world had come tumbling down like a house of cards. To Nicolas, it seemed as though the image of an infallible chief had disintegrated, to be replaced by that of an unhappy man, a man worthy of pity. This merely strengthened his own determination to see this thing through. Yes, he would do all he could to find those responsible for a tragedy which the city authorities should, in the normal course of events, have anticipated and avoided.
He chose a frisky young chestnut gelding, which stretched its slender head towards him, and had it saddled by a groom. The streets had recovered a little of their animation, but everyone still looked grim and groups were forming. The air, matching the mood of the day, was oppressive. Nicolas could feel his clothes sticking to his body, and his horse gave off a strong odour, as if it were overheated. Slate-blue storm clouds were gathering in the sky. It was almost dark by the time he rode in beneath the archway of the Grand Châtelet. As he was handing over the reins of his mount to the stable boy, a familiar voice hailed him.
‘Ah, there’s my Nicolas, in a hurry as usual!’
He recognised the individual who was addressing him with such familiarity as his fellow countryman, a Breton called Jean, better known on the streets by his nickname, ‘Tirepot’. He was a singular character, a godsend to a populace deprived of privies. He carried two pails that hung from a bar resting across his shoulders. This contraption, hidden beneath a length of tarred canvas, allowed his customers to relieve themselves unseen. Nicolas often used the services of this friendly helper, who was always well informed.
‘What’s new, Jean? What are they saying this morning?’
‘Oh, certainly not good things! Everyone’s licking their wounds and mourning the dead. They’re saying this marriage has got off to a bad start. They’re blaming the watch and’ – he lowered his voice – ‘cursing the police and Monsieur de Sartine for not doing their job properly. People are complaining and gathering together, but things won’t go far – the poor have seen it all before!’
‘Is that all?’
The man scratched his head. ‘I was in Place Louis XV, doing my job …’
‘And?’
‘I quickly put down my trinkets and lent a hand. I heard some things, I can tell you!’
‘Really? What?’
‘Men from the city accusing Sartine early this morning. According to them, he’s to blame for the tragedy.’
‘From the city, you say? Aldermen?’
‘No. City Guards in all their finery. A lot of them were coming out of taverns, hardly able to stand, stinking so much of wine they could have killed flies with their breath. One big fat fellow, who seemed to be their officer, was urging them on, getting them all stirred up.’
Nicolas rewarded him with a crown, which Tirepot caught in mid-air, at the risk of dropping his pyramid.
‘You could do something for me,’ Nicolas said. ‘Go back to the Saint-Honoré district and try to find out where those guards spent the night. As you can imagine, I’m really interested to know that.’
Tirepot winked, loaded everything onto his back, adjusted it and disappeared beneath the archway. For a long time his voice could be heard receding into the distance, yelling his insistent cry: ‘Come one, come two, you all know what you need to do!’
Nicolas was still thinking about Tirepot’s words as he entered the commissioners’ duty office. Bourdeau sat slumped at the table with his head on his arms, snoring loudly. He looked at him tenderly. There was someone who never spared himself! He called Old Marie, the usher, who immediately fetched two cups of coffee liberally laced with Lambic beer, which he smuggled in and which smelled of cider apples. It was this smell that woke the inspector. He shook himself, seized one of the cups, and drank the coffee noisily because it was piping hot. A long silence followed.
‘Methinks,’ said Bourdeau, in a mockingly pompous tone, ‘this coffee is merely an invitation to more solid refreshment.’
‘Methinks,’ Nicolas said, ‘I’ll follow you on that path. I’ve had nothing in my belly since midday yesterday except a brioche. I’m all ears. What do you propose?’
‘The usual place we go when we’re hungry and we don’t have much time, in Rue du Pied-de-Boeuf. I think that’s the perfect choice.’
‘I’m hungry, therefore I follow you. That’s my cogito for this morning.’
‘Especially as I’ve been to see Sanson,’ Bourdeau went on. ‘He’ll join us in the Basse-Geôle on the stroke of noon for the opening of the corpse. Not something to watch on an empty stomach – it might give us the hiccups …’
He laughed, and Nicolas shuddered at the thought of this grim prospect. He agreed, though: opening a corpse was like a journey by sea – both required a full stomach.
Their usual tavern was only a short distance from the Châtelet. The proximity of the Grande Boucherie, although a source of sanies and foul odours, also offered the advantage of fresh products. As soon as they entered the low, smoky room, Bourdeau called to his old friend – they were both natives of a village near Chinon, in the Touraine – and asked him what the kitchen could offer them at that hour of the morning. The fat, ruddy-faced man smiled.
‘What can I possibly serve you?’ he said, giving Bourdeau a dig in the ribs that would have knocked over anyone less steady on his feet. ‘Hmm … What do you say to a calf’s breast pie? I just made one for a neighbour of mine who’s christening his baby. I’ll go and heat it up for you. With two pitchers of red wine from our region, as usual.’
Nicolas, who loved inside information, asked him the recipe for this promising-sounding dish.
‘Only
