don’t think so,’ replied the doctor.
He looked at Nicolas again, this time with a flicker of amused curiosity.
‘That will be all, Doctor,’ said the young man. ‘See Bourdeau about Saint-Louis.’
When Semacgus had withdrawn, the two policemen remained deep in thought for a long time. Bourdeau drummed the desk with his fingertips.
‘For a first interrogation, no one could have done better,’ he said at last.
Nicolas did not respond to this comment which nevertheless pleased him.
‘I’m going back to Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin,’ he said. ‘Monsieur de Sartine must be told about all this immediately.’
Bourdeau shook his head.
‘Not so fast, young man. It’s time to eat instead. In fact it’s well past lunchtime. Besides, the Lieutenant General is not available in the afternoons. Lunch is on me. I know a little hostelry that serves decent wine.’
After walking along Rue de la Grande Boucherie, which backed onto the Châtelet, they entered a small street, Rue du Pied-de-Boeuf. Nicolas had by now become used to the way of life and even the smells of this district. The butchers slaughtered cattle in their shops and blood ran down the middle of the streets, where it congealed at the feet of the passers-by. But this was nothing compared with the odours from the melting-houses for animal tallow. Bourdeau negotiated his way between ruts and puddles, oblivious to the stench. Nicolas, who had just returned from Brittany and could still feel the ocean’s breath on his skin, put his handkerchief to his face, much to his companion’s amusement.
The inn was welcoming. Its customers were shop boys and notaries’ clerks. The innkeeper was from the same village as Bourdeau, near Chinon, and his wine came from there too. They sat down to a fricassée of chicken, bread, goat’s cheese and a jug of wine. Despite the unappealing nature of the walk, Nicolas did credit to the ambigu3 and tucked in heartily. The conversation was taken up with planning their campaign: informing Monsieur de Sartine; carrying out enquiries in Vaugirard and Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré; questioning Descart and La Paulet, and continuing to go through the police reports.
It was almost five o’clock when they went their separate ways. Nicolas discovered that Sartine was not at his home; he was at Versailles, summoned by the King. He thought for a moment of going to visit Père Grégoire, but the Carmelite monastery was a long way off and it was getting dark, so he sensibly decided to return to Rue des Blancs-Manteaux.
Things had definitely been going on in the house during his absence. No sooner had he got inside than again he heard two people talking, this time in Madame Lardin’s drawing room.
‘He knew everything, Louise,’ said a man’s voice.
‘I know, he made a terrible scene. But for heaven’s sake, Henri, explain why you were in that place at all.’
‘It was a trap. I can’t tell you anything … Did you hear a noise?’
They stopped talking. A hand had been pressed against Nicolas’s mouth, another pushed him into the darkness and dragged him into the pantry. He could see nothing and heard only heavy breathing. He was released. He felt someone’s breath and smelled a fragrance that seemed familiar to him, then the footsteps receded and he found himself alone in the dark, watchful and motionless. A little later, the front door closed and he heard Louise Lardin returning to her rooms on the first floor. He waited a few moments more, then went up to his garret.
Notes – CHAPTER III
1. The name given to the morgue situated in the basement of the Châtelet.
2. A card game in which the banker plays alone against any number of players.
3. A meal in which the meat course and the dessert are served at the same time.
‘The more light we have, the less clearly we are able to see.’
THE PRINCE DE LIGNE
Tuesday 6 February 1761
As soon as he awoke Nicolas tried to remember down to the very last detail the scene that he had witnessed on his return to Rue des Blancs-Manteaux. The fleeting fragrance he had smelled could only have belonged to Marie Lardin. If Catherine the cook had grabbed him like that he would instantly have recognised her from the mixture of odours that always clung to her clothes. But why should Marie have dragged him away like this? She doubtless wanted to protect him, but from whom? He had identified the voices of Descart and Madame Lardin, and the meaning of their words was by now quite clear to him. But more than one conclusion could be drawn from them. Descart had a special relationship with Louise Lardin. He had recounted the Dauphin Couronné incident and she had been outraged by his presence at that establishment. But why had he spoken of a ‘trap’? Was it a way of exonerating himself for having been there?
For Nicolas, this brief exchange took on a special significance in the light of the attack that was only intended to protect him. The fact that someone – Marie Lardin – had considered he was in danger simply for having overheard the conversation gave a disturbing dimension to all this. From now on his best option would be to play the innocent and disguise his curiosity from everyone in the house. They would all realise soon enough – if they had not done so already – that he had been appointed by Sartine to investigate the commissioner’s disappearance.
While he was thinking, Nicolas caught himself humming an aria from Rameau’s Dardanus. This had not happened to him since he’d left Guérande. Life was, it seemed, returning to normal. He was impatient to start his day’s work. He had joined the police without deliberately choosing it as a career. A stranger to Paris, he had been taken in hand by Sartine and one thing had led to another. What was happening now, with its twists and turns, surprises, discoveries and sometimes pitfalls, filled him with a new energy, even if some questions remained unanswered and he still felt doubtful when he was in the thick of it. Semacgus’s interrogation left him with a confused feeling of bitterness. He wondered whether he should remain at the Lardins’ house when all the indications were that one day he would be obliged to question them, too.
As he finished his quick wash in ice-cold water, he was suddenly struck by the silence in the house. Admittedly it was a quiet neighbourhood but it suddenly seemed to be muffled, as if under a blanket. A glance outside gave him the explanation: day was breaking and the dawn cast a yellowish light over a garden covered in snow.
The canon’s watch struck half past seven. When Nicolas went downstairs Catherine was not there, but she had left a pot of soup on the stove which he knew was for him. Freshly baked bread awaited him on the table. Every Tuesday the cook left the house early with two enormous wicker baskets to go to the Saint-Jean market. She walked as fast as her enormous
