oracle of God.”’
‘Have you met with Lardin since?’
‘Certainly not. What is the reason for this inquisition?’
Semacgus could not stop himself speaking out, but his question was not the one that Nicolas feared.
‘Descart, what have you done with Saint-Louis?’
‘Nothing at all. Your negro is of no interest to me. He sullies the Lord’s earth.’
‘I’ve been told …’ Nicolas intervened.
He was again surprised by Descart’s reply.
‘That I shot at him, on St John’s Day. The devil was stealing cherries from my garden. He got no more than he deserved – a dose of grapeshot.’
‘A dose that took me more than two hours to remove,’ said Semacgus angrily. ‘My servant did not steal from you, he was going past your house. Now he has disappeared. What have you done with him?’
Nicolas was interested to note the turn in the confrontation. Hitting two flints together produces a spark. Let’s leave them to it, he thought to himself, and the truth might emerge.
‘Explain then to this young man what you do with the slave’s woman!’ sneered Descart. ‘“Their faces are darker than soot.” Everybody knows what filthy business you get up to with her. The jealous beast threatened you and you killed him. That’s all there is to it.’
Semacgus stood up. Nicolas squeezed his arm hard; he sat down again.
‘It would seem that insolence and devoutness go hand in hand, Monsieur Ten Commandments. You may rest assured that I will not give you a moment’s peace until I find my servant, who incidentally is not a slave but a human being like me, like Monsieur Le Floch, and perhaps even like you, Monsieur Bleeder.’
Descart was still obsessively gripping the lancet. The three men remained silent until Nicolas, in an icy voice and with an authority that took them by surprise, brought the curtain down on the scene.
‘Dr Descart, I have listened to you. Rest assured that your statements will be checked and that you will be summoned to appear before a magistrate who will question you not only about Commissioner Lardin’s disappearance, but also about that of Saint-Louis. Monsieur, I must bid you goodbye.’
As he quickly led Semacgus away, he heard Descart proffer a final biblical quotation:
‘“I was a reproach among all mine enemies, but especially among my neighbours, and a fear to mine acquaintances.”’
The cold air did them good. Semacgus’s naturally florid face was by now bright red and a purplish vein was throbbing hard at his temple.
‘Nicolas, I did not kill Saint-Louis. You believe me, don’t you?’
‘I do believe you. But I would also like to believe you about Lardin. You understand that you are among the suspects.’
‘Now you, too, are talking as if Lardin is dead.’
‘I didn’t mean to.’
‘But why did you stop me talking to him about the evening at La Paulet’s?’
‘You said it yourself: there’s nothing to indicate that anyone recognised him. It would be your word against his. I await further evidence from witnesses to corroborate your statement. But why does he hate you so much, apart from your disagreements about medicine?’
‘Don’t underestimate them, Nicolas. They play a part in the long-standing rivalry between doctors and surgeons. I treat some of the poor; he believes that I am trespassing on his territory and losing him custom.’
‘But you used to be friends, didn’t you?’
‘Acquaintances, at best. Because of Lardin.’
‘Answer me this, was there anything between Louise Lardin and yourself?’
Semacgus gazed up at the brilliant blue sky. He blinked, looked at Nicolas’s tense face and, laying his hand on the young man’s shoulder, began to speak in a hushed voice.
‘Nicolas, you are very young, let me say it again. To tell the truth, I fear that Louise Lardin is a dangerous woman, of whom you, too, should beware.’
‘Is that an answer?’
‘The answer is that I yielded to her once.’
‘Did Lardin know?’
‘I don’t know, but Descart caught us.’
‘A long time ago?’
‘About a year.’
‘Why doesn’t Descart talk about it?’
‘Because he himself is in the same position. Were he to accuse me, this accusation could be turned against him.’
‘Who knows about this business with Descart?’
‘Ask Catherine, she knows everything. And if Catherine knows, Marie will find out very quickly; she hides nothing from her.’
Nicolas held out his hand to Semacgus with a beaming smile.
‘We’re still friends, aren’t we?’
‘Of course, Nicolas. No one wants your investigation to succeed more than I do and for God’s sake don’t forget poor Saint-Louis.’
Nicolas returned to Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, sobered by what he had just learnt but cheered to be friends once more with Semacgus. He was pleased to think that Monsieur de Sartine would be deprived of certain information and that he would only give him a report when he had matters of more substance to submit to him. He still harboured some resentment towards him from their last meeting.
Bourdeau was waiting for him, looking busy and enigmatic. A report from the men of the watch had intrigued him. A certain Émilie, a soup seller, had been arrested on Saturday 3 February at about six o’clock in the morning by the toll-gate guards on their night rounds. When she was questioned at the police station of Le Temple, the details she had given were so extraordinary that they were taken to be fictitious and had been noted down only as a formality. The old woman had been released. Bourdeau had carried out his own investigation. She was known to the police for petty offences and as a former woman of easy virtue, who as she got older had descended into debauchery, then poverty. Bourdeau had jumped into a carriage, found old Émilie and had just questioned her at the Châtelet, where she was being held. He handed his report to Nicolas.
Tuesday 6 February 1761
Before us, Pierre Bourdeau, Inspector of Police at the Châtelet appeared one Jeanne Huppin, otherwise known as ‘old Émilie’, soup seller and garment mender, dwelling in lodgings in Rue du Faubourg-du-Temple, near La Courtille.
On being questioned she said in these very words ‘Alas,
