responsible for many arbitrary decisions and lettres de cachet. Madame Victoire thought him stupid, whereas others emphasised his gift for conciliation, his ability to appease dissenting parties without compromising the authority of the throne. On many occasions, he had demonstrated his trust in Nicolas, but a recent case in which his cousin the Duc d’Aiguillon had been involved seemed to have contributed to his current low opinion of the commissioner.
Nicolas again looked at the house, which had all the grandeur and nobility of a small palace and gave anything but a small idea of the fortune of the man who had built it. He recalled certain pieces of gossip concerning the minister’s dubious morals. He lived a dissolute life in Paris, surrounded by women of ill repute, and neglected his wife in favour of a mistress, Marie-Madeleine de Cusacque, the Marquise de Langeac, whom he called ‘the Beautiful Aglaé’. It was claimed at Court that this woman made use of her lover’s influence and traded lettres de cachet, and there was good reason to believe that this was true. The duc had set up all the lady’s children, despite their dubious lineage, but since the King’s death he had had to conform to the new, stricter morality and give up seeing her. She had continued to appear, however, even provoking a gentleman to a duel and insulting a tribunal. Eventually, she had been ordered to remain fifty leagues from the Court and had withdrawn to an estate near Caen. As for her lover, his health had declined since this forced separation.
Nicolas finally decided to enter the mansion. A monumentally tall Swiss Guard, covered in silver braid, received him haughtily, softening only when he gave his name and occupation. He was led across the main courtyard and then up some steps into a vestibule where a valet greeted him. He was surprised by the lack of hustle and bustle in the house at this hour of the day. Several servants passed him without looking at him, with inscrutable expressions on their faces. On the great staircase, he noted a fine painting, an allegory of Prudence and Strength. On the first floor, a succession of antechambers led him to the minister’s study. The valet tapped at the door. A familiar voice responded. The valet stood aside to let him in. The Duc de La Vrillière sat slumped beside the big marble fireplace, wearing a grey coat and no wig. He glanced at Nicolas expressionlessly. The man had certainly changed since their last encounter. Thin, stooped, hollow-jowled, he looked quite unlike the chubby little man Nicolas had known.
‘Hmm, here’s young Ranreuil,’ he grunted. ‘Quite cold, isn’t it?’
He sighed, as if the name alone could summon up the ghost of the late King, his other passion in life. Things could have got off to a worse start, thought Nicolas.
‘Monsieur,’ said the minister, ‘I have always held you in great esteem. I understand that you may have thought that you – how shall I put it? – did not have my trust. But that was a complete misunderstanding on your part.’
‘I did indeed think so, Monseigneur,’ replied Nicolas. ‘In fact, I was quite convinced of it, even though I found it hard to explain. Others took it upon themselves to reinforce the impression.’
‘Now who could that have been? Lenoir? Yes, that may well be what he thought. A word from me will disabuse him. It is no longer possible to do without your services. Monsieur de Sartine long ago convinced me of that. Today, I need you again.’
Nicolas had been right: he was indeed back in business. ‘Monseigneur,’ he said, ‘I am at your service.’
The minister raised a hand clad in a grey silk glove and brought it down hard on the armrest of his chair. He sat up, and for a moment the image of the man he had been reappeared, an image of easy-going but real authority.
‘Let’s get straight to the point. Yesterday I was at Versailles. I came back early this morning to find my house turned upside down. The fact is, Monsieur, my major-domo has been killed.’ He shook his head irritably. ‘No, I’m wrong! One of my wife’s maids has been killed, and my major-domo was found wounded and unconscious with a knife beside him. It would seem that, having killed the girl, he tried to punish himself by committing suicide.’
‘What measures have so far been taken?’ Nicolas enquired coldly, once again the professional who did not like other people to draw hasty conclusions for him.
‘What? What? … Measures? Oh, yes, measures … I forbade anyone to touch the maid’s body. The major-domo was taken to his room on the mezzanine, still unconscious. He is being watched by a doctor. As for the kitchens where the crime took place, I have forbidden access to them and the doors have been bolted while waiting for you to inspect the place.’
‘Did you know the victim?’
The duc gave a kind of start. ‘A chambermaid! One of the last to have entered my house. How could I? I don’t even know her name.’
Nicolas thought to himself that servants were often regarded as furniture. Most of the time, their names were changed and their master was unaware of their real name, knowing nothing of them but the particular function for which they were paid.
‘Monseigneur,’ he said, ‘may I be so bold as to demand full authority in this affair, which is all the more serious for having taken place in your house? No meddling, no interference, the possibility of questioning all the occupants of the house, and I mean all, and permanent permission to move around and to search.’
‘All right, all right,’ grumbled the duc, ‘I suppose it’s necessary. Sartine did tell me how inconvenient you can be.’
‘The facts are more inconvenient than I. That’s not all, Monseigneur. I should like to be assisted by Bourdeau. I trust you will consent.’
‘The name sounds familiar. Isn’t he one of our officers?’
‘One of our inspectors, Monseigneur.’
‘That’s right,’ said La Vrillière, striking his forehead, ‘he’s your loyal deputy. I like loyalty. Of course I consent.’
‘What about Monsieur Lenoir?’
‘Leave it to me. I’ll reconcile the two of you. He’ll be informed that this is my affair and you answer entirely to me. It’s a private matter, and requires the greatest discretion. The Lieutenant General of Police will have to accede to your demands for any help or support that you may require. I hope that you will show the same zeal and efficiency in this affair as you have in others. A study has been set aside for you on the mezzanine, and orders will be given that you must be obeyed in all matters. My valet, Provence, will be your guide in this house. You can trust him, he’s been with me for twenty years. Now do your work. Monsieur, I am at your disposal.’
The minister’s tone was certainly in keeping with the circumstances. Nicolas had often noted in this unloved little man, lacking in personal prestige, a kind of unexpected grandeur which occasionally appeared, its roots constantly irrigated by the will and trust of the monarch. Thus, in a few short moments, the Duc de La Vrillière had been transfigured, animated by the concerns of State and the order it was his task to impose upon it. Everything vital having been said, Nicolas bowed and left the room. The valet was waiting at the door, and asked Nicolas to follow him. They took the same route by which they had come. Back on the ground floor, they came to a large hall that led to a succession of antechambers. In the third room on the right, the valet pointed out the entrance to a large study, which Nicolas judged to be situated more or less beneath that of the minister. The valet closed the door behind him. A fire was blazing in a white marble hearth, above which stood a bust of Louis XV. He stood for a moment contemplating it, suddenly overwhelmed with memories. Then he sat down at a small desk inlaid with bronze and lacquer and equipped with paper, quill pens, ink and lead pencils. He took out his little black notebook, an indispensable
