He wrapped himself in his cloak, adjusted his cocked hat, bowed to the two police officers and went out. Nicolas had been struck by the benevolence emanating from the doctor, and the elegant simplicity of his attire, embellished with a ribbon tying up his natural, unpowdered salt-and-pepper hair. Once the doctor had gone out, Bourdeau gave a slight bow.
‘Everyone kowtows to the marquis,’ he said. ‘No sooner do they know him than they guess his rank, even if he calls himself Le Floch. Monsieur de Gévigland made no mistake! He fell into your snare.’
Nicolas did not reply to this gibe, which his friend had not been able to refrain from coming out with. To him, Bourdeau was all of a piece, with his faults and his qualities, the latter far outweighing the former in his judgement. The inspector was truly devoted to him, had twice saved his life, and had not hesitated to risk his career for his sake. Having fallen from favour together, they were now coming back into the light of day, more united than ever. What accumulated resentment, what brooded-over bitterness nourished these attacks of acrimony which Bourdeau seemed unable to control? The merest trifle could revive an unknown wound. The tragic death of his father, torn to pieces by a boar during a royal hunt, did not explain everything. The cruel game of respect and contempt which underlay a society based on the privileges of birth was something he found hard to accept. There was also a touch of possessive jealousy towards those who yielded to the commissioner’s innate seductive charms. Their attentions disgusted the inspector, who always dreamed of an exclusive friendship. Fortunately, Noblecourt, La Borde and Semacgus escaped this devouring jealousy. They did not in any way threaten long-established habits, and their own feelings for the inspector were a bastion and an anchor in his life. Yes, the sensible thing was not to respond to his remarks. Nicolas dreaded that the regular recurrence of these ideas might one day lead his friend to take up extreme positions, the consequences of which he would be unable to control. It was an abscess that needed to be lanced, and perhaps he would make up his mind to speak to him about it. But the hour had not yet come for that discussion.
‘Did you see the shoes?’ Bourdeau went on. ‘Not a trace of blood. Nothing. Clean and polished.’
‘Perhaps he cleaned them, we’ll have to ask him.’
Nicolas wrote something in his little black notebook, then asked Bourdeau what time it was.
‘That’s what I thought, it’s getting late. But it’s vital that we hear all the testimonies today. Let’s divide up the task. I’ll question the Swiss Guard and you have a word with the caretaker. Then we’ll meet again and see what we’ve come up with.’
*
They again found the valet waiting for them in the shadows of the corridor. Once more, the thought crossed Nicolas’s mind that the valet had not left them for a single second. Was he simply being diligent, to the point of obsequiousness, or had someone told him to keep an eye on everything they did? He led them into a new maze of corridors. They went past the linen room and came to some adjoining quarters. Provence pointed out to Bourdeau the entrance to the caretaker’s lodge, then, taking another staircase, he led the commissioner to the Swiss Guard’s sentry box on the ground floor below, at the corner of the left facade, near the gate. The man, who was tall and stooped, had taken off his wig, and his cranium gleamed in the candlelight. He immediately put his wig back on. He was truly monumental. Nicolas recalled that the largest houses in the city specifically sought out such giants to fill this kind of office. This one was so tall that the commissioner had to look up at him.
‘You know who I am, you welcomed me earlier. What is your name and how old are you?’
‘Pierre Miquete, about forty.’ He did not wait for the questions. ‘This is what I can tell you. There was a loud cry from the courtyard. I should tell you that the window of my bedroom looks out on the gate. I was eating my morning soup. I should tell you that I put in leftover dry bread, which the kitchen boy passes to me. It’s better in soup. So, yes, the cry … I went running. There was Jacques, doing the same. Yes, I should tell you his name is Jacques, like the caretaker. Everyone was crying, “Murder! Murder!”’
‘Everyone?’
‘Provence, Eugénie, the caretaker and Jacques.’
‘Was it light?’
‘I don’t remember. The emotion, you know. Seems to me …’
‘Did you see the bodies?’
‘Certainly not! The slightest drop of blood makes me faint.’
Nicolas risked something that sometimes worked. ‘Were you in love with her?’
The response was rapid, but not what he had expected. ‘With that girl? Of course not. I should tell you, Commissioner, that I’ve accumulated a certain amount since I’ve been in Monseigneur’s service. I need something a bit more substantial than a little streetwalker. But the other one doesn’t want me. And they all warmed his bed, her like all the rest. I could weep, I’m that besotted, but she doesn’t want to know anything about me.’
‘Who are you talking about?’
‘I’m talking about Eugénie burning the midnight oil with Missery, but now that he’s abandoned her, she still won’t look at me.’
Good Lord! thought Nicolas. But he asked only, ‘And where were you last night?’
‘In my room.’
Nicolas went back to his study on the mezzanine. He wondered if he should respond immediately to the minister’s wish to be informed of the initial results of the investigation. Nothing that he could tell him seemed likely to arouse his interest. Should he bother him with a host of bizarre details and vague, contradictory testimonies? Unlike Monsieur de Sartine, the Duc de La Vrillière had little taste for the nitty-gritty of police work: he needed something to get his teeth into. It would be better to hold off for the moment.
Nicolas sat staring at the fire. His mind flew back to the limbo of his childhood, and he saw himself at Guérande, watching rapt as the logs collapsed in a cloud of sparks. Night was falling by the time he returned to reality. This mansion oozed dissimulation and hatred: it was an impression that gripped him like a feeling of suffocation. All the elements had been in place for a tragedy. All the witnesses might have had reasons to hate the victim, but all of them were equally falling over each other to disparage the major-domo. It still remained to be established that the solution did indeed lie within the walls of the Saint-Florentin mansion. What was the role of that mysterious stranger whose bloody footprints had guided him as far as the balcony? Of course, that could have been an attempt to divert suspicion from the inhabitants of the house and to lead the investigators along a false path. He reflected for a long time. When Bourdeau entered the room, now dimly lit by the last gleams of the dying fire, he found him with his chin in his hand and his eyes staring into space.
‘Good hunting, Pierre?’
‘The caretaker, Jacques Blain, twenty-eight years old, well built, a bit of a lady killer, was mad about the chambermaid,’ declared Bourdeau. ‘Didn’t see a thing. Just went to fetch the doctor from Rue Saint-Honoré. He hates Missery, in fact he hates the whole household. This mansion is a real cesspool of wickedness!’
‘What else?’
‘What else? A stew made with three rabbits, for one man. I saw the skins hanging in his window. He did me the honour of letting me try it.’
‘Did
