The Man with the Lead Stomach (8 page)

‘Men of my age are not particularly fond of autumn, and sage tea is not a very great remedy.’

‘Come, come, if your condition improves you will be entitled to a splendid glass of Irancy. In any case, you are like Persephone: you reappear even more radiant in the springtime.’

Monsieur de Noblecourt smiled. ‘Probably, but before that I must cross the kingdom of Hades, the god of the dead. “I shall see the Styx and greet the Eumenides.”’

‘But I know another version, in which Persephone, beloved of Zeus, gives birth to Dionysus, the god of wine and pleasure. I can just imagine you crowned with vine leaves and surrounded by cupids playing the pipes!’

‘Oh, you devil! You’re a clever fellow who wants to cure a hypochondriac! The Jesuits of Vannes may congratulate
themselves
on the education they gave you. Besides, if things carry on at this rate there will be little else left for them to do. Well, you’ve managed to cheer me up.’

Nicolas was pleased to have brought a smile to his old friend’s face and to have lifted the momentary gloom darkening his sunny temperament.

‘One last word, Nicolas. You know how accurate my
presentiments
are. Be careful where you tread. These pious malcontents are the worst kind. Take precautions, reinforce your security and do not act alone as you are only too inclined to do. Cyrus and I are very fond of you.’

On this affectionate note Nicolas took his leave. On Rue Montmartre he looked for a sedan chair to take him back as
quickly as possible to Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin where the Hôtel de Gramont, the Lieutenant General of Police’s residence, was situated.

The narrow streets were already crowded and bustling, which slowed down his vehicle and gave Nicolas time to think about what he had just learnt from Monsieur de Noblecourt. He stared unseeing at people shopping and the myriad incidents of street life.

His cheerfulness had by now given way to a vague sense of anxiety, all the more disquieting because he could not identify its cause. He eventually admitted to himself that it was in large part due to injured pride. He was annoyed that he had been too quick to judge the Comte de Ruissec, labelling and dismissing him as a mere puppet. His inexperience – Monsieur de Noblecourt would have called it innocence – amounted to naivety. The elderly nobleman, however aggressive and insulting he had been, had still impressed him; his usual sense of intuition had not worked. He had set off on the wrong tack, overawed by the comte’s haughty references to the qualities and privileges of the nobility, a class familiar to him from his Breton childhood. The brigadier general, a Life Guard to Madame Adélaïde, had given him a polished demonstration of the cunning of the courtier, albeit disguised by the usual bluffness of the military man, and he had been taken in by this performance. He found it impossible to imagine that this father might harbour a grievance against his own son, if the suicide theory were disproved. But it seemed Monsieur de Ruissec was keeping plenty of secrets to himself.

Nicolas would need to find the younger brother as soon as possible, to complete the family picture. He was also annoyed with himself for failing to obtain this information and having to learn it from the former procurator. The position the comte held at Court might have very serious implications for the case. Nicolas ran the risk of offending powerful interests. He knew from bitter experience that Monsieur de Sartine was not always in a position to cast a protective shadow over him. There remained the King. After all, he thought, the sovereign was the one who had wanted him to be assigned to special investigations. Did the matter he was embarked upon belong in this category? He needed to proceed with caution but not hesitate to call upon the source of supreme authority. It was with this reassuring thought that he entered the Hôtel de Gramont.

A footman led him directly to the office of the master of the house. Often when he came to receive instructions or to give the latest report on a case, Nicolas had the opportunity to admire the large wardrobe containing Monsieur de Sartine’s collection of wigs of all shapes and origins. This innocent foible was the talk of Paris, and the magistrate’s every change of hairstyle was an eagerly awaited event. Even the King’s ministers in foreign courts were constantly being encouraged and requested to provide him with new models. This was a sure way of being well thought of and favourably looked upon by a man who, despite his reputation for being incorruptible nevertheless enjoyed the immense privilege of a weekly audience with the King, and could ruin a reputation and destroy a career with one word.

When Nicolas entered the room, Sartine was not alone. A glance was enough to tell him to stay back and listen closely.
Nicolas observed the scene. Standing behind his desk, the Lieutenant General of Police was thoughtfully examining several wickerwork heads of dummies, covered with wigs. Nicolas assumed he had been interrupted during his morning selection procedure. Sartine looked at once deferential and exasperated. A stocky, pot-bellied man, dressed in a russet velvet coat, sat in an armchair, talking away in a loud voice that suited the size of his German-style wig. His French, though perfect, was marked by a strong foreign accent, which Nicolas assumed to be Teutonic. On his left hand he wore a ring with a large diamond that sparkled each time he emphasised his words with an imperious wave of his arm. Nicolas listened carefully.

Monsieur de Sartine sighed.

‘Your Excellency, may I present Commissioner Nicolas Le Floch, whom I intend to put in charge of the business to which I owe the honour of your visit.’

The man barely turned, gave the young man an angry glance and immediately resumed speaking.

‘I shall therefore have to repeat myself … What happened to me is most distressing and I want you to understand how regrettable it is for me to have to inform you of an incident I did everything possible to prevent. Yesterday evening between six and seven o’clock I was returning from Versailles when my coach was stopped by some minor officials at the Porte de la Conférence. One of them came up to the door to tell me that he knew my carriage was full of smuggled goods. You can imagine my surprise. I said to the man – a police officer, I believe – that all he had to do was to follow me and that I would have the carriage searched in his presence and if any smuggled goods were indeed
found he could simply confiscate them. So he accompanied my coach and it was then, during the journey, that I made the decision, first to write to Monsieur de Choiseul about the
treatment
meted out to the Minister of the Elector of Bavaria in Paris, and secondly to seek an audience with you, Monsieur, to make you aware of what happened to me and to request the
imprisonment
of any of my men who might be guilty, in order to force them to reveal the provenance of the smuggled goods.’

The Lieutenant General was shaking his head whilst simultaneously raising and lowering it in the manner of a horse trying to rid itself of a bridle.

‘And what was in fact the truth about such an unlikely and insulting assumption?’

‘After returning to my residence I left the police officer to his search. My valet, who had accompanied me from Versailles and had questioned my coachman, assured me that the latter had admitted to being the sole guilty party. The officer in question asked to see me and informed me that my coach was full of tobacco and that the said coachman accused the papal nuncio’s postilion of having passed it on to him. It proved impossible to get any other information out of him. In the meantime my coachman had fled. As for the nuncio, whom I immediately went to see, he categorically refused to hand over his postilion.’

Nicolas noted that his superior was in the process of moving objects sideways on his desk, like a chess player deciding to castle in anticipation of an attacking move by his opponent. This was undoubtedly a sign of his growing irritation.

‘So what exactly can I do for Your Excellency?’

The minister, aware of Sartine’s little game, continued, in a
calmer voice: ‘This is the present state of affairs, the tedious details of which I would have preferred to spare you. But I felt I had no choice. If ever anyone deserved to avoid such
unpleasantness
I am that person because of the care I have taken to order my men never to let me enter my carriage without their first having checked it. I insist, Monsieur, that you seek out and arrest my coachman. It is most unfair that I should find myself somehow compromised and exposed to spiteful talk because of the action of such riffraff. I beg you, Monsieur, to pursue this as a matter of urgency. If Monsieur de Choiseul believes that I am entitled to some form of redress, I like to think that he will kindly offer it.’

‘Ambassador, I can do no better than to request Your Excellency to enable Monsieur Le Floch, here present, to have access to your staff. He will act on my behalf and will be answerable to me alone. I am only too aware of the concern this incident has caused you and will do all in my power to solve it. I can also assure you that we certainly do not suspect any foreign minister of playing the least part in this act of smuggling. The necessary measures will be taken to find your coachman and to discover the true instigators in this damnable business.’

There followed a series of carefully executed movements, forwards and backwards, half bows and courteous whisperings. Monsieur de Sartine accompanied his guest back to the steps of the Hôtel de Gramont and returned, looking quite red in the face.

‘Damn that confounded bore! What a start to my morning: first my barber cuts me, then my tongue gets burnt on hot chocolate and now I have Baron Van Eyck pestering me.’ He was unwinding the curls of a frizzled wig. ‘And to crown it all the weather turns damp and ruins my wigs.’

There was a tap at the door.

‘What next?’

A footman entered and handed him an envelope. Having examined the seal, he broke it, read the message and then repeated it out loud to Nicolas.

‘What did I say? Listen: “Versailles, 24 October 1761. You will soon be informed, Monsieur, of an incident that befell Count Van Eyck on his return yesterday from Versailles. The King desires you to pursue this matter as swiftly as possible in order to discover who was responsible and for you to keep me fully apprised of your progress.” Signed: “Choiseul”. All this fuss, as if we had gone and spoilt the King’s supper with such a trivial affair.’

Nicolas could already imagine what would happen next. He tried to parry the blow.

‘Monsieur de Noblecourt, who is very knowledgeable on the ways of society, told me this morning …’

But Monsieur de Sartine was not listening. He was feverishly flicking through the pages of a leather-bound volume embossed with his armorial bearings, the famous ‘sardines’ that were a testimony to his ironic attitude towards his origins and his contempt for Parisian sneerers. He found what he was looking for.

‘He’s not a count; Choiseul was flattering him, as I might have guessed. “Baron Van Eyck, special envoy of the Elector of Bavaria and of the Cardinal of Bavaria and Prince-Bishop of Liège.” Hmm … he lives at the Hôtel de Beauvais on Rue
Saint-Antoine
. The
Almanach Royal
is irreplaceable. Nicolas, you are going to solve this case for me and immediately find a way to placate Monsieur de Choiseul, satisfy the baron and put an end to
all this fuss about a few packets of poor-quality tobacco. Good heavens, zealousness can sometimes do more harm than good!’

‘May I point out, Monsieur, that there is another inquiry that requires further urgent investigation and—’

‘And nothing, Monsieur. I want you to go to Rue
Saint-Antoine
: the matter in question can wait.’

Sartine suddenly looked down at the frizzled wig and stared in dismay at its ruined curls. It only remained for Nicolas to take his leave and go.

He went to the stables to choose a mount. The time was long past when his superior’s strictures limited him to the use of a mule or donkey. Now the finest horses were always at his disposal, a sign of how far he had risen.

He was greeted by joyful neighing. A large chestnut mare was pawing the ground and tossing its long head in its stall as it looked towards him. He went up to it and stroked the warm silkiness around its nostrils; he felt it straining with impatience to stretch its legs. Its whole body rippled, like water gently stirred by the wind. A stable lad saddled the animal, and after a few prancing steps on the cobbled courtyard it calmed down but the pricking of its ears showed its still frisky mood. Nicolas dreamt of open spaces and of galloping away at full tilt, a fantasy that would never come about in this built-up city.

Once in the saddle, Nicolas let his mind wander in the golden glow of the autumn morning. A light mist veiled the prospect: large patches of dappled light crisscrossed the view, casting triangular shadows over the façades facing the sun. More trails of dust were thrown up from the ground in columns, then scattered and disappeared. He reached the banks of the Seine. The river
bed was obscured by thicker mist pierced in places by barges and ferries. Towards the bridges the mist grew denser, as if hemmed in and trapped under the dank arches. The houses on Pont au Change overlooked the whole scene, seemingly suspended in the air. A woman hanging out the washing at her window suddenly disappeared, swallowed up by resurgent wraiths of mist that spread out in a tree shape. Nicolas veered off towards the Great Châtelet and, after handing over his horse to a young groom, went along to the inspectors’ office.

Bourdeau was smoking a pipe while he waited for him. Nicolas quickly glanced through the duty book. In addition to a few routine incidents he noted the report on the interception of the Minister of Bavaria’s coach at the Porte de la Conférence. There was also the usual list of drownings, the remains of fished-out bodies caught in the nets at Saint Cloud, severed limbs and foetuses, all destined to figure in the same grisly exhibition on stone slabs in the freezing vaults of the Basse-Geôle. He was indifferent to all this: it was the daily round of life and death in Paris.