The Man with the Lead Stomach (15 page)

He stepped aside for him and, turning towards Nicolas, whispered in his ear: ‘Madame de Pompadour wishes to see you tomorrow in her chateau at Choisy. You will be expected at three o'clock in the afternoon. Good luck, my friend.'

It was on this astonishing note that Nicolas's day drew to a close.

Nicolas left Rue Montmartre early in the morning. The evening he had spent with his friends had allayed any misgivings. Mademoiselle Bichelière had used him either to satisfy a passing fancy or to ingratiate herself with the police. He convinced himself that as he was not the first person she had given herself to, he was absolved to a degree from having yielded so
thoughtlessly
to his instincts. He recognised that the experience had been quite pleasurable, and then remembered Semacgus’s sniggers.

But Nicolas now had other things on his mind. He could not postpone meeting with Monsieur de Sartine any longer and felt apprehensive about what his superior would say. Would he try to salvage what he could of the situation by covering for his deputy or would he distance himself as he had done on occasion? Would that be tantamount to forbidding him from pursuing the investigation? This possibility worried Nicolas.

The other matter worrying him was the summons from the King’s favourite to go to her chateau at Choisy. He could hardly believe it. What requests or orders could she possibly have for
him? Admittedly he had recently rendered her a signal service, but why turn to him, a modest link in the police chain, and not go directly to Sartine? Was the latter aware of this summons? If so, what did he think of it?

The venue for the meeting partly answered his question. The marquise had plenty of choice: her apartments in Versailles, her mansion in the royal town, the Hôtel d’Evreux in Paris, the chateau of Bellevue … but Choisy seemed most appropriate for a discreet meeting as it was relatively far away, very extensive, with a large number of servants, and thus a place of many comings and goings. The fact that the message had been passed on by La Borde, in whom the King had absolute trust, reassured him somewhat. The sovereign was no doubt aware of everything.

Monsieur de Sartine seemed to be in neither a good nor bad mood. Having tapped gently on his door and crept in, Nicolas found him busy writing, wearing a colourful, shot-silk headscarf. A
manservant
was clearing a pedestal table. The Lieutenant General gave his visitor a guarded look.

‘Are you Tamburlaine, Attila the Hun or Genghis Khan, Monsieur?’ he declared. ‘Wherever you go, nothing survives, the bodies pile up, whole families perish, mothers follow their sons on to Charon’s ferry. What’s your explanation for this – in as few words as possible, please?’

The jollity of his tone belied the strength of his words. Nicolas took a deep breath and replied in similar vein.

‘I am desperately sorry, Monsieur.’

‘Oh, I am so glad, so glad to have to explain to Monsieur de
Saint-Florentin about the goings-on in our good town. How the body of an unfortunate who has committed suicide, or rather the victim of an accident, was taken away against the wishes of his father and delivered up to quacks and to the … I won’t mention his name … so that they might have the macabre pleasure of delving into his entrails. This is intolerable, Monsieur! How can it be explained or justified? And how do I look in all of this? A lieutenant in the French Guards, the son of a gentleman-
in-waiting
to Madame Adélaïde … As I predicted the father has gone on the offensive and the minister has not weathered the storm. Heaven – or the Devil – help us if you actually opened up the body!’

‘There was no need.’

‘What do you mean, no need? All this fuss for nothing?’

‘Certainly not, Monsieur. Our quacks had time to examine everything and come to a conclusion.’

‘Oh, really! Well then, Mister Sawbones, what did they conclude? I am keen to know …’

‘The conclusion, Monsieur, is that the Vicomte de Ruissec was murdered. Molten lead was forced down his throat.’

Monsieur de Sartine tore off his headscarf, revealing his thinning, already greying hair.

‘Good God, Monsieur. That is terrible. This changes everything, obviously. I’ll take you at your word and assume that the matter is now beyond doubt.’

He stood up and began to walk up and down his office. After some time he stopped his obsessive pacing and sat down again.

‘Yes, beyond doubt: the crime is proven. Ruissec has now seen his son’s body and can be under no illusions. That expression on
the face still haunts me. So, not suicide … But what about the comtesse? You’re not going to tell me that—’

‘Once more I am desperately sorry, Monsieur. Myself, Monsieur de Beurquigny, the commissioner for the district, whom you know, and a doctor concur in all our findings: we have ruled out the possibility of an accident and must conclude that the unfortunate lady’s neck was intentionally broken and she was then thrown down the well of the dead in the church of the Carmelites.’

‘This is really all too much. The situation could not be more difficult. Is it possible to establish a link between these two crimes?’

‘At this stage of the investigation it’s impossible to say. However, there is one disturbing detail.’

Nicolas gave a rapid account of the story of the ticket for the Comédie-Italienne and the ensuing inquiries.

‘Which means, Monsieur, that you are requesting permission to continue your investigation, does it?’

The young man nodded. ‘I am asking your permission to go on searching for the truth.’

‘But the truth is like a slippery whore that always escapes your grasp. And if you do catch hold of her she will burn your fingers. In any case, Nicolas, how can I let you continue an investigation when the minister has decreed that no crime was committed?’

Nicolas noted that he was being addressed by his first name again.

‘So we must close our eyes, must we? Let the crime go unpunished and—’

‘Come, come, stop being childish by putting words into my
mouth. No one is more anxious than I to separate the truth from the lies. But if you persist with this investigation it will be at your own risk. My support will cease as soon as influences more powerful than mine are brought into play. I realise you do not wish to give up the chase and, if I am speaking to you like this, it is because I am concerned for your safety.’

‘Monsieur, I am touched by your words but you must understand that I cannot stop now.’

‘Another thing: be punctual for your meeting with Madame de Pompadour.’

He glanced towards the clock on the chimney piece. Nicolas said nothing.

‘Monsieur de La Borde told me about it,’ continued Sartine. ‘Take care not to lose such a precious and disinterested friendship.’

He paused and then went on in a quieter voice, as if talking to himself, ‘Occasionally a woman hides from a man the full extent of the passion she feels for him, whilst for his part the man feigns for her feelings he does not have. Yes, be punctual and respectful.’

‘Monsieur, I will give you a full report …’

‘That goes without saying, Commissioner.’

Nicolas bit his lip. He would have done better to have held his tongue.

‘And what does Monsieur de Noblecourt think about all this?’

Nicolas noted that his superior apparently thought it quite natural for him to tell the former procurator about an ongoing investigation.

‘He talks in maxims. According to him, being honoured counts for little because it does not mean that one is honourable and he
advises me to look closely into the protagonists’ pasts. He, too, urges me to be on my guard.’

‘I see that our friend has lost none of his wisdom. The last piece of advice is good and the others equally apposite. Be off with you, Monsieur. A carriage awaits you. Do not forget the business with the Minister of Bavaria. Find me this damned coachman as quickly as you can.’

Nicolas bowed and refrained from expounding on his theory concerning the incident at Pont de Sèvres. There would be time for that later. He was already at the door when he heard the Lieutenant General of Police’s voice once more.

‘Don’t do anything foolish, Nicolas. And don’t brush Bourdeau aside. We are very fond of you.’

Following these kind words, Nicolas found himself in the antechamber. A mirror hung over a chest of drawers showed the reflection of an elegant, well-built young man with a cocksure air, dressed in a black coat and carrying a hat under his arm. The long eyebrows above his grey-green eyes made him look more startled than innocent. His well-defined lips gave the hint of a smile and his auburn hair, tied in a knot, emphasised the youthfulness of the face, despite a few scars. He dashed down the stairs four at a time. Monsieur de Sartine planned things down to the smallest detail when it suited his purposes. It was important for Nicolas to get to his meeting with the King’s favourite without incident, so a carriage was waiting for him in the courtyard.

In the end, the interview with the Lieutenant General had gone better than expected from Nicolas’s point of view. He had been afraid of encountering a man who was annoyed, hesitant and wanting to distance himself from his subordinate’s risky
initiatives. In fact he had been given a free hand, admittedly ‘at his own risk’, but with a veiled expression of concern that came from the heart. He shuddered belatedly at the thought that everything might have come to a halt there and then. No more bodies, no more crimes, no more victims, no more culprits … Perhaps Madame de Ruissec’s murder should have been made public but the result would have been exactly the same: the body would have been removed and the case buried together with the comtesse. That was in fact how things stood for now and he alone held the small clue that might enable the mystery to be solved and thus unmask the perpetrators.

From the comfort of his carriage Nicolas practised guessing the occupations of the passers-by, by trying to read their expressions and imagining what might be going through the minds of this mass of humanity called the people. He stored up images of clothes, outfits and postures in his memory. He would call upon these one day in relation to specific people, to make those mysterious connections that were essential to his intuition. His knowledge of people would gradually increase by consulting these living archives in the course of his investigations. The sight of the gloomy bulk of the Bastille interrupted his ruminations. He had gone there once to visit his friend Semacgus in prison. He could still feel the dank cold of the ancient fortress. The carriage turned off to the right to follow the Seine. He banished the image of the prison from his mind.

Town suddenly gave way to countryside. Having nothing else to do, Nicolas give some order to the various facts he knew about
the Marquise de Pompadour. Monsieur de Noblecourt’s
well-informed
guests talked a great deal. In addition to what they said he read publications confiscated by the police or letters opened by the postal censors. Scurrilous tracts, lampoons, obscene poems and insults made up a motley collection. Everyone said she was ill and exhausted by the frenzy and anxiety of the Court. The King, who had never treated her with much consideration, required her presence at late-night vigils, suppers, entertainments and on his incessant travels, especially in the hunting season. Her delicate stomach had been damaged by too rich a diet. Semacgus put forward the theory that to please her lover she had listened to bad advice and made excessive use of stimulants provided by
charlatans
– not to mention her prodigious consumption of truffles and spices.

But it was generally agreed that what most gnawed away at the marquise was her constant obsession about ‘some other woman’, one who would discover the secret of this unusual man, so difficult to distract from his ennui. She had even gone to the length of creating her own rivals who were seductive but naïve and who posed no threat to her hold over the King. At present, and despite these precautions, a young girl from Romans was a worry to her; she was said to be scheming and witty.

Monsieur de La Borde, though sworn to secrecy, had agreed to repeat in select company the words of one of the favourite’s friends. In an attempt to reassure her she had told her: ‘It’s your staircase that he likes, he’s used to going up and down it.’ Thus the time for passion was over, replaced by the gentler waters of friendship.

This fear of losing the King was compounded by the
permanent dread of another Damiens affair. The favourite did not forget that she had almost been pushed aside and exiled during the period when the King had been in uncertain health and the Dauphin and pious members of the royal family had managed to prevent her seeing him. As for what the people thought of her, they viewed the marquise as one of the three calamities afflicting the kingdom, along with famine and war. The streets were full of people hurling insults and threatening to kill her.

Nicolas, who had been in the marquise’s presence once before, had thought her unfussy and kind. Monsieur de La Borde, who saw her every day, shared this opinion. According to him the Good Lady was neither a spendthrift nor a hoarder, and her expenditure, though considerable, was put to good use in the arts. It was true that her allowance and income were not
commensurate
with the needs of her household and this vocation as patron of the arts. It was rumoured that she had obtained permission from the King to make use of treasury bonds as she pleased, without being accountable for how they were spent. She owned numerous estates, ranging from the distant Menars to the nearby chateau of Bellevue, halfway between Paris and Versailles, built on a hillside above Pont de Sèvres. Madame de Pompadour liked to be in a dominant position.

The carriage followed the river. The countryside offered a pleasant prospect of taverns, and small farms that were crowded with herds of cattle, which their breeders fattened for
consumption
in the capital, selling the manure as fertiliser to the gardeners and fruit and vegetable growers in the neighbourhood. Orchards and glasshouses lined both sides of the road. These rural impressions put Nicolas in a good mood. His reflections had
armed him with the necessary facts and information for his forthcoming conversation; for now, the reason for the interview remained a mystery to him, but it was clearly something quite out of the ordinary. The fact that Monsieur de Sartine, normally so eager to give advice, had made no comment on the matter was evidence enough of his own puzzlement.