The Phantom of Rue Royale (10 page)

Standing outside the door of the Dauphin Couronné, Nicolas raised his hand towards the worn old bronze knocker, the noise of which would echo through the sleeping depths of the house of pleasure. His gesture came to an abrupt end. What was this wrought-iron door doing here, with its intermingling of satyrs and golden vine branches? What had become of the old,
worm-eaten
oak door, the top of it given a patina by years of being pushed and the bottom spattered with mud from the street? A carved handle hung there provocatively, presumably
corresponding
to a mechanism on the inside. Everything pointed to the fact that the premises had recently undergone a transformation. The supper planned for after the festivities in Place Louis XV, he recalled, was to have been his reunion with an old accomplice he had not seen since the autumn of the previous year. After a brief hesitation, he pulled the handle. A bell jingled inside, and no sooner had the sound died down than the door opened. A tall
figure stood there, looking him up and down and smiling. Definitely, he thought, time was passing. It was hard to recognise in this apparition the little black girl he had known in the past. A beautiful, dark-eyed young girl was nodding her head, her languid air accentuated by her Turkish-style attire. She greeted him with a lisping warble – that at least had not changed – curtseyed and moved aside to let him in. The surprises were not yet over for Nicolas. The long hall with its geometric frieze and its great chandelier was gone. Gone, too, the partition walls, and the room where once, in darkness, he had killed his first man. Farewell mirrors, gilded cornices, ottomans in pastel colours and saucy prints in frames.

He found himself in a vast circular room, and all around its edge were intimate little alcoves behind heavy brocade curtains. Here and there about the room were chairs and console tables in a harmonious arrangement. The alcoves were furnished with charming little settees on bases carved with the shapes of pearls and ribbons. Some unity was given to the whole by the repetition of a flowered pattern on a number of small, moulded armchairs with oval backs. Nicolas, who had once been a notary’s clerk, had done enough inventories after people’s deaths to be able to estimate the cost of these furnishings at several million
livres
. Had he come to the wrong house, or did the place have a new owner? And yet the black girl was still here. He was still puzzling over these things when a familiar voice, at once throaty and hoarse, reached his ears.

‘Damnation, girl, don’t just stand there gaping. Pay attention. I’ll go over it again. First you get a cask of Spanish wine at Tronquay’s. Then take the burgundy back to Jobert et Chertemps
– it tastes like vinegar. If the scoundrels complain, tell them they’ll lose my custom. These merchants will be the death of me!’

This was followed by several sighs.

‘That’s the wine dealt with! What a bother – it’ll kill me, I tell you! Next, go to the perfume seller. First of all, I need some beef marrow pomade with orange blossom for my poor hair. For the girls, a dozen bars of scented Naples soap, and some of those small marble bars as well. Don’t forget the virgin milk. My, that’s well named! Are you laughing, you little devil? How dare you?’

He heard a fan strike flesh.

‘You asked for that! We also need a bottle of kidney vetch in liquid form for La Mouchet who collapsed into the bed twice last week and, what’s worse, she was with a bishop at the time! Admittedly, he did ask her to … Oh, you’ll learn about these things in good time. Anyway, we still need some of those little sponges for … Well, I know what I mean. Now get on with you – I hear someone.’

The maid – a small girl – withdrew. Nicolas had approached. There indeed was La Paulet, that monster of flesh, sprawling across a chaise longue, and buried in a grey silk dress from which her huge arms emerged. Her face, which seemed to have shrunk, was covered as usual with ceruse and rouge applied like plaster. What was new was the blonde wig, with its serried ranks of curls.

‘Well, well, it’s our commissioner! That rascal Nicolas, who kept his old friend waiting all night! I’m joking, I know that when duty calls, you policemen have better things to do than amuse an emaciated old thing like me.’

‘You underestimate yourself,’ Nicolas said. ‘There’s still plenty of flesh on your bones and, what’s more, I find you in a
palace of such splendour as to leave me breathless.’

If it had not been for the thick plaster covering her face, Nicolas would have seen her blush.

‘So,’ she simpered, ‘you’ve noticed the change? I’ve been in a whirl for the past month. The devil take these guilds and artisans! Twenty times I thought I was going to die, and the money I had to spend to feed them all! But I’m no fool: I’d never let anything be done in my house without having my say. Nobody’s going to swindle La Paulet. But what has to be done has to be done! All the same,’ she went on with a learned air, ‘what do I know?
Sometimes
, our own opinions aren’t the best. Ah, I see your eyes light up at the thought of cornering your old friend and finding dishonest reasons for this prosperity. You’re so good at wheedling things out of me. You don’t believe for a moment that I’ve discovered treasure.’

Nicolas smiled. ‘Certainly not, but I must admit I’m surprised by such magnificence.’

‘Ah, my good sir, there is a God, and he looks on those with pure hands, not full ones. You know how sweet and innocent I am. Well, he filled them for me.’

‘Filled what?’

‘My hands, my hands! Do you remember I once treated you to a ratafia from the West Indies given to me by an old acquaintance? My taste buds are still tingling. You were mad about it. It was that time when my parrot Sartine – it still makes me cry – died of shock after the violence you inflicted on us.’

‘It was in a good cause, my dear.’

‘Yes, to make me talk. But that’s all in the past and I never bear grudges. I was perfectly happy with our arrangement and you can
testify that I’ve kept to it. We’ll talk about that later.’

‘I’ll gladly give you that testimony. But what about this fortune?’

‘I’m coming to it. This acquaintance of my youth – God, how I loved him in those days – died and I didn’t even know. Communications with the West Indies had broken down because of the war with the English. Anyway, six months ago this rascal appeared. Despite the layers of powder on his wig, he stank of writs and seizures and
lettres de cachet
and other nasty things. When I saw him there, all dressed in black, I said to myself, “Paulette, this means trouble!” I even thought he might be a new agent of the Lieutenant General’s. Can you imagine? I was afraid they’d taken my Nicolas from me!’

She gave him a wink, which caused two or three pieces of her make-up to fall off, making her right eye look bigger.

‘Anyway, I put on my most welcoming air. The fellow opens a portfolio. Turns out he’s a notary, and a posh one, too – you just have to see his coach to know that. Straight out, he tells me that, Fortune being the daughter of Providence, my old friend, a rich planter, has died and, having no children, has made me his heir.’

‘His heir?’

‘Knowing that I wouldn’t cross the seas – even thirty years ago I refused to do that – his business manager sold his property, and the notary had come to inform me that a huge sum was waiting for me at a Paris bank. I pocketed the windfall, convinced that good fortune is no sin and that, if you don’t want to become a miser, you need to know how to spend.’

‘Always a good girl.’

‘More than you know! I’m getting on in years; there’s nothing
I can do about that. This house is not a bauble; someone has to run it. These days, the girls don’t respect authority like they used to. If you ever give in to them on anything, everything goes out the window. The profession has changed, and keeps changing. Once, you came up out of the gutter and, as long as you had brains and common sense, you could end up quite well off. I started as a flower girl. Oh, you should have seen me: I was a lovely girl, always happy, able to play hard to get when I had to, discreet when I needed to be. It didn’t take me long to realise that the reason we have two ears but only one mouth is because we need to listen more than to speak. I found an old beau, a bit over the hill, but very neat and tidy, very gentle with me and willing to turn a blind eye to my younger suitors.’

‘Old men can be like books,’ Nicolas said. ‘Full of excellent things, even though they’re often worm-eaten, powdery and poorly bound.’

They both laughed.

‘Gradually I made enough money to put together a nice little nest-egg. I built up a discreet but well-to-do clientele. That’s how I managed to build this house. But the wind turns and, like I said before, the profession isn’t what it was. We feel it, we mother superiors. As I’m sure you know, there are more and more girls working in isolation, most of them riddled with the pox. Our houses are well maintained, but we need to adapt to change. Wealthy customers are always looking for something new. They want “novelties”. Our houses have always survived on force of habit, but luxury and refinement are the necessary commodities today. Well, I’ve embraced this way of thinking. I’ve invested part of my inheritance in adapting this place to modern tastes. But
I’m getting older, and my legs are so swollen they won’t carry me any more. I can still look after the beginners, and I can keep order among the girls, even though they’re so wild these days – they’re getting harder and harder to select! So I’ll stay in the house to keep an eye open for trouble, but I’ve decided to pass on the torch.’

‘And who is the rare bird who’s to succeed you?’ asked Nicolas sternly. ‘Don’t forget, we have a say in the matter.’

‘There he goes, playing the stern taskmaster! But I’m quite certain you’ll be delighted with my choice, Commissioner. She’s going to be my heir; she’ll have everything that’s mine, provided I’m pleased with her work and she takes care of me when I’m old. She’s someone who’s been through hard times. She’s not some flighty young thing – she has a head on her shoulders. The Lord tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, thank God. The only thing that worries me a little is that she’s too soft-hearted, but no one’s perfect, and she’ll get harder. As for me, if everything works out well, I’ll retire to my property in Auteuil. You have to know when to let go. My experience and all this novelty does not make for the best mixture. Blend Suresnes wine with burgundy and I guarantee you’ll get a disgusting brew.’

‘Are you going to tell me the name of your find?’

‘She’s right behind you,’ came a soft voice from somewhere close to Nicolas.

He immediately recognised it: it was a voice he had never forgotten. How many times had he heard it whispering passionate words in his ear? The memory of La Satin
1
had always remained precious to him. Their relationship had lasted for a long time, but the unease, not to say the fear, he felt at the work she did and the
life she led had eventually distanced him from her. He turned. My God, how beautiful she was! Even more beautiful than he remembered. With serene, tranquil eyes, she was looking at him tenderly. The silky curls of her hair were lifted at the back, leaving her neck and shoulders bare, and he remembered how he used to devour that neck and those shoulders with kisses so ardent that she would complain of the marks he left in her flesh. Her breasts swelled above a bodice of Alençon lace. A loose
pigeon-blue
silk dress gave her figure an air of languor. All her old charm was still there, but as if purified. She came to him and put her arms round his neck. He quivered when their lips met.

‘Well, my doves,’ said La Paulet. ‘Now that’s what I call a nice reunion!’

She clapped her hands. The African maid reappeared, and with a dancing step drew back the curtains of one of the alcoves. There was a table there, and on it stood a cooling pitcher of
almond-green
porcelain containing a number of bottles of Champagne. Beside the table, a circular bed promised other delights.

‘My children,’ La Paulet went on, ‘I’ll leave you to it. I need to go upstairs and tend to my legs. I’m sure you have a lot to talk about! The meal will be small, but refined. Those who gorge themselves, as a duke of my acquaintance says,
2
are not true gourmets, and nothing is more dispiriting to the talent of a cook than his master’s gluttony.’

‘That’s the wisdom of Comus!’

‘To begin, fresh melon from my garden in Auteuil. Not one of those horrible, flabby, washed-out things your Sartine bans by the cupboardful every year. No, one of those orangey honey melons, as juicy and tasty as anyone could wish. After that, a dish fit for a
king, perfectly prepared by my cook: a fattened chicken from Angoulême. It’ll make you lick your lips …’

She gave a salacious laugh.

‘I’d love to know how it’s prepared,’ said Nicolas.

‘I should have known it! Well, you have to get hold of a fine chicken, raised with love, corn-fed. All the fleshy parts you sprinkle generously with flakes of truffle. Then, by hand, you fill the body of the chicken with slices of truffle that you’ve baked in the oven with grated bacon and spices.’

‘And then straight into a casserole?’

‘No, no, my dear, as in love you have to lead up to things gradually. You wrap the chicken in paper to let the truffles and the spices blend. Three days later, you remove the paper and wrap the bird in slices of calf leg and bards of bacon. Then, and only then, you lay it down, just like your sweetheart, in a braising pan of exactly the right size, on a bed of sliced carrots and parsnips, mixed herbs and spices, salt and pepper, and two onions stuck with cloves, and pour a bottle of Malaga over it. Then let it simmer gently for at least two hours. Finally, you cut the fat off, sprinkle it with a handful of finely ground truffles, reduce the sauce by simmering and thicken it with crushed chestnuts. Fit for a bishop, I tell you!’