The Phantom of Rue Royale (23 page)

He went back over the attack on the former procurator. The culprit was obvious: Major Langlumé harboured a grudge against him, doubtless exacerbated by the first results of the inquiry into the disaster in Place Louis XV, and had decided to take his revenge. Nicolas had pretended to find the major’s brass tag on the ground, but it was in fact the one which had blocked the lock of the attic door at the ambassadors’ mansion. It was because he was so angry at the thought that Noblecourt, who had harmed no one, had got caught up in this business and almost died, that he had resorted to such a trick. Morally reprehensible as it might be, it was justified, being the only way to confound Langlumé. There was no point in feeling remorse: if Monsieur de Noblecourt’s head had hit the milestone any harder, the major would have been guilty of murder.

Everything went very quickly. At police headquarters, Nicolas
discovered that Sartine was away and would not be back in Paris until the following day. Nicolas retrieved the gelding lent by the great stable in Versailles: there had not been anyone available to take it back yet. Before setting off, he wrote a short note to Bourdeau, entrusting him with various missions. He then crossed the Seine to the monastery of the Discalced Carmelites, where he told a horrified Père Grégoire all about the events of the previous night. Convinced by his story, the monk wrote a letter addressed to the Archbishop of Paris, recommending Nicolas and vouching for the genuineness of his words. He again blessed Nicolas and turned to pray to the white marble Virgin, the pride of the sanctuary.

Nicolas rode through the woods, reaching the road to Versailles by way of Meudon and Chaville. By the stroke of one, he was in the Place d’Armes. He was as exhausted as his
foam-flecked
mount, which neighed with pleasure to be back in its stable. He entrusted it to a groom, and immediately headed for the ministers’ wing, certain that he would find Monsieur de Sartine there with Monsieur de Saint-Florentin, the Minister of the King’s Household. He was not mistaken, as was confirmed to him by a secretary surrounded by a crowd of supplicants hoping for an audience, or even a brief word in the corridor. Since Nicolas was known to be in the minister’s favour, no obstacles were put in his way. After a short wait, he was admitted. Monsieur de Saint-Florentin and the Lieutenant General of Police were together at a small gaming table, examining a pile of documents, which Nicolas recognised as police reports on foreigners staying in Paris.

‘Why, here’s our good Monsieur Le Floch!’ said Monsieur de
Saint-Florentin. ‘I assume you haven’t made this journey for nothing. What ill wind brings you here?’

Nicolas summed things up clearly and concisely. The minister listened to him, his eyes staring into space and his chin on his fist. Sartine, although apparently impassive, was unable to stop his right foot from moving up and down.

‘Therefore,’ concluded Nicolas, ‘I would like to have
permission
and authorisation to refer this exceptional case to the Archbishop of Paris. If you’ll allow me …’

‘Go on.’

‘If we don’t do it, and the case comes out into the open, there’s a risk the Church will assume the right to deal with it
independently
of us …’

‘Well put, very well put. What do you think, Sartine?’

‘I tend to the opinion that Monsieur Le Floch is trying once again to pull the wool over our eyes, but since, as usual, everything is contriving to prove him right, I am inclined to give him
carte blanche
in this case, if the King agrees to it. In addition,’ he added with a meaningful gesture, ‘if things turn out badly, we won’t have the archbishop against us, because he’ll be forced to form a united front with us. That reason alone convinces me, because, to be quite honest, I don’t believe in the devil and all that nonsense. Still, if a bit of holy water can get rid of him, why deny ourselves the pleasure? All the same, I don’t trust the archbishop. Remember the affair of the
Gazette ecclesiastique
?’

‘I don’t remember it, but remind us of the facts, for the edification – if that’s the word – of our commissioner.’

Nicolas carefully neglected to mention that he had already heard his chief tell the story many times.

‘The thing is,’ Sartine said, ‘I’d managed to get a writer for that periodical in my pay. He’d bring me proofs from the printing shop and delete passages that were too satirical. Monseigneur de Beaumont managed to intercept one of these proofs and unmasked my man. He asked the King to have the man arrested. A
lettre de cachet
was immediately issued, and he had it delivered by one of his own bailiffs. As soon as I found out, I ran to the King and protested. I pointed out that it was only the actions of my man that had prevented the
Gazette
ecclésiastique
from becoming a channel for religious dissent, among both the Jansenists and the Jesuits. I also told him that I thought there was a great risk in having anyone other than the Lieutenant General of Police deliver
lettres de cachet
in Paris.’

‘I remember the King sending for me,’ Saint Florentin cut in, ‘and ordering me to deliver another
lettre de cachet
freeing the prisoner. He asked me to make sure that in future his orders were carried out strictly according to the rules. As for this present case, I think we’ve made the right decision. We still have to find the King. He went hunting this morning in the great park. I have a whole chain of scouts along the route to inform me when he’s about to return.’

He rang a little bell and a servant appeared, to whom he gave instructions. Turned away from Nicolas, he went back to examining the documents that Sartine handed him. As he did so, he made a few brief comments, which the Lieutenant General took down in writing. It was the whole secret life of the capital they were reviewing, in particular the presence in hotels and furnished lodgings of foreigners, all suspected of being hand in
glove with foreign powers. The servant returned and whispered a few words in the minister’s ear.

‘Good, good. His Majesty has just passed the gate of the reservoirs.’ He rose. ‘I think we can get a note to him.’

At the foot of the stairs was a throng of supplicants and a
stiff-looking
usher trying to push them aside with his rod. Monsieur de Saint-Florentin’s head disappeared for a moment beneath a wave of petitions that encircled his wig like a flight of white butter flies. Once past the Marble Courtyard, they entered the great apartments. On his first visit to Versailles in 1761, Nicolas had taken the same, almost initiatory route. He had passed this flight of steps, that hall, these long corridors, that maze of shorter corridors, and finally come out, as he did now, into a room of vast dimensions looking out on the park. It was gradually filling with courtiers and pages, and valets carrying towels in wicker baskets. Monsieur de La Borde greeted the three men. The King was coming, and a cacophony of footsteps, cries and solemn announcements rose like a tide and echoed through the palace. La Borde enquired as to the reason for the unexpected appearance of Monsieur de Saint-Florentin and his companions. Nicolas explained the situation briefly. La Borde grimaced: Madame du Barry was waiting for her master in the little study. He reminded his friend that the new concubine was of a different calibre from La Pompadour: young, beautiful and more temperamental than the marquise. The kind of attention she expected from the King was more likely to follow the excitement of the hunt than the dissipation of a midnight meal. Not surprising, therefore, that the King did not like to be disturbed at this intimate hour. The pleasant conversation and refreshments of the old days had given
way to other games. At last the monarch appeared, wearing a blue coat trimmed with gold braid and beating his thigh with the handle of his whip. He was smiling: the hunt had obviously gone well. But once again Nicolas noted how stooped he was. The King looked all of his seventy years, and his associates were worried at the excesses which his young mistress’s ardour was imposing on a weary organism.

As calm returned, the usual ceremonial began. Louis XV made a sign to Saint-Florentin, who approached. As he was short, he got up on tiptoe and talked at length in the King’s ear. The King blinked and looked first at Sartine and then at Nicolas, to whom he addressed a gracious gesture, the kind he had given young Ranreuil, recognising him in the Hall of Mirrors as the royal family walked in procession to the Saint-Louis chapel. The minister finished his aside. The King raised his hand and La Borde approached to receive his orders.

‘His Majesty wishes to be alone,’ announced La Borde, pointing to the minister and his two companions.

The crowd of courtiers hesitated. A dull murmur rose from the disconcerted audience. The King frowned imperiously, and the stream of people withdrew, casting curious or hostile glances at the privileged few because of whom the usual protocol had been disrupted.

‘You, stay,’ said the King to a short old man wearing make-up and perched on red heels, whom Nicolas recognised immediately as the Duc de Richelieu. ‘Where there is devilry, you have your place reserved!’

‘Sire, the Bourbons have always been afraid of the devil; it’s well known.’

‘That’s as may be,’ retorted the King, ‘but only because they’ve never seen him, unlike you!’

The old man laughed and bowed.

‘Yes, gentlemen, when he was ambassador in Vienna, my cousin here,
2
who was supposed to be representing me, got it into his head to be initiated into a society of necromancers who promised to show him Beelzebub.’ The King lowered his voice and crossed himself.

‘Sire, to name him is to invoke him.’

‘Quiet, libertine! Anyway, gentlemen, he pursued this illusion. The meeting took place at night, but some of those present spoke up afterwards. The affair became public, and all Vienna took sides in the scandal. Now, Richelieu, young Ranreuil here …’

‘Whom I know,’ said the marshal with a smile, revealing his false teeth.

‘… has seen strange manifestations and incidents of
possession
with his own eyes. He’s asking me to give authorisation for the Archbishop of Paris to order an exorcism. What do you say to that, Richelieu?’

‘I say that between leaving an established case of possession unattended to and letting the Church make a legal and authorised attempt to deal with it, it is better to choose the second way, however uncertain the outcome. Otherwise, the archbishop will bide his time and do all he can to get the better of us. I had to deal with a similar problem when I was governor of Aquitaine. I nipped it in the bud with the aid of holy water and candles, and prevented unrest among the people.’

The King was still beating his whip against his thigh,
seemingly in the grip of opposing thoughts. ‘Ranreuil, did you really see him?’

‘Sire, I beg Your Majesty’s pardon, whom?’

‘The … well, that palliasse didn’t move all by itself!’

‘I can state that it was shaking violently, that it was so far above the floor that you could have put four hands beneath it, that the girl was speaking German and Latin and that …’

‘Yes?’

‘And that your late servant, the Marquis de Ranreuil, spoke through her mouth, referring to matters known only to myself.’

‘Very well!’ said the King. ‘If that’s what we have to do, I authorise you to approach the archbishop. Saint-Florentin, do what you have to do: you have enough blank signed letters. Let Commissioner Le Floch have free access to the archbishop. But, Ranreuil, you owe me a detailed report – you’re such a good storyteller.’

With these friendly words, the King turned his back on them and gave himself up to his valets. Nicolas, Sartine and
Saint-Florentin
went back to the ministers’ wing. Monsieur de Saint-Florentin wrote a few words on a blank document, sealed it and carefully wrote the address. As soon as the wax was dry, he handed over the missive without a word. Nicolas was about to leave the courtyard when a breathless Sartine caught up with him, told him that he wished to be kept up to date with the case and advised him to make sure of the wisdom of his decisions in such a delicate situation. Obviously, for Sartine, collusion with the Church could well have unfortunate consequences, even if started in a rare spirit of agreement between the temporal and spiritual powers. He also enjoined him not to forget, however
compelling this crisis, that he was also supposed to be
investigating
the disaster in Place Louis XV. Nicolas used this opportunity to inform his chief of the attack on Monsieur de Noblecourt. Sartine was so shocked that Nicolas felt emboldened to reveal to him the trick he had played with the brass tag. The Lieutenant General said nothing, but gave his deputy a curious look. Nicolas added that he was aware that he had overstepped the mark, by forgetting the principle which Monsieur de Sartine had inculcated in him on his entry into the police force, ‘that on his rigour would depend the life and honour of men who, however lowly their station, should be treated according to the rules’. Aware that he had done wrong, he was consequently placing his position at the King’s disposal, once the investigation on which he was engaged had been concluded.

Sartine smiled. Of course he understood Nicolas’s scruples – indeed, they increased the respect he bore him – but this was all nonsense. Why should one treat equitably a man responsible for the incompetence of the municipality and the deaths of so many innocent people, a man who had escaped being the murderer of an old man by pure luck? Was there a way to confound him, yes or no? If there was, then it had to be used. Justice must be done, whatever the cost, and he, the Lieutenant General of Police, took full responsibility, relieving Nicolas of any blame and any remorse. Major Langlumé had to be arrested, he insisted. The brass tag would certainly help to prove his guilt, at least in the eyes of the judges.

And so it was with a light heart that Nicolas set off back to Paris, after the great stable had again provided him with a horse – a sturdy, frisky light-tan mare. The journey passed uneventfully,
and Nicolas no longer felt tired or hungry. By five he had passed Porte de la Conference. By five thirty he had abandoned his mount to the good graces of the duty groom at the Châtelet. He immediately left the houses of Pont au Change on his right, and set off along the Quai de Gesvres. This embankment above the river, which went under an arch before joining up with Pont Notre Dame, was a terrible cesspool where four sewers emptied their muck, where blood from the slaughterhouses ended up and into which all the latrines of Paris unloaded their refuse. Nicolas had to cover his nose with a handkerchief to protect it from the foul stench. The heat of summer was beginning, and the river, relieved of the spring floods, no longer lapped at the fetid arches of this bridge. He stepped onto the Cité, a district that still remained, much to the displeasure of Monsieur de Sartine, ‘an unplanned meeting of a great number of houses …’ They were all at odd angles to each other, creating all sorts of diversions and
bottlenecks
for the carriages, which found the streets extremely difficult to negotiate. Nicolas crossed the narrow square in front of Notre Dame and knocked at a door reinforced with nails and iron bars, which gave access to the archbishopric, a medieval house with its own turret situated on the south side of the cathedral.