The Châtelet Apprentice (21 page)

A voice could be heard enquiring about the visitor.

‘I think the master's getting impatient. He's having his hot chocolate in his bedroom, as usual. Follow me. He's going to be so pleased.'

Monsieur de Noblecourt's bedroom was a
handsome-looking
room, with pale-green panelling set off with gold. It overlooked Rue Montmartre through two glazed doors that opened onto the balcony. The master of the house had often described to his pupil the pleasure he took each morning in daydreaming as he drank his chocolate, dressed in his floral chintz morning gown and wearing a crimson skullcap. From daybreak he would watch the street activities multiply, and cast a philosophical eye over the thousand and one incidents of everyday life. He would drift into a pleasant state of drowsiness, the warmth of the exotic beverage and the particular languid feeling it produced sometimes sending him into a blissful sleep. Cyrus went to and fro between Nicolas and his master, then jumped onto the magistrate's knees.

‘The sun and Nicolas have returned, alleluia!' exclaimed the old man. ‘My dear child, sit down. Marion, quick, a chair and a cup. Bring us as fast as you can some hot chocolate and some of those soft rolls from my tenant the baker.'

Beneath the skullcap beamed a chubby face, with
surprisingly
pale eyes. To the right of his large, ruddy nose was a very noticeable wart, which Nicolas, who had not forgotten his classical education, compared to Cicero's. His witty, greedy mouth was set between drooping, blotchy jowls and a chin that had once been prominent but was now enfolded in a triple layer of flesh.

‘You see how devout I am in my habits, if not in anything else,' Monsieur de Noblecourt continued. ‘I surrender to old age as it creeps up on me, gradually and gently … Soon I shall no longer move from this chair. I'll have another one made, an
old-fashioned
wing chair with a tray, and on casters, why not? I could have it turned into a commode and I'd never get out of it. After all, one year when the winter was extremely harsh Marshal Luxembourg's wife had a sedan chair brought up to her drawing room to protect her from draughts. I'll stay where I am and one morning Marion's ghost – incidentally she is much older than I am – will find me slumped over my cup of chocolate.'

Nicolas knew his old friend well. All this was mere
provocation
, intended to make him react, and he would have gone on if necessary until Nicolas did so.

‘I find you in very high spirits for someone soon to succumb to gout, Monsieur,' he replied. ‘Your cup has nothing to fear. Here you go again imitating your friend Monsieur Voltaire – your contemporary unless I'm mistaken – who for the last quarter of a century has been proclaiming that he won't survive
another year and that the combined forces of all his ailments will forthwith snatch him from the admiration of Europe and the veneration of his friends. You are the stuff that centenarians are made of. I should add that you have an obligation to your younger friends. Who will they have to talk to if you desert them? Real gentlemen are too few and far between for us to allow them to disappear.'

Monsieur de Noblecourt began to clap with delight and Cyrus showed his approval by barking.

‘Very well, Monsieur. I give in. You know your audience and how to flatter people. It is in the nature of things for the pupil to one day surpass the master. But I'm an old chatterbox. Nicolas, you owe me some explanation for your sudden disappearance.' He stroked the spaniel with a still-plump hand. When it had calmed down, the animal rolled over and spread out its paws to reveal its pink belly.

‘Monsieur, the death of my guardian required me to return to Brittany. After paying him my last respects, I returned to Paris to a difficult situation. You presumably know about Commissioner Lardin's disappearance. Monsieur de Sartine has put me in charge of the investigation.'

After he had expressed how much he shared Nicolas's grief, the former procurator's round face and mild-mannered expression suddenly changed. He was wide-eyed and
open-mouthed
. The discovery that his pupil had advanced so rapidly in his career produced in him a mixture of surprise and disbelief.

‘What a piece of news! Monsieur de Sartine's representative! That's far more important that Lardin's disappearance. Lardin was a friend, admittedly, but I preferred to keep him at arm's length. I even saw him last week.'

Marion interrupted him firmly by setting down on the card table another pot of chocolate and a cup and saucer in Rouen china, as well as a plate of the famous soft rolls and a pot of jam.

‘I see, Nicolas, that you have friends in the right places. I myself am not allowed such fruity delicacies.'

‘I should think not!' exclaimed Marion. ‘You can have some if you help me peel quinces, as Monsieur Nicolas did one day last September. In any case, you're too greedy.'

Marion poured out the piping-hot drink and continued her recriminations under her breath. The cups filled with a foaming, light-brown liquid that exuded the warm aroma of chocolate and the subtle hint of cinnamon. Cyrus jumped onto Nicolas's knees, knowing how kind the young man was towards him. Nicolas, whose hunter instinct was ever alert if unobtrusive, and whose mind was still focused on one thing, waited until Marion had left the room before bringing the conversation around to Lardin.

‘On which day did you say you met with him?'

‘Last Thursday.'

‘So it would appear that you were one of the last people to have seen him.'

‘It was only a brief meeting. He seemed extremely gloomy, even more so than usual. You know him. Secretive, spiteful, restless. Not a very likeable person. But a good policeman all the same, and that's why we got on with each other. Last Thursday he was the same as ever. Still, I felt sorry for him as he left. He seemed distraught out of all proportion.'

‘What about Madame Lardin?'

Monsieur de Noblecourt seemed lost in contemplation of some delightful apparition.

‘The lovely Louise? It's some time now since I paid her my
respects. She's a tasty morsel, though near on thirty, but I'm too old for that. However, with her it must be said that age doesn't come into it and whether it's a lusty young lad or a grisly old man it all goes down the same way, so to speak, provided there's the sound of silver …'

He emphasised his words by winking so energetically that his skullcap was disturbed and slipped across his forehead. The old man took a sip of chocolate, wiped his mouth, helped himself to a roll then put it back down with a sigh and leant towards Nicolas. He went on in a whisper:

‘I smell a rat, my dear child. I'm not so cut off from society as to be unaware of the rumours circulating about Lardin. Or naïve enough not to have understood Monsieur de Sartine's motives in lodging you with this diabolical couple, against all reason.'

He stopped, but Nicolas remained stony-faced.

‘Don't tell me that the Lardin woman hasn't made advances to you?'

This time Nicolas turned bright red.

‘Well, well,' said the old man, ‘as much as that? Dear, dear. But I don't want to know about it. There was a curse on that house. Don't ask me why, but I felt it coming. I had a feeling Lardin would come to a sad end, either from his secret debauchery or from some all-consuming passion. The coveting of flesh or money, the “leech” as Solomon calls it, is a sign of the times we live in. We want unbounded pleasure. If it were possible to move through walls and delve into the most secret places we would discover the depravity going on there. As an elderly sceptic, an epicurean if ever there was one, I survey the time in which I live and stigmatise its morals after I have punished its crimes.'

He shook his head sadly as he looked in turn at the bread and the jam. Cyrus had jumped down and was trembling with excitement as he watched his master's antics. After checking that Marion was not in the vicinity Monsieur de Noblecourt promptly grabbed half a roll, smeared a thick layer of jam over it and gobbled down the whole thing in two greedy gulps.

‘My presence really made things very uncomfortable for the Lardins,' said Nicolas. ‘Now it's become impossible. Without giving away the secrets of a very tricky investigation, I can say that it must be as obvious to you as it is to me, the person in charge of the enquiry, that I cannot continue to stay in a place where I am supposed to act as judge while still being obliged to them.'

‘
Opum contemptor, recti pervicax, constans adversus metus
,'
2
quoted the magistrate with a self-satisfied look. ‘You certainly cannot remain at Rue des Blancs-Manteaux.'

‘I left this very morning and I've come to ask your advice, as I'm unsure whether …'

‘My dear Nicolas, I share Monsieur de Sartine's high opinion of your personal qualities and your education. I had already offered you my hospitality here. Treat this as your home. There's no need to thank me as the pleasure is all mine. Marion, Marion!'

He clapped his hands, unleashing an outburst of joy in Cyrus, who started to spin around the bedroom like a top before rushing off to look for the housekeeper.

‘Monsieur, I am overwhelmed by your kindness and I don't know how …'

‘Come, come … Here are the rules of the house. This is an annex of Rabelais's abbey of Thélème, where freedom and independence reign. You will stay in the bedroom on the second
floor. I know that you're not scared of books, and the walls are lined with them. They are the overflow from my library, which is already full. You will have your own entrance; a door leads on to a small staircase that goes down to the servants' quarters. Marion and Poitevin will be at your service. You will have lunch and dinner with me whenever you wish or whenever you can. I am only too aware of the constraints of your job because I have experienced them myself. Consider this house a haven. Where is your luggage?'

‘Downstairs, Monsieur. You can be sure that I will do all I can to avoid being a burden to you for too long. I shall look for …'

‘Monsieur, that's enough. I shall get angry with you. So the ungrateful fellow is already talking of leaving. I require your obedience. Devote yourself unsparingly to your task and don't answer back.'

Marion appeared, escorted by an impatient Cyrus who had gone to fetch her from the pantry.

‘Marion, from now on Monsieur Nicolas will be one of us. Prepare the blue bedroom. Ask Poitevin to take our friend's luggage upstairs. Secondly, on Sunday I shall be hosting a lunch. We'll also have a little music. There will be five of us, with Nicolas and his friends: Père Grégoire from the Carmelites, and that young seminarist, Monsieur Pigneau, you introduced me to one day at a concert of sacred music; lastly we'll have Monsieur Balbastre, the organist at Notre-Dame.
3
I'll give you invitations to send out. As for the meal, I'm relying on you, Marion, to do me proud. Priests and musicians are the biggest gourmets of all, with the possible exception of magistrates.'

Marion listened to her master with visible satisfaction,
clasping her hands with pleasure. She went away as fast as her old legs could carry her to give Poitevin the good news.

Nicolas was delighted to discover the new bedroom that was to be his. An alcove housed a small bed, and was framed by two bookcases set into the thick wall which were full of books from floor to ceiling. Books always seemed to mount a silent guard around him. As a child he had spent many hours in their company, in the loft of the house in Guérande, and later in the marquis's library at Ranreuil. Nothing bad could happen to someone who was protected by row upon row of companionable bindings. It was enough to simply open a volume to release the music of its words, always soothing but never the same. A
roll-top
desk, an armchair, a washstand and a small chimney-piece completed the furnishings in the bedroom, and it was decorated with blue floral-patterned wallpaper. Nicolas had never lived in such luxury. There was no possible comparison with the garret at Rue des Blancs-Manteaux.

After the successful outcome of his visit to Rue Montmartre, and with the help of the fine weather, Nicolas returned to the Châtelet filled with contentment. He searched the area around the gloomy building closely, but there was no sign of the person he was looking for, wise old Tirepot. No doubt his
investigations
had yet to produce anything. The truth was that they required considerable caution. Nicolas knew that this bold type of approach often put the lives of the informers at risk. It was not fair to criticise them for taking their time and exercising extreme caution when their investigations led them to the heart of Paris's criminal underworld.

As soon as he arrived he asked the chief gaoler which cell the inspector had put Semacgus into. He was told that Monsieur Bourdeau had spent the whole night locked up with an unknown prisoner registered under the name of Monsieur d'Issy. What was more, the inspector was still there. It was a cell for prisoners with privileges, so it was reasonably comfortable and meals could be brought in from outside the prison. Nicolas admired his deputy's foresight.

After giving his name, the young man went into the room and was struck by the stale odour emanating from the straw and the acrid smell of sleeping bodies. On top of that the whole place reeked of cold smoke. Semacgus and Bourdeau must have indulged in their shared liking for tobacco. The inspector sat in a frock coat with his cravat undone and his grey hair unkempt. Semacgus was lying asleep on his straw pallet with his tricorn over his eyes. On the table were chicken carcasses, two glasses and three empty bottles, proof that the tragic events in Vaugirard had not in the least dulled the appetites of the two companions. Nicolas felt that this was hardly the behaviour of a suspected murderer. He corrected himself immediately. The observation could just as well suggest the cold-heartedness and insensitivity of a hardened criminal. He took it as a lesson. There were two sides to everything: at face value judgements could be made either way. He now grasped the unreliability of eyewitness reports, which were always subject to mood and first impressions.