The Nicolas Le Floch Affair: Nicolas Le Floch Investigation #4. Jean-Francois Parot

him suspect the most extreme immorality. He took care not to cut himself while shaving, put on a black coat, recently made for him by his tailor, tied an immaculate lace cravat around his neck, combed his hair for a long time – there were a few white hairs starting to come through – and tied his ponytail with a dark velvet ribbon. He only ever wore a wig at Court or on solemn occasions when he was dressed in his magistrate’s robe. He took a last look in the mirror, and realised that he looked younger now that his fever had passed: it almost made him forget the seriousness of the situation. Then he descended the small staircase, and the sight of Bourdeau and Semacgus waiting for him at the entrance brought him back to reality.

      Semacgus walked up to him. ‘Remember, Nicolas, that you can ask me for anything,’ he said. ‘I haven’t forgotten that you once proved my innocence and gave me back my freedom.’

Nicolas shook his hand firmly and followed the inspector into the cab. He lapsed into morose brooding. Suddenly, he recalled the graceful figure of Julie, and the image took his breath away and made him feel dizzy. He withdrew into himself, shaking with sobs. Incapable of controlling his imagination, he could not prevent the terrible images that flooded into his mind: a body thrown on a slab in the Basse-Geôle and subjected to the indignities inflicted by those given the task of performing the autopsy, a body whose softness he could still feel … Bourdeau coughed in embarrassment. The city Nicolas loved so much sped past, its houses and its crowds like a stage set painted in faded colours, without life or gaiety. They did not exchange a single word. The carriage soon reached the Hôtel de Gramont1 in Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin. Entering the building, they saw the familiar faces of their police colleagues, and the footmen bowed before them with their usual deference. The elderly manservant smiled when he saw Nicolas.

      ‘Don’t be surprised if things are a bit different. Monsieur de Sartine only got back from Versailles at midday.’

      As Bourdeau was about to sit down on a bench to wait, the servant indicated to him that his presence was also required.

      They entered the Lieutenant General’s vast office to be greeted by an unusual sight. A silent assembly of wigs stood on the table in serried rows, like soldiers on parade. Monsieur de Sartine, having spent the night at Versailles, had missed his morning appointment with his precious collection. And, as he could not bear the slightest interruption to his innocent obsession, it was only now that his usual inspection was taking place. That was what the porter had been trying to say. Nicolas, who on any other occasion might have been amused at the spectacle, was wondering anxiously where his chief was, when suddenly one of the wigs moved and Monsieur de Sartine’s sharp face emerged from amongst his inanimate creatures.

      Nicolas had grown accustomed over the years to the whole gamut of his chief’s facial expressions, which varied widely according to circumstances; and had today been expecting the irritated, impatient countenance the Lieutenant General wore whenever he was about to show his displeasure with a subordinate. Instead, he was surprised to see Monsieur de Sartine looking at him in a relaxed, affectionate, almost paternal manner.

      ‘Nicolas’ – the use of the Christian name was also a good omen – ‘where did your late father and my greatly missed friend the Marquis de Ranreuil buy his wigs? I seem to recall they were ideally firm yet supple.’

      ‘I think, Monsieur, that he found them in Nantes, in a little shop near the dukes’ palace.’

      ‘Hmm! I’ll have to find out more about it. But for the moment, we have an unfortunate matter to deal with. Very unfortunate, in truth, for it concerns you personally, and, as everyone knows the esteem in which I hold you and the confidence I have in you, some people would be only too pleased to gossip about an incident which might implicate the éminence grise of the Lieutenant General of Police.’

      This was said in the pompous tone Sartine used whenever he invoked the dignity of his office. With his hands, he stroked two tiered wigs placed symmetrically like yew trees in a French garden.

      ‘We need to consider, however,’ he went on ‘that for the moment there is no case. A young woman has succumbed to something that a neighbourhood quack says resembles poisoning. Primo, are we certain of the cause of death? Secundo, if the cause is proven, do we suspect suicide, murder or, quite simply, a domestic accident, which is always possible? When all these reasons have been duly examined, we will still have, tertio, to question witnesses. Eh?’

      This interjection, Nicolas knew, did not call for any reply: it was merely there as punctuation, a pause for breath after which the argument would resume its course.

      ‘According to the information I have received, the body is still in the state in which it was found and has not been taken away. Only the local commissioner knows of the death. Nothing has leaked out, and the two servants are in solitary confinement. Seals have been placed on the bedroom, the servants’ pantry and the drawing room. We must lose no more time. Bourdeau, see to it that the body is taken discreetly to the Basse-Geôle, that it is abundantly salted, even though we are in winter, and that Sanson is summoned as soon as possible. As you know, the duty doctors at the Châtelet are quite incapable, and have given proof of their incompetence on more than one occasion. Ask Semacgus, who has proved himself in previous investigations, to help Sanson in this task.’ He laughed. ‘Those two are used to each other by now! Don’t forget to confiscate anything which might throw light on this matter: glasses, crockery. Look in the servants’ pantry for the leftovers from last night’s dinner – apparently it was given in Nicolas’s honour.’

      He gave Nicolas a long hard look.

      ‘Now, as for this gentleman …’

      He pensively twisted a curl on his wig.

      ‘Commissioner, if you have a statement to make, I am listening. Something you may have on your mind and which you would like to do me the honour of confiding to me. Take your time; what you say to me will determine the course we take, for I shall not depart from whatever line I adopt. In fact, if anyone has my trust, it’s you, and, in my position, there are not many who enjoy it. Eh? What do you say?’

      For Nicolas, the open-mindedness of this conclusion tempered the inquisitorial tone of the rest of the speech, a tone which could have been applied to any suspect.

      ‘Your words do me great honour, Monsieur, and I can only answer as honestly as possible. Yesterday evening, I spent no more than fifteen minutes in Julie de Lastérieux’s house until an unjust remark caused me to leave. Having calmed down, I returned two hours later. I did not see her again, as the party was at its height. I judged that my presence would cast a pall over the guests’ merriment, and so refrained from showing myself. So …’ – he paused for a moment – ‘I wandered a little and then went back to Rue Montmartre.’

      ‘Nothing else I might learn from any malicious third parties?’

      ‘Nothing else, Monsieur. I met Commissioner Chorrey on duty at the Théâtre-Français and spent a little time with him.’

      Sartine made an impatient gesture. ‘As I’m sure you can imagine, I already know that! In any case, I need to make it clear to you that, being a party in this affair, you cannot be involved in any way in the investigation. Go back to work, but do not attempt to intervene, however remotely. It’s enough that Inspector Bourdeau, your friend …’ – he emphasised the possessive – ‘… should be given the task of dealing with this. Not to mention the fact that the two men who will be opening the body are also close to you. I could easily be reproached for all this, which means—’

      ‘Nevertheless, Monsieur—’

      ‘Nevertheless nothing! As I was saying … it means that I must keep you at a distance from this case. Don’t imagine that I don’t understand your feelings, your grief, your legitimate desire to participate in the inquiries into your friend’s death. But circumstances force us to act in a certain way. You would do well to obey. As long as the mystery has not been elucidated, any move on your part would bring the legality of our procedures into question and would place