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

come again, and the temptation to sleep and forget. He tried to get a grip on himself by concentrating hard on the conversation, which was as lively as ever.

      ‘For a long time,’ said La Borde, ‘His Majesty cooked dinner for his guests and served it himself in his small apartments. If Nicolas were here, he’d be able to confirm it. The King once served him a whole plate of chicken wings, delighted to see that young Ranreuil, as he’s in the habit of calling him, shared his predilection for this delicious dish.’

      ‘How is the King?’ asked Noblecourt gravely.

      ‘Both well and ill. He acts like a young man, but feels the fatigues of old age creeping up on him.’

      ‘Come on, I’m ten years older than he is and I feel like—’

      ‘Like a man whose friends protect him from the temptations and foolishness which would kill many stronger men,’ said Semacgus.

      ‘You’re a fine one to talk!’

      ‘Even I, Monsieur, have been forcing myself to be more careful. I hope to be able to enjoy life as long as you have.’

      ‘There you have it,’ said La Borde. ‘The King is not reasonable, and the lady takes advantage of the fact, constantly arousing his remaining passions. She’s not La Pompadour and has no political ambitions, but she places her influence at the service of those who do have them.’

      This was a clear allusion to the First Minister, the Duc d’Aiguillon, and was greeted with applause. La Borde sighed.

      Nicolas recalled that his friend had quarrelled recently with La Guimard, the mistress he shared with the Prince de Soubise. The prince had demanded an end to a situation which had previously suited everyone, on the pretext that Monsieur de La Borde had given the actress a venereal disease, and she had given it to the prince, who had transmitted it to the Comtesse de l’Hospital and she to someone else, the chain of cause and effect swallowed up in the complex web of Court and city liaisons. La Borde had confided to Nicolas that he had been treated, on the advice of the Maréchal de Biron, a colonel in the French Guards, with anti-venereal pills supplied by a quack named Keyser, a remedy which the old soldier had tried out on those of his men who had been corrupted by the city.

      ‘Is it true,’ asked Noblecourt, ‘that Madame du Barry paid twenty thousand livres for a full-length Van Dyck portrait of Charles I of England, and placed it opposite the King’s portrait to remind him of the fate in store for him if he yields to the parlements?’

      ‘I don’t know if that’s the correct explanation. But the portrait is certainly there, and I have often admired it. The idea may have been d’Aiguillon’s, hoping to appeal to my master’s morbid tastes. Whatever the truth of the matter, the sight of the painting always makes me uneasy. The fact is, the King is weary. He needs a stepping stone to get on his horse these days. He’s thinking of using that private carriage invented by the Comte d’Eu when he found himself physically unable to hunt: it turns on a pivot and allows the user to follow all the movements of the prey. And he’s always filled with grim thoughts.’

      ‘My friend the Maréchal de Richelieu,’ said Noblecourt, tipping his wig slightly in honour of this great name, ‘told me that last November, during a game of whist at the Comtesse du Barry’s, the Marquis de Chauvelin, feeling unwell, leant back against the Maréchale de Mirepoix’s armchair and made a joke. Suddenly, His Majesty noticed that his face was all twisted. At that very moment, he fell to the floor, dead.’

      ‘That’s right,’ said La Borde. ‘They tried to help him, but in vain. His Majesty was quite affected by it all, especially as his old friend was only fifty-seven. Soon after that, alarmed by some slight health problem, the King spoke frankly to his First Surgeon, in whom he has great confidence. He told him how worried he was about the sorry state of his health. “I see that I am no longer so young,” he said, “I have to slow down.” “Sire,” La Martinière replied, “you would do even better to stop.”’

      A long silence fell, as if each man were weighing the gravity and implications of these words. Nicolas felt as if his whole body were sweating. That was what happened, he thought, when you rushed around madly in the cold and dark. Suddenly, he slid to the floor, and the venerable bottle of Tokay fell from his hand and smashed to pieces. Cyrus, the old water spaniel dozing at his master’s feet, rose at this noise and started howling loudly. Everyone ran out, except Monsieur de Noblecourt who tried to rise from his armchair, his face pale, his body trembling, his eyes filled with panic.

      Notes – CHAPTER 1

1. The barracks of the Regiment of Musketeers were situated on the corner of Rue de Verneuil.

2. Françoise Marie Saucerotte, known as Mademoiselle Raucourt (1756–1815): actress at the Théâtre-Français.

3. A Brazilian tribe.

       II

       SUSPICION

      ‘Lord,’ replies the knight, ‘I see that I must talk of my shame and my pain … in order to prove my loyalty.’

       BOOK OF THE GRAIL

       Friday 7 January 1774

      Through the misty clouds that enveloped everything, Nicolas vaguely distinguished the faces of three greybeards shaking their heads and looking at a fourth who was muttering indistinctly, his head covered with a towel. A little old lady, her features obscured by thick black lace, was cutting a Twelfth Night cake with what looked like a billhook. When they were served, the four guests got down to eating their portions of the feast, which seemed to be difficult to chew. This activity was punctuated with brief, inarticulate words. Suddenly, the man whose head was concealed let out a brief cry, plunged his hand beneath the towel, and took out a black charm. Nicolas was wondering about the meaning of this scene when the old man with the hidden face struggled to his feet, seized a crown in his gloved hand, and raised it to his cranium. At the same time, the towel fell, revealing, to Nicolas’s horror, a death’s head, now crowned, laughing and staring at him with its empty eye sockets. The old woman removed her lace and he saw, with an increased feeling of dread, that her emaciated body bore, as if detached from it, the exquisite powdered head of Madame du Barry. He cried out and closed his eyes to dismiss the image …

      ‘Hold him still, Bourdeau, he’s moving about so much he’s going to fall.’

      ‘He’s having a nightmare.’

      Semacgus took Nicolas’s pulse and placed his hand on his forehead. ‘Seems like it. The fever’s fallen and the pulse is back to normal. Awa’s herbs are invaluable when dealing with these violent attacks. I congratulate myself every day that I stocked up well before I left Saint-Louis.’

      ‘All the same, he’s been sleeping for twelve hours,’ Bourdeau said, glancing at a large brass watch. ‘It’s nearly one in the afternoon. Do you think he’s strong enough to bear the news?’

      ‘Without any doubt. Given the situation, we can’t just let him lie here. You said yourself we ought to wake him.’

      ‘What else can we do, Semacgus? Monsieur de Sartine has asked to see him as soon as possible at police headquarters. All the same, I wonder if we ought to leave it to Sartine to tell him the truth.’

      ‘That’s a worse risk than the one we want to avoid, blunt as we are. I’m of a mind to ask Monsieur de Noblecourt to talk to him with his usual calm and wisdom.’

      ‘At