A procession in cassocks, surplices and square caps mimicked the funeral rites of a straw dummy. A wretch dressed as a priest and wearing a stole imitated the celebrant. All around them were prostitutes pretending to be pregnant nuns, weeping and wailing. The whole cortege advanced by torchlight, blessing the spectators with a pig’s trotter dipped in dirty water. Everyone seemed caught up in the frenzy and the women were by far the most daring.
A masked prostitute threw herself on Nicolas, kissed him and whispered in his ear ‘you look as grim as death’ as she handed him a grinning skeleton’s mask. He quickly freed himself from her embrace and went off under a hail of abuse.
Carnival had begun. From now until Ash Wednesday, the nights would be given over to riotous youths mingling with the rabble.
Shortly before Christmas Monsieur de Sartine had brought together all the commissioners of the districts, and Nicolas, although in the background, had been present at this council of war. After his bitter experience of the scandalous excesses that had marked the carnival of 1760, the first after his appointment, the Lieutenant General had no wish to see a repetition of events that had worried even the King. Fines and arrests were no longer adequate. Everything had to be anticipated and brought under control; every cog in the police machine had to function with absolute efficiency.
Now that he was confronted with the realities of the night, Nicolas understood Monsieur de Sartine’s words better. All along his route bawdiness was the order of the day. He soon regretted not following the prostitute’s advice by putting on a mask. Had he worn the same garb as the revellers, he would have passed unnoticed; he would not have had to brush with rampaging gangs who broke windows, extinguished lanterns and performed all sorts of dangerous pranks.
These are real saturnalia, thought Nicolas, noting how everything had been turned upside down. Prostitution, which was normally confined to a few specially designated areas, showed its various faces with total impunity. Night became day with its rowdiness, singing, masks, music, intrigues and enticements.
The Saint-Avoye district, which included Rue des Blancs-Manteaux, seemed calmer. Nicolas was amazed to see the Lardins’ residence extensively lit up as the commissioner and his wife rarely had guests, and never in the evening. The door was not locked so he did not need to use his key. He heard a loud conversation echoing from the library. The door was open, and he went in. Madame Lardin had her back to him. She was standing up and talking angrily to a short, burly man in a cloak. Nicolas recognised him as Monsieur Bourdeau, one of the inspectors at the Châtelet.
‘Don’t worry! Look here, Monsieur, the fact is I haven’t seen my husband since Friday morning. He hasn’t been home since … We were supposed to be having supper with my cousin, Dr Descart, in Vaugirard. It may well be that his duties have detained him overnight: I have the misfortune to be married to a man who never tells me what he does with his time. But three days and now almost three nights without news, I just can’t understand it …’
She sat down and dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.
‘Something has happened to him. I know it has, I can sense it. What should I do, Monsieur? I’m desperate.’
‘Madame – I think I can tell you that Monsieur Lardin was assigned to uncover a clandestine gambling den. It’s a very delicate case. But here’s Monsieur Le Floch. He’ll be able to help me tomorrow if by any chance your husband does not reappear, though I am sure that he will.’
Louise Lardin looked round, stood up and clasped her hands, dropping her handkerchief as she did so. Nicolas picked it up.
‘Oh! Nicolas, there you are. I’m so pleased to see you. I’m so alone and at my wits’ end. My husband has disappeared and … You will help me, Nicolas, won’t you?’
‘Madame, I’m happy to do so. But I share Monsieur Bourdeau’s opinion: the commissioner has doubtless been held up by this case, which I know something about myself – it does indeed involve some delicate matters. Rest yourself, Madame. It is late.’
‘Thank you, Nicolas. How is your guardian?’
‘He’s dead, Madame. I thank you for your concern.’
With a sorrowful expression she held out her hand to him. He bowed. Louise Lardin left the room, without so much as a glance at the inspector.
‘You know how to calm down the ladies, Nicolas,’ he commented. ‘My compliments. I’m very sorry to hear about your guardian …’
‘Thank you. What’s your feeling? The commissioner is a creature of habit. He occasionally spends the night away from home but he always tells his wife in advance.’
‘Of habit … and of secrets. But the main thing for this evening was to allay his wife’s fears. You managed that better than I did.’
Bourdeau studied Nicolas and smiled, his eyes sparkling with a kindly irony. In whom had Nicolas noticed the same expression? Perhaps in Sartine, who often looked at him in the same way. He blushed without picking up on Bourdeau’s words.
The two men conversed a few moments more and agreed to decide their next move at dawn. Bourdeau took his leave. Nicolas was on his way up to his attic when Catherine, who had been listening to everything in the shadows, suddenly emerged. Her broad, snub-nosed face seemed pallid in the light of the candle.
‘Poor Nicolas. I pity you. How terribly sad. You are alone now. All goes badly, you know, here also. Very badly, very badly.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing. I know what I know. I am not deaf.’
‘If you know something you must tell me. Don’t you trust me any more? You want to add to my suffering. You’re heartless.’
Nicolas immediately regretted his lack of sincerity towards the cook, whom he loved dearly.
‘Me, heartless? Nicolas cannot say that.’
‘Well then, Catherine, speak up. Remember that I haven’t slept for several days.’
‘Not slept? But, my little one, you must. Here, there has been a big argument between Monsieur and Madame last Thursday about Monsieur Descart, Madame’s cousin. Monsieur accused her of flirting with him.’
‘With that sanctimonious bigot?’
‘Exactly.’
Nicolas was pensive as he went back to his bedroom. As he unpacked his bag, he thought about what Catherine had said. Of course he knew Dr Descart, Louise Lardin’s cousin. He was a tall, lanky individual, who always reminded Nicolas of the wading birds in the marshes around Guérande. He did not like his receding profile, accentuated by the lack of a chin and a bony, hooked nose. He felt uncomfortable in his presence; with his preaching voice, his obsession with obscure quotations from the scriptures and his knowing nods, the man irritated Nicolas. How could the beautiful Madame Lardin allow herself to be taken in by someone like Descart? He was suddenly annoyed with himself for not being more concerned about Lardin’s fate and, with that, he fell asleep.
Monday 5 February 1761
It was early morning when he left the sleepy household. Only a glum and silent Catherine was up, relighting her kitchen stove. Evidently the commissioner had not returned. Nicolas made his way to the Châtelet via streets littered with rubbish from the night’s celebrations, like a receding tide. He even saw a clown in a soiled costume snoring amidst the filth in a carriage entrance. As soon as he arrived he set about writing two notes, one to Père Grégoire and the other to his friend Pigneau, to inform them of the canon’s death and of his own return. While he was taking the notes to the post office, the usual little Savoyard chimney sweep appeared with a