The trail continued, becoming increasingly indistinct. But Nicolas knew that blood, being thick and viscous, took a long time to vanish completely. He reached an empty room furnished with two old red velvet benches, with a stock of logs piled up against the panelling. He immediately realised that this was not the way to the Duc de La Vrillière’s apartments, but rather a kind of halfway stage before you got to the upper parts of the mansion, given over, in this kind of dwelling, to the servants’ rooms or to storerooms. He immediately began examining the state of the staircase, this time with a piece of candle he found lying in a corner. He lit it, and the flame illumined the steps. He looked as hard as he could, bent down, even lay down, his nose almost against the oak, but could not find any traces of blood. On the other hand, he did find some on the floor of the room, a trail leading to the French window at the corner of the building. As he approached, a cold draught made him shiver.
Why was it open? He saw that the catch was up. He opened the window, and immediately a keen wind lashed his face. The window led out onto a balcony with a balustrade, facing Rue Saint-Florentin. His heart beat faster: there were clear traces of blood on the stone. Bloody footprints led to the corner of the building, in the direction of the gate in the main courtyard. He followed them and leant over. Here, another surprise awaited him: he observed that there were also spots of blood on the narrow cornice of the wall, which was supported by columns. He decided to go and see at close quarters where that might lead. Luckily, unlike his friend Semacgus, he did not suffer from vertigo. During all his travels on the King’s vessels, Semacgus had never been able to climb the top mast. Admittedly, he would say with a laugh, his functions as a surgeon rarely required this kind of exercise from him. Nicolas dreaded confinement and enclosed spaces, but, faced with a drop, he was as agile as a cat. Pressing his back up against the wall, he slid to the cornice above the gate. As he placed his feet on the projecting edge, he was struck by a stronger gust of wind and almost lost his balance: throwing his head back steadied him. He obtained a foothold on the cornice, holding on to the top of the upper parapet with his hands. There, the traces petered out. He sat down with his legs dangling, then lay on the edge to examine the underneath. He immediately realised that by putting his legs around the top of the column, he could easily get down as far as the spikes of the iron gate – they were only a few feet below him – and from there slide to the ground. There was one point where it could be dangerous, but the rest was child’s play. He decided, however, not to go all the way with his experiment, as the flagstones, being muddy, seemed unlikely to reveal any further clues.
So someone had left the scene of the crime, gone up to the first floor of the mansion, opened the French window, and had escaped by performing a feat of acrobatics. That suggested several things: that the unknown person had a precise knowledge of the layout of the house, that his escape had taken place in the middle of the night, when there was less risk of being surprised, and, above all, that the individual was young, capable of such a difficult exercise, in which you might either fall or be impaled on the spikes of the gate. That raised some interesting questions about the sequence of events, and seemed to contradict the initial hypothesis of a murder committed by the major-domo, followed by an attempted suicide.
Nicolas put his feet back down on the balcony, but, as he was about to enter the room, he realised that, during his brief absence, the French window had been closed from inside. Whether this had been caused by a gust of wind or a human hand, he was faced with the problem of getting back inside. He thought for a moment of taking the perilous route adopted by the mysterious acrobat. He soon gave up the idea: that was all he needed, to be crushed to death in the street! He could not take the risk. He took a few steps and glanced in through the next window. There, in a kind of boudoir, was the Duc de La Vrillière, motionless and lost in thought. Unless he broke a pane in the first French window, the only thing he could do was make his presence known as naturally as possible. It took him several attempts to attract the attention of the minister, who eventually opened to him.
‘Monsieur, Monsieur,’ exclaimed the duc, ‘I’d heard that you went out through the door and came in through the window! Well, no need to explain. That’s your business.’
He appeared to reflect for a moment, then turned with a sigh to a large portrait of Louis XV, the cartouche of which indicated that it was a gift from the King, presented to Monsieur de Saint-Florentin in 1756.
‘What a good master he was,’ he murmured, in a tragic tone. ‘He loved us, he really did. What a career you would have had, Marquis, if …’ He left the phrase hanging. ‘What he especially appreciated about you,’ he resumed after a moment, ‘was your handsome face, your very rare gift of being able to distract him, and an even more unusual quality: the fact that you never asked him for anything. I shan’t even mention the services you rendered, performing miracles in difficult, delicate circumstances, even at the risk of your own life. Not many have been as valiant and loyal as you …’
Nicolas tried to take advantage of the duc’s current good disposition towards him. ‘Monseigneur, allow me to ask you a question. What is your opinion of your major-domo, Jean Missery?’
‘To say that he keeps a firm grip on my household would be an understatement,’ replied the duc. ‘He’s been with me for fifteen years, having succeeded his father. Everything concerning the general expenses of the mansion is his responsibility. He chooses the kitchen staff and the other servants, and he has full authority over them, including dismissing them if need be. It is also his job to buy bread, wine, meat, vegetables and fruit from the suppliers. For example, he buys wine by the cask and hands it over to the wine waiter to distribute, and the latter will report back to him on the state in which he has received it. He also has to deal with a grocer for sugar, candles, torches, oils and Lord knows what else! Wood, crockery, oats, hay, straw: all that’s his province. Last but not least – by no means least! – he has to lay out the service for the lunches, dinners and midnight suppers which I give.’
‘Do you think he’s honest?’
‘I believe he is, but, even if he were not, I would not trouble myself to constantly check up on a servant, however corrupt he might be. When we depend on others, we sometimes have to know when to close our eyes if we want to be well served. Now leave me, I still have some work to do.’
Nicolas knew there was no point in insisting. He retraced his steps to the antechambers and the great staircase. Deciding to visit the wounded man, he stopped on the mezzanine. He thought he knew his way around the house quite well by now, but realised that it was not possible to go from one wing to the other except via the ground floor. There, he had no difficulty in finding, to the left of the grand staircase, a small staircase leading up to the mezzanine. After several minutes during which he wandered through dark corridors, he at last came to a room with its door open.
It was a large room, with bergame hangings and three windows that looked onto an inner courtyard. A good fire was blazing in the hearth. The marble mantelpiece was adorned with a small pier glass with three mirrors set in gilded wood. On a bed with red flowered damask curtains, his legs half covered with a counterpane of quilted calico, lay a corpulent man, his torso wrapped in bloodstained sheets. On the floor, to the left of the bed, were a coat the colour of dead leaves, a matching pair of breeches, a white shirt, and a yellow cravat. The rest of the furniture consisted of a large oak wardrobe, a marquetry table, two armchairs upholstered in yellow serge, a chest of drawers, and a small writing table covered with papers. The overall impression was one of comfort, and even luxury, enhanced even more by the presence on the parquet floor of a Turkish carpet. On a chair with a dust cover sat a man in a black coat and grey wig, apparently dozing. Nicolas realised that this was not the case, and that what he was in fact doing was taking Jean Missery’s pulse. The man turned. A fine pastel face, thought Nicolas, about sixty, perhaps a little more.
‘Monsieur, whom do I have the honour of addressing?’
‘Commissioner Nicolas Le Floch. I am in charge of the investigation. And you are Monsieur …?’
‘Dr de Gévigland. I was sent for this morning to attend to this disaster. There was nothing I could do for the