‘Oh, you shouldn’t let that go to your head: some sensitive people faint at the slightest nick. There’s no accounting for it! Anyway, our man doesn’t appear to be aware of the gravity of the situation, and certainly isn’t reacting like someone who has just tried to kill himself.’
They went back into the room.
‘How is it, Monsieur,’ Nicolas resumed, ‘that you are not in your nightshirt?’
The man touched himself, and seemed only now to become aware of what he was wearing. ‘I have no idea. I put on a freshly ironed nightshirt last night.’
‘It’s nowhere to be found,’ said Bourdeau.
Missery seemed both appalled and frightened by this observation.
‘Monsieur,’ said Nicolas, ‘what was your relationship with the Duchesse de La Vrillière’s chambermaid, Marguerite Pindron?’
For the first time since the beginning of the interrogation, Missery looked up with a kind of contained fury. ‘She’s my mistress. Everyone will tell you that and it’s true, and I defy anyone to …’ He broke off.
‘To what?’ asked Nicolas.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Jean Missery, you have to face certain facts. You are accused and suspected of having murdered your mistress, Marguerite Pindron, and of having tried to kill yourself in order to escape the just punishment for such a crime. As of now, you are in the hands of the law. On my orders, your condition permitting, you will be taken to the royal prison of the Châtelet to await the decision of the Criminal Lieutenant and an investigation of the case. This arrest does not imply a final judgement on your actions, but forms part of the necessary precautionary measures when there has been a murder. I can assure you that everything will be done to either invalidate or confirm the facts and presumptions for which you may well feel the full weight of the law.’
As he listened to Nicolas’s solemn words, the major-domo collapsed on his bed, weeping, gasping and wringing his hands. He was soon nothing but a shapeless heap.
‘Bourdeau,’ said Nicolas, ‘call the officers and have this man conducted to his destination. Make sure he’s bound and guarded.’
Nicolas was still haunted by the memory of a sad case in which a suspect had killed himself in his cell. He felt that a surfeit of precautions and the observation of simple rules was necessary to avoid any recurrence of such a tragedy. Monsieur de Gévigland and Bourdeau helped Missery to his feet. He was made to put on his coat, which the commissioner took hold of for a moment and examined attentively. Bourdeau picked up the shoes and had a good look at them before helping the major-domo to put them on. The officer at the door of the room called his colleagues, and the suspect was taken away, closely guarded by the men from the Châtelet.
Nicolas turned to the doctor. ‘Monsieur,’ he said, ‘I thank you for your valuable assistance and your very helpful comments. We will doubtless have need of your testimony.’
‘I am at your disposal, Commissioner. Rest assured of my continued assistance. In addition, I would be honoured and delighted if one day, at your convenience, you would come to lunch or dinner. I live in Rue Saint-Honoré, opposite the Capuchin monastery. My wife and I would be happy to count you among the regular visitors to our dwelling.’
He wrapped himself in his cloak, adjusted his cocked hat, bowed to the two police officers and went out. Nicolas had been struck by the benevolence emanating from the doctor, and the elegant simplicity of his attire, embellished with a ribbon tying up his natural, unpowdered salt-and-pepper hair. Once the doctor had gone out, Bourdeau gave a slight bow.
‘Everyone kowtows to the marquis,’ he said. ‘No sooner do they know him than they guess his rank, even if he calls himself Le Floch. Monsieur de Gévigland made no mistake! He fell into your snare.’
Nicolas did not reply to this gibe, which his friend had not been able to refrain from coming out with. To him, Bourdeau was all of a piece, with his faults and his qualities, the latter far outweighing the former in his judgement. The inspector was truly devoted to him, had twice saved his life, and had not hesitated to risk his career for his sake. Having fallen from favour together, they were now coming back into the light of day, more united than ever. What accumulated resentment, what brooded-over bitterness nourished these attacks of acrimony which Bourdeau seemed unable to control? The merest trifle could revive an unknown wound. The tragic death of his father, torn to pieces by a boar during a royal hunt, did not explain everything. The cruel game of respect and contempt which underlay a society based on the privileges of birth was something he found hard to accept. There was also a touch of possessive jealousy towards those who yielded to the commissioner’s innate seductive charms. Their attentions disgusted the inspector, who always dreamed of an exclusive friendship. Fortunately, Noblecourt, La Borde and Semacgus escaped this devouring jealousy. They did not in any way threaten long-established habits, and their own feelings for the inspector were a bastion and an anchor in his life. Yes, the sensible thing was not to respond to his remarks. Nicolas dreaded that the regular recurrence of these ideas might one day lead his friend to take up extreme positions, the consequences of which he would be unable to control. It was an abscess that needed to be lanced, and perhaps he would make up his mind to speak to him about it. But the hour had not yet come for that discussion.
‘Did you see the shoes?’ Bourdeau went on. ‘Not a trace of blood. Nothing. Clean and polished.’
‘Perhaps he cleaned them, we’ll have to ask him.’
Nicolas wrote something in his little black notebook, then asked Bourdeau what time it was.
‘That’s what I thought, it’s getting late. But it’s vital that we hear all the testimonies today. Let’s divide up the task. I’ll question the Swiss Guard and you have a word with the caretaker. Then we’ll meet again and see what we’ve come up with.’
*
They again found the valet waiting for them in the shadows of the corridor. Once more, the thought crossed Nicolas’s mind that the valet had not left them for a single second. Was he simply being diligent, to the point of obsequiousness, or had someone told him to keep an eye on everything they did? He led them into a new maze of corridors. They went past the linen room and came to some adjoining quarters. Provence pointed out to Bourdeau the entrance to the caretaker’s lodge, then, taking another staircase, he led the commissioner to the Swiss Guard’s sentry box on the ground floor below, at the corner of the left facade, near the gate. The man, who was tall and stooped, had taken off his wig, and his cranium gleamed in the candlelight. He immediately put his wig back on. He was truly monumental. Nicolas recalled that the largest houses in the city specifically sought out such giants to fill this kind of office. This one was so tall that the commissioner had to look up at him.
‘You know who I am, you welcomed me earlier. What is your name and how old are you?’
‘Pierre Miquete, about forty.’ He did not wait for the questions. ‘This is what I can tell you. There was a loud cry from the courtyard. I should tell you that the window of my bedroom looks out on the gate. I was eating my morning soup. I should tell you that I put in leftover dry bread, which the kitchen boy passes to me. It’s better in soup. So, yes, the cry … I went running. There was Jacques, doing the same. Yes, I should tell you his name is Jacques, like the caretaker. Everyone was crying, “Murder! Murder!”’
‘Everyone?’
‘Provence, Eugénie, the caretaker and Jacques.’
‘Was it light?’
‘I don’t remember. The emotion, you know. Seems to me …’
‘Did you see the bodies?’
‘Certainly not! The slightest drop of blood makes me faint.’
Nicolas risked something that sometimes worked.