Both men were fond of the classics, and occasionally, when they needed to be discreet, they enjoyed conversing with the help of Latin quotations.
‘Bene, that’s certainly an interesting symptom! I’m reassured, though. This is a grave crisis, but he’ll get through it. The truth will out, and sooner rather than later. We just have to let the stupid and the envious stew in their own juice!’ He winked. ‘Don’t worry, anything I find out about last night’s incompetence I’ll pass on to you.’
Nicolas smiled and made an evasive gesture with his hand. His brilliant entry into the corps of commissioners at the Châtelet in 1761 had impressed his colleagues. By now, most had learnt to appreciate him for his particular qualities and readily opened their hearts to him about their problems, confident that he would be able to bring pressure to bear on the Lieutenant General. Without exaggerating his natural charm, Nicolas had been able to honour some of the older veterans with his services.
The registers had been laid out in the church. All around them rose the cries and weeping of the families. They shared the task among themselves. After a moment, the inspector pointed out a line to him.
‘… a frail young girl,’ Nicolas read aloud, ‘in a pale yellow satin dress, fair hair, blue eyes, aged nineteen …’
He questioned the police officer who was keeping the register.
‘This entry is at the end. It can’t have been long since these particulars were given. Do you remember the person who gave them?’
‘Yes, Commissioner, it was only a quarter of an hour ago. A gentleman of about forty, accompanied by a young man. He was looking for his niece. He seemed in a very emotional state and gave me a seal from his shop so that we could reach him in case we found the girl.’
He noted the number of the entry and looked through a cardboard box in which various papers were being stored. ‘Let’s see … number seventy-three … Here we are!’ He took out a leaflet. ‘At the sign of the Deux Castors, Rue Saint-Honoré, Paris, opposite the Opéra. Charles Galaine, furrier, manufacturer and purveyor of furs, muffs and coats.’ The girl’s name was apparently Élodie Galaine.
The decorative seal showed two beavers facing each other. Their tails framed an engraving representing a man in a fur coat and hat reaching out his hands towards a fire. The commissioner wrote down the address in pencil in his little black notebook.
‘Let’s not waste time,’ he said. ‘We’ll go straight there.’
As they were getting back into their carriage, Tirepot appeared and held Nicolas back by a button of his coat.
‘Here’s what I can tell you. The City Guards were having a merry time of it last night. They happily got through a lot of bottles in the taverns round about, celebrating their new uniforms. They went to lots of different places, but in particular to the Dauphin Couronné. La Paulet will be able to tell you more. She asked me to tell you and Monsieur Bourdeau that she waited for you, that your food got spoilt, but that she realised what was happening. She went on and on about a piece of news she said was sure to please you. She’s expecting you tonight at about ten; it’ll be worth your while …’
Nicolas was once more about to climb into the carriage when Tirepot again detained him.
‘Not so fast! Have a look at what they’ve been hiring people to distribute. The city lot are behind this. I heard from a proofreader who was using my convenience that it was produced in a workshop that prints adjudication announcements for the aldermen. Sorry about the state of it!’
He handed the commissioner a stained poster. Nicolas threw him a coin, which he made as if to refuse, while seizing it in mid-air. The lampoon was crude and obscene. Its target was Monsieur de Sartine and beyond him, the First Minister, Choiseul. They certainly were not losing any time at the Hôtel de Ville, thought Nicolas. As a loyal subject of the King and a magistrate, he was shocked by these accusations. Not that he wasn’t used to such hate-filled writings: he had been hunting them down for ten years, under two royal mistresses. He kept seizing them and destroying them in disgust, but the hydra possessed a hundred heads and was constantly reborn.
Their carriage set off and again went through the cordon of French Guards. Nicolas had the coachman ask an officer for permission to go along Rue Royale. The cab slowly moved those few hundred fateful yards. Nothing remained of the previous night’s tragedy except for scraps of clothing and scattered shoes, which would soon provide a harvest for the second-hand clothes dealers. The rain that had fallen during the storm was gradually erasing the brown stains on the ground. In the crude afternoon light, the immediate causes of the tragedy were like so many accusing witnesses: trenches, blocks of stone, the unfinished street. Place Louis XV was emerging from the disaster, and teams had already started to clear the remains of the structure from which the fireworks had been launched. The ambassadors’ mansion and the Garde-Meuble stood resplendent in all their hieratic solemnity. The wind was chasing away the last miasmas of the night. Tomorrow, everything would be back to normal, as if nothing had happened. And yet Nicolas could still hear the cries of agony. As they went past the Garde-Meuble and along Passage de l’Orangerie to Rue Saint-Honoré, he thought with anguish of how the evening’s merriment had turned sour. Before long, their carriage stopped near the corner of Rue de Valois, outside a fine-looking shop with the sign of the Deux Castors. The window, in its frame of carved wood, displayed scenes of trappers and savages hunting animals native to the various continents. The glass was protected by a grille with gilded points in the shape of pine cones. Through it, in the gloom of the shop, a number of stuffed animals could be seen. Nicolas pointed out some naked dummies to Bourdeau.
‘At the end of spring, the hides and garments are taken down into cool cellars fumigated with herbs to protect them from insects.’
‘You’re very knowledgeable about these things. Some lovely lady, I suppose …’
‘And you’re very nosy …’
A small bell tinkled as he opened the door. They were struck by a strong smell, which reminded Nicolas of a certain wardrobe in the Château de Ranreuil in which, as a child, he had often played, burying his face in the fur clothes that belonged to his godfather, the marquis. A brown-haired woman stood by the light oak counter. She was still young, wore a grey taffeta dress with large lace oversleeves, and was studying a piece of paper with a stern expression on her face. She lifted her head – Nicolas admired her pale complexion – and looked angrily at a young girl, little more than a child, in a maid’s cap and apron, who was shrinking into herself, her head lowered like someone caught in the act. The girl had an angular, unprepossessing face and the mulish expression of a small, hunted animal. The two men approached in silence.
‘Miette, my girl, either someone stole it from you or you stole it yourself.’
‘But, Madame …’ the girl moaned.
‘Quiet, you hussy, you’re getting on my nerves!’
While the maid fiddled with a corner of her apron, the woman’s eyes came to rest on the girl’s feet.
‘Where have you been? Look at your shoes … Your face is dirty, your clothes are a mess! Who would think, in a respectable house –’ Suddenly she noticed Nicolas. ‘Get out of my sight, you wicked girl! Gentlemen, to what do I owe your visit? We have some wonderful bargains at this time of year. Hats, pelisses, cloaks, muffs. Buy now for the autumn. Or else, for your lady, a fresh consignment of sables just in from the North. I’ll call my husband, Monsieur Galaine – he can tell you everything you need to know about his hides.’
The woman disappeared through a side door with bevelled glass panels.
‘There’s someone who’s not too worried about her niece!’ Bourdeau muttered.
‘Let’s not jump to conclusions,’ said Nicolas in a conciliatory tone. ‘We’re still not sure who the unknown girl is. The lady simply has a good head for business.’ He always guarded against first impressions, even