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      It was almost five o’clock when they went their separate ways. Nicolas discovered that Sartine was not at his home; he was at Versailles, summoned by the King. He thought for a moment of going to visit Père Grégoire, but the Carmelite monastery was a long way off and it was getting dark, so he sensibly decided to return to Rue des Blancs-Manteaux.

      Things had definitely been going on in the house during his absence. No sooner had he got inside than again he heard two people talking, this time in Madame Lardin’s drawing room.

      ‘He knew everything, Louise,’ said a man’s voice.

      ‘I know, he made a terrible scene. But for heaven’s sake, Henri, explain why you were in that place at all.’

      ‘It was a trap. I can’t tell you anything … Did you hear a noise?’

      They stopped talking. A hand had been pressed against Nicolas’s mouth, another pushed him into the darkness and dragged him into the pantry. He could see nothing and heard only heavy breathing. He was released. He felt someone’s breath and smelled a fragrance that seemed familiar to him, then the footsteps receded and he found himself alone in the dark, watchful and motionless. A little later, the front door closed and he heard Louise Lardin returning to her rooms on the first floor. He waited a few moments more, then went up to his garret.

      Notes – CHAPTER III

1. The name given to the morgue situated in the basement of the Châtelet.

2. A card game in which the banker plays alone against any number of players.

3. A meal in which the meat course and the dessert are served at the same time.

       IV

       DISCOVERIES

      ‘The more light we have, the less clearly we are able to see.’

      THE PRINCE DE LIGNE

       Tuesday 6 February 1761

      As soon as he awoke Nicolas tried to remember down to the very last detail the scene that he had witnessed on his return to Rue des Blancs-Manteaux. The fleeting fragrance he had smelled could only have belonged to Marie Lardin. If Catherine the cook had grabbed him like that he would instantly have recognised her from the mixture of odours that always clung to her clothes. But why should Marie have dragged him away like this? She doubtless wanted to protect him, but from whom? He had identified the voices of Descart and Madame Lardin, and the meaning of their words was by now quite clear to him. But more than one conclusion could be drawn from them. Descart had a special relationship with Louise Lardin. He had recounted the Dauphin Couronné incident and she had been outraged by his presence at that establishment. But why had he spoken of a ‘trap’? Was it a way of exonerating himself for having been there?

      For Nicolas, this brief exchange took on a special significance in the light of the attack that was only intended to protect him. The fact that someone – Marie Lardin – had considered he was in danger simply for having overheard the conversation gave a disturbing dimension to all this. From now on his best option would be to play the innocent and disguise his curiosity from everyone in the house. They would all realise soon enough – if they had not done so already – that he had been appointed by Sartine to investigate the commissioner’s disappearance.

      While he was thinking, Nicolas caught himself humming an aria from Rameau’s Dardanus. This had not happened to him since he’d left Guérande. Life was, it seemed, returning to normal. He was impatient to start his day’s work. He had joined the police without deliberately choosing it as a career. A stranger to Paris, he had been taken in hand by Sartine and one thing had led to another. What was happening now, with its twists and turns, surprises, discoveries and sometimes pitfalls, filled him with a new energy, even if some questions remained unanswered and he still felt doubtful when he was in the thick of it. Semacgus’s interrogation left him with a confused feeling of bitterness. He wondered whether he should remain at the Lardins’ house when all the indications were that one day he would be obliged to question them, too.

      As he finished his quick wash in ice-cold water, he was suddenly struck by the silence in the house. Admittedly it was a quiet neighbourhood but it suddenly seemed to be muffled, as if under a blanket. A glance outside gave him the explanation: day was breaking and the dawn cast a yellowish light over a garden covered in snow.

      The canon’s watch struck half past seven. When Nicolas went downstairs Catherine was not there, but she had left a pot of soup on the stove which he knew was for him. Freshly baked bread awaited him on the table. Every Tuesday the cook left the house early with two enormous wicker baskets to go to the Saint-Jean market. She walked as fast as her enormous bulk allowed to take advantage of the early hour. With a little luck she might find fish so fresh it was still alive; the barges transporting it from the Lower Seine were equipped with saltwater tanks for the pick of the catch.

      He was about to go out when he heard Louise Lardin calling him. She was sitting at the desk in the library, writing in semi-darkness. Only a candlestick, its candle almost spent, lit up her tired and haggard face.

      ‘Good morning, Nicolas. I came down very early. I couldn’t sleep. Guillaume has still not returned. I didn’t hear you come in yesterday evening. What time was it?’

      The concern was new and the question direct.

      ‘Well after eight o’clock,’ said Nicolas, lying.

      She gave him a quizzical look and he noticed for the first time that her usual smile was missing. How hard her tight-lipped face could appear, with her hair undone and no make-up.

      ‘Where can he be?’ she asked. ‘Did you see Bourdeau yesterday? No one tells me anything.’

      ‘The search is continuing, Madame. You may be sure of that.’

      ‘Nicolas, you must tell me everything.’

      She had got up and was now smiling. Forgetting how scantily dressed she was, she resumed her normal seductive pose. She reminded him of the enchantress Circe and his mind began to wander. He imagined himself suddenly transformed into a woodpecker like King Picus, or a swine like Ulysses’ companions. He did not think Catherine’s soup would protect him from Louise’s evil spells. He was unable to keep a straight face at these mythological musings, which reminded him a little of his school days.

      ‘So you find this amusing, do you?’ asked Louise Lardin.

      Nicolas pulled himself together.

      ‘No, Madame, not at all. Excuse me but I must leave.’

      ‘Go, Monsieur, go. No one is stopping you. Perhaps you will bring back good news. But, the more I look at you, the more convinced I am that I can expect nothing from you.’

      He was on his way out when she called him back and held out her hand.

      ‘Excuse me, Nicolas. I didn’t mean that. I’m anxious and worried. You are my friend, are you not?’

      ‘I am your servant, Madame.’

      He hurriedly took leave of this woman whose obvious duplicity intrigued him. He could not identify exactly what kinds of feelings she aroused in him.

      The snow had stopped falling, there was a sharp chill, but the day promised to be fine. At police headquarters Nicolas met Monsieur de Sartine on the staircase. The Lieutenant General was impatient and in a hurry and Nicolas was

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