was an old joke between them. When a body was to be opened up in the Basse-Geôle the inspector advised Nicolas to make liberal use of snuff.
At three o’clock they went their separate ways. Nicolas decided to ride to the Carmelite monastery at walking pace. As soon as he had arrived in Paris he had fallen in love with the city and enjoyed nothing more than ambling through the streets in a daydream. He had acquired a detailed knowledge of the differentdistricts, which had surprised Sartine on several occasions. This was very useful to him in his job. He carried a map of the great city inside his head. In a trice he could transport himself there in his imagination and find the smallest blind alley. By going through Rue du Four and Rue du Vieux-Colombier he reached Rue Cassette, went past the Benedictine nunnery of the Holy Sacrament and entered Rue de Vaugirard, on which stood the main entrance to the Carmelite monastery. The sound of his mount’s hoofs echoed along the deserted street. He stopped, moved by the sight of the place where he had spent his first days in Paris. It was from there that he had set off one morning for an audience at the Châtelet with the Lieutenant General of Police.
Rabouine really was still the most discreet spy on his team. There was not the least sign of his presence. Where on earth could he be hiding? He was there, though, watching him. Nicolas could feel it. He had enough time to visit his old friend Père Grégoire. After tethering his mare, he stepped into the familiar corridors of the monastery, crossed a courtyard and entered the dispensary, where the air was thick with the smell of medicinal herbs. An elderly monk, with spectacles on his nose, was weighing herbs on a pair of scales. Nicolas rediscovered the strong odours that not so long ago had befuddled his senses. He coughed and the Carmelite turned round.
‘Who dares disturb me? I specifically said that—’
‘A former apprentice, a Breton from Lower Brittany.’
‘Nicolas!’
He embraced the young man tightly, then made him step back to look at him.
‘Clear, bold eyes, head held high, a ruddy complexion. All the humours are in harmony. I heard about your promotion. Do you remember how I prophesied it? I had a presentiment that Monsieur de Sartine would affect the course of your life. I have often thanked the Lord for it.’
They shared their memories of a still-recent past. Nicolas explained to Père Grégoire his reason for coming to the monastery and learnt from his friend that the Comtesse de Ruissec was a frequent visitor and that one of the Carmelite fathers was her confessor. The time passed quickly and, whilst enjoying this reunion, Nicolas waited for the bells of the church to strike four. He suddenly thought they were not on time. He looked at his watch and was startled to discover that the bells were already five minutes late. Père Grégoire informed him that they had stopped sounding the hour so as not to disturb the peace of one of the brothers whose life was drawing to a close.
The young man arrived at the church quite breathless, having run all the way. It was empty. He was relieved; he was first to arrive. The smell of incense and extinguished candles and the more insidious odour of decomposition reached him. He examined the four side chapels; they, too, were empty. In the crossing of the transept he admired the beautiful white marble sculpture of the Virgin modelled on a statue by Bernini, or so Père Grégoire had often told him. Above him he recognised the painting in the dome in which the prophet Elijah was depicted being taken up to heaven in a chariot of fire. In front of the altar the well into which the bodies of the dead monks were loweredwas open. Nicolas knew the place; it was from here that holy water was sprinkled down into the crypt.
Nicolas was getting breathless again: incense often had this effect on him. He sat down on a prayer stool and tried to overcome the choking feeling. He was
At three o’clock they went their separate ways. Nicolas decided to ride to the Carmelite monastery at walking pace. As soon as he had arrived in Paris he had fallen in love with the city and enjoyed nothing more than ambling through the streets in a daydream. He had acquired a detailed knowledge of the differentdistricts, which had surprised Sartine on several occasions. This was very useful to him in his job. He carried a map of the great city inside his head. In a trice he could transport himself there in his imagination and find the smallest blind alley. By going through Rue du Four and Rue du Vieux-Colombier he reached Rue Cassette, went past the Benedictine nunnery of the Holy Sacrament and entered Rue de Vaugirard, on which stood the main entrance to the Carmelite monastery. The sound of his mount’s hoofs echoed along the deserted street. He stopped, moved by the sight of the place where he had spent his first days in Paris. It was from there that he had set off one morning for an audience at the Châtelet with the Lieutenant General of Police.
Rabouine really was still the most discreet spy on his team. There was not the least sign of his presence. Where on earth could he be hiding? He was there, though, watching him. Nicolas could feel it. He had enough time to visit his old friend Père Grégoire. After tethering his mare, he stepped into the familiar corridors of the monastery, crossed a courtyard and entered the dispensary, where the air was thick with the smell of medicinal herbs. An elderly monk, with spectacles on his nose, was weighing herbs on a pair of scales. Nicolas rediscovered the strong odours that not so long ago had befuddled his senses. He coughed and the Carmelite turned round.
‘Who dares disturb me? I specifically said that—’
‘A former apprentice, a Breton from Lower Brittany.’
‘Nicolas!’
He embraced the young man tightly, then made him step back to look at him.
‘Clear, bold eyes, head held high, a ruddy complexion. All the humours are in harmony. I heard about your promotion. Do you remember how I prophesied it? I had a presentiment that Monsieur de Sartine would affect the course of your life. I have often thanked the Lord for it.’
They shared their memories of a still-recent past. Nicolas explained to Père Grégoire his reason for coming to the monastery and learnt from his friend that the Comtesse de Ruissec was a frequent visitor and that one of the Carmelite fathers was her confessor. The time passed quickly and, whilst enjoying this reunion, Nicolas waited for the bells of the church to strike four. He suddenly thought they were not on time. He looked at his watch and was startled to discover that the bells were already five minutes late. Père Grégoire informed him that they had stopped sounding the hour so as not to disturb the peace of one of the brothers whose life was drawing to a close.
The young man arrived at the church quite breathless, having run all the way. It was empty. He was relieved; he was first to arrive. The smell of incense and extinguished candles and the more insidious odour of decomposition reached him. He examined the four side chapels; they, too, were empty. In the crossing of the transept he admired the beautiful white marble sculpture of the Virgin modelled on a statue by Bernini, or so Père Grégoire had often told him. Above him he recognised the painting in the dome in which the prophet Elijah was depicted being taken up to heaven in a chariot of fire. In front of the altar the well into which the bodies of the dead monks were loweredwas open. Nicolas knew the place; it was from here that holy water was sprinkled down into the crypt.
Nicolas was getting breathless again: incense often had this effect on him. He sat down on a prayer stool and tried to overcome the choking feeling. He was
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