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 themon. 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, moreunited 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
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, moreunited 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
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