performance resumed immediately, in order to put an end to the commotion as quickly as possible, but a unanimous cry rose from the stalls, acclaiming the author. The clamour grew and the French Guards came back in force, arresting several spectators. There was an indescribable hullaballoo as members of the audience stood firm, and blows were exchanged.
Nicolas hurried out after Commissioner Chorrey, who had turned crimson and was puffing and blowing. They came out into the foyer to find the author standing on a chair, reading his play to the guards, who were highly amused. When the watch arrived, Chorrey ordered the officer to conduct the culprit to the mad-house at Charenton, pending further information. This sequence of events had been a great distraction to Nicolas’s wounded soul, chasing away the anger and resentment. There was no point in his staying any longer, he thought. He had seen and heard enough of Mademoiselle Raucourt. Certain rather unnatural vocal effects of hers seemed to him to spoil the charms of her appearance and the elegance of her acting. In fact, at moments, it became so rough, hoarse and excessive as to destroy the music of the verse. He took his leave of Chorrey, who made him promise to come to dinner as soon as possible at his little house in Rue Maquignonne, near the police pavilion at the horse market. Nicolas recalled having been present, a dozen years earlier, while still an apprentice in the profession, at the inauguration, by Monsieur de Sartine, of this elegant building. He recalled, too, that Chorrey had a solid fortune, which he had inherited from his father, a horse dealer.
The cold and damp of the night revived his anguish. Once again, as had so often happened in his youth, Nicolas found himself incapable of keeping his imagination in check. Left to itself, it would run wild, stubbornly heading down any path that presented itself, and he would be unable to rest until he had explored them all. It was a kind of mental itch, which he tried to dismiss, but in vain. The slightest upset or vexation, and it returned as strong as ever. If only he could take the middle way, see things in all their simplicity, and accept every fleeting moment of happiness for what it was! Monsieur de Noblecourt, being the honest man that he was, had promised him the cure: wisdom would come with age and the waning of the passions.
Nicolas forced himself to reflect coolly on the current situation. How absurd to make a drama out of a woman’s caprice! A woman on her own, separated from her lover most of the time because of his work, as coquettish as the rest of her sex, susceptible to the attentions of idle young men, and perhaps driven to make him jealous as the only means of gauging the strength of his feelings for her. And he had flown into a rage at the smallest provocation as if he were her lord and master, and had over-dramatised what should only have been a little quarrel intended to reinvigorate their love for each other. He decided to give Julie a surprise and return unexpectedly. No sooner had this idea come into his head than the desire to see her again took him over completely. He hailed a cab in Rue Saint-Honoré, and was driven across a frozen, deserted Paris as far as Rue de Verneuil. He added such a generous tip to the fare that the astonished coachman called him ‘Monseigneur’.
He looked up. The lights were still on in the windows of Madame de Lastérieux’s house, and he could see shadows dancing. His ardour cooled: he had imagined that the house would be empty and dark and his lover tired and ready for bed. But perhaps there was still hope. When he got to the first floor, however, and opened the door with his key, he heard loud laughter and the clinking of glasses. Disappointment overwhelmed him like nausea. How wrong he had been to think that the party had been cut short simply because he had left in a hurry!
Casimir appeared, carrying a tray. Nicolas retreated into a dark corner. When Casimir came back out of the servants’ pantry, his arms were laden with bottles. With an unaccustomed, but welcome, sense of pettiness, Nicolas remembered the bottle of old Tokay from Hungary he had acquired at no small cost from the Austrian ambassador’s butler: the fellow supplemented his wages by selling wine from his country that had been brought in in his master’s baggage, as well as supplying Monsieur de Sartine with interesting information. Julie loved that wine as an accompaniment to truffles, quail and pâté de foie gras in the manner of the Maréchal de Soubise. Nicolas decided to recover the bottle, which he had placed in the servants’ pantry that afternoon. Fortunately, it was still there: doubtless, the veil of dust and spiders’ webs that covered it and the dirty dishes piled around it had prevented it from being used during that evening’s banquet. He slipped it into the inside pocket of his cloak: he had made up his mind to go to Rue Montmartre after all, and there was no point in arriving there empty-handed. He turned, and there, leaning on the doorpost, his right hand on his hip, looking at him mockingly, was the young man who had been playing the pianoforte. Where the devil had he seen that face before? Nicolas walked out past him, shoving him slightly as he did so. Casimir watched in surprise as he raced down the stairs like a madman.
He wandered for a long time along the quais, in the darkness and the mud, accosted at times by whores with toothless mouths uttering obscenities and disgusting propositions. In one of them, excessively made up and with her nose missing, he thought he recognised old Émilie, a ghost from his past, who cut meat from the carcasses of horses in the knacker’s yard at Montfaucon to use in the soup she sold. The memory of the old woman cast him into a whirlpool of images and faces, amongst which the face of the young man in Rue de Verneuil kept coming back like an obsession. He stopped to drink some vile rotgut in a smoky tavern, and after many detours found himself in Rue Montmartre, outside Monsieur de Noblecourt’s house.
The servants’ pantry was so untidy, it was clear the party was a lively one. He shook his head bitterly. This, then, was what his evening boiled down to: rebuffs, escapes, visits to kitchens. A tremendous din of words and laughter was coming from the first floor, dominated by the bass voice of Guillaume Semacgus. Reaching the half-open door of the library, where the table usually stood, he stopped and rested his burning forehead against the wood, the smell of polish filling his nostrils, and listened to what his friends were saying.
‘Faced with such a wonder,’ Semacgus was proclaiming, ‘it is necessary to proceed with the most consummate care. Making a long incision would let in too much air from outside and the contact with the air escaping might well upset a fragile equilibrium and cause the whole thing to collapse. I’m reminded of an operation I once performed in the middle of a storm off Ile Bourbon. It was a trepanation, and the meningeal part—’
‘Pah!’ said Monsieur de Noblecourt. ‘There speaks the navy surgeon! Whatever is he about to tell us? I fear it may detract from our pleasure. What do you think, La Borde?’
‘The King,’ replied La Borde, ‘excels at this kind of operation. He’s both decisive and gentle. It’s just like softening up a courtesan.’
‘Hush now, you rogue!’ said the former procurator, spluttering with merriment. ‘There are ladies present. At my age, I’m not as firm as I used to be and my hand trembles.’
‘Upon my word as a navy surgeon, there’s a statement intended to be moral, but which makes the image all the saucier!’
‘Nicolas would have opened it for you in no time at all,’ said Bourdeau. ‘You just have to make up your mind. To delay too long would spoil its excellence and soften the inner layers.’
‘Ah, yes, we do miss our Nicolas,’ sighed Monsieur de Noblecourt. ‘But he’s in love and, being so delicate in his feelings, too much is not yet enough for him.’
‘Our friend,’ grunted Semacgus, ‘was a livelier companion when he was seeing the young lady in Rue Saint-Honoré.’
A silence followed this allusion to La Satin, the love of Nicolas’s youth, who was now in charge of the Dauphin Couronné. The ties of tenderness that had bound them had never entirely loosened. Nicolas was surprised that they were so familiar with his private life, and comforted to sense no sharpness in their words, but on the contrary a thoughtful and indulgent demonstration of their affection for him.
‘Come on, now,’ said La Borde. ‘While waiting for the return of the prodigal son who doesn’t know what he’s missing, let the magistracy do its work. Ladies, proceed!’
Intrigued by the noises he heard, Nicolas peered through the crack in the door. The scene which presented itself to his gaze reminded