The Phantom of Rue Royale

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  ‘What do you make of that story about his long sleep?’

  ‘It seems suspicious to me, and not very believable. We need to get to the bottom of it. I’m sure that, like me, you noticed in passing where he contradicted the other testimonies. We’ll have to look into all that. But for the moment we need to concentrate on the other affair that concerns us. It’s urgent that we gather the elements of the report that Monsieur de Sartine asked for.’

  ‘We already know the festivities were left unsupervised because of the incompetence of the City Guards.’

  ‘We have to identify who’s responsible and establish the death toll. The Lieutenant General will be received by His Majesty on Sunday evening, as usual. Send one of our men out to gather information. A letter must be dispatched to the twenty district commissioners. We need to consult the doctors, the apothecaries, the bonesetters, the coffin makers, the parish registers for the number of funerals, the gravediggers. Question everyone. Get everything you can from our spies. Let everything be recorded and communicated to me as soon as possible.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ a curt voice echoed through the duty office. ‘And let the report be given to me as soon as possible!’

  The two colleagues turned to discover Monsieur de Sartine dressed in his black magistrate’s robe with the white bands, his head adorned with a large wig. He stood looking them up and down rather coldly. Nicolas, himself surprised by this apparition, imagined what effect it might have on the vulgum pecus. Despite the great man’s reputation for affability, Nicolas knew from experience that his smooth tone could conceal a sharpness of which only those who knew him well would be aware.

  ‘Didn’t I foresee all this?’ cried Sartine. ‘Wasn’t it crystal clear in my mind? Didn’t I keep telling myself that your little obsessions were bound at the very least to cause conflict and scandal, as usual? That in trying too hard to untangle things which you yourself had tangled, you would confound us?’

  ‘Monsieur, to what do I owe this volley of scathing remarks?’

  ‘And, what’s worse, he feigns ignorance! Monsieur Le Floch, I have just come from the office of the Criminal Lieutenant, who regaled me with a lesson on procedure which I had to endure through clenched teeth. He didn’t hold back on the pompous phrases, I can tell you. He really encroached on my territory for fear that I wouldn’t understand what he was saying.’

  ‘Monsieur—’

  ‘Quiet! Accustomed as you are – and the guilt is mine for tolerating such things, and even lending a hand – to conducting extraordinary operations on the fringes of convention, and under taking adventurous personal initiatives, you have thrown yourself headlong, without any thought, into a criminal investigation. Don’t deny it – I’ve heard all about it: concealment of a corpse, encroachment on other people’s procedures, an autopsy performed by unappointed individuals, threats to respectable citizens. All that just to serve as a screen for the vital investigation with which I entrusted you! What do you have to say to that?’

  ‘I say that there is nothing in all of this which should upset you, Monsieur. I’m sure that, confident of your own rights and the legitimacy of the actions of your representatives, you have, as usual, duly defended them and countered the attacks of the Criminal Lieutenant. Moreover, I think Monsieur Testard du Lys too honest a man to have long resisted your gentle but firm insistence.’

  Monsieur de Sartine stretched out his leg and admired the glittering silver buckle on his shoe. ‘Oh, really? My gentle but firm insistence? I’m pleased to know that my subordinates give me full marks. Well, they will benefit from my indulgence of their perspicacity. Have you at least made any progress? I don’t want speeches, I want facts. Go on.’

  ‘Monsieur, we’ve established that the young woman was murdered. We’ve also discovered a probable infanticide. The family situation is extraordinary, and no hypothesis can be ruled out. It would be most annoying if a case that has been started should be taken away from you, and that other, clumsier hands should interfere with what is already a promising inquiry.’

  ‘Promising, eh? I need more than promises, and fast! And what of our other subject of interest?’

  ‘I’m making progress there too, Monsieur. Everything confirms what we had already guessed.’

  ‘Never mind about guesswork. Come and see me with a detailed report tomorrow evening. After that I’m going to spend the night at Versailles, where I shall see the King in his small apartments after Mass. You’re to come with me, Nicolas. His Majesty is always happy to see young Ranreuil.’

  Sartine straightened his wig, did an about-turn and walked out of the duty office with his usual dignity.

  ‘Ha!’ said Nicolas. ‘I think I need to pay a visit to the Criminal Lieutenant. Then I’m off to see my tailor.’

  NOTES – CHAPTER IV

  1. Cf. The Châtelet Apprentice.

  2. The Duc de Richelieu.

  3. The Treaty of Paris, which ended the war between the French and the English and enshrined the loss of New France.

  4. ‘The Lord having seen him, he was touched and said to him: Do not weep.’ (St Luke’s Gospel)

  5. Racine’s Andromaque.

  6. Racine’s Britannicus

  7. It will be recalled that Nicolas, abandoned as a child, eventually discovered that he was the illegitimate son of the Marquis de Ranreuil (cf. The Châtelet Apprentice).

  V

  AFFAIRS OF STATE

  Artifice always fails and does not long produce the same effects as truth.

  LOUIS XIV

  The office of the Criminal Lieutenant was in another part of the Grand Châtelet. Nicolas was introduced immediately: clearly, he was expected. A small, sly-faced man in a grey wig greeted him less than cordially and proceeded to give him a lesson in procedure, throwing in a number of bitter-sweet observations on the presumptuousness of certain subordinates in the lower echelons of the police. This outburst was received with coolness, patience and humility, at which the magistrate’s attitude softened – so much so that he complimented the commissioner on his good reputation, which had even reached the doors of the high department of justice over which he reigned. Little by little, he agreed that in the heat of an investigation urgency had to prevail over an absolute respect for legalities. Therefore, he concluded, given the good relations he had built up with Monsieur de Sartine, and with the clear understanding that Monsieur Le Floch would not engage in any machinations hostile to his ministry, he consented to pass over, for now, the errors that had been noted, and authorised him, contrary to the usual practice, to continue with his inquiries and interrogations. From now on, he was convinced, the commissioner would observe the necessary caution, share information and show the required reverence which all power, all … Nicolas interrupted this ever-lengthening oration with a humble bow and retreated, barely able to contain his laughter. He hurtled down dark staircases to the entrance archway, where he had the servant on duty call him a sedan chair.

  Summer was on its way, and the good weather lightened the commissioner’s constantly shifting thoughts. A stall at the corner of a street attracted him with its pyramid of bright, yellow-skinned cherries. An old woman sold him quarter of a pound, and he immediately devoured this unexpected gift of the streets. Without thinking, he began to send the stones flying just as he used to do when he was a child, but a sense of the dignity of his office soon stopped him. The taste of these ‘pigeon’s breasts’ lingered pleasantly in his mouth. By the time he had finished the cherries, he found himself in Rue Vieille-du-Temple, where Master Vachon, who had been his tailor for ten years – and who also happened to be Monsieur de Sartine’s – had his shop and made sure the rules of his profession were strictly observed, while embracing successive fads and fashions, whether he liked them or not.

  In his lair at the far end of an oval courtyard, in a shabby building where the daylight barely penetrated, Master Vachon held court, true to form as ever. His tall figure stooped a little now, but his emaciated face, although paler th
an before, still expressed the same ardour in condemning the present day, supervising and reprimanding his assistants as they bent over wooden counters that had acquired a patina after years of use. Perhaps he also leant more heavily now on his long, old-fashioned cane.

  ‘How’s business?’ asked Nicolas.

  ‘Ah, my dear Commissioner, I’d need several heads to deal with all these innovations! Look, here’s the latest.’ He waved a shapeless piece of lace. ‘Just take a look at this. It makes my blood boil. The simple elegance of a woman’s fichu is no longer enough, we must add to it – overburden it, more like! Farewell the beauty of the white cambric or muslin fichu, whether flat or fluted! And look at this hood, held upright on the shoulders. How? you may ask. By the complicated means of a length of trimming shaped like a hoop. You’ll never guess the name of this brainwave! They call it a rise-to-heaven. May it please God we get there! That’s for the women. As for us men, we’re inspired by Germany, especially its sense of economy. No sleeves on the jackets. Here’s a jacket and waistcoat. It makes my head spin. Everything is novelty! Now here’s something for you, with your love of classic styles and the colour green. This is a specimen that’ll never go out of fashion, a coat à la Sanson, which would suit you down to a T …’

  ‘À la Sanson?’

  ‘Yes, à la Sanson. Didn’t you know – I thought he was a friend of yours – that he has long been a leader in fashion? Before his marriage, he was a giddy young fellow – quite a ladies’ man, too.’

  This information surprised Nicolas. ‘Charles Henri Sanson, the public executioner?’

  ‘The very same!’ cried Master Vachon, delighted that for once he could tell this man from the Grand Châtelet, with his fearsome reputation, something he did not know. ‘He frequented high society and was known as the “Chevalier de Longval”, after a property belonging to his family. He had an insatiable taste for hunting. Not content with assuming a dubious name and title, he carried a sword and dressed in a blue coat, which is the prerogative of the nobility. They even say that he was called to order by the King’s procurator, who loudly disparaged him for being nothing more elevated than an executioner. After this angry outburst, Sanson is said to have adopted green as a colour and had his coats tailored to a particular cut, which was so unusual that it drew the attention of the Marquis de Lestorières, the self-styled arbiter of elegance at Versailles. The fashion spread, and soon everyone was dressing à la Sanson. Isn’t that a pleasant story?’

  His tall body bent with laughter. Then, with a furious glance at his apprentices, who were all listening, he came closer to Nicolas.

  ‘They even say he had a weakness for Jeanne Bécu,1 the current concubine. Her uncle, the Abbé de Picous, was close to his family. Sanson used to tend his rheumatism with the fat of a hanged man! But I’m getting on your nerves with my ramblings. What can I do for you?’

  He rushed over to one of his assistants and twisted his ear.

  ‘Ah-hah! I caught you, working with long stitches. Do it again and you’ll see. You’ll be fined! You’ll be fined!’

  Nicolas took a small shiny object from his pocket and handed it to Master Vachon. ‘What do you make of this?’

  The tailor adjusted his spectacles, turned the object over and moved it close to a candle so that it gleamed several times. ‘Pah!’ he said. ‘A brass tag designed to finish off a cable stitch. A novelty object for a novelty uniform. In fact, I’d wager …’ He walked over to a cabinet made up of a number of drawers stacked side by side and searched in one of them. Before long, he brought out a handful of similar objects. ‘I was sure I’d seen them somewhere before. As I’m sure you know, I have some very high-class customers, both at court and in town. Well, this little brass article is a trifle added, unnecessarily I’d say, to the new uniform of the City Guards, so unhappily worn for the first time during the festivities organised by the provost in Place Louis XV.’

  ‘Just what I wanted to know. Could you further indulge me by telling me the names of the customers who bought this article?’

  ‘I can’t refuse you anything. Let’s see, there was Barboteux, Rabourdin …’ He consulted a dog-eared register. ‘Tirart and … Langlumé. He was the major, the most demanding and the most … arrogant, I must say.’

  Before he could take his leave, Nicolas still had to feel a few new fabrics offered by the tailor. Once outside, he walked, lost in thought, through streets he knew well from having lived here when he first arrived in Paris. He passed the house in Rue des Blancs-Manteaux, which had been the scene of his first exploits. God, how long ago it all was! But the present was proving equally full of surprises. Master Vachon had revealed an unknown side to his friend Sanson. Could it be that Monsieur de Sartine’s police force did not know these things, or was it simply that he himself had never sought to discover them? People were so various in the image they presented to others. They opened different drawers depending on who they were talking to or, like mirrors, reflected what was expected of them. So that unassuming man of proven qualities – erudite, pious, if not devout, sensitive and compassionate, always trying to make the most of the scientific knowledge he had acquired from the suffering of the tortured and condemned – could also be light-hearted and concerned about his appearance, quite unlike the shy figure in his puce coat who officiated in the semi-darkness of the Basse-Geôle. Well, everyone had a right to his freedom, and perhaps this was a way for Sanson to exorcise the horror he confronted daily in his work. Nicolas was suddenly annoyed with himself for passing judgement. He had to give credit to a man he considered a friend. Those who benefited from this appellation should not be judged: they had to be taken as they were, in all their light and shade.

  Nicolas got into a cab in Rue Saint-Antoine. So he had not been mistaken: the object which had blocked the door leading to the roof of the ambassadors’ mansion did indeed come from the uniform of a City Guard. And who else apart from Major Langlumé could have had access to a building reserved for the provost’s special guests? He alone, for reasons still to be explained, could have nurtured a plan to keep a police commissioner up on the roof. It was not Nicolas personally who had been targeted, even though they had been involved in an unpleasant altercation a few hours earlier, but the representative of Monsieur de Sartine, the man the Lieutenant General had sent to keep an eye on the festivities. To put obstacles in the way of his mission – that, in a nutshell, had been the major’s intention. He would have to discover the motives, which were not unconnected with what happened after the disaster. Perhaps things might have turned out differently if Nicolas had not had to waste so much time escaping through the chimney and had been able to act sooner.

  But Nicolas’s curiosity had been aroused on another matter, and he resolved to consult the Châtelet’s archive. It was a collection read by few, but full of surprises. The information in it came from various sources, some from police spies, some from the operations of the cabinet noir. So strong was his desire to check the archive that he went straight there as soon as he got back to the Châtelet. Helped by the ancient clerk of the court who was the curator of the collection, he soon discovered an imposing bundle devoted to the Sanson family. In it was a profusion of papers and files, untidy but chronological. He finally found a recent document which seemed to provide a useful summary:

  Charles Henri Sanson, born in Paris, 15 February 1739, son of Charles Jean-Baptiste Sanson and Madeleine Tronson, executioner. Courts women and visits prostitutes. Stakes his claim by carrying a sword and using the name Chevalier de Longval. Settles down after his marriage. Is considered a sorcerer and bonesetter. Met his wife, Marie-Jeanne Jugier, daughter of a market gardener in Rue Montmartre, while hunting, a favourite occupation of his. One of his witnesses is Martin Séguin, manufacturer of fireworks for the Kings’ celebrations, living in Rue Dauphine in the parish of Saint-Sulpice. Owns a house at the corner of Rue Poissonnière and Rue d’Enfer, and a farm at Brie-Comte-Robert. Acquainted with J. B. G. D. D. L. d. B., and is said to have slept
with her. On very good terms with Commissioner Le Floch, who asks him to perform clandestine autopsies in place of qualified doctors (see attached complaints).

  There was nothing in all this to surprise Nicolas, who was amused to see himself included. As for the mysterious initials, they clearly denoted Madame du Barry. Nor was there anything here that might have made him see Sanson in a less favourable light. Nicolas reflected on the subterranean life of the archive, which underlay and reinforced the work of the police and the law. He worked all afternoon, thinking and writing, while receiving emissaries bearing messages both written and oral from his colleagues in the twenty districts of the capital. The hours went by without his being aware of them. It was only when hunger began to gnaw at his vitals that he looked at his watch. He gathered his papers and walked to Rue Montmartre.

  Night was falling on a glittering city. Only the previous year the street lighting had been poor, provided by ill-conceived lanterns hung across the roadway and only lit between twilight and two o’clock in the morning. After much consultation, Monsieur de Sartine had devoted his energies to the installation of street lights. A way was found to fix the lanterns in position and to improve the delicate mixture of oils in order to increase combustion. The artists Argant and Quinquet, renowned for the invention and manufacture of lamps for interior lighting, had participated in the enterprise. Not only was the street lighting now on all night, but the main road from Paris to Versailles was lit, too, providing security and wonder to the occupants of the coaches travelling at night between the city and the Court.

  When Nicolas got to Monsieur de Noblecourt’s house, he went straight to his apartment, which seemed larger now that he had added a small desk and moved all his books to beautiful shelves of white leaded wood. The pleasant smell of cooking suggested that the supper would be a fine one. He assumed that the master of the house had guests. Apart from such special occasions, the former procurator was, more often than not, condemned to a meagre portion by Marion, his elderly housekeeper, who wanted to spare her master, so attracted to the good things in life, a resurgence of his gout. Nicolas changed his coat and tied a fine lace cravat round his neck. Thus elegantly attired, a reflection of Master Vachon’s classicism, he went down to Monsieur de Noblecourt’s floor.