The Phantom of Rue Royale
Page 14
In Rue Montmartre, Marion and Catherine were stunned by this unexpected harvest. Nicolas brought Monsieur de Noblecourt up to date with the situation, and advised everyone not to worry in any way, as he would only be absent for a few days at the most. He packed a few changes of clothes and his toilet requisites in a portmanteau, as well as a miniature lantern and pistol, masterpieces of precision given him by Bourdeau. Then he led his horse to Rue Saint-Augustin, left it there, and walked to Rue Saint-Honoré by way of Rue d’Antin and Rue Neuve-Saint-Roch.
The church of Saint-Roch reminded him of an intriguing if relatively trivial case he had dealt with recently. It concerned an individual who had found a way to be invited to a wedding feast every day of his life. Good-looking and friendly, he would regularly don his black ceremonial coat and attend weddings in the larger parish churches. He would mingle with the crowd, and after the Mass would follow the guests to the feast. As the guests of the two families were often meeting for the first time, he would pass unnoticed. Distributing compliments and best wishes to all and sundry, he would get a good meal for his pains. Then a friend of Monsieur de Sartine’s, a notary, having noticed the man for the fourth time, informed the police. Nicolas accompanied the notary to a big wedding at Saint-Roch. They soon spotted the black coat, and the notary ventured to ask the man ‘whose side’ he was on. ‘On the side of the door,’ he replied, and took to his heels. The commissioner intercepted him. Having been severely reprimanded, the man had to promise to mend his ways, and ended up becoming a police spy. His distinguished appearance and his familiarity with society were ideal for the job, especially at Opéra balls.
At the Galaine house, Nicolas found the door closed. Two French Guards were at their posts, dozing. Seven o’clock was a reasonable hour for a bourgeois family in Paris to be having their supper. He knocked at the carriage entrance. After a few moments, he heard shuffling footsteps, and an elderly female servant in an apron appeared, her head held high like the tortoises in the Jardin du Roi. Tufts of dirty yellow hair peeked out from beneath her cap. She had pale eyes, and her sagging face was crisscrossed with deep lines. Her breasts drooped over her large stomach. From the stains on her apron, Nicolas guessed that she was Marie Chaffoureau, the cook. Presumably Miette had not yet recovered enough to come and open the door to visitors.
‘What do you want at this hour? If it’s charity, we’ve already given – there are no scraps left in this house!’
He made a mental note of the remark.
‘Could you inform your master that Commissioner Le Floch wishes to speak to him?’
The old face creased in a kind of smile. ‘Why didn’t you say so before, Monsieur? Please come in. I’ll tell the master.’
They entered a courtyard that ran alongside the main building. It had seen better days: grass was growing between the uneven paving stones, and old, mildewed crates were in the last stages of decay. The cook noticed his expression.
‘It’s not like it was before. I mean, in the days of Monsieur’s father. There was a horse and carriage then, and all sorts of things …’
Marie Chaffoureau took him through an open door, which led to a small corridor, and pointed him in the direction of the office where he had had his first interview with Charles Galaine. She disappeared, muttering something incomprehensible. He did not have long to wait. From somewhere nearby, he could hear voices raised in argument. A door was slammed. Charles Galaine entered the room, clearly in a foul mood.
‘Not only do you not respect the fact that we are in mourning, Commissioner, but you present yourself at an hour when any respectable family has gathered for—’
‘You’re preaching to the converted, Monsieur. But I am not here on the orders of the police, nor at the request of a magistrate.’
‘Then—’
‘I am here on the personal orders of the King, to pursue my investigations and report on them to His Majesty …’
Nicolas did not think he was exceeding his instructions by linking his ongoing criminal investigation with the events of the previous night.
‘The King!’ said Galaine in astonishment. ‘But how does the King know … Anyway, it was nothing but a fit of hysterics.’
‘The King knows everything that happened in this house last night. He also knows of the scandal and commotion that your maid’s fit of madness provoked. Such disorder cannot be allowed in the capital, with the risk of agitating a populace all too ready to be roused for all kinds of spurious reasons. And if it was just hysterics, why were you and your family praying?’
‘Monsieur, what do you intend to do?’
‘Follow orders and request hospitality for a few days.’
Galaine made a gesture of surprise.
‘Oh, don’t worry, I shan’t expect you to feed me for free. I’ll pay for my board and lodgings. Do you think the King is so poor that he cannot pay his servants’ expenses? If you wish to discuss it, let’s do so. A good hotel is four or five livres a day.’
‘But all I have is a wretched cubby hole, a maid’s room …’
‘That will do. So, four livres for accommodation, plus two livres for food, that makes six livres. Shall we make it eight? Is that all right with you?’
Galaine’s cheeks had turned a little red. ‘Your humble servant, Monsieur. Will you share our supper? We were just about to start.’
Nicolas bowed and followed him out of the room.
The private part of the house was behind the shop, to the left of Charles Galaine’s office. It was a growing fashion among the Parisian shopkeeping class to set aside one room for meals. The dining room they entered was windowless, apart from a bull’s-eye in the wall adjoining the office, which even in the middle of the day probably let in very little light. The only illumination now came from a number of poor-quality candles. The atmosphere in the room was so musty that Nicolas immediately felt a little nauseous. He was rather perfunctorily introduced to the family, and six pairs of eyes turned to him. The master of the house took his place at the head of the table between his sisters, Camille and Charlotte. At the other end sat Madame Galaine, with her stepson Jean on her right and on her left a fair-haired young man who was introduced as Louis Dorsacq, the shop assistant. To the right of her stepbrother, a little girl of seven or eight, with an angular face, was bent over her plate, apparently sulking. An extra place was set, and Nicolas was curtly requested to sit down opposite the child.
After a clear soup, into which they dipped dry bread, a dish of pigeons and broad beans was brought. The birds were so meagre, they seemed to have shrunk in the cooking. To the visible irritation of Monsieur and Madame Galaine, the older of the two sisters, Charlotte, supported by her younger sister’s excited chirping, began inveighing against the style of the house in general and this dish in particular. Never, she said, would they have seen such a thing while their father was alive. He had increased the family’s holdings and had not risked the business on speculative adventures and the perils of the sea. Oh, it was shameful to have to reiterate such basic precepts in front of a stranger. She threw a vicious glance at Louis Dorsacq and, changing the subject, recalled what the duties of shop assistants were, in both the wholesale and retail sectors, and how they had to behave. A young man in such a position had to be conscientious, sensible, loyal and not given to cheating, for those who did soon brought loss and ruin to merchants. Last but not least, an assistant had to make a constant effort to do his duty and give his employer nothing but satisfaction. The coup de grâce was administered by the younger sister, who expressed the opinion that, for a post like this, a fair-haired young dandy was the opposite of a good servant.
Nicolas looked anxiously at the pigeon on his plate, which slid about in its sauce, resisting all attempts to tear it apart. The two sisters were watching him and laughing. Now Charlotte piped up again, but her brother did not even deign to lift his head. As for his wife, she was having a bluestocking conversation with the assistant, comparing the new auditorium at the Opéra with the one a
t Versailles. Camille’s harsh voice again dominated the table. What were these measly pigeons? Surely, examples of those urban birds which so annoyed the people of Paris with their flapping and their droppings. Caught in a net, they were force-fed by men blowing grass from their own mouths down the birds’ crops. Then their throats were cut open, and the half-digested grass was taken out and again blown into the birds, which were not killed for another two days. As the police had responsibility for the supervision of food supplies, Nicolas was only too aware of this practice. Absurdly, Charlotte started asking for parrot. Little Geneviève stood up, her hand over her mouth, pushed back her chair, which fell, and ran out of the room. Charles Galaine looked up and pounded on the table with his fist. Two glasses fell, and wine stained the tablecloth and dripped onto the wooden floor, forming a sinister red blotch, like blood.
‘That’s enough, sisters, that’s too much! Go back to your rooms!’
He was a shy man, but formidable in his anger. Everyone stood up: first Camille and Charlotte, looking offended, then Jean Galaine, lost in thought. Charles Galaine bade good night to the commissioner and asked him to forgive his sisters. The cook would show him to his room. Madame Galaine exchanged a few words with the assistant and left the room without so much as a glance at Nicolas. The assistant, who did not sleep in the house but in furnished lodgings nearby, was about to leave when Nicolas held him back.
‘Monsieur, I’d like to have a word with you.’
His mouth twisted in an ugly pout. ‘Tomorrow if you like, Monsieur. I’m expected somewhere this evening.’
Nicolas took him firmly by the arm, opened the door to the shop and pulled him inside.
‘There’s time enough for that. You seemed quite forthcoming on the subject of the boxes at the new Opéra. Oh, I agree with you, the auditorium has met with a great deal of criticism. The orchestra sounds dull, you can’t hear the voices and the decorations are shabby, poorly coloured and out of proportion to the dimensions of the theatre. And those infamous boxes. Ah, the boxes!’
As Nicolas spoke, he kept prodding the young man until he fell into a chair.
‘The first level aren’t very high,’ Nicolas resumed. ‘And, what’s more, not very advantageous for women. As for the foyer … Ah, the foyer: completely unworthy of the majesty of the place. Don’t you think so? With those steep, narrow staircases. No space. As a matter of fact, why don’t you tell me your whereabouts on the thirtieth and thirty-first May, more specifically from four in the afternoon on the thirtieth until six in the morning on the thirty-first. It’s quite simple, there’s no point in complaining. The sooner we’re finished, the sooner you’ll be able to go.’
‘How can I remember that, Monsieur, and, besides, what is it to you?’
‘It’s a great deal to me. Come on, I’m listening, or would you rather I took you with me to the Grand Châtelet? Let me help you. Just tell me what time you finished work on the thirtieth of May, the day of the festivities in Place Louis XV.’
‘That I can tell you. It was six o’clock.’
‘Am I to understand that there are other things you are hiding from me?’
His only response was another pout.
‘Was that the usual time?’
‘No. But Monsieur Galaine gave me permission to leave the shop earlier than usual so that I could see the display.’
‘And then?’
‘Then I left the shop and joined the crowd.’
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing. There was such a crush that I decided to leave the square. I reached the boulevards by way of the Feuillants.’
‘Before the disaster, then?’
‘I suppose so.’ The assistant seemed suddenly hesitant.
‘Of course,’ Nicolas went on, ‘you could have reached the Tuileries by way of the turning bridge, which was open.’
It was a crude trick, but the stakes were high enough for it to be worth the risk.
‘Yes, in fact I think that’s what I did: I took the turning bridge and came out on the Feuillants.’
‘What then?’ Nicolas continued smoothly. ‘Did you take advantage of the food being distributed, thanks to our good provost?’
‘Of course, though it was difficult to get to it.’
‘I’ve been told the wine was very tasty, as lively as anyone could wish. Monsieur Bignon certainly didn’t thumb his nose at the people of Paris!’
These material details and the meandering conversation were leading the assistant to lower his guard. Nicolas decided to press on.
‘Then you went to your rendezvous, I suppose?’
The young man’s face turned red. ‘I won’t say any more.’ He hesitated. ‘A lady’s honour is at stake.’
‘Ah, yes, of course,’ said Nicolas. ‘A man always invokes a woman’s honour when he wants to hide something.’ He decided to provoke him. ‘A position all the easier to maintain because there wasn’t in fact anyone there.’
Dorsacq gave him a distraught look, then turned on his heel and slammed the door as he left the shop. Nicolas decided not to run after him. The interview had given him the opportunity to throw an adversary who in any case was not very good at defending himself. But he knew that this appearance might be only a trap. Of the two young men in the house, this one told barefaced lies, while Jean Galaine continued to be vague about what he had been doing on the night of the tragedy. As for Naganda … Nicolas went back to the dining room, where the cook was clearing the table. Mechanically, he made a pile of the dirty plates and followed her into the kitchen. There was a basket of bread which tempted him, and he took a hunk and swallowed it down. The old woman was looking at him.
‘What an appetite! I’m not saying you should finish the pigeons, mind you. I feel ashamed having to cook those birds. We’d never have treated a guest like that in the days of Monsieur’s father, I can tell you!’
Rubbing the small of her back, she walked out into the corridor, listened for sounds in the house, then came back inside, closed the door and drew the bolt.
‘There. We’ll be quieter. I’ll make you an omelette, but first I’m going to have my beer. The heat from the ovens makes you feel dry and thirsty. This bitter drink cut with water is perfect for that.’
She filled a stoneware pot from a small cask on the draining board. Nicolas sat down and watched. Lard was sizzling in the frying pan. Into it she threw some pieces of bacon and small pieces of bread. She beat the eggs with two forks, making the straw-coloured mixture ever lighter and fluffier. She poured it onto the fat, then swirled the frying pan around while lifting the edges with a wooden spoon. A few seconds later, she placed a sweet-smelling omelette in front of Nicolas. He threw himself on it and gobbled it down.
‘It’s really good!’ he said, with his mouth full.
The thick face creased in a smile of satisfaction. ‘It does my heart good to see you eat like that!’
‘I imagine you’ve been cooking for the Galaines for a long time.’
‘Oh, my good sir, more than forty years! I almost brought up the children. Well, Monsieur Claude and Monsieur Charles. Charlotte and Camille lost their mother, you know; it wasn’t always easy.’
‘Different characters, I imagine?’
‘Oh, yes! The elder of the boys, Claude, was really lively, too much maybe. His father adored him. His preference for him was obvious. I warned him about that. When you want your sons to get along, you treat them the same, otherwise …’
‘Otherwise?’
‘Otherwise, if you give too much to one, the other one resents it, and things turn sour!’
‘Wise words.’
She sipped her beer and stared into space. Nicolas had his doubts that the drink was as adulterated as she had said.
‘Is that why he left for New France?’
She shuddered. ‘That was the day a curse fell on this house. Our Claude wanted to stand on his own two feet. When he did that, he killed his father. With his elder son gone, he started to waste away, lost
interest in his shop, stopped caring about anything. Charles, the younger son, took over. But what can you expect? He’s always been dominated by his wives. It’s just not right! The first wife was thoughtless and extravagant. She died giving birth to Jean. The second …’
She slammed her earthenware pot down so hard on the table that it broke, and a stream of amber liquid escaped.
‘This one …Well, it comes to the same thing. She despises the shop. She always wants more. She thinks her husband’s a puppet she can manipulate as she likes. She’s the one who ruined the business by encouraging him to do business with the savages of the North. That’s how he lost his savings.’