The Phantom of Rue Royale

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  ‘Oh, Monsieur Nicolas, God be praised, I’ve found you! Monsieur de Noblecourt has been murdered!’

  NOTES – CHAPTER VII

  1. Cf. The Châtelet Apprentice, Chapter IV.

  2. Madame de Pompadour.

  3. Cf. The Man with the Lead Stomach.

  4. Three times, in fact.

  5. Cf. The Châtelet Apprentice.

  6. Ibid.

  VIII

  CHRISTOPHE DE BEAUMONT

  Mar quirit pidi evidomp

  Birniquen collet ne vezomp

  As long as you pray for us

  We will never die.

  ANON. (BRETON)

  Nicolas made an effort to control the emotions that swept over him. Although he could be fearful when contemplating future events and their possible consequences, whenever something unpleasant happened he had a remarkable ability to stay calm and make the kind of quick decisions needed in such circumstances. He let Poitevin catch his breath, then questioned him about what had happened. Monsieur de Noblecourt had gone out very early for his daily walk. No sooner had he walked through the carriage entrance than several individuals – the details of the attack had been reported by the baker’s boy from the shop on the ground floor – had set upon him and given him a sound thrashing. Monsieur de Noblecourt had collapsed to the ground and his head had struck a milestone. The baker’s boy had raised the alarm. They had carried the former magistrate to his room and called a local doctor. Catherine had asked Poitevin to take a carriage and fetch Nicolas from Rue Saint-Honoré. He was unable to give any further details of his master’s condition, and begged Monsieur Nicolas to rush to his bedside.

  ‘He’ll be right there!’ cried a loud voice.

  Semacgus had just come in. He bowed to Madame Galaine, who was looking at him in annoyance.

  ‘A thousand pardons, Madame. The door was open so I took the liberty of coming in.’ He turned to Nicolas. ‘After the diverting night I had, I thought I’d come and see if yours had been as satisfying.’

  Nicolas drew him aside. ‘Guillaume, last night went far beyond anything I told you about yesterday. I heard noises in my room, and Miette had a terrible attack. She spoke with the voices of the dead.’

  ‘With what? What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘I don’t really have time to go into the details. All you need to know is that Mauval – do you remember him? – and my father, the Marquis de Ranreuil, spoke to me through the maid! And, what’s more, these voices revealed secrets only I could know.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ said Semacgus. ‘They’ve really got you under their spell! And what about Cyrus?’

  ‘He was terrified. I don’t have time to discuss it. I have to go to Rue Montmartre. Could you stay here? I think the first thing to do is to take a look at the cook. We found her unconscious. As for Miette, she seems calm during the day, as usual. To think we can even talk about what’s usual!’

  ‘You can depend on me,’ said Semacgus. ‘Run to our friend, I’m just as impatient as you to know how he is.’

  Nicolas told the Galaines that he would be absent for a short time and advised them to refer to Dr Semacgus for anything concerning Miette’s condition. Charles Galaine seemed to be about to speak to him, but then changed his mind. At the foot of the stairs, Nicolas found little Geneviève sitting on the bottom step in her long nightdress.

  ‘Miette is really naughty,’ she said. ‘She woke me up with her shouting. I was very afraid.’

  ‘You really hear everything in this house!’

  ‘It would be hard not to hear her.’

  ‘You’re a very interesting little girl, but I have to leave you.’

  ‘You shouldn’t. I know things, and you’ll never find out!’

  Nicolas hesitated, torn between the urgency of the hour and the risk of missing useful information.

  ‘Listen, if you know things, tell me. It’ll just be between the two of us.’

  It was a clever move on Nicolas’s part, although the deception left a bitter taste in his mouth.

  The little girl got to her feet, stood on tiptoe and whispered in Nicolas’s ear, ‘I heard … I heard Miette tell Élodie she didn’t want to be burdened with something that would get her thrown out of the house if anyone found out about it.’

  ‘And what did Élodie say to that?’

  ‘That there was a way to deal with it and she’d help her.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘That’s all. Someone came and I ran away.’

  ‘And you didn’t tell anyone about it? … Your parents?’

  ‘No … no.’

  He sensed hesitation. ‘I understand, but you have to tell me everything.’

  ‘I told Aunt Camille and Papa,’ she said, apparently contrite at having confessed this.

  ‘That’s quite natural,’ Nicolas said reassuringly. ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘Élodie was always eating. She took food into her room, even though it attracted mice. She got very, very fat. I saw her one day in her petticoats. She hit me and threatened me if I told anyone.’

  ‘And did you tell anyone?’

  ‘Yes, Papa.’

  ‘And what about the shovel?’ asked Nicolas, who always knew the right moment to take a witness by surprise.

  Alarmed, the girl blushed to the roots of her hair. ‘You were the one who took my drawing. You’re naughty, you are!’

  ‘Never mind that. You draw very well. What does that figure with the shovel mean?’

  She hesitated for a moment, then took the plunge. ‘It’s the savage. I prefer him without his uniform, you know, without his cloak and his hat. When he wears those you can’t see his face, and that scares me. One night, I heard the wood creaking.’

  ‘The wood?’

  ‘The floorboards. I opened the door and slipped out to have a look. The savage was going downstairs in his cloak and hat, carrying a packet and a big shovel.’

  ‘How could you see that in the dark?’

  ‘There was moonlight on the stairs.’

  ‘Did you follow him?’

  ‘Oh, no, I was too scared. I went straight back to my room. I’d already heard him breathing with Élodie. I was sure he was hurting her, she was moaning.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘One afternoon. They were both breathing very hard.’

  Nicolas did not persist with that, but there was one detail he needed to clarify. ‘The night you saw him with the shovel, when was that?’

  ‘At night.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but how long ago? Two days, a week, two weeks?’

  ‘I think … I think at least a week.’

  ‘Thank you, Geneviève,’ said Nicolas. ‘You’ve been a great help, but you must promise never to tell anyone about our conversation.’

  ‘Not even Aunt Camille and Papa?’

  ‘Not even them. Nobody at all. I wouldn’t want anyone else to listen to you the way you listen to things sometimes. Do you understand? It’s very dangerous.’

  She sniffled, and slowly nodded her head. The child’s innocence, Nicolas thought, was already quite compromised, but had she ever really been innocent? The house was so filled with madness and pretence that anything was possible. At the door, Poitevin was stamping his feet with impatience. As they climbed into the carriage, Nicolas observed that the two French Guards had not been replaced. Was it because such protection was judged to be more dangerous than the lack of it, by attracting the attention of the common people? Last night’s events seemed not to have gone beyond the borders of the domestic this time. The district was still peaceful, and was waking up without doubts or questions. But Nicolas was under no illusions: whatever had been silenced or concealed would eventually penetrate beyond the walls of the house, and before long rumour would lead to increased fear and then to anger at the unknown forces threatening the district. Nothing could ever remain secret in the capital of the Kingdom. He knew that anything hidden within a house, however intimate, would soon become known
to the outside world. There were no clearly defined limits between private and public.

  He recalled Geneviève’s revelations. They were surprising indeed, and, if correct, they opened new lines of inquiry. But nothing yet pointed to an obvious culprit. The members of the family – and that included the shop assistant and Naganda, even though they were not part of it – were all, without exception, still under suspicion. From his conversation with the child, he concluded that Naganda and Élodie had probably been lovers, and that the Micmac had played a central role in the tragedy of Rue Saint-Honoré.

  His head was starting to ache. He had to let all these things settle, like leaven in dough. He took a deep breath, and Poitevin, aware of his unease, squeezed his arm in a friendly gesture. He seemed to think that Nicolas’s mere presence would settle matters, that his master’s health depended on it. Nicolas knocked on the window to hurry up the coachman. The area around the central market was beginning to fill with people. They turned so suddenly at the corner of Rue des Prouvaires that the box lifted and the old servant was thrown against Nicolas.

  When they got to Rue Montmartre, Nicolas leapt from the cab, leaving Poitevin to pay the fare. He was received like a saviour by Marion and Catherine, both of them in tears, and neither daring to go up to Monsieur de Noblecourt’s room. Dr Dienert was there, having been fetched from Rue Montorgueil. He was regent of the Faculty of Medicine at the University of Paris, and one of the most reputable doctors in the city. But titles meant nothing to Nicolas: his experience of the medical profession always made him fear the worst. It was with apprehension that he approached the bedroom. What he saw as he entered reassured him immediately. Monsieur de Noblecourt was sitting in his favourite armchair, bareheaded apart from a bloodstained strip of cloth tied around his skull. Beaming all over his face, he was drinking from a glass which, at the sight of the bottle, Nicolas knew to be Malaga, in the company of a potbellied, red-faced, good-natured person. When he saw Nicolas, the old procurator pointed at him.

  ‘Here’s Commissioner Le Floch, I’m saved! As you see, Nicolas, all this is nothing but a bad joke. First my feet, then my head. I’m going gradually, drop by drop.’

  ‘Don’t worry, he’s not going yet,’ said another voice, that of a man in the background whom Nicolas had not noticed and whom he recognised as his colleague Fontaine, one of the local commissioners.

  ‘Come on, Nicolas,’ said Noblecourt, ‘don’t make that face. My mind’s not wandering beneath this turban. I know I had a close shave; I’m perfectly well aware of that.’

  ‘You seem to be taking it very lightly.’

  ‘What should I do, take it heavily? I’ve always dreamt of leading an adventurous life, being a soldier, a pirate, a police commissioner, but alas I’ve never attacked anything but files and never cut anything but legs of lamb. At last something’s happened! At my age! I think a few drops of my blood are an acceptable price to pay.’

  ‘This potion will help you recover,’ said the doctor, ‘and applying camphorated castor will heal your bruises.’ The doctor offered a glass to Nicolas. ‘You should drink this, too, Commissioner. By my faith, you’re even paler than the procurator, and you haven’t been beaten up!’

  ‘It’s a sign of his affection for me,’ said Noblecourt with a laugh. ‘It’s quite nice to almost die; you find out who your friends are. My dear Nicolas, I promise to inform you when the time comes.’

  ‘We shan’t tire you. You need quiet and rest to savour your … medicine. I have to go. I’d like to have a few words with you, Fontaine, if you don’t mind. Doctor, I bid you farewell. Take good care of our friend.’

  Monsieur de Noblecourt waved gaily at Nicolas and held out his empty glass to Dr Dienert. He was delighted: thanks to this business, he was now authorised, with the blessing of the Faculty, to eat and drink the kinds of things his gout had forbidden him.

  Beneath the entrance arch, Nicolas informed the commissioner of what Poitevin had told him. Then he went and knocked at the door of the bakery and returned with a barefoot baker’s boy of about twelve, covered in flour, and embarrassed because his hands were coated with dough.

  ‘Jean-Baptiste,’ Nicolas said, ‘Poitevin told me you witnessed the attack on Monsieur de Noblecourt. Can you tell us about it?’

  ‘I was waiting for Pierre, who was late. He’s the baker’s apprentice …’ The boy stopped and looked behind him to make sure that no one was listening. ‘He always arrives drunk in the morning, and I take him to the pump to wake him up. Anyway, I was waiting when I heard the door to the staircase open. At that hour of the morning, I thought it was you, Monsieur Nicolas, going out. But it was the old gentleman, singing under his breath. Just then, three men jumped out of the shadows and started beating him with their canes. The old gentleman clung to them. They pushed him away and he fell on that milestone.’ He pointed at it. ‘I thought he was dead. The one who was the leader, who had a uniform, said, “Good God, it’s the wrong man! It’s not the commissioner!”’

  With one hand in his pocket, Nicolas searched the area around the entrance. Suddenly, he bent and picked up something from the ground. He held out a small, shiny object to Commissioner Fontaine.

  ‘This may well belong to one of the attackers. Noblecourt must have grabbed it and torn it off when he fell.’

  ‘Curious. Any idea what it might be?’

  ‘Oh, some kind of ornament … Jean-Baptiste mentioned a uniform.’

  Fontaine handed the object back to Nicolas. ‘I assume, my dear colleague, that you’ll be pursuing this matter? It concerns you in more ways than one. It was a case of mistaken identity. You were clearly the target.’

  ‘You’re most kind, I thank you. I’ll keep you informed.’

  ‘Likewise. Give my regards to Monsieur de Sartine.’

  Nicolas smiled. Everyone attributed influence to him, but it was one he never used, either for the benefit of his colleagues or to their detriment. He got back into the cab, which had waited, and asked to be driven to police headquarters in Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin. Reassured about Monsieur de Noblecourt’s condition, he now had to see the Lieutenant General of Police, to explain the situation and convince him to obtain the support of the King, so that the matter could be referred to the Archbishop of Paris and the process set in motion which would result in the Church deciding on the ritual measures to be taken now that a case of possession had been established. The very oddity of this thought struck him: it was as if the century in which he lived, the century of Voltaire and the Encyclopaedists, had been revealed as an illusion, and the city and its inhabitants were being thrown back into the past. And yet, what had happened in Rue Saint-Honoré had not been a dream. His muscles still hurt from the efforts he had made to hold Miette down on her floating palliasse.

  He went back over the attack on the former procurator. The culprit was obvious: Major Langlumé harboured a grudge against him, doubtless exacerbated by the first results of the inquiry into the disaster in Place Louis XV, and had decided to take his revenge. Nicolas had pretended to find the major’s brass tag on the ground, but it was in fact the one which had blocked the lock of the attic door at the ambassadors’ mansion. It was because he was so angry at the thought that Noblecourt, who had harmed no one, had got caught up in this business and almost died, that he had resorted to such a trick. Morally reprehensible as it might be, it was justified, being the only way to confound Langlumé. There was no point in feeling remorse: if Monsieur de Noblecourt’s head had hit the milestone any harder, the major would have been guilty of murder.

  Everything went very quickly. At police headquarters, Nicolas discovered that Sartine was away and would not be back in Paris until the following day. Nicolas retrieved the gelding lent by the great stable in Versailles: there had not been anyone available to take it back yet. Before setting off, he wrote a short note to Bourdeau, entrusting him with various missions. He then crossed the Seine to the monastery of the Discalced Carmelites, where he told a horrified Père Grégoire a
ll about the events of the previous night. Convinced by his story, the monk wrote a letter addressed to the Archbishop of Paris, recommending Nicolas and vouching for the genuineness of his words. He again blessed Nicolas and turned to pray to the white marble Virgin, the pride of the sanctuary.

  Nicolas rode through the woods, reaching the road to Versailles by way of Meudon and Chaville. By the stroke of one, he was in the Place d’Armes. He was as exhausted as his foam-flecked mount, which neighed with pleasure to be back in its stable. He entrusted it to a groom, and immediately headed for the ministers’ wing, certain that he would find Monsieur de Sartine there with Monsieur de Saint-Florentin, the Minister of the King’s Household. He was not mistaken, as was confirmed to him by a secretary surrounded by a crowd of supplicants hoping for an audience, or even a brief word in the corridor. Since Nicolas was known to be in the minister’s favour, no obstacles were put in his way. After a short wait, he was admitted. Monsieur de Saint-Florentin and the Lieutenant General of Police were together at a small gaming table, examining a pile of documents, which Nicolas recognised as police reports on foreigners staying in Paris.

  ‘Why, here’s our good Monsieur Le Floch!’ said Monsieur de Saint-Florentin. ‘I assume you haven’t made this journey for nothing. What ill wind brings you here?’

  Nicolas summed things up clearly and concisely. The minister listened to him, his eyes staring into space and his chin on his fist. Sartine, although apparently impassive, was unable to stop his right foot from moving up and down.

  ‘Therefore,’ concluded Nicolas, ‘I would like to have permission and authorisation to refer this exceptional case to the Archbishop of Paris. If you’ll allow me …’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘If we don’t do it, and the case comes out into the open, there’s a risk the Church will assume the right to deal with it independently of us …’