The Phantom of Rue Royale

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  The archbishop’s hand tightened on the dove of the Holy Spirit. ‘God sometimes makes use of that which is lowest, most despicable in the universe, and even of things which are not, in order to destroy those which are.’2

  He stood up. Nicolas had never imagined he was so tall. He cut an impressive figure in his Episcopal garments. But his neck and the top part of his body were at a curious angle to the rest – a strange impression caused by the prelate’s fruitless efforts to stand straighter – and it was obvious that he was in pain. He hung, rather than pulled, on a long strip of tapestry. A distant bell jingled. Monseigneur de Beaumont sat down again with a sigh of relief.

  ‘I’d already formed an opinion on this matter before you arrived. I simply wanted to know if the King would decide that his people should intervene, and who would be appointed to do so.’

  Behind these words, Nicolas sensed the power of the Church, as if his own life in the police had been observed, weighed in the balance and judged.

  ‘Père Grégoire vouches for your … honesty, to use a worldly term. He assures me that in tackling this grave and troubling affair you will combine your sense of reason with obedience to the precepts of our Holy Church. I wasn’t expecting you this evening, but I know you managed to speak to the King after his day’s hunting.’

  Nicolas savoured the subtlety of this statement. What better way to inform him that the archbishop had eyes and ears everywhere, even at Court, even within the monarch’s immediate entourage?

  ‘So I made the first move,’ the archbishop went on. ‘When my secretary told me you were here, I was about to dine with Père Raccard, my military arm in the shadowy regions, the diocese exorcist.’

  At that moment, the secretary emerged through another door concealed by a tapestry, which he then held up to admit a tall man who seemed to be a veritable force of nature. Nicolas estimated that the man was approaching fifty. His greying hair was pulled back to reveal a face that was more military than ecclesiastical. It was clear that Père Raccard was little concerned with outward appearance: his cassock was so worn, so often washed and ironed that it shone with a greenish hue and in places the cord showed through at the edges. The short sleeves allowed a glimpse of the remains of torn, yellowish lace cuffs, which drew attention to his thick hands, the phalanxes covered in tufts of brown hair. The man reminded Nicolas of a woodcutter who worked in the grounds of the Château de Ranreuil, and who had terrified him every time he saw him. But the exorcist’s brown eyes were gentle, and the smile he addressed to Nicolas attenuated the shock of his appearance.

  The archbishop made the introductions. He seemed to be in increasing pain and collapsed back into his armchair, thus proving that his hieratic attitude was the result of a painful effort of will.

  ‘My sons, I am going to leave you to prepare your battle. It demands a clear soul, but also the simple force of truth. You have my blessing.’

  He raised his right hand and uttered the sacramental words in a genuinely majestic voice. Raccard took Nicolas by the shoulder and drew him to the door. The archbishop seemed to have fallen asleep, but the tension in his features indicated that he was having a painful attack. Ignoring the visitors, the secretary hurried to him. Raccard and Nicolas soon found themselves back outside on the square in front of Notre Dame, which was already in darkness.

  ‘Shall we go straight to Rue Saint-Honoré?’ said Nicolas. ‘I can tell you my observations as we walk.’

  ‘No, you deprived me of the archbishop’s dinner! Not that I missed much. Because of his health, he only eats roots and greens. The task awaiting us demands that we do not mistreat our bodies. Exorcism – which incidentally we practice only rarely, since extreme cases are the exception – requires physical strength and an ability to withstand anything. Here’s what I suggest. I live very near here. I’ll cook something up for us. Though you’ll have to turn a blind eye to my untidiness, my dear Commissioner.’

  Père Raccard led Nicolas to Rue aux Fèves, where they entered a house that was all askew. The treads creaked on the unlit stairs – unlit because of the fear of fire in these old houses, which were as inflammable as tow. Nicolas heard a key squeak in a lock. The priest lit a match and carried the fragile flame across a room until it reached a candle. The sight which met the commissioner’s eyes took his breath away. They were in a bedroom as narrow and crooked as the gangway of a ship and monstrously untidy. The ceiling, its beams warped with age, was sagging, and none of the lines was parallel or perpendicular. It was like the interior of a cave. The walls were covered in shelves filled with countless books, some of which appeared to be very old. On a table with elaborately carved legs, covered in manuscripts and papers, a black cat kept guard. Its green eyes stared at Nicolas with placid indifference. Père Raccard bustled about to light his stove. As his guest looked on, he melted a cheese from Piedmont, which a Dominican friend in Turin sent him regularly by mail coach. He added butter and ground pepper to the mixture and spread it on some large slices of bread. He then ran to one of the shelves and cleared the books to reveal a number of dusty bottles. He went back into the alcove where the stove was and warmed up a soup for the commissioner’s enjoyment, composed of boiled vegetables mixed with a confit of duck from his province, to which he added a touch of old plum brandy to give it, he said, body and accent.

  The dinner proved to be much more delicious than Nicolas would have expected in such a strange place. The well-aged wine helped a lot, a hearty Burgundy from the hospices of Beaune. Nicolas suggested to Père Raccard that he rest tonight, and they would meet the next day in Rue Saint-Honoré. The exorcist dismissed this suggestion: the demon, if it was indeed he, would not wait. The sooner battle was joined, the greater the chances of limiting the infestation. In addition, the archbishop wanted the affair to be dealt with as soon as possible before it sowed confusion in the faithful, with the disastrous consequences that such manifestations always entailed. They had to tackle the enemy head-on, and since the attacks happened at night and early in the morning, he wanted to be in place already in the evening. From a cupboard he took a portmanteau, into which he piled a thick breviary, his stole, a bottle of holy water, a crucifix and a small silver box, as well as a branch of boxwood and some candles.

  ‘All these things are necessary, but not sufficient,’ he declared. ‘Everything is here.’ He pointed to his head and his heart. ‘Are you in a position to confront the demon? Does he have ways to surprise you, to throw you, to make you lose your composure by revealing buried facts or forgotten actions?’

  ‘That has already happened, Father,’ replied Nicolas. ‘It convinced me of his power, but not of his influence over me.’

  ‘Good, but you must guard against pride. He insinuates himself into us through all our failings and even our virtues. If you don’t feel strong enough, abandon the fight now, or, like Ulysses, stop your ears with wax! Not that that would help. The demon is quite capable of speaking within us. Reciting one’s prayers is still the best protection.’

  They plunged back into the night, walking quite quickly. They were unable to find a carriage, but hired the services of a lantern carrier to light their way. Nicolas could not resist telling his companion, with a certain self-satisfaction, that it was on his initiative that in 1768 Monsieur de Sartine had created a service of umbrella and lantern carriers, available day and night. The unskilled men who performed this function carried numbered lanterns. Naturally, they were registered with the authorities, and the commissioner made no secret of the fact that they were of great help to the police. On the Quai de la Mégisserie, they were followed for a time by two or three robbers, but the priest’s height and Nicolas’s sword – not to mention the arrival of a watch patrol – dissuaded them from taking the risk. When they reached Rue Saint-Honoré, Semacgus opened the door to them, his complexion even ruddier than usual.

  ‘You’ve come just at the right time!’ he cried. ‘I was resting a little in your room when I heard a strange noise. Soon after, Miette start
ed one of her attacks.’ The surgeon, who seemed to have aged, looked at him wild-eyed. ‘She spoke with the voice of Madame Lardin!3 We had to strap her to the bed.’

  NOTES – CHAPTER VIII

  1. This expression was used for the marshals of France.

  2. St Paul.

  3. Cf. The Châtelet Apprentice.

  IX

  EXORCISM

  ‘In that combat, Christ does not remain in the middle. He is wholly ours. When we entered the lists, He anointed us and put the other in chains.’

  SAINT JOHN CHRYSOSTOM

  Semacgus described what had occurred so far that night, corroborating Nicolas’s previous accounts. The surgeon was so distressed by what he had seen that he almost doubted his own sanity and spoke of consulting a colleague to check the state of his health. He lost himself in conjectures, each more unlikely than the last, trying to find an explanation to assuage his doubts and anxieties. Nicolas refrained from exulting at this turn around, but he was pleased and reassured that his friend could now share the burden of his confusion. As for Père Raccard, he was rubbing his hands with a kind of glee, like an old soldier preparing to mount an attack on a redoubt. His good humour acted as a stimulant on Semacgus, dispelling his low spirits. Meanwhile Nicolas, his senses ever alert, had been aware, ever since entering the house, of the distant sound of Naganda’s drum. For a moment – although he did not linger on it – the idea struck him that there might be some connection between these savage practices and the drama unfolding once again in Miette’s room, the obscure, threatening force tormenting the maid’s body and mind.

  Cries suddenly reached them from the second floor. Almost immediately, Jean Galaine, bathed in sweat, his hair matted and his shirt torn, came hurtling down the stairs, screaming more than speaking. Miette had got free! An unknown force had broken the straps holding her to the bed. Père Raccard calmed everyone down. He opened his portmanteau, took out his stole, which he kissed and put round his neck, then the bottle of holy water and the other liturgical objects. He lit the candles and distributed them. They had been joined by the other members of the family, apart from Charles Galaine who had stayed with Marie Chaffoureau outside the door of Miette’s room, which no one dared enter. The exorcist asked for a plate, into which he poured a little holy water. He prayed, then dipped the branch of boxwood into the water, and sprinkled it at the four cardinal points. He ordered everyone to kneel. In a loud and determined voice, he uttered a first admonition.

  ‘I implore you, ancient serpent, in the name of the judge of the living and the dead, the creator of the world who has the power to cast you down into Gehenna, to leave this house at once. Cursed demon, He commands it. He who is obeyed by the winds, the sea and the tempest commands it. He who, from the heights of heaven, flung you down into the bowels of the earth commands it. He who has the power to make you draw back commands it. Listen, Satan, and tremble. Be gone from here, crawl away defeated. I implore you in the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ who will come to judge the living and the dead. Amen.’

  He continued sprinkling holy water and made everyone recite the Pater Noster. The dull murmur of the prayer was punctuated by dreadful screams. Now Charles Galaine and the cook, both terrified, came down and joined the group. The priest asked for coals. They were brought from the stove in the servants’ pantry on a small terracotta plate-warmer. From the little silver box he took the incense and placed it, in the shape of a cross, on the coals. The ground floor filled with smoke.

  ‘Do you perform exorcisms from a distance?’ asked Semacgus.

  ‘Not at all. First I must try to cleanse the house. Then we will deal with the patient.’ He put his hands together and resumed, ‘I implore you, demon, to leave this place, to cease frightening those who live here and not to place any curse on it. May God Almighty, creator of all things, sanctify this house and all its dependencies, may all phantoms disappear from it, all mean actions, all clever ways, all diabolical tricks and all unclean spirits.’

  He began again to bless the house.

  ‘By this sign, we command him to cease this instant and forever all his vexations, that his spells and illusions may disappear and the terror of this poisonous serpent vanish forever. Through the Lord who will come to judge the living and the dead and will purify the world in fire. Amen.’

  The sounds from upstairs suggested that furniture was flying and smashing against the walls. Loud thuds shook the house.

  Père Raccard rubbed his hands: ‘He’s reacting, the rascal! That’s a good start. All of you, go back to your rooms. I shall officiate upstairs in the presence of the Commissioner and Monsieur …?’

  He pointed to Semacgus. Nicolas made the introductions.

  ‘The Faculty,’ said Raccard, ‘will not be out of place in our battle with the unnameable. Monsieur Le Floch has told me of your scepticism. Be our reason and our conscience, now that you are convinced of the reality of these phenomena.’

  ‘You can count on me, Father,’ said Semacgus, resolutely.

  Nicolas was pleased to see these two men, one a friend of long standing, the other a more recent acquaintance, forming such an effortless bond.

  Looking more relaxed now, Dr Semacgus added, with a laugh, ‘It’s always better to hunt a wolf in packs.’

  ‘If only we were dealing merely with a wolf! The devil is a sinister joker, filled with hate. He loves mocking poor humans, ingratiating himself and playing the fool, the better to lead his victims astray. He is the father of lies, and his name is legion. He will be sure to lay traps to try and put us off the scent! But I promise you, we will see this through.’

  He gathered his tools, entrusting the plate-warmer to Semacgus.

  The three of them climbed the stairs and found the cook pinned to the wall on the landing, staring in astonishment at Miette, who was sitting in the air above her bed, looking at them with bright, bloodshot eyes and a wicked smile on her lips.

  ‘The hussy!’ said Père Riccard. ‘I’ll wipe that smile off her face, you wait and see!’

  He approached Miette, and her head turned like a dummy’s, following his movements with her stony gaze. He placed his hand on her head. Her body swayed like a soap bubble caught between two currents of air. She began to moan dully, like an animal containing its rage.

  ‘Yes, yes, prepare to recognise your master and obey him.’

  Miette opened her mouth and spat at him. Without showing any emotion, the priest wiped himself with the back of his sleeve. Now a man’s voice emerged from the tortured little body.

  ‘Monk, you make me laugh! You have no power over me, remember that.’

  Imperturbably, the father arranged the contents of his portmanteau on a little table. Semacgus placed the plate-warmer with the coals beside them. The sacred odour of incense filled the room. Miette’s growls rose in volume and pitch until they were deafening, and her head went back until it was almost at right angles to her body. She was howling like a wolf baying at the moon, as if struggling against the heady perfume.

  ‘It isn’t possible!’ said Semacgus. ‘Look how distended the muscles and skin are!’

  ‘Oh, I’ve seen worse than that!’ growled Raccard. ‘I’ve seen possessed people stretch so much they added a quarter to their length.’

  ‘Is that an illusion, a sham? Is someone pulling the wool over our eyes?’

  ‘Oh, no, these phenomena are dramatic and disturbing, but very real. We must keep a cool head.’

  He took his stole and moved it over Miette’s face. The girl tried to grab it with her claw-like hands, and in doing so her nails scraped the silk fabric, scratching in passing the silver cross embroidered on it. She fell back heavily on the bed.

  ‘That has an effect on you, does it, strumpet?’ said the exorcist. ‘Have no fear, we’re going to free you of your visitor.’

  Nicolas admired Père Raccard for retaining his composure, humour and courage even in these hallucinatory circumstances. But the priest’s mobile, piercing eyes remained constantl
y alert, like those of a hunter tracking a dangerous prey, anticipating its every move.

  ‘You two, hold her firmly, and press down on her with all your weight. It doesn’t matter if she struggles, and don’t worry about crushing her. The most important thing is to stop her getting away from you.’

  Semacgus and Nicolas took up position on either side of Miette. Nicolas had assumed that she would be hot and feverish, but when he touched her, he found that her skin was freezing cold. She was moaning softly. The father put his stole back on and resumed the ritual. After several minutes of silent prayer, he spoke again.

  ‘Lord God of virtue, receive the prayers we offer you, unworthy as we are, for your servant Ermeline. Deign to grant her forgiveness for her sins and rescue her from the demon that torments her. Holy God, Eternal Father, cast a favourable glance upon your servant, who is in the grip of a painful affliction …’

  A deep groan came from inside Miette. In some strange way, it merged for a moment with the moaning, then swelled and rose above it in volume. To the alarm of those present, the girl’s body produced two different cries at the same time, one low, the other shrill. Père Raccard could see that his companions were on the verge of panic. Again he sprinkled holy water.

  ‘Back, back, foul beast, return to your lair. Back, back, back!’

  He looked at Nicolas and Semacgus.

  ‘Do not be disturbed, these are just some of the preliminary tricks used to batter our defences, wear down our will and deceive our faith. Remember that the kingdom, the power and the glory are within us!’

  Miette had fallen silent now, but a kind of slime – which reminded Nicolas, somewhat incongruously, of snails plunged into nettles by Catherine in her kitchen in Rue Montmartre – was flowing in an uninterrupted stream from her mouth, gradually covering her poor chest.

  ‘I implore you, demon,’ Raccard resumed, ‘in the name of Our Lord who rose again on the third day, to flee the body of this servant of God, with all your iniquities, your evil spells, your incantations, your ligatures and all your acts. Do not remain here, foul spirit. The day of everlasting judgement is at hand and you and your apostate angels will be flung into a raging inferno for all eternity.’