The Phantom of Rue Royale

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  Gradually becoming heated, he made a few unfriendly comments, but, immediately remembering that he was addressing someone who had the confidence of the King, he cut short his exordium and adopted a softer tone, putting his irritation down to a momentary feeling of exhaustion. Before long, he had given his consent to everything that Nicolas proposed concerning both the case of the Galaine family and that of Major Langlumé – including a hearing in Monsieur de Sartine’s courtroom, the date of which had still to be fixed, to which all the members of the Galaine household would be summoned, and in the course of which, he guaranteed, the culprits would be identified and formally charged. Given the particular nature of the investigation and the act of exorcism authorised by His Majesty and by the Archbishop of Paris, the intention was to hold this hearing in camera, to avoid any information which might disturb the populace and threaten public order filtering out.

  Agreeing to this proposal, Monsieur Testard du Lys recalled with a learned air, as if to justify himself in his own eyes, that at the end of the previous century, a terrible wave of poisonings had shaken the city and the present King’s grandfather had created a special court, the Chambre ardente, to hear these cases, as well as – and here he lowered his voice – to consider the terrible accusations against the King’s mistress, who was suspected of having participated in black masses. Nicolas let him ramble on: in his own opinion, the two situations had nothing in common except the desire to shroud in secrecy certain proceedings that touched on scandalous matters.

  By the end, the Criminal Lieutenant had tempered his original attitude to such an extent that he proclaimed himself quite touched by the fact that there existed, among the staff of the Lieutenant General of Police, magistrates who were conscientious enough to come to him for advice. He recommended Nicolas to persevere in his course of action and added that in doing so he would always have his ear and be assured of his benevolence. They parted, well pleased with each other.

  As Nicolas was leaving the office, Old Marie came up to him, out of breath, and informed him that Monsieur de Sartine, who had arrived suddenly during the night, wished to see him at once. He ordered the coachman to take him to police headquarters where, as soon as he arrived, a nervous footman told him that his master was in a particularly foul mood. He was reassured to find his chief sitting behind his desk looking through his wigs – always a good sign. This propitiatory exercise often foretold the dominant characteristic of the day. At the moment, he had a grey wig with darker highlights in his hands, and was rolling one of the curls round his fingers. Each time he stretched it, it fell back into shape, like a well-coiled spring.

  ‘Look at this extraordinary model, my dear Nicolas. I got it from Palermo. It was made by an ex-Jesuit expelled from Portugal. It remains to be seen if it lasts the course and retains its quality after constant use and daily brushing.’ Sartine put the object down and turned to Nicolas. ‘Now then, Commissioner, where have you got to with the archbishop and the grotesque ceremonies you asked permission to organise? It’s all dragging on, and His Majesty, whom I’ve just left …’

  He sighed as if this observation saddened him, suggesting as it did that the King had been feasting until late into the night.

  ‘Anyway, the King advised me once again to hurry things along. The interests of the State are involved, and we must make sure that the Church doesn’t exceed the limits we have set. He also impressed on me how important it is to keep this matter absolutely secret. Let one journalist with a nose for scandal get hold of it, and immediately every clandestine printing works in France, Navarre, and especially London and the Hague,1 will start putting out lampoons and ballads.’

  An idea occurred to Nicolas as his chief spoke: a way to get what he wanted while leaving Monsieur de Sartine with the impression that he had thought of it himself and, even better, that he was imposing it on his narrow-minded subordinates who did not really see the need for it.

  ‘Monsieur, I have the satisfaction of informing you that the exorcism was performed. Successfully, I believe. It led to the discovery of the body of a new-born baby in the cellar of the Galaine house. We have presumed infanticide and I am currently in the final stages of my investigation. I fully hope to finish today and, in your presence and that of the Criminal Lieutenant, to publicly confront the suspects with my conclusions.’

  The word ‘publicly’, so casually tossed off, was like a spark in a powder keg.

  ‘What do you mean, “publicly”? Are you out of your mind, Monsieur? Didn’t you hear what I just said? Do I have to dot the i’s and cross the t’s – to you of all people, with your many years of navigating the choppy waters of crime? Don’t you consult the compass or work the tiller any longer in such delicate cases?’

  ‘I understand, Monsieur. You’d prefer a session behind closed doors. Given the number of suspects, I think we’d need your courtroom at the Châtelet. And perhaps it would be advisable not to inform the Criminal Lieutenant …’

  ‘He’s doing it again! Not inviting Monsieur Testard du Lys would be to violate the rules of a procedure which he himself … er … he himself … authorised us to use with great freedom.’

  Suddenly his stern face lit up and he burst out laughing, sending the curls of the grey wig flying.

  ‘By God, you had me worried for a minute! You don’t usually talk such nonsense! You’re a sly one, but I see we’re in agreement. A hearing in camera in my courtroom with the Criminal Lieutenant who will, I hope, spare us lengthy commentaries and be content to watch.’

  ‘It was all in a good cause,’ said Nicolas, also laughing.

  ‘Commissioner, I don’t hold it against you. The truths we least like hearing are those we most need to hear. To return to the matter in hand, I don’t have time to discuss it with you at the moment. You assure me that we will finish tomorrow and that the demon – or whatever took its place – will no longer have a part to play. Let’s see what happens in my courtroom, behind closed doors!’

  ‘Monsieur, only the ignorant can be totally assured of anything. But I do hope to be in a position to bring things to a satisfactory conclusion.’

  ‘Well said, Monsieur. And where are you off to now?’

  ‘To a barn, and then to the Basse-Geôle where we will verify if there was indeed an infanticide.’

  ‘Monsieur Sanson will be lending a hand, I assume? He’s at an execution right now.’

  ‘We’ll fetch him from the foot of the scaffold if need be!’

  ‘Until tomorrow then, at five o’clock in the afternoon. Be on time and take all necessary measures. Then, if everything goes as you hope, the King is expecting a detailed report, from your own mouth. That’s something you’re good at.’

  Monsieur de Sartine’s good humour was very obvious now. Nicolas assumed that the previous night’s supper with the King had a lot to do with it. Turning away from him, the Lieutenant General hastened to open an oblong box and carefully took out an object wrapped in silk paper. It was a head of lilac-coloured velvet on which sat a magnificent tawny wig. Carried away with enthusiasm, he showed the wig to Nicolas.

  ‘Splendid, isn’t it? It’s a speciality wig by Friedrich Strubb, a master from Heidelberg. So brilliant! So light! So sensual! Good hunting, Nicolas.’

  The commissioner withdrew, pleased to have obtained everything he wanted. He left police headquarters whistling a melody from an opera by old Rameau and set off on foot, with his carriage following behind. It looked like it would be a beautiful day, and this well-to-do district of Paris, with its abundant greenery, exuded an air of youth and light-heartedness, enhanced by the colours of the flower girls. The scent of the flowers struggled with the ever-present odours of the city. In the distance, the morning sounds of the more animated districts could be heard. It was too early to go to the Basse-Geôle. The most sensible thing to do would be to take a short cut to the Rue Royale area, where the vast quadrilateral convent of the Conception was situated. He idled a while longer amid the new mansions, then got back in his
carriage.

  The high perimeter wall of the convent came into view. Nicolas drove all the way round it, looking at the old houses built into the wall at the ends of little dead-end streets. At last, at the end of a narrow dirt track lined with flowering lilacs, he saw a half-collapsed old barn, leaning up against an even more ancient building. A wooden fence led to a vegetable garden, bordered by a clump of trees. This rural spot, miraculously preserved in the heart of the city, was filled with birdsong. The wooden barn door creaked open. Inside, there were gardening tools, an old cart and the remains of a pile of hay from the previous season. The noonday heat and the silence of the place evoked no images of blood and death. Nicolas sat down on a block of wood, picked up a twig, and began drawing geometric shapes on the ground. He let his mind wander. Suddenly, the end of the twig snagged something on the hay-strewn ground. It was a stained piece of cloth. He carefully picked it up and looked at it. It seemed to be a fine percale handkerchief. Nicolas shook it to get the earth and vegetable matter off. Beneath his fingers, he could feel something finely embroidered into the material. It was two intertwined initials: a C and a G. Could the handkerchief have belonged to the Galaine family? Several of its members had the same initials: Claude, who had died in New France (in which case the handkerchief might have belonged to Élodie, his daughter), Charles Galaine the furrier, and the victim’s two aunts, Camille and Charlotte …

  Finding this clue where vague but credible testimony had placed an incident involving an angry Élodie being dragged inside by a person who might have been Naganda had to be significant. Nicolas carefully put it in his pocket, and then got down on his knees and went over the ground with a fine-tooth comb. Although he examined every inch of the barn, he found nothing else. He looked at his watch. It was high time he got back to the Châtelet for the autopsy on the baby, which he hoped would tell him a lot. He found his coachman fast asleep in the hot June sun. The horse had moved away from the path towards the ditch, taking the carriage with him, and was now decapitating a bank of budding dandelions with relish.

  At the Basse-Geôle, Nicolas found Bourdeau and Semacgus conversing in low voices. He was not at all surprised to hear them discussing a nice little wine from the slopes of Suresnes, a speciality of an open-air tavern near the Vaugirard tollgate. On the autopsy table, the meagre remains found in the cellar in Rue Saint-Honoré lay beneath a small piece of cloth. Bourdeau announced that Sanson would not be much longer: informed that they required his services, he had promised to cut short – the phrase made Semacgus laugh – the formalities that always followed an execution, and to join them without delay.

  No sooner had the inspector finished speaking than Sanson appeared. Nicolas had the impression, or the illusion, that he had become a different man. Was he still under the influence of what he had recently found out about his friend? Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that he was dressed in the traditional costume of his profession – the red jacket embroidered with a black ladder and gallows, the blue breeches, the crimson bicorn – and carried a sword at his side. His face, pale at the best of times, seemed ashen and cold, an impression reinforced by his eyes, which stared unseeing into space. Becoming aware of their presence, he shook himself, as if emerging from a nightmare, and greeted them all in his usual ceremonious tone.

  Nicolas, as usual, held out his hand as usual, but was brought up short by Sanson’s gaze, at once imperious and pitiful, in which he read a kind of supplication. The three of them watched with a pang in their hearts as Sanson washed his hands at length at a brass fountain. Serene again, he turned to them with a weak smile.

  ‘Forgive my reserve, it’s been an unusual day …’

  ‘Which makes us all the more grateful,’ Nicolas said, ‘that you have agreed to devote your talents to this task.’

  Sanson waved his hand as if swatting a troublesome fly. Nicolas immediately regretted using the word he had.

  ‘My talents! If God had only granted me the possibility to devote myself entirely to my talents … But let’s get down to this case of yours.’

  ‘A new-born child, or a still-born foetus, found in a cellar, wrapped in cloth and buried. Probably several days ago, let’s say between four and eight.’

  ‘I see. The object of this autopsy is, I assume, to determine if there was infanticide.’

  ‘That is indeed our purpose, yes.’

  ‘The first thing we have to do,’ said Sanson, ‘is to ascertain whether the foetus was alive after delivery. I don’t think I need to impress upon you the importance of this question.’

  ‘Of course not, my dear colleague,’ Semacgus cut in. ‘How, after all, could we suspect that a crime has been committed after birth if it is proved that the child never lived? In such a case, breathing and living are one and the same thing. We therefore have to establish whether or not the foetus ever drew breath.’

  ‘Otherwise,’ said Bourdeau, in a sententious tone, ‘there’s always the possibility that an abortion was carried out just before term.’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ resumed Sanson in his gentle voice, ‘the solution to these two pertinent questions rests entirely on an examination of the thorax and the lungs and, if need be, the heart, the arteries and veins, as well as the condition of the umbilical cord and the diaphragm.’

  ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ cried Nicolas, ‘your words are wise, but your knowledge is greater than mine! Please keep things simple, I beg you, so that I can follow you.’

  ‘You see, Nicolas,’ said Semacgus, ‘the lungs increase in volume as they breath. They change position and colour and push up the diaphragm. Their weight increases with the blood that goes through them, but their specific weight decreases when they are dilated by air. I’ll skip over the details and the advanced aspects of the phenomenon. Let’s proceed. As my instrument case is at Vaugirard, the Châtelet surgeon has lent me his – the mere mention of Commissioner Le Floch having worked wonders!’

  He pointed to a leather case, which, when opened, glittered in the torchlight. From a black bag, he took a measuring glass. Then he took off his coat, while Sanson removed his bicorn and his ceremonial jacket and Bourdeau lit his pipe. Almost instinctively, Nicolas took a small tobacco pouch from his pocket and watched with horror as the autopsy got under way. An observer could not have failed to see how strongly affected he was by what was happening. These two men, whom he knew all too well, with their qualities, their failings, even their vices, were bustling about in the middle of this squalid cavern, bent over a poor rotting thing, muttering incomprehensible words. He closed his eyes as the tiny organs were extracted, weighed, dissected and examined. At last, after what seemed like an interminable time, the baby’s lungs were placed inside the measuring glass, which was now filled with water. The two men washed their hands, exchanged a few more remarks in low voices, and turned to the commissioner.

  ‘So, gentlemen,’ said Nicolas, ‘what do you conclude, if there is indeed a conclusion to be drawn from this examination?’

  ‘The foetus breathed,’ Semacgus replied. ‘We can be sure of that.’

  ‘And we can rule out the possibility that it was still-born,’ said Sanson.

  ‘The lungs overall are light red in colour, but weigh less than water.’

  ‘I understand what you’re saying. But if everything points to the fact that the foetus was alive after its mother gave birth, can you determine if the death was natural, or if it can be ascribed to an act of violence and, if so, what kind of act?’

  After a long silence, Sanson folded his hands. ‘We’ve ruled out malformation, which is a common cause of death. The child was normal, and even well formed. We don’t know if the labour was easy or difficult, but there are no signs of imperfection on the body. Nor can we assume asphyxia.’

  ‘What can we assume, then?’

  ‘An umbilical haemorrhage. That happens when the cord is not tied immediately. In law, that constitutes infanticide. We think the murderer tied the cord only after letting the blood flow back, to
allay suspicion. That would explain why you didn’t find any bloodstained cloths or any traces of blood in the earth where you found the corpse.’

  ‘That’s horrible,’ said Nicolas.

  Semacgus nodded. ‘Yes, it is. But, to a deranged mind, there’s nothing guilty about draining a baby of its blood. The criminal feels that he is letting nature take its course rather than performing a terrible act. For our part, we do indeed consider that infanticide was committed on a baby that had breathed.’

  ‘Gentlemen, I thank you once again. Before we part, one last service. Bourdeau, did you bring the apothecary’s bottle that was found at the clothes dealer’s?’

  The inspector rummaged in his coat pocket and took out the bottle.

  ‘Would it be possible,’ asked Nicolas, ‘to tell me what it might have contained?’

  Semacgus took the bottle, removed the glass stopper and lifted it to his nostrils. He wrinkled his large nose as he breathed in, then handed the bottle to Sanson, who did the same.

  ‘It’s obvious,’ murmured the hangman.

  ‘There are still some tiny crystals. With a little water, perhaps …’

  Semacgus walked to the fountain and held his finger under the water. Then he let a few drops of it trickle down the inside of the bottle, which he shook and closed again. He asked Bourdeau to light his pipe. When the tobacco glowed red, he placed the bottom of the bottle over it for a few moments.

  ‘That will help us to extract it.’

  He reopened the bottle, breathed in the contents and passed it to Sanson, who nodded.

  ‘Laudanum.’

  ‘The sap of the white poppy, a narcotic and a soporific,’ Semacgus explained.

  ‘Is it dangerous?’ asked Nicolas.