The Phantom of Rue Royale

by Jean-FranCois Parot

‘It can be. It causes deep sleep, varying in length depending on the quantity absorbed. An excessive amount can be fatal. Repeated misuse can induce a mindless state.’

  Semacgus looked at Sanson, who nodded.

  ‘Obviously,’ Semacgus continued, ‘everything depends on the age and state of health of the person who uses it.’

  ‘You’ve been very clear, my friends. Your conclusions and explanations have been most enlightening. I’m going to have to leave you now; my continuing investigation calls me elsewhere. Bourdeau, tomorrow at five o’clock in the afternoon, a hearing will be held in camera in Monsieur de Sartine’s courtroom in the presence of the Criminal Lieutenant. I want you to make sure Naganda and Miette are there. It would be good if Marie Chaffoureau, the cook, could also attend.’

  ‘Nicolas,’ said Semacgus, ‘what would you say to a meal at one of those cheap eating houses Bourdeau is so fond of?’

  ‘Cheap perhaps,’ replied Bourdeau, offended, ‘but the food is good. As you yourself should know from experience, Doctor.’

  ‘Of course. Don’t take my words in the wrong way. I am grateful to you, and so is my stomach. Well, Nicolas?’

  ‘A nice thought, Semacgus, but time is short. There’s someone I have to track down before it gets dark. If I leave it any later, it’ll be the devil’s own job to find him before dawn.’

  Nicolas held out his hand to Sanson, who this time shook it without hesitation. In the doorway, he turned and reminded Semacgus and Bourdeau that he was counting on them to be present at the hearing the following day. It was only with difficulty that he found his coachman, who had gone to have something to eat and then, exhausted, had fallen asleep with his face in his plate. An errand boy was sent to fetch him, and took advantage of the opportunity to scold him, to which the coachman responded by threatening him with the lash as punishment for his insolence. Nicolas’s composed presence restored calm. The carriage set off for Rue Saint-Honoré.

  Nicolas needed to check something with the Galaines’ cook. He was not especially surprised that infanticide had been confirmed. As for the bottle, which he could feel in his pocket, the fact that it had been taken away and left with the clothes dealer was obviously significant. It was as plain as the nose on his face that there was a connection between the contents of the bottle and the strange state of which Naganda had complained. On the other hand, what credence could be given to a witness who it was now clear had been lying, concealing facts and misrepresenting his own actions, without giving a detailed account of his whereabouts on the night of the murder? The Deux Castors soon came within sight. The cook opened the door to him and, doubtless deprived of anyone to talk to since dawn, was soon chatting away freely.

  It was not easy, she explained, to look after a little girl who was so advanced for her age, who did not answer the questions you asked her, but fired off others of her own that were a lot more annoying. She reminded the cook of her aunts at that age. Of course, Camille and Charlotte were not as clever and one of them had taken years to learn how to tie a knot, in fact she still couldn’t do it except by tying it upside down. Nicolas let her talk, without showing the slightest sign of impatience. He only interrupted her when she mentioned that, early in the morning, when the child was finding it impossible to sleep after that dreadful night, the thought of which still terrified her, she’d had to serve her a little sugared milk with a good spoonful of orange-blossom water. It was the perfect remedy for calming you down and putting you to sleep, a remedy used by her aunts, who got their supplies from a neighbourhood apothecary. He asked to see the bottle. It was in every way identical to the one found at the second-hand clothes dealer’s. As it did not have a label, though, there was nothing to indicate that it had not been bought from another source. He asked which of the two sisters in particular used this medication. Marie Chaffoureau assured him it was Camille, the younger. He recorded this fact in his little notebook, having observed that such apparently insignificant details were easily forgotten. Nicolas thanked the cook and asked her to be present at the Grand Châtelet the following day. This seemed to upset her. She was worried about leaving Geneviève alone in the house. It wasn’t really a problem, he said – in fact, all things considered, it might be useful for the child to be there, too. He promised to send a carriage, and once again thanked the cook for the omelette the previous Saturday.

  Thanks to the directions he had been given, he had no difficulty in finding the apothecary’s shop patronised by the Galaine family. It was only a short distance away, at the corner of Rue de la Sourdière and Rue Saint-Honoré. When he opened the door, a distant bell rang. The shop seemed huge. In the middle stood a monumental counter of carved wood. Shelves covered the walls all the way up to the ceiling, supporting rows of containers, in particular a number of richly decorated porcelain vases bearing inscriptions in Latin. There were other vases in ivory, marble, jasper, alabaster and coloured glass. After some minutes, a short man in his fifties appeared, dressed in black silk serge and wearing a powdered grey wig. Beneath thick eyebrows dyed black, his little blue eyes stared at Nicolas without expression.

  ‘What can I do for you, Monsieur? I’m sorry I kept you waiting, I was supervising an assistant who was gilding the pills.2 It’s a delicate operation that demands all my attention.’

  ‘That’s quite all right. Nicolas Le Floch, police commissioner at the Châtelet. I wonder if you’d be so kind as to provide me with some information that could be useful in an investigation I am conducting.’

  The man’s eyes lit up. ‘Clerambourg, master apothecary, at your service. I did hear of some problems in the house of one of my neighbours, a master furrier named …’ His tone suggested that this was an observation he would rather not have had to make. ‘But you’re not in your robes?’

  ‘Oh, no, you’re not a suspect. We’re just having a friendly conversation. There’s something I’d like to check.’

  ‘And what is that, Monsieur?’

  Nicolas took the bottle from his pocket and handed it to the apothecary, who held it between two fingers, as if it were a poisonous animal. ‘Well, Commissioner?’

  ‘Well, does this bottle come from your shop?’

  ‘I assume someone has told you it does.’

  Nicolas made no reply to this.

  The apothecary turned the bottle over. ‘I think it is one of ours.’

  ‘Could you be more precise?’

  ‘Of course. It’s one of a series of bottles that are specially blown for me. They have a little bulge in the glass. They’re unmistakable; you won’t find them among any of my competitors.’

  ‘And what’s the point of this little bulge?’

  ‘That’s the thing, Commissioner … I use this kind of bottle for delicate products which can be dangerous when used internally.’

  ‘But aren’t such products only used after a detailed consultation between the doctor and the apothecary, resulting in a prescription, after which the medicine is made up and delivered to the patient by one of your assistants?’

  ‘That is the way it’s usually done, yes. However, the patients often demand these dangerous products themselves … and business is business. And, what’s more, we’re not the only ones to supply them. The grocers’ – his tone had become sharp and acrimonious – ‘also claim the right to deal in our preparations. They sell products that are just as dangerous, even deadly. We’ve been pursuing them through the royal courts for years.’

  Nicolas interrupted him. ‘I understand. As for this bottle, what did it contain and who bought it from you, if your memory can stretch that far?’

  ‘The last purchase made by the Galaine family – I assume that’s who we’re talking about – was a product which is of no particular danger when used sensibly and in moderation.’

  ‘What substance was it?’

  The apothecary hesitated for a moment. ‘A new substance called laudanum, extracted from the sap of the white poppy. It soothes pain and calms the patient.’

  ‘Can
it send him into a deep, prolonged sleep?’

  ‘Of course, if the prescribed dose is exceeded.’

  ‘To get back to my original question, who bought it from you?’

  From under the counter, the apothecary produced a large register bound in calfskin, which he looked through, wetting his finger every time he turned a page.

  ‘Ah, here we are! Twenty-seven May this year. When it comes to these delicate products, we write everything down. Twenty-seven May, Monsieur Jean Galaine, one bottle of laudanum. I remember it well. The young man told me he needed it for a toothache. They’re neighbours, and Charles Galaine is an honourable tradesman, highly regarded in the little world of the trade guilds, although there have been rumours about his financial difficulties, which I’m sure are only temporary. I hope that answers your questions, Commissioner. No one more is concerned than I about the maintenance of order in our city.’

  ‘I’m most grateful. You’ve been a great help.’

  As his carriage drove along the quais towards Pont Neuf, Nicolas thought about this new element that clearly pointed to one of the suspects. So it was Jean Galaine, whose attitude had been evasive from the start, whose relationship with his cousin was still shrouded in mystery and who hadn’t been able to account for his whereabouts on the night of the murder, who had bought the product intended to drug Naganda. It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps all these Galaines were in cahoots, that perhaps they had committed the crime together and woven a tissue of untruths and false leads to conceal their guilt. What could Restif de la Bretonne possibly tell him? He was convinced that the man’s presence outside the Deux Castors was not merely fortuitous.

  When they reached Place du Pont Saint-Michel, Nicolas ordered the coachman to turn left into Rue de la Huchette. He remembered Semacgus’s suggestion and suddenly felt hungry – a hunger that was all the stronger for being held back until now. As a great connoisseur of the capital, Nicolas was not unaware that, at any hour of the day or night, cooked food could be bought in this street. Roasting spits turned constantly, like the damned stoking the fires of hell, and smoke only stopped rising from the chimneys during Lent. Monsieur de Sartine, concerned as ever about risk and the ways to minimise it, often prophesied that, if a fire broke out in this narrow street, which was made all the more dangerous by its old wooden houses, it would be impossible to extinguish. The members of the last diplomatic mission from the Ottoman Empire had been delighted with this street because of the wonderful smells that pervaded it.

  Nicolas ordered the coachman to stop, lowered the window, called to a young kitchen boy who was admiring his horses and ordered half a chicken, which was immediately brought to him on an oil-paper with a little coarse salt and a new onion. He devoured it with enormous pleasure and, remembering his chief’s tastes, ascertained that the wings of the chicken, perfectly roasted, were indeed a dish fit for a king. He next stopped at a fountain on the corner of Rue du Petit-Pont to quench his thirst and wipe the grease from his mouth.

  Rue de la Vieille-Boucherie, however, was impossible to find in this maze of alleys, colleges and impasses. Nicolas abandoned his carriage and continued his search on foot. He lost his way, was sent off on wild goose chases and was eventually directed to a shabby-looking house where a slovenly woman told him that the good-for-nothing he sought was now living in Collège de Presles, a few streets away in the Écoles district. At last he came to an almost ruined building. In its courtyard, he approached an old man who was picking up litter with a spike and asked him which floor ‘Monsieur Nicolas’ lived on. The man held up all five fingers of his left hand. Climbing the rickety, rubbish-strewn stairs left the commissioner breathless. Through an open door, he saw a room furnished only with a trestle bed, a table and a straw-bottomed chair. A young girl in a chenille, not much more than a child, was washing her legs in a chipped washbowl. She threw him a mischievous, questioning look.

  ‘Are you looking for Papa Nicolas?’

  ‘Yes, I am, Mademoiselle. Are you his daughter?’

  She burst out laughing. ‘Yes and no, and many other things besides.’

  This, he thought, tallied with certain malevolent rumours that had reached the ears of the police, especially the inspector from the morals division.

  ‘You won’t find him here; he’s already gone.’

  ‘Where could I find him, then? Would you be so kind as to tell me?’

  ‘Why not, as you’re asking so nicely? He’s been invited by Mademoiselle Guimard, who’s giving a big party tonight at Chaussée d’Antin. But he won’t be there before ten – he had a lot of things to do in town first.’

  ‘Would I be taking advantage of your kindness if I asked you whether or not he’s planning to come back tonight?’

  ‘Go ahead, take advantage, I’m used to it … No, I don’t think so … In fact, I’m sure he won’t.’ She laughed mischievously. ‘He’s bound to find another dainty little pair of feet …’

  ‘Would you mind explaining that?’ said Nicolas.

  ‘You know what I mean. He never gets home before dawn. We could wait for him together …’

  It was said casually, with a wink and an engaging sway of the hips.

  ‘Alas, my business is much too urgent,’ said Nicolas, ‘but I’m grateful for the offer.’

  She gave a little curtsey, like an actress acknowledging applause at the end of a play, and without a word went back to her washing.

  Nicolas retraced his steps through the warren of alleys until he found his carriage. Half past four had just sounded, and trying to find Restif now was to attempt the impossible. But if he had announced that he was going to see Mademoiselle Guimard, the most famous dancer at the Opéra, Nicolas was convinced that he would indeed respond to an invitation from such a goddess, who was always surrounded by a court of admirers. He recalled the lady’s file, which he had consulted quite recently, out of simple curiosity, after learning from a report that his friend La Borde was protecting her – not surprisingly, as the First Groom of the King’s Bedchamber had long had a taste for pretty young dancers. Marie-Madeleine Guimard had begun as a member of the corps de ballet and for the past ten years or so had been one of the leading attractions of the Opéra. A number of powerful men, such as the Bishop of Orleans and the Maréchal de Soubise, had ruined themselves over her. It was said that she had commissioned the architect Ledoux to draw up plans for a house and a private theatre on a long, narrow site looking out on Chaussée d’Antin, where there was to be a frieze depicting the coronation of Terpsichore, the muse of the dance, riding in a procession on a chariot pulled by cupids, bacchantes, graces and fauns. As permission had not so far been granted and construction was yet to begin, Nicolas assumed that Mademoiselle Guimard was giving a reception on the site she had chosen for her mansion.

  After much thought, he decided to go back to Rue Montmartre and change before going on to Chaussée d’Antin, where the likely presence of Monsieur de La Borde would gain him admission. For a moment, he was tempted to use this time to arrest Major Langlumé, but there was no reason to suppose that he would find him at home and he suspected himself of merely wanting to satisfy a personal grudge.

  In Rue Montmartre, he was told that a weary Monsieur de Noblecourt had agreed to respond to the combined entreaties of Marion and Catherine and drink a good purgative herb tea to counter the consequences of the extreme diet authorised by a doctor whom the two women could not condemn strongly enough. They were taking advantage of this lull to make cherry jam, and the sour smell of it wafted through the house. Nicolas, remembering how, as a child, he had loved cleaning out the preserving pans, regretted that he no longer had the time. He told them that he was going to have a thorough wash, naked, at the large fountain in the courtyard. They protested: not only would he be offending against modesty with such an insane practice, but he would catch malmort.2 Only Poitevin, who was usually silent, spoke up in his defence, observing that what was good for horses could not be bad for human beings. They laughed a lot at
this sally, and Nicolas left the kitchen, chased out by the two half-delighted, half-furious women.

  After washing, he went back upstairs to dress, and stopped for a moment to look at himself in the mirror. His body had broadened out since his youth, and his face had grown harder without becoming fleshy. The scars he had had since his adolescence, as well as other more recent ones, emphasised the seriousness of an affable countenance on which lines were beginning to form. Reaching thirty had not modified his youthful appearance: he looked like a man who had barely been touched by the trials he had been through, which made his one white hair seem quite incongruous. He selected a plum-coloured satin coat and a cravat of Bruges lace, letting it flow through his hands and appreciating its lightness. He tied his hair with a ribbon that matched the colour of his coat and adorned his shoes with shiny silver buckles. After all, he had not been invited, and there was no point appearing in a costume that would not argue in his favour. The presence of La Borde justified the extra care he was taking: he did not want to shame a friend who was the arbiter of elegance in Paris and Versailles.

  At ten o’clock, Nicolas went to find his coachman, who had taken a rest and changed horses. Chaussée d’Antin was not far from the Comédie-Italienne, where a case had taken him a few years earlier. The area towards Les Porcherons, to the south of the Butte Montmartre, was still rural, and Chaussée d’Antin had just started to expand as a result of the sale of property belonging to various religious orders. For the moment, it was still nothing but a vast space filled with gardens and marshes, with a few scattered houses. But it was beginning to attract the wealthy, who saw it as a place to build sumptuous mansions.

  They rode around for quite a long time before seeing a multitude of carriages, and footmen carrying torches. Parallel to the road, in the middle of an orchard, a long wooden building with trompe l’oeil decorations had been erected. Beneath the antique-style archway, black men in ribbons lit the way for guests. A silent crowd, held at a distance by the valets, gaped in awe at this display of riches. Nicolas got out of his carriage and approached. A major-domo was collecting the invitations, which were tied with bronze-coloured ribbons. He looked Nicolas up and down. The commissioner, preferring not to rely on his rank, asked him if Monsieur de La Borde was present. This request, reinforced by the elegance of his costume, seemed to do the trick, and he was admitted. The pavilion comprised several large rooms, richly furnished and bedecked with flowers. They were arranged in two semi-circles, leading to a vast reception room that looked out on the garden, the doors to which were open thanks to the clement weather on this June night. Buffet tables offered a sumptuous spread of dishes and pyramids of fruit. An army of valets was opening bottles of champagne and Romanée wine, and holding out flutes and glasses to the guests pressing around them. Walking through this noisy, laughing crowd, Nicolas finally spotted a group forming a deferential circle around a deity in a diaphanous silk gown studded with gold. He recognised Mademoiselle Guimard. In the front row of her courtiers was Monsieur de La Borde, playing the host. As soon as he saw Nicolas, he let out a cry of joy.