The Phantom of Rue Royale

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  The prisoners entered in grim silence. Only the two sisters seemed indignant at being there and looked about them with an air of self-importance. Once seated, they kept looking Nicolas up and down and holding forth in low voices, as if trying to provoke him. Madame Galaine looked as indifferent as ever, as grave as a worshipper listening to a boring sermon. Charles and Jean Galaine both had their heads lowered in dejection. Miette, looking almost beautiful, and moving unaided now, was smiling like a seraph, her face restored to its former simplicity, the stamp of evil completely gone. Naganda, who had also recovered, although he was a little unsteady on his feet, was observing the scene with the curiosity of a traveller discovering incompre hensible foreign customs. Marie Chaffoureau was wringing her hands in anguish, her little eyes darting to every corner of the room without coming to rest in any one place. Dorsacq was trying to get as far as possible from the Galaines, as if he wanted to dissociate himself from the family. Bourdeau and Semacgus stood at the back of the room, where they were soon joined by Père Raccard.

  Just before five o’clock, the doors of the room were closed. Old Marie, in his black usher’s uniform, announced the magistrates, who took their seats. They both wore robes trimmed with bands of ermine that, Nicolas recalled, symbolised the coronation mantle, in other words, the authority of the King. After a glance at the commissioner, Monsieur de Sartine spoke.

  ‘In the name of the King, I hereby declare this hearing, summoned before my court, in the presence of the Criminal Lieutenant of the viscountcy and generality of Paris, to be open. This exceptional procedure has been requested and ordered by His Majesty, taking into account the somewhat extraordinary circumstances of this delicate affair, involving, may I recall, both a murder and an attempted murder. Commissioner Le Floch, secretary to the King in his counsels, the floor is yours.’

  Sartine had carefully avoided mentioning the infanticide, news of which had not been spread. All eyes were turning to Nicolas when Charles Galaine suddenly stood up and began speaking in a shrill tone.

  ‘Lieutenant General, I wish to make a solemn protest to the court, on behalf of myself and my nearest and dearest, at these absurd proceedings to which my family, incarcerated for no reason, are now summoned, without knowing or understanding what they are accused of, and without being given the right to be represented by counsel. I appeal to the King’s justice!’

  In these words, it was easy to recognise a representative of one of the great Parisian trade guilds, a man used to debates and court proceedings, as well as a supporter of the faction that had once revolted against royal power. Now the two sisters also rose and started shouting, both at the same time, so that it was impossible to understand what they were saying. Monsieur de Sartine struck the armrest of his chair with the flat of his hand. His usually pale face had turned red.

  ‘Monsieur,’ he replied in an even tone, ‘your protest is not admissible. The King acts through us; we are answerable to him and carry out his orders. The rights you demand will be granted to you and to those who are charged with the crimes in question only when we are certain of the guilt of one or other of you, or when your innocence has been proved. My presence and that of the Criminal Lieutenant should be proof enough of the seriousness and fairness of this preliminary hearing. Normal proceedings will resume at the end of this hearing, and will take account of its results.’

  The two Galaine sisters were still yelling.

  ‘I beg you, Monsieur,’ Sartine went on, ‘please calm your sisters before I take further measures to restore dignity to this courtroom.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘That’s enough, Monsieur Galaine. Commissioner Le Floch has the floor. May the proceedings of this court throw light on this murky affair.’

  Nicolas folded his hands, took a deep breath and turned to look at the two magistrates. ‘We are here today,’ he began, ‘to write the last act of a domestic tragedy with links to the disaster in Place Louis XV. Among the many innocent victims of incom petence and fate who perished on the night of thirtieth to thirty-first May 1770, the body of Élodie Galaine was discovered. Her presence there was evidently intended to conceal a crime. Identified by her uncle, Charles Galaine, and by her first cousin, Jean Galaine, her body was transported on my orders to the Basse-Geôle, where experienced practitioners ascertained that she had been strangled, and in addition that she had recently given birth to a child. Immediately, on the orders of the Lieutenant General of Police, an investigation was begun at her home in Rue Saint-Honoré, where her uncle owns a shop selling furs. From the start, none of the occupants of the house, whether relatives or friends, seemed to be able to account for his or her whereabouts at the estimated time of the murder. That means that any of them could have been in a position to take Élodie Galaine’s life.’

  Once again, Charles Galaine rose. ‘I protest again. Com missioner Le Floch himself admits that it is not possible to state the exact time of my late niece’s supposed murder. If that is the case, how can this hearing, held outside common law, lead to the truth and preserve my family’s rights?’

  ‘Monsieur,’ said Sartine, ‘you will have every opportunity to speak, to question and to be questioned, to prove and to disprove, to attack and to counter-attack. For the moment, I order you to let Commissioner Le Floch demonstrate to this court the elements of what has been a delicate case and a difficult investigation.’

  Nicolas continued, detailing the results of his inquiries. Without making any comment on the things he had observed and recorded, he listed them in a steady tone, like a sad inventory of human turpitude. The information that Élodie had recently given birth and that Miette would soon be doing the same provoked no reaction in those present. The Galaine sisters had calmed down and their brother, after his initial outbursts, had resumed his original demeanour. Everyone was listening attentively to this long introduction in such silence that, whenever Nicolas paused, it was possible to hear the sputtering of the torches and candles, the blackish smoke from which rose in wreaths to the vaulted ceiling. Nicolas took care not to mention Miette’s possession, as any reference to it might well disturb the logical progression of the hearing and divert it from the paths of reason.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he concluded in a louder voice, ‘with your permission, I should like to question the witnesses and suspects one last time.’

  ‘Proceed, Commissioner,’ replied Sartine, after a courtesy glance at the Criminal Lieutenant.

  ‘I shall naturally begin with Charles Galaine, head of the family and guardian to Élodie, the daughter of his elder brother Claude who died in New France. Monsieur, do you have any further statement to make concerning your whereabouts on the night of thirtieth to thirty-first May?’

  Charles Galaine got heavily to his feet. ‘I have nothing to add to my statements, nor to retract from them. I continue to protest at being forced to take part in these proceedings.’

  ‘As you wish. Do you admit that you were aware of the arrangements your brother made for his succession, as laid out in the letter now among the exhibits in this courtroom?’

  ‘It was a private letter.’

  ‘I note, then, that you were aware of them. Have you read your brother’s will and, if so, when and by whom were you informed of it?’

  Galaine glanced at his wife and sisters. ‘No.’

  ‘Did you know that your niece was pregnant?’

  ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘How is that possible?’

  ‘Girls these days are capable of many things. They are set plenty of bad examples. Clothes may, I suppose, conceal what might otherwise be obvious.’

  ‘And were you aware of your maid’s condition?’

  ‘I had no idea about that either.’

  ‘How do you account for their situation?’

  ‘In my niece’s case, her negligent upbringing in a half-savage country where she was probably given nothing but bad examples and fell under the most pernicious influences.’

  ‘Really? I thought she was raised
by nuns in Quebec?’

  The merchant did not reply.

  ‘And Miette?’ Nicolas went on.

  ‘She won’t be the first maidservant to have lost her virtue. Sadly, it’s an all too common occurrence these days.’

  ‘You stated that your sisters accompanied Élodie to the festivities. Do you still maintain that?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And yet they deny it.’

  ‘I put that down to emotion. Their niece’s death really upset them.’

  ‘So, Monsieur, you have no alibi. A night when not a single person can testify in your favour, a night shrouded in mystery, during which you met no one, but had plenty of time to murder your niece and abandon her body amid the chaos of the disaster, then go about innocently enquiring after her. Monsieur, you are a suspect in more ways than one. You, the unloved son, who suffered from your father’s preference for your more brilliant, more enterprising, more attractive older brother. You, a shy man prone to outbursts of violence, always dominated by the women around you: your mother, your nurse, both your wives. You who concealed from me that letter from your brother, the brother you hated. You who knew, or sensed, that the pouch Naganda wore round his neck contained something important. You to whom your daughter Geneviève, the circulating spirit of the household, the innocent instrument of corruption, always repeated what she saw and heard. Yes, truly, everything points to you, Monsieur!’

  ‘I protest! What motive would I have had to murder my niece?

  ‘Why, financial gain, Monsieur, financial gain! Here we have a reputable merchant from one of the great guilds, highly respected in his trade, who, as a result of risky speculations in Muscovy, is on the verge of ruin and of bringing his house and family down with him.’

  Charles Galaine tried to protest.

  ‘Be quiet, Monsieur! Informed that your brother left a large fortune in France, which has been yielding a profit, and that the only obstacle standing between you and that money is a poor young girl, can you resist the temptation? She has no one to turn to, no one to lean on; she is practically in your hands. Isn’t that sufficient motive? We know from the will that her first-born male child was to be Claude Galaine’s heir.’

  ‘But if I’d had my eyes on that fortune,’ said Galaine, ‘I’d simply have seen to it that my son married Élodie!’

  ‘Married Élodie? Pooh, Monsieur! You make light of the precepts of our holy mother Church! A first cousin? And what’s more, a girl who was about to have a baby …’

  ‘And how do you know the child wasn’t my son’s?’

  A deathly pale Jean Galaine now rose to his feet. ‘No, Father, not that, not from you!’

  ‘You see?’ said Nicolas. ‘Even your son, whom I’ve long assumed was in love with your niece, protests against that idea. Besides, did it never occur to you that the as yet unborn child could have refuted this suggestion?’

  Monsieur de Sartine intervened at this point: ‘What exactly are you trying to imply, Commissioner?’

  ‘Simply, Monsieur, that although the baby could not have testified as to its origins, it would have become obvious as it grew up that its father could not have been Jean Galaine or any other young Parisian.’

  ‘And what leads you to say that?’

  Nicolas threw his first major card on the table. ‘Because everything points to the likelihood that the father of Élodie’s child was Naganda. A shared childhood, a long ocean voyage amid the perils of war and the sea, then the hostility they aroused in the Galaine household – all these things had brought them together. After all, she was not yet twenty and he is thirty-five. Do you see any overriding obstacle? More virtuous people than they would not have resisted.’

  Nicolas and the two magistrates were the only ones to notice the tears streaming down the Indian’s impassive face.

  ‘We’ll come back to that when we come to question Naganda and demand an explanation from him. But, for the moment, let’s take a closer look at the Galaine family. We’ll leave your case until later, Monsieur. Let us consider that of your son. Here we have the same vagueness, the same inability to provide a coherent account of that fateful night. First there’s an adventure in the arms of a courtesan, then he spends time with some casual drinking companions, then there’s a gap of several hours and, when he finally gets back home, it’s late. So much uncertainty, so many grey areas that cannot help but arouse doubt and suspicion! I hear you thinking to yourselves, gentlemen, “But where’s the motive, what could possibly have led this young man to cut short his cousin’s life?” Motives do exist, and they are strong and significant ones. But, first, I’d like to ask the suspect a question. Jean Galaine, were you in love with your cousin? Take your time. Your fate depends on your honesty – unless, God forbid, I’m very much mistaken.’

  Jean Galaine rose to his full height and replied in an almost inaudible voice, which cracked completely by the end of the sentence: ‘Commissioner, I confess that from the very first day I was very much in love with Élodie, but that nothing and no one could have led me to do her harm.’

  ‘And yet, Monsieur,’ retorted Nicolas, ‘what a situation is yours! As the eldest child, and the issue of a first marriage, you hate your stepmother, and the feeling is mutual, although she conceals it beneath a mask of indifference. Desperately in love with your first cousin, this impossible love eats away at you, destroying you. Your union, even if she agreed to look at you, would require the kind of dispensation sometimes granted to great aristocratic families with a prince of the Church among their members. An insane love, which lives on images and frustrated dreams! A love made all the more painful by the fact that you may have known, or at least guessed at the ties – assuming we are correct – that bind Élodie and the Indian. Passion is a powerful motive in itself, but when we add financial gain – for you had the same interest as your father in seeing her out of the way – anything is possible. In your defence, though, I did notice that you were the only member of the household – with one other exception – who was really touched by your cousin’s death. I even knew what you were thinking when you looked at your father and suspected him of being responsible for the murder.’

  ‘Commissioner,’ cried Sartine, ‘please confine yourself to the facts of the case, and spare us any personal observations!’

  ‘I’ll try to do so, Monsieur, but the truth can only be revealed through a fertile combination of rational facts and vague intuitions. Which means that doubts remain concerning Jean Galaine’s role in this affair.’

  Nicolas paused for breath, then crossed the room and approached Madame Galaine.

  ‘Madame, mine is a thankless task at best, but you have certainly complicated it. What a destiny is yours! The house in Rue Saint-Honoré seems to encourage false positions. You are the de facto mistress of the household. You help your husband in his business and even deputise for him. You gave him a daughter. Yet you seem to be a stranger in your own home. You enjoy neither the affection nor even the indulgence of the other members of the family. Your stepson is hostile to you. Your sisters-in-law hate you. Naganda is just a piece of furniture to you – you don’t even see him. As for Dorsacq, the shop assistant, you flirt with him and pretend to be a woman of learning, and he appears to be under your spell. What anguish there must be for you in that house! Every day you think about what the future holds in store for you, living with an insecure, spineless husband for whom you have no respect, and who is still under the pernicious influence of his sisters. You’ve discovered that, thanks to him, the business is on the verge of collapse, threatening your survival but above all that of your daughter, Geneviève, whose future is close to your heart, since you are a good mother. There is one hope, and that is Claude Galaine’s fortune. But one thing stands between your husband and that fortune: poor Élodie. Once again, Madame, what are we to make of your stubborn and inexplicable refusal to account for your whereabouts on that crucial night? For the last time, I solemnly implore you to relieve your conscience.’

 
Madame Galaine looked at him and said nothing.

  ‘Madame, please search your memory,’ insisted Nicolas. ‘You don’t have to have studied at the Collège d’Harcourt, or even the Collège de Presles, to remember something so recent!’

  ‘What’s the Collège de Presles?’ asked the Criminal Lieutenant. ‘I’ve never heard of it.’

  Madame Galaine stood there red-faced. Nicolas’s ploy had hit home, and she had immediately grasped the implication of his enigmatic words.

  ‘Madame, it’s entirely up to you,’ Nicolas went on. ‘If you wish to confide in the Lieutenant General of Police, he may be willing to let you approach and speak to him.’

  Intrigued, Monsieur de Sartine consulted his colleague and then gestured to Nicolas to join them.

  ‘What’s the meaning of all this, Commissioner? You’ve been so precise so far; we weren’t expecting such ambiguity.’

  Nicolas moved even closer to the two magistrates and they bent their heads towards him.

  ‘The meaning of it, gentlemen, is that this woman has an alibi, but it involves a shameful occupation she cannot admit to publicly. That’s why I’d like you to hear her in secret.’

  The Lieutenant General requested Madame Galaine to come forward. She did so and, her eyes swollen with tears, revealed in a low voice what Nicolas had already discovered during his encounter with Restif de La Bretonne. As she went back to her place, her husband watched her with an intrigued look on his face, and her sisters-in-law eyed her suspiciously. At a sign from Monsieur de Sartine, the commissioner resumed.

  ‘Gentlemen, after the confidence you have received, I am sure you realise that Madame Galaine cannot be materially suspected of the murder of her niece by marriage, although that does not rule out the possibility that she may have been an accessory in the planning of the crime. And, since we are talking about Madame Galaine, would this not be an appropriate moment to examine the case of Monsieur Dorsacq, the assistant in the shop on Rue Saint-Honoré, who openly proclaims himself the said lady’s escort? True, he is not a member of the family, but as an employee he is required to share their meals. Here is a young man who apparently enjoys Monsieur Galaine’s trust. He may harbour great expectations. He is intimate with his employer’s wife, he goes to the theatre with her and gossips with her about the news of the city and the Court, and all with the tacit assent of her husband, whom he thus relieves of a role he finds irksome. Does he have some secret feelings for the mistress of the house? I don’t think so. On the contrary, I believe they are birds of a feather, both equally duplicitous. He pretends to flirt with his mistress …’