The Phantom of Rue Royale

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  He waved the little square of cloth. Charles Galaine stated that he did not own a handkerchief. At a sign from Nicolas, a police officer confirmed this statement. Charlotte took hers out: it was made of silk and did not bear any initials. Camille Galaine, in turn, held out hers. It seemed absolutely identical to the one discovered on the floor of the barn, the same kind, the same initials.

  ‘Mademoiselle, how do you account for the presence of your handkerchief in that barn?’

  ‘I can’t.’

  Monsieur de Sartine made a sign to Nicolas, who hastened to approach.

  ‘That’s quite a tall tale, Nicolas! First the strips of cloth under the bed, and now this. You seem to be constantly finding clues under your feet, like mushrooms after autumn rain. Don’t you find that suspicious?’

  ‘Indeed I do, Monsieur. These clues did not get there by themselves, they were put there to be found, as you will realise at the end of my demonstration.’

  He went back to his place.

  ‘I ask you, Camille Galaine, to come here.’

  Camille stood up, throwing a terrified glance at her sister, who looked right through her. Bourdeau approached the two dummies. He removed the Indian’s clothes, carefully opened the packet wrapped in silk paper, and took out two corsets, which he placed on the dummies.

  ‘Observe these two corsets,’ Nicolas said. ‘They are worn over the shift, and cover the trunk from the shoulders to the hips. They are identical, with one exception to the corset found on Élodie Galaine’s body. Gentlemen, I should like to ask Camille and Charlotte Galaine to come forward and lace up these garments.’

  Camille took the two ends of the lace and calmly tied the first corset, then went back to the bench. Her elder sister stood up.

  ‘I protest against this farce, which is unworthy of the memory of our poor niece!’

  ‘Protest all you want,’ said Monsieur de Sartine, who appeared increasingly intrigued by the turn this hearing was taking, ‘but I strongly advise you to do as you are asked.’

  Charlotte Galaine approached the second dummy and, after several unsuccessful attempts, tied the lace. Then she ran back to her seat. Almost respectfully, Nicolas picked up Élodie’s corset.

  ‘When we came to open up the body, I found this corset to be very tightly knotted, so tight that the laces had to be cut with a scalpel. I assumed that had been done in order to squeeze the breasts and extract milk. But now I understand how it was that the corset on Élodie’s body could have been pulled so tight. It’s because when it was tied, she was no longer breathing.’

  At this terrible image, a sigh of horror went through the room. The two magistrates left their chairs at Nicolas’s invitation and approached the two dummies.

  ‘See for yourselves, Monsieur, whether the knots are similar or different. This is Camille’s: it isn’t identical to the original. Whereas Charlotte’s is an exact copy.’

  ‘I don’t follow your argument, Commissioner,’ said Sartine. ‘What bearing does this have on the case?’

  ‘I understand your perplexity,’ replied Nicolas. ‘It so happens that one of the witnesses, Marie Chaffoureau, who we now know to have been an accomplice, told me a great many things, certain that I would never suspect her. One of the things she told me was that for a long time Charlotte Galaine was unable to tie a knot.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘When she finally managed to tie this knot, it was upside down. There is only one conclusion I can draw. Charlotte Galaine, I have the sad privilege of accusing you of the murder by strangulation of your niece, Élodie Galaine.’

  Charlotte stood up with a fierce look on her face.

  ‘You who brought the devil into our house, don’t you see it was my sister Camille who did it?’

  Nicolas smiled. ‘These words merely confirm my accusation. In trying to prove too much, you prove nothing. Getting the laudanum from the apothecary was Camille’s idea. The ticket from the second-hand clothes dealer was found under Camille’s bed. Whenever things look bad for Charlotte, it’s always Camille who did it. I’ve just remembered something, a tiny detail from early in my investigation. When I first questioned you, Charlotte Galaine, you mentioned white Venetian masks. Unfortunately for you, your sister Camille didn’t remember them and looked puzzled. If the two of you had been accomplices, you would never have contradicted her. I don’t claim that Camille Galaine bears no share of the blame for this tragedy, but there is no evidence that she was your accomplice in the murder.’

  Camille had started weeping.

  ‘Why does my sister accuse me?’ she asked with a sob. ‘She assured me the poor child was still-born, that we had to bury it secretly, for fear of scandal. That was all.’

  ‘We’re getting off the point,’ said Sartine. ‘Please conclude!’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Nicolas, ‘as a final proof, I recall that on the morning after the disaster in Place Louis XV, during my first visit to the Galaines, I found Camille fully dressed, whereas her sister had apparently not had the time to get ready. Of course, it had been a long and difficult night, lots of moving about, dressing and carrying a corpse … But what of the motives? you will ask. One, of course, is financial gain. Charlotte loves her brother, she’s ready to do anything to help him out of a difficult situation. Élodie Galaine is a dangerous obstacle that has to be removed. But there’s a second motive: revenge. The murderer has long harboured a desire for revenge, and this is her opportunity to finally take it. That same witness, whose loose tongue led her to come out with a great many compromising truths, told me that in their youth the two sisters were rivals in love. Their rivalry was so fierce that the suitor made his escape, rather than being forced to choose between them. Although Camille enjoys being a spinster, Charlotte has never become reconciled to it. She is the murderer of Élodie and her child, with the complicity of Miette and Marie Chaffoureau; it is she who planned the whole thing to the last detail. I should add that the cook not only helped Charlotte in the execution of the crime I have just mentioned, but is also the person responsible for the attempted murder of Naganda. On reflection, it seems clear that she was the only person with access to the Indian’s room, and she went up there while we were involved with another matter of which you are aware … To her, Naganda was the evil genius who had brought disgrace on the Galaine house. His murder was also intended to again cast suspicion on Jean Galaine and Louis Dorsacq, who might be thought to have acted out of jealousy. At the same time, we need to ask ourselves about the role played by Charles Galaine. Is he not an unwitting culprit, an unwitting accomplice, an unwitting contributor to his niece’s terrible fate? The law will have to decide.’

  Silence fell on the courtroom, disturbed only by Camille Galaine’s weeping and Charlotte’s incoherent muttering. Marie Chaffoureau was smiling, as if she did not understand what was happening. After a sign of assent from Monsieur de Sartine, the Criminal Lieutenant stood up.

  ‘I thank Commissioner Le Floch for his masterly demonstration, supported by sufficient evidence and necessary assumptions. At the end of this extraordinary hearing, I order, in the name of the King, that Charlotte Galaine and Marie Chaffoureau, both presumed guilty, and Charles Galaine, pending further inquiries, be incarcerated in the royal prison of the Châtelet. The normal procedure will run its course. I order that the girl Ermeline Godeau, known as Miette, be placed in a house of correction. If she ever regains her reason, she will have to answer for her actions. The other witnesses remain at the disposal of the law, but are free to go.’

  Naganda was the only one to come and thank Nicolas. Madame Galaine seemed on the point of speaking to him, then changed her mind and smiled weakly by way of farewell. Père Raccard approached and put his hand on Nicolas’s shoulder.

  ‘Monsieur Le Floch, you have brought him down for the second time.’

  ‘Who, Father?’

  ‘He whose name is legion.’

  Thursday 7 June 1770

  Prepared the previous evening during a very alcohol
ic supper at Ramponneau’s, in the hamlet of Les Percherons, paid for by Bourdeau, the arrest of Major Langlumé took place as planned. Dawn had just broken when a cab and four horsemen stopped outside a tall, opulent-looking house in the area around Saint-Gervais, in the Hôtel de Ville district of Paris. While a water carrier and a boy delivering a tray of bavaroises and oublies looked on in surprise, Nicolas, dressed in his commissioner’s robes, walked in through the entrance archway with Bourdeau. On the first floor, they knocked at a heavy oak door decorated with brass nails. An old woman in a mantilla and a woollen shawl opened. She introduced herself as the major’s mother, asked the newcomers the reason for their visit and told them that her son was still asleep, but that she would wake him. Nicolas, who was more of a horseman than a magistrate, kept shaking the wide sleeves of his costume, which hindered his movements. Shuffling footsteps were heard and the major appeared, looking haggard, his nightshirt only partly hidden by a white piqué housecoat. He jumped when he saw Nicolas.

  ‘You? You dare to disturb me at this hour! What are you after?’

  Nicolas waved a paper. ‘Are you Major Langlumé of the City Guards?’

  ‘Yes, and I’m going to make you pay for this!’

  ‘That would be a pointless effort, Monsieur. By order of the King, we are here to take you to the Bastille. You can look at the lettre de cachet, if you want to.’

  ‘A coward’s revenge!’ said Langlumé. ‘And what is the charge?’

  Nicolas took out one of the tags. ‘Do you recognise this?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur, a very innocent practical joke played on a bastard whippersnapper of a police commissioner.’

  ‘Please note,’ Nicolas said to Bourdeau impassively, ‘that the defendant has insulted a commissioner from the Châtelet in the exercise of his duties.’

  ‘That’s absurd.’

  ‘Not at all, Monsieur, and you will answer for it. And, while we’re about it, what can you tell me about this other tag?’

  ‘Nothing. There are thousands like it in Paris.’

  ‘Only a few of them were made by Master Vachon, tailor and supplier to Major Langlumé. So we’d be grateful if you’d show us your uniform. Do not attempt to resist. We need it as evidence.’

  Nicolas and Bourdeau followed the major into his bedroom, where he opened a chest. Bourdeau jostled him to hurry him up, and a fight nearly broke out between the two men. But, in the end, the inspector brandished the garment like a trophy, and Nicolas went closer to check the aiguillettes. Two tags identical to those in his possession were missing.

  ‘By order of the Criminal Lieutenant, I inform you, Major, that a preliminary investigation has been opened against you for the attempted murder of Monsieur Aimé de Noblecourt, former procurator of the King.’

  ‘You’re joking, I hope?’ cried the major. ‘Who is this Noblecourt? Did I meet him in Vanves? Or Charenton?’

  ‘Observe, Monsieur, that there are two tags missing from your uniform. The first was used to block the attic door of the ambassadors’ mansion, an unworthy act that prevented a magistrate of the King from organising emergency help during the disaster in Place Louis XV. The second was found in the entrance to Monsieur de Noblecourt’s residence in Rue Montmartre two days ago. According to witnesses, it was torn off one of the attackers as they were assaulting the victim.’

  ‘Cowards deserve to be beaten, Monsieur!’

  ‘Which presumably means that I was the target of the attack. But it was an old man who bore the consequences.’

  The major rose to his full height. ‘Monsieur Jérôme Bignon, provost of the merchants,’ he said, ‘will treat your accusation with the scorn it deserves, and I will take pleasure in your disgrace.’

  ‘We’ll see about that. In the meantime, Monsieur, Inspector Bourdeau will escort you to the Bastille.’

  Nicolas went back to Rue Montmartre, where he told a delighted and sardonic Monsieur de Noblecourt all about the major’s arrest. Towards the end of the morning, he received a note bearing the arms of Monsieur de Sartine, informing him that he was invited to supper in the King’s small apartments that very evening. His Majesty wished to hear an account of the investigation from Nicolas’s own mouth, especially a description of the exorcism. Nicolas devoted what remained of the morning to choosing his attire and getting ready. By one in the afternoon, his carriage had passed Saint-Eustache and was crossing to the left bank of the river.

  His account finished, Nicolas fell silent. Every one of those present was looking at the King, who was smiling pensively. Nicolas had made an effort to keep it short, mixing amusing comments with graver observations and trying hard not to overdramatise the demonic manifestations in the Galaine house. He described them in the tones of a naturalist who has just discovered a new species. The ladies shuddered and the men grew sombre or gave rather forced laughs. With his usual penchant for macabre details, the monarch, listening attentively, had interrupted him several times to ask him to clarify certain points. But Nicolas’s brisk narration had not dampened the King’s spirits. Louis liked nothing better in the evenings than to escape the constraints of etiquette and spend time in these intimate surroundings with his friends. There, with nobody making representations to him, he could enjoy a few hours of peace, talk animatedly, encourage the freest conversations and provoke controversies, to which he reserved the right to put an end if they went beyond the permitted limits.

  In his apartments, away at last from the constant pressure of public life, the King was free to reveal his true nature, that mixture of gaiety and melancholy, devoid of affectation or any artificial desire to please. What made these evenings so agreeable was the choice of guests and the atmosphere of exquisite and subtle urbanity. For all its violence and horror, Nicolas’s story had, thanks to his moderation, his elegance of tone and his lightly ironic touch, made the moment even more precious.

  ‘Monsieur de Ranreuil is a first-class storyteller,’ said the King. ‘That was the first impression I had of him back in 1761. It was quite cold …’

  Nicolas admired the monarch’s memory. It had sounded as though he were about to mention the Marquise de Pompadour, but had held back at the last moment. Those present, Madame de Flavacourt, Madame de Valentinois and the Maréchale de Mirepois for the women, and the Maréchal de Richelieu, the Marquis de Chauvelin, Monsieur de Sartine and Monsieur de La Borde for the men, were listening to the King with respect and affection.

  ‘If the King will allow me to ask a question,’ said Richelieu. He did not wait for a reply. ‘Has the King ever seen the devil?’

  The King started laughing. ‘I see you every day – that’s enough for me! However, when I was a child, I thought I saw the little man who was said to wander the corridors of the Tuileries. I talked about it quite innocently to my tutor, the Maréchal de Villeroy. He was pleased that I had been afraid, since that was how he felt, too, and he strengthened me in my conviction that I had seen something. I was so terrified I couldn’t sleep. I decided to open my heart to my cousin d’Orléans, who was then regent. He was furious.’

  A door opened. The King turned, recovering his cold, distant air in a split second. Who had dared enter like this without being announced by an usher? Then his face relaxed and softened at the radiant sight that presented itself: a young woman whom Nicolas realised could only be the King’s new mistress, the Comtesse du Barry.

  How dazzling she was, thought Nicolas, and what a contrast to the good lady of Choisy, so sick and so ravaged at the end! The young woman was wearing a white dress with panniers, its satin threaded through with silver, decorated with pink and green sequins. Little embroidered roses were strewn over the body of the garment. She was covered in cascades of diamonds, and with each step she took, there was a glimpse of her lace petticoats.

  ‘Oh, Madame!’ said the King, leaning towards her. ‘Roses without thorns!’

  She made a low curtsey and sat down on a bergère. Her natural blonde hair framed regular, graceful features. There was a delicacy
about her face, and at the same time a lustre discernible in her little mouth. Her narrow blue eyes were half-open, and yet her gaze was frank and forthright, and radiated a languid charm. The overall impression was one of youth and seductiveness. She was said to be kind and obliging. The fact remained that Monsieur de Sartine was still bitter about a quarrel he had had with the lady who, while apparently amused by some of the satirical songs of which she had been the target, nevertheless bore a grudge against the man whose task it was to prevent them from appearing, or to seize them when they had appeared.

  ‘Madame,’ said the King, ‘you’ve just missed a tale beside which those of many authors would pale. Young Ranreuil, whom I mentioned to you, really amused us … or frightened us, depending on how you look at it.’

  ‘If he amused Your Majesty,’ said the countess, ‘then he deserves my gratitude.’

  The King stood up and urged Madame de Flavacourt, the Maréchale de Mirepois and Monsieur de Chauvelin to join him in a game of whist. The Duc de Richelieu took Nicolas by the arm and led him over to Madame du Barry.

  ‘Madame, I advise you to win this heart. He is worthy of his father, even though he intends to remain a Le Floch.’

  ‘In His Majesty’s service, Monseigneur. The police – just think of it – would be a demeaning profession for the Marquis de Ranreuil.’

  ‘Ho, ho!’ said the duke. ‘I’m going to tell that to Sartine; he’ll be delighted. So, Madame, what is happening about your apartments?’

  ‘I’ve abandoned the one on the Cour des Fontaines for one left by Lebel,1 near the chapel, and I’m waiting for a small study. I collect, I gather and I scour the connoisseurs. Lacquers, ivories, minerals and bisques – which are my favourites – hold no more secrets for me.’

  ‘Minerals? Diamonds above all, I assume.’

  ‘They are made to run in rivers, Maréchal.’