‘My friend, let me commend you on your courage. You made sure nothing came up that might disturb this friendly reunion. Physical courage is a gift of nature, but courage of the spirit is a much rarer thing. I thank you for the self-discipline you exercised. I know you did it out of respect for myself and those who love you.’
‘I owe you a debt of gratitude, Monsieur, for having organised this evening which, although I could not forget my anxieties, allowed me to keep them under control.’
Back in his apartment, Nicolas sighed with emotion, thinking how lucky he had been to meet the former procurator. He embodied all that, previously, had been represented by Canon Le Floch and his father as examples of rectitude, steadfastness and loyalty. He would have liked the Marquis de Ranreuil to see him in action, but he hoped that, from where he was, he approved his conduct. Still the child from Guérande, he said his prayers, asking the Virgin Mary and St Anne to protect his son. He fell into a deep sleep, lulled by Mouchette’s purring.
Monday 1 May 1775
He awoke with a start. Distant, muffled noises reached his ears. He thought he could hear cries. He waited for a moment, struck a light and lit a candle. Mouchette was spitting, her tail as stiff as a brush. He became aware of a heavy tread on the stairs. There was a knock at the door. He asked whoever it was to wait a moment, and put on stockings and breeches, waistcoat and shoes. After tying his hair with a ribbon, he opened up and discovered Poitevin, half dressed, out of breath, looking shaken. He felt a pang in his heart. Either something had happened to Monsieur de Noblecourt or there was bad news about Louis. In a flash, he foresaw every possible misfortune. He admitted Poitevin, who was unable to recover his breath and could barely speak. Nicolas sat him down and brought him a glass of water.
‘Oh, Monsieur,’ he said at last. ‘What a terrible thing!’
Out of habit, Nicolas checked his watch. It was four fifteen. He made an effort to contain his anxiety. ‘What’s happened?’
‘What a horrible death, Monsieur! The poor man!’
A shiver ran down the commissioner’s spine.
‘I think you have to go downstairs.’
Another voice rose, equally breathless.
‘How steep these stairs are … Stop scaring Nicolas … my good old Poitevin … I know him and … I can just imagine him … pale and wide-eyed … doing me the honour of thinking I’m dead.’
Monsieur de Noblecourt entered in majesty, wrapped in a damask dressing gown, his head covered with his favourite madras. He walked to the bed and collapsed heavily onto it beside Poitevin.
‘What a climb! Let me get my breath back … Just imagine! Master Mourut, my tenant and baker, has been found dead in his kneading trough.’
‘A fit of apoplexy?’ asked Nicolas, who recalled the man’s ruddy face.
Noblecourt looked dubious. ‘I find that hard to believe. It’s something else. That’s why we woke you. I went downstairs to take a look. I’m sure you’ll be as astonished by the scene as I was. I fear we need an experienced police commissioner and perhaps even the insight of a former procurator. This death is extremely suspicious.’
Nicolas rummaged in his desk and took out the little black book in which he noted everything while working on a case. ‘Before I go down,’ he said, ‘I’d like to hear your account of what happened.’
‘All right. A few minutes after four … I know it was four, because my Minerva clock had just struck. At my age, I spend part of the night reading … Anyway, I was reading the magnificent Suetonius you gave me as a gift. Tiberius in Capri … I digress. I heard cries and lots of strange noise, although it was still dark. Just as I was about to go down, Poitevin appeared. You know he sleeps in the room above the stable. He said … but perhaps he could tell you what he told me?’
‘Monsieur, I was asleep. I was woken by cries. Then there was loud knocking on the door to the little staircase that leads to my lodgings. I put on what I could and went down. There I found Parnaux, the baker’s boy, and Friope, the apprentice, in a panic. They had just gone into the bakehouse and had found Master Mourut unconscious. He was—’
‘Don’t say another word. I’d like to see things for myself, with an open mind. What happened next?’
‘They were terrified, and refused to go back down. At that point, Catherine took matters in hand. She led them into the servants’ pantry and asked them to wait there. I came upstairs to find Monsieur. He went down with me and together we verified that the baker was dead.’
‘I shan’t describe anything to you, Nicolas, but I will mention one important detail. The baker’s boys gave me the key to the bakehouse. As for the communicating door between that room and—’
‘What?’ said Nicolas, surprised. ‘What door? I had no idea there was such a thing, as often happens when you have something right in front of you every day.’
‘When, twenty years ago, I let the ground floor of my house, I didn’t want to be separated from the outhouses in the courtyard. Master Mourut took a lease on the house next door. In agreement with me and the other owner, he was granted permission to make an opening between the two houses, at his own expense. He and his wife live there with an apprentice.’
‘One of the two you mentioned?’
‘No, they live in town.’
‘That could make things complicated.’
‘We left Catherine in the bakehouse to make sure that nothing is disturbed and nobody enters. She’s not bothered by the sight of death. She’s seen much worse things on the battlefield.’
‘One more question. Do you think the baker died a natural death?’
‘I prefer not to express an opinion. I leave that to the Grand Châtelet.’
The three men walked downstairs. Nicolas glanced for a moment at the two baker’s boys sitting on stools, their arms dangling. They seemed stunned. As they knew him, they rose to greet him. Outside the service door to the bakery stood the solid figure of Catherine, like a sentry following orders. Without a word, but with an evasive pout, she handed him a large key. They descended a few steps. By the light of two candles – Nicolas noticed that they had barely been started – a scene at once strange and grotesque presented itself. The light, flickering in the draught from the small windows that looked out onto the street, illumined, in the middle of the room, a body leaning forward, of which only the feet, legs and the bottom part of the trunk were visible from the door, the rest being submerged in the kneading trough. This figure was like a collapsed puppet or a launderer cleaning linen in a washtub. Nicolas asked his companions to stop where they were. He himself cautiously advanced into the bakehouse on tiptoe, looking down at the floor. He had forced himself to give the corpse only a cursory glance, but now at last he looked at him for a long time.
The first thing that struck him was that he had never seen Master Mourut dressed as he was now, in a coat of a thick brown, almost red material, flecked grey breeches, black stockings, a shirt with lace cuffs, and shoes with polished – though mud-caked – brass buckles: the attire of a Parisian in his Sunday best. For the moment, Nicolas drew no conclusion from this. The body had not yet stiffened. Of the head, all that could be seen was a thin strip of the back of the neck and the back of the horsehair wig. The whole of his face was stuck in the risen dough of the morning’s first batch. Nicolas noted that the pockets were half turned out, as if someone had tried to search them without taking care to rearrange them. He crouched and found a double louis, which must have rolled under the kneading trough, and a small tube of thin paper, which he unrolled. It read: Eulalie, at La G’s, Rue des Deux-Portes-Saint-Sauveur, which surprised him greatly, for various reasons. He put his find between the pages of his notebook. It now occurred to him to touch the body. Why had the Grim Reaper, his old companion, pursued him even here, to this haven of peace, this dwelling so dear to his heart? He drew the layout of the place and a crude depiction of the scene. He knew from experience how deceptive and fleeting memory could be. Monsieur de Noblecourt had sat down on a stool a
nd was watching carefully but impassively.
Nicolas asked Catherine to come and help him. He first had a chair brought close, seized the body by the epaulettes of the coat and slowly pulled it towards him. It was the hands that slid out first, the arms falling vertically. Then the body rose, and the head dropped forwards, drawing with it strips and ribbons of dough stuck to the face and wig. The corpse was now slumped, with its chin on its chest. Nicolas lifted it and noticed that the eyes were open and hardly blurred. The mouth was tightly closed. He removed the dough and flour with a cloth he found hanging from a nail. The ashen face did not bear – and this was the only observation he allowed himself – any trace of asphyxia, or any wound, nor was there anything to indicate an apoplectic fit, even though his memories of Monsieur Mourut when he was alive – a ruddy-faced, short-necked man in his fifties – might well have supported such a supposition. So what had caused him to fall head first into his kneading trough?
He thought for a moment. The most sensible thing would be to have the body taken to the Grand Châtelet and summon Sanson and Semacgus, the only people he trusted, for the usual examination in the Basse-Geôle. Before doing that, he had to determine the exact circumstances of this suspicious death as precisely as possible, question the witnesses, inform Madame Mourut, and observe her reactions. Nothing was to be left to chance. Experience had taught him that hurry and lack of attention to detail, however small, always resulted in false starts and unfortunate errors. It was also important to inform his colleague, the commissioner for the district, and persuade him to let him, Nicolas, take charge of the case. That would be all the easier to do given that his name and reputation, and the authority he had acquired, supported by the trust of two successive Lieutenants General of Police, would rule out any bias and avoid rebellion or dissension. Things would be easy: Commissioner Fontaine was an old acquaintance. He had already been in that position for a few years and had been the attending officer when Monsieur de Noblecourt had been the victim of an attack outside the house.6 Catherine, as a woman used to the field of battle, had left the bakehouse, and, anticipating the commissioner’s request, soon returned with a blanket which, to judge by the strong smell it gave off, must have come from the stable. She took it upon herself to close the dead man’s eyes, then covered the corpse with the blanket. In an instant, the room resumed its normal, innocuous appearance. Nicolas looked about him for a few moments, stopping from time to time to write in his notebook.
‘Good. I don’t think I’ve left anything out. I see it’s possible to put a bar across the communicating door. We need to do so in order to stop anyone coming in from the house next door.’
Poitevin set about this task.
‘Now we’re going to go out and close the door. Poitevin, can I ask you to keep guard, on a chair of course, and don’t let anyone in.’
‘Especially as,’ said Monsieur de Noblecourt, ‘after a certain attack, a small door was cut into the carriage entrance. Several keys were distributed, both in my house and in the baker’s. It’s possible that —’
‘Bourdeau and I have arranged to meet at six. At that point, we’ll sort out the details. By the way, our two frightened birds are in their street clothes. Where do they change? We’re going to ask them.’
‘No need to!’ said Catherine. ‘They change in the privy, as far as I know.’
‘She’s right,’ said Noblecourt. ‘When I leased out the premises, there wasn’t one. You know how architects respect the legal obligations as far as they go but, because of the shape and proximity of the houses, put pipes everywhere at random. Nothing is more surprising to those who visit our beautiful city than to see the ugly accumulation of latrines disfiguring the houses, plumped down next to staircases, doors and kitchens, spreading the most revolting smell. Everything gets clogged up, the tide rises and the house is flooded! But nobody talks about it, Parisian noses are inured!’
‘It’s highly unhealthy, as is the satisfying of natural needs in the street. Apart from our friend Tirepot and his public convenience, people relieve themselves where they can. Monsieur de Sartine had barrels set up for the purpose at street corners.’
‘A useful and noble idea! Unfortunately this humane plan earned him nothing but mockery and immediately fell into disuse.’
As they left the bakehouse, they glanced at the place in question. It was a most sordid example of its type. Nicolas, as a man of his century with a keen interest in hygiene, was shocked.
Gradually, the heat of action had lessened his anxiety, but from time to time it returned with renewed strength. Now, for a brief moment, it hit him like a blow to the chest, taking his breath away. What had happened to his son? Where was Aimée d’Arranet? Five o’clock had just tolled at Saint-Eustache. He asked Monsieur de Noblecourt for permission to question the baker’s boys in the servants’ pantry, where Catherine was already busy lighting the stove. Something struck him: how was it that the fire hadn’t been lit in the bakery? It took time to bake the first batch. This was a worrying detail. Was it normal? He would have to check.
He sat down at the table while Noblecourt went back up to his apartments. The two young men came in, holding hands. He knew them well, but realised that they were so much part of the furniture that he didn’t even know their names. How many times had they held his horse’s bridle, or carried his portmanteau, or greeted him warmly at the carriage entrance? And yet they remained perfect strangers to him.
‘I will question you separately.’
The younger of the two looked imploringly at the older one, who let go of his hand and took a step forward, with a somewhat swaggering air.
‘All right,’ said Nicolas, ‘let’s begin with you. Your workmate can wait in the courtyard.’
Glances were again exchanged and the apprentice went out reluctantly. Nicolas noticed the down-at-heel shoes, the light twill trousers – too short for him – the shirt and the threadbare waistcoat, the white face with eyes that seemed to swallow the rest of his features.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Hugues Parnaux, Monsieur Nicolas.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Eighteen.’
‘Who are your parents?’
‘My mother died when I was born. My father is a retired soldier. Disabled …’
‘How long have you been an apprentice?’
‘For three years.’
‘Does your father pay your fees?’
‘He couldn’t, the poor man! He isn’t right in the head any more. He’s at the Invalides.’
‘So who pays for your apprenticeship?’
‘The churchwarden of my parish.’
‘Why don’t you live in your master’s house, as most do?’
He recalled his own days as a notary’s clerk in Rennes … The number of times he had drawn up contracts of apprenticeship, always on the same model! He recalled the wording: ‘The master promises and undertakes to show and teach him the said profession and everything it involves, to hide nothing from him, to feed him, lodge him, give him light and heating, launder his linen, and provide him with a bed, sheets and clothes suitable to his state …’
‘You know the house, Monsieur Nicolas. It’d be impossible here. We’d have to sleep three in a room and anyway …’
‘Anyway?’
‘No, nothing! Not everyone can become a master … I know what I’m talking about. So I lodge with Friope a few houses down. On the sixth floor, under the roof. The house belongs to the master, who lets furnished rooms there by the week or the month.’
‘All right, we’ll look into that later. What happened this morning?’
‘We’d sifted the flour last night …’
‘Was Master Mourut present?’
He seemed to hesitate. ‘… Yes, at first. He had to go out. He kept an eye on the work from a distance, because he didn’t want to get his clothes dirty. When the dough was ready to rise, he left us, saying he wouldn’t be long and that he’d light the oven when he came back. A
ll that was left to do was make the loaves and fill the oven with wood. Once started, we leave them to warm up. Finally we scrape down the oven to get rid of the embers before we put the bread in.’
Nicolas let him speak. He knew how important it was never to interrupt a witness in full flow: the truth sometimes emerged unexpectedly.
‘All right. What happened this morning?’
‘We woke up at a quarter to five. There was some coffee left over and, in order not to have it cold, we heated it with the flame from a candle. We ate a crust. When we got to the shop, we opened the door to the courtyard …’
‘Do you have a key?’
Nicolas suddenly realised that he was acting as if it had already been established that Master Mourut had not died a natural death. If he had, these interrogations would be a waste of time. Nevertheless, if his hypothesis proved accurate, he would certainly have gained time! Nothing was more valuable than gathering information in the immediate aftermath of an event, when the participants had not yet had time to go over and over their version and tinker with the details.
‘Yes, the key to the little door cut into the big one and another leading to the bakehouse from the courtyard. The bakehouse key I gave to Monsieur de Noblecourt.’
Nicolas took the key, which Parnaux had extracted from deep in his pocket. ‘And then?’
‘We were surprised to see a light in the bakehouse. We always make sure we turn everything off because of the risk of fire. We’re usually the first to arrive, and the master joins us a quarter of an hour later. We went into the bakehouse without changing our clothes and there we saw the master in the kneading trough. We … we called out and went closer.’
‘Didn’t you try to fetch help?’
‘Friope had a kind of fit. He was choking and rolling the whites of his eyes, and his teeth were chattering.’
‘But you did at least make sure that Monsieur Mourut was dead?’
‘I went up to him and listened, but he wasn’t breathing. I touched his hand, and it was already cold. I wanted to fetch help. But Friope was screaming. I calmed him down … I even slapped him. He followed me into the courtyard to the stables where we woke Poitevin and—’
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