The Baker's Blood

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  ‘I’m sure it is. But it’s another matter when we have two suspects imprisoned and threatened with the full weight of the law. Two unfortunate creatures who have no alibi, in other words, whose whereabouts at the critical moment are unknown.’

  ‘The critical moment?’

  ‘But they are not the only suspects,’ Nicolas went on. ‘And—’

  ‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’

  ‘I doubt that. Madame Mourut has told us everything.’

  ‘What kind of thing?’

  He would have to tell a lie to get at the truth. ‘That you wanted to get rid of her husband and run away with her.’

  Caminet started laughing uncontrollably. ‘What does she imagine? That I’m still interested in that dried-up old thing? Look at me and then look at her.’

  ‘We are looking at you,’ said Nicolas gravely, ‘and we see a criminal on whom suspicion is falling ever more heavily.’

  ‘But I’m the victim!’ Caminet burst out. ‘Me, me! He kept nagging at me with his advice! Always lecturing me! He never stopped!’

  ‘The victim of what, of whom?’

  ‘Of … of … He hit me.’

  ‘Who? Mourut? Tell me about that.’

  ‘I was in an inn with the madwoman.’

  ‘Why do you spend time with her, if she’s mad? Such gallantry is beyond me!’

  ‘For her money. She could never refuse me anything. Anyway, I was in this inn.’

  ‘A strange inn, I think.’

  Caminet looked at him, aghast. Did the commissioner really know all that?

  ‘I went downstairs to get some wine, and that was when I saw Mourut with a lot of other people. He recognised me. I immediately realised how I could turn the situation to my advantage. I’d long wanted to break away and leave Rue Montmartre. I informed Céleste, without telling her what I was really thinking. I went down again and out into Rue des Deux-Ponts-Saint-Sauveur. He was waiting for me, of course! I told him what I really thought of him. He didn’t want me to go, I don’t know why. He hit me. I fell to the ground, unconscious. Then it started raining, and that revived me. I got up and ran away. I’m the victim.’

  ‘Quite a story! So now that you were free, with not a care in the world, you immediately chose lodgings in a place of debauchery.’

  ‘I’d been there before.’

  ‘Wrong!’ said Bourdeau. ‘A witness who has no reason to lie to us will testify that he’d never seen you before you showed up after three in the morning on Monday 1 May, holding a paper with the address of his house.’

  ‘He’s lying. He’ll pay for this!’

  ‘It will be a long time before you can settle any scores, believe me!’ said Nicolas.

  ‘And another thing,’ said Bourdeau, with a wink at the commissioner. ‘What funds did you have at your disposal?’

  ‘My savings.’

  ‘Really? It’s said that you are excessively spendthrift and that Master Mourut, apparently so strict with you in other respects, gave you everything you needed in the way of money. Not that he got much in return!’ Bourdeau put a thick leather purse down on the table, the metal inside clinking as he did so. ‘Found in a cupboard in Rue des Moineaux, Commissioner. It still contains nine hundred gold livres. Impressive for the savings of an apprentice! I should add that, according to my information, this gentleman has lost more than he’s won despite his cheating at cards since he’s been living in Rue des Moineaux. Either he’s not very good, or the girls relieved him of some of it. It seems he had two thousand livres when he arrived.’

  ‘Well, now!’ said Nicolas. ‘That is indeed quite a sum! I await your explanation. Where did the money come from?’

  ‘From Madame Mourut.’

  Bourdeau took a ring, some pendants and a necklace from his pocket. ‘No, it didn’t. Here are the jewels she gave him. He didn’t even sell them.’

  Something suddenly occurred to Nicolas, and he decided to try his luck. ‘The dispenser of so much favour was obviously the Capuchin, wasn’t it?’

  Caminet’s reaction was all that the commissioner could have hoped for. He turned his head right and left as if looking for a way out, wrung his hands, then bent over and burst into sobs.

  ‘I think it’s time to tell us the truth,’ said Nicolas.

  ‘This monk … stopped me in the street.’

  ‘Where and when?’

  ‘A few days before I ran away, outside Saint-Eustache. He made me a proposition. I was supposed to arrange to meet Céleste at La Gourdan’s house on Sunday night. At a given moment, I would be told when to come downstairs so that Mourut could see me. I told the monk I wanted to leave my mistress and lead my own life. He gave me a purse, this very same one, or rather, he showed it to me and promised I would have it if everything went as he wished.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s all.’

  ‘No, I was to be abusive to the master, push him to the point where he would hit me. Then I had to fall heavily on the cobbles and pretend to be dead. Which I did. I heard Mourut being led away, then someone coming back and bending over me. In fact, the man, who I didn’t see, I swear, touched me as if checking how I was, and took advantage of that to slip the purse into my coat, and a paper with the address in Rue des Moineaux.’

  ‘All right,’ said Nicolas. ‘Why did you get to your destination so late?’

  ‘I lost my way. It was raining and I was scared.’

  ‘That will need to be checked. We know what time your master was killed. Going by what you’ve told us, you would have been able to get back to Rue Montmartre, get into the bakehouse with the key in your possession and, there, kill your master with means which the Capuchin or someone else could have provided you with. That’s the real ending of the story, isn’t it? You knew, didn’t you, that you would inherit if he died, that Mourut was not only your master, but also your father?’

  Caminet looked at Nicolas, apparently uncomprehendingly. ‘My father?’

  ‘Yes, your father.’

  For a long time, the old fortress echoed to his screams as he was led to the dungeons.

  ‘Culprit, accomplice or victim?’ said Nicolas, pensively. ‘We will know soon enough.’

  Notes

  1. See The Saint-Florentin Murders.

  2. The Comte de Saint-Florentin, Duc de La Vrillière, was a minister for fifty years.

  3. Translations of genuine texts from 1775.

  4. These remarks were in fact made by Voltaire.

  5. Makassin: the moccasin, a poisonous snake from North America.

  6. See The Phantom of Rue Royale.

  XII

  THE VICE

  After having badly managed one’s career,

  one does not easily take another path.

  MASSILLON

  From Sunday 7 May to Friday 12 May 1775

  On Sunday, the whole household of Rue Montmartre, Monsieur de Noblecourt radiant at its head, attended high mass at Saint-Eustache. Louis had the honour of holding the purse for the collection. The presence of Naganda, whose upbringing led him to believe that all theological controversy was vain and who happily reconciled his faith and the beliefs of his people, at first scared the congregation, then distracted it, and finally impressed it. For his sermon, the officiating priest read the extraordinary address which Louis XVI had sent to all the bishops about the recent events in the kingdom. His voice rang out beneath the high vaults: ‘You are all aware of the unprecedented banditry which has affected stocks of wheat all around the capital, and almost before my eyes in Versailles, and which seems to threaten several provinces of the kingdom. If this movement should approach your diocese or even enter it, I have no doubt that you will oppose it with all the obstacles which your zeal, your attachment to my person, and even more so the Holy Religion of which you are the minister, will suggest to you. The maintenance of public order is a law of the gospel, as it is a law of the State, and anything which disturbs it is equally criminal before God and men.’

  ‘
That is of a higher standard than the address to all the parish priests in the kingdom,’ murmured Noblecourt in Nicolas’s ear. ‘I was given the text to read. It was awkward, verbose and full of sophistry. A lame defence of the comptroller general, though I fear it is more likely to provide weapons against him.’

  In honour of Naganda, an excursion was planned. When they left the church, they found cabs waiting for them. In one of them was Semacgus who, like the sage of Ferney, respected the Lord but did not spend much time in His company. Gaily, they headed towards the tollgates, in the direction of the Basse Courtille des Porcherons. Their destination was the Tambour Royal, the tavern kept by the famous Ramponneau, the idea being to show the Micmac chief the simple pleasures of Parisian life.

  Once past the sign, they walked down three steps into a vast rectangular room, with the kitchens off to the right. The monumental hearth, gigantic ovens and glittering brass fountains made Marion and Catherine envious. At the many tables and benches sat a good-natured crowd. At times, the noise they made reached an unbearable level. The host, a fat, squat, ruddy-faced man with a neck like Silenus,1 received them with good humour and led them to a well-positioned, slightly raised table, offering a panoramic view of the gathering. He had recognised Nicolas, having had dealings with him on several occasions. Louis amused himself deciphering the inscriptions on the wall: Pleasure is everything, Good humour, Credit is dead, Bonum vinum laetificat cor hominis: good wine gladdens the heart, Gallus cantavit: the cock has crowed. Their joy reached its height on discovering a mural painting of Ramponneau himself sitting astride a barrel.

  The food and wine, simple as they were, were highly regarded. Courtiers were not averse to mixing with the riff-raff here – incognito, of course. Semacgus ordered the meal, with the help of Awa, who had also been invited to this feast. They gorged themselves on fried fish, spit-roasted poultry and fricassee of rabbit in wine, accompanied by a chicory salad in which neither garlic nor hard-boiled eggs nor sliced bacon had been spared, and in which there was also an abundance of chives and chervil. Semacgus was pleased that the fricassee had been made as it should: it included, along with the pieces of rabbit, the indispensable pieces of young eel previously fried in butter with mushrooms and small onions. It was important to be quick with the fish in order not to break it. As for the rabbit, it had to simmer in a suitable mixture of white wine and stock until reduced to a third of the whole. An unpretentious little Suresnes wine accompanied this feast. They finished with plates of cakes and biscuits, coffee and a digestive ratafia flavoured with angelica. Outside the establishment, the crowd were bustling to the sound of shrill violins. Monsieur de Noblecourt, who had been given permission by Semacgus to try everything, felt young again and borrowed an instrument. Beating time with his foot, he began a Neapolitan tune which delighted the crowd and set it dancing. This set off the traditional course, a kind of farandole involving between a hundred and three hundred people which habitually ended dinner at Ramponneau’s. The public went wild, running and jumping with all its might around the room, crushing underfoot those who had the misfortune to fall.

  During the following days, the investigation threw up a number of discoveries. On the one hand, Bourdeau’s search among the notaries bore fruit. He informed Nicolas that, by court order, the Hénéfiance residence in Rue du Poirier had been put up for public auction after the presumed death of the convict at Brest. A man named Matisset had announced his intention to purchase it. What made this all the more interesting was that Matisset was a well-known former grain merchant. The same person had bought the house opposite. Nicolas jumped at the mention of the name and consulted his notes. Not only had Lenoir mentioned Matisset as being at the centre of rumours about the famine pact, but Le Prévôt de Beaumont had denounced his actions, describing him as the organiser of a vast network of corruption. Further questions about the man were raised when Bourdeau added that these purchases, as the notary had admitted after a little pressure, had been carried out in secret on behalf of a famous person – although he obstinately refused to name him.

  Nicolas immediately sent out his spies and informers.

  In the next two days, Matisset was spotted, followed and reported to have met several times with Abbé Georgel. On the other hand, he seemed to have been turned away from the Temple. It appeared that, given the turn taken by events, the Prince de Conti was less inclined to continue with certain relationships. Clearly, he did not want to be connected with any of those involved behind the scenes in the unrest.

  Long walks in the Tuileries would allow Nicolas to put some order into his thoughts. If Hénéfiance had not died in escaping, he thought, he must be alive. Where had he made his appearance? Obviously he had wanted to take revenge on Mourut, the man who had denounced him. And as for the latter, why was a traitor still so highly regarded by the brotherhood as to participate in its secret meetings? Was it easier to keep an eye on him that way? Had not his decision not to lower the price of bread resulted in threats? What to make of these contradictory observations? The lessons of his Jesuit masters came back to him and also those of Descartes, their pupil at La Flèche: ‘The human mind manages to be mistaken in two ways, either by taking more than it is given to determine a question, or, on the contrary, by forgetting something.’ He vowed to go over everything he knew of the apparently linked cases.

  With this in view, the commissioner resumed his investigations in order to confirm Caminet’s statements. One thing intrigued him, about which he reflected methodically. It now seemed clear that the mysterious Capuchin, who could be anyone, was heavily involved in all aspects of the case. He had made contact with the baker’s apprentice, had corrupted him to the extent of getting him to agree to a deception of whose tragic outcome he was unaware – or was he? The fact remained that this individual, whoever he was, must, previous to the scene at La Gourdan’s brothel, have discovered all there was to know about the Mourut household, including its hidden, shadowy aspects. The only thing of which they were certain was that the baker had attended the secret meeting. But then the Capuchin had also to be the man bending over Caminet’s body, as seen by Friope and Parnaux. Whatever the man did seemed to leave Nicolas on shaky ground.

  How did the Capuchin know the secrets of the baker and his entourage? Who could have informed him? The two baker’s boys? Nicolas thought it unlikely. Madame Mourut? That was a possibility. Caminet? The monk already knew everything when he had approached the apprentice. He thought suddenly of La Babine, that embittered gossip who knew everything about her masters’ private lives. He went at once to see her. Reluctant as she was to say anything at first, he wore her down to such an extent that in the end, almost foaming at the mouth with anger, she spat out the truth. Yes, a man had approached her as she was doing her shopping at the Rue Montorgueil market. No, she could not remember the exact date. Yes, he had asked her a lot of probing questions. Yes, she had given him the information he asked for. The sum offered had been a large one, and what she had earned from Mourut over the years would not allow her to support herself in her old age. She did not want to be reduced to the poorhouse, eating soup full of leftovers. And now that the baker was dead, she knew she had been right. Besides, how could she have refused a man she had known for so long? Many years earlier, Master Mourut had been in business with him. She had told this Monsieur Matisset everything about the various people in the household, so carried away by the demon of her tongue that she had gone into the most sordid details, without wondering why she was being asked all these things. Thus, little by little, the pieces of the puzzle were falling into place. The more Nicolas thought about it, the more he saw this whole affair as being one of interlocking plots.

  During the following days, while waiting impatiently for Rabouine to return from Lorient, Nicolas devoted himself to Louis and Naganda. He learnt that his friend had married and now had a son. These were precious moments of happiness, when time seemed to stand still. They haunted the promenades of Paris, and attended games of pall-mall
at the Arsenal where, in an avenue of trees marked out with planks, young people skilfully knocked wooden balls through small iron hoops stuck in the ground. From the terrace of the Tuileries, they admired the view of the Palais-Bourbon and the Cours-la-Reine, and hurried to Chaillot to watch a promising young female artist painting the portraits of Cardinal Fleury and La Bruyère intended for the Académie Française. The artist’s name was Louise Élisabeth Vigée. Fascinated by Naganda’s face, she did a quick gouache portrait of him and gave it to him, much to his delight. They went to see the coaches and equipages for Reims, as well as the jewels, the diamond crown, a gold chapel offered by Cardinal de Richelieu in 1636, and a coronation cabinet commissioned long ago by François I, covered in embroidery and paintings based on drawings by Raphael. Last but not least, they busied themselves with getting Louis fitted out by the best suppliers for his debut with the pages.

  On 11 May, the century reasserted its hold on Nicolas once more. Late in the morning, a summons arrived in Rue Montmartre, brought by one of those ageless clerks who haunted police headquarters. It informed Commissioner Le Floch, on the orders of Monsieur Albert, that he would have to attend, wearing his magistrate’s robe and wig and carrying his ivory rod in his hand – he recognised the pernickety character of his new chief in these detailed instructions – the execution of those arrested and sentenced to death after the riots of 3 May. As Nicolas got ready, he questioned the envoy about the condemned men. Only two death sentences had been pronounced: one on Jean Desportes, a wigmaker, and the other on Jean-Charles Lesguille, an unemployed worker and known criminal, arrested in the act of looting. Nicolas was sure that this was an attempt to reassure the bourgeois and artisans who had been thrown into a panic by the riots, and was chilled to realise that their execution had been arranged before the ink on their sentences had even dried.