The Saint-Florentin Murders

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  Entering the black icy water was a ghastly moment for Nicolas, who hated darkness. He felt as though he were sinking into a tomb. The vice was tightening round his neck. He was swallowing the muddy water. He could not breathe. Red and yellow flames danced in front of his eyes. He felt himself yielding, and lost consciousness.

  ‘He’s moving! He’s moving!’

  A familiar voice was grunting somewhere in the distance. ‘To lose consciousness twice in a few days! These Bretons do just what they like! I told him to be careful, but he didn’t listen to me. He’s always so foolhardy …’

  ‘A man of strong character does not worry about threats,’ said another voice, in measured tones. ‘I was worried too, knowing his reputation.’

  Nicolas could feel the heat of a blazing furnace somewhere nearby. There was whispering round him, but he could not understand a word that was being said.

  ‘It’s all thanks to my cordial! He’s already had some.’

  Suddenly, he opened his eyes and yelled, ‘My notebook! Give me my little black notebook!’

  ‘Well, now,’ said the first voice, ‘he hasn’t lost his common sense. The first thing he thinks of is the one thing he needs.’

  A familiar face bent over him: the friendly face of Bourdeau. ‘Bless the inside pocket of your breeches,’ he said. ‘It didn’t let the water in. The notebook is intact. Your sword and even your pistol have been recovered.’

  Another face entered his field of vision.

  ‘Monsieur, I am very pleased to see you out of danger. What would we do without you?’

  He recognised Monsieur Lenoir, and was moved by his concern. ‘Monseigneur, I’m—’

  ‘Don’t speak! You must stay calm and rest.’

  ‘But I’m curious to know what happened after I thought I was drowning, strangled by that creature.’

  ‘The inspector will tell you everything.’

  ‘You fell in the river while struggling with your attacker,’ said Bourdeau. ‘The noise of your fall alerted one of our boats and you were both fished out with hooks. You lost consciousness. You were brought back to the Châtelet, undressed, dried, warmed up, and Old Marie did the rest.’

  Nicolas made a gesture. ‘What about … the other man?’

  ‘Don’t worry, he’s under guard, chained up in his cell.’

  ‘Well guarded?’

  He remembered the livid face of an old soldier found hanged in his cell. Thanks to a lack of precautions …

  ‘Very well guarded. I know what you’re thinking about … Alarmed by the turn events had taken, I immediately launched our offensive. Our men surrounded the establishment, and the sister of a previous victim was found and taken to the Hôtel-Dieu to be tended and comforted. The poor girl had suffered incredible tortures. Unfortunately some of the guests—’

  ‘Who shall remain nameless,’ Monsieur Lenoir cut in.

  ‘Some guests were able to withdraw without being bothered,’ continued Bourdeau in an acrimonious tone. ‘Including Lord Ashbury, who was also caught in the net.’

  ‘He, too!’

  ‘We couldn’t keep him,’ said Lenoir. ‘An hour, no longer than that … The English ambassador appeared in Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin as if by magic and ordered me to hand the fellow over, as a plenipotentiary enjoying the King’s immunity. Ashbury gave us a look of total contempt and arrogance and said that although Commissioner Le Floch’s life had been spared in England, he was still an enemy of the English King and needed to constantly beware.’

  Nicolas sat up in a rage. He realised that he was in the Lieutenant General’s study, lying wrapped in a blanket on the large Savonnerie rug by the hearth, in which a fire blazed.

  ‘On the other hand,’ continued Lenoir, ‘trailing the Duc de La Vrillière has brought results. We now know where he goes at night. To a little apartment on the second floor of a house in Rue des Tournelles …’

  ‘What? Rue des Tournelles!’

  ‘Yes, opposite the monastery of the Minimes, almost on the corner of Rue Neuve-Saint-Gilles.’

  ‘Quai des Tournelles, Rue des Tournelles. Why does that name keep cropping up? Do you remember that piece of paper we found in the younger Duchamplan’s apartment? Could it be he knew the minister’s secret? Which would mean Ashbury also knew it!’

  ‘The house is being watched,’ said Bourdeau. ‘We’ll let him come out without showing ourselves, and only then will we investigate the nature of these nocturnal visits.’

  ‘I’m going there right now.’

  ‘You’re hardly in a fit state.’

  Lenoir intervened, somewhat briskly. ‘I do in fact think that it’s the commissioner’s place, and that, if his condition allows him, it would be preferable and more appropriate …’

  Nicolas looked at Bourdeau’s stubborn face. ‘You can come with me, Pierre.’

  Bourdeau relaxed. Nicolas understood his chief’s concern. What would he discover in that apartment? The fewer witnesses there were, the better it would be for the honour of the King’s councils. Not that the Lieutenant General mistrusted Bourdeau, but he knew that Nicolas was more accustomed to these State secrets, which he was always able to bury deep in his consciousness.

  Tuesday 11 October 1774

  He thanked Old Marie for his care, went back to the duty office to change, and then he and Bourdeau rushed to their carriage.

  ‘How has Eudes Duchamplan been behaving himself?’ asked Nicolas. ‘I’m sure it was him on the barge. I hope he didn’t have the effrontery to deny his identity?’

  ‘He was very indignant, though he didn’t conceal his name. I noted, once he had taken off his make-up, that he was bleeding, and we saw that he had a wound on the left side of his face. I found that interesting.’

  ‘What do you deduce from that?’

  ‘That it was a scar from a recently closed wound that had just been reopened, perhaps deliberately. I thought of your account of the attack on you at Versailles, when Semacgus’s coachman struck the would-be assassin with his whip. That was on the left cheek, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Everything in fact tallies with what you’re telling me. So it was he who shot at me … How did he take it?’

  ‘I was careful not to let him know. Curiously, he claimed, of his own accord, that the wound was the result of his fight with you. He said he’d had no idea why you burst in like that, threatening him, and he’d taken fright.’

  ‘What about the girl? Had he been whispering sweet nothings in her ear?’

  ‘He claimed she was only there for the usual amusements common in that kind of party, and that he’d never met her before!’

  ‘In other words, he’s a gentle soul, who denies everything. He must be confident someone’s going to come to his rescue.’

  ‘As if those who ran off into the darkness with their hands over their faces, looking for their carriages, are going to intercede on his behalf! He has a curiously naive idea of the compassion of men in high places!’

  ‘As soon as possible,’ resumed Nicolas, ‘we’ll have to set up a hearing before Lenoir and the Criminal Lieutenant. There always comes a moment when Monsieur Testard du Lys needs to be, let’s say, “accommodated”. And I’ll wager the Lieutenant General of Police won’t spoil the party. I have an idea of how we can stage it for maximum effect. I’ll have to talk to you about it.’

  ‘This expedition worries me on account of your health …’

  ‘I’m perfectly fine, don’t worry. My head’s a little empty, my stomach’s like cardboard, but my curiosity’s aroused! Old Marie’s cordial would waken a dead man!’

  ‘Rue des Tournelles begins at the Bastille, doesn’t it?’ said Bourdeau.

  ‘Of course! And stretches almost as far as Place Royale, being joined to it by Rue du Pas-de-la-Merle.’

  ‘Your knowledge of the city amazes me! The Bastille and Place Royale! Amusing, even significant. The two Tournelles are connected.’

  ‘That remark is typical of you!’

  ‘I wanted to thank
you,’ said Bourdeau. ‘I wasn’t fooled earlier. I know Monsieur Lenoir was trying to keep me away.’

  ‘Quiet, now. There are times when it’s best not to know too much.’

  Bourdeau smiled and said nothing. Both men felt moved; this exchange had spoken volumes. They continued crossing the nocturnal city. They passed a few late walkers, a few whores standing beside bollards, some dubious-looking men who jumped into the shadows as the carriage passed, watch patrols and a priest carrying the holy sacraments to a dying man. They soon reached Rue des Tournelles.

  ‘The duc,’ said Bourdeau, ‘abandoned his coach in Place Royale. After that, he looked around cautiously before hurrying to his destination.’

  ‘Did he notice anything?’

  ‘Nothing at all! We wouldn’t be here otherwise. Our men stayed with him in relays of three, always one behind the minister, another preceding him, and the last one as relief. He couldn’t have escaped.’

  They positioned themselves in Rue Saint-Gilles, standing a little way back, but with a good view of a tall narrow house in Rue des Tournelles. On the second floor, a weak light could be seen in one window. Shadows were moving behind a curtain.

  ‘He’s still there,’ whispered Bourdeau. ‘And our spies too, I can see them.’

  ‘You have good eyes!’

  ‘They’re the colour of walls,’ said the inspector with a laugh.

  Nicolas looked at his watch. It was nearly two. Bourdeau squeezed his arm. ‘We’ve arrived just in time.’

  A man wrapped in a black cloak, his tricorn pulled down over his eyes, was leaving the house. He hesitated a moment, peering right and left into the darkness, then took up a position under the lantern at the corner of the two streets. He glanced suspiciously at the stationary cab. The stillness of the driver, who was pretending to sleep, seemed to reassure him that the coast was clear. With hurried steps, he turned into Rue des Tournelles.

  ‘There is no doubt he’s going back to Place Royale,’ said Bourdeau. ‘His carriage must be coming to pick him up.’

  ‘I assume we’re going to make sure he returns to the fold?’

  ‘That’s the plan. For the moment, I don’t think you have any other choice than to go in. In the meantime, I’ll watch out for trouble outside the house. Let’s not forget the English threats.’

  The commissioner appreciated his deputy’s sensitivity. It showed that, having implicitly understood Lenoir’s anxiety, Bourdeau was determined to act accordingly and in such a way that his friend should not be constantly aware of it or, if he was aware of it, did not need to talk about it. More than anything, this kind of understanding revealed their complicity, a complicity which had been strengthened over the years by all the many trials they had been through together and had never once faltered.

  Once he had entered the house, Nicolas had to strike a light to find his way. On the second floor, he knocked at the one door lacking a knocker. An anxious voice immediately asked, ‘Is that you, Charles?’

  ‘I am a commissioner of police.’

  The door slowly opened. Lit by the candle she was carrying, a young blonde woman stood there, looking him up and down in alarm. She was bare-headed, and wore a lilac chenille undershirt.

  ‘Oh, my God, something must have happened to Charles. I’m always telling him not to go out at night. Is that it, Monsieur? Don’t try to hide it from me.’

  He entered, and looked around at the apartment. It was small, but furnished in exquisite taste and far more luxurious than might have been expected from the exterior.

  ‘Calm down, Madame. It’s nothing serious, I assure you. I simply need some information about the man who has just left this building.’

  ‘Why, what has he done? Why are you concerned with him?’

  She could not have been much more than twenty, he estimated.

  ‘His movements at such a late hour have attracted our attention.’

  ‘The poor man! Such a good friend, so generous!’

  ‘What does he do and what’s his name?’

  ‘Charles Gobelet. He’s a bailiff at the Châtelet.’

  Nicolas could not help smiling at the profession chosen by the Duc de La Vrillière. ‘And may I ask what he is to you, Madame?’

  She blushed, lowered her head, and murmured in a confidential tone, ‘He’s my friend and the father of my child.’

  Taking him by the sleeve, she drew him into a small white room in the centre of which was a wicker cradle covered in muslin. She pulled aside the fabric and he saw a pretty infant, fast asleep. Without a sound, they went back to the other room.

  ‘How did you meet him?’

  ‘My name is Marie Meunier. I was born in Meaux. A year ago, I lost my mother, who had long been a widow. Having nothing to live on, I came to Paris to ask for charity. Someone must have noticed me, for, soon after my arrival, a very polite man brought me here, and then Charles arrived. He said he wanted to help me. I believed him. Thanks to him, I have found a home and sustenance.’

  ‘And what of the child?’

  She blushed again. ‘Charles convinced me of the sincerity of his affection. I owed him everything. That’s our child, and its father showers us with such care and love you yourself would be moved by it.’

  ‘Madame, I am satisfied with these explanations. There will be no need to bother Monsieur Gobelet. Please don’t mention my visit to him.’

  ‘I shall do as you say, Monsieur. Charles’s peace of mind matters to me more than anything. He seems so worried sometimes.’

  ‘One last question. Why does he keep your house and his visits so secret?’

  ‘Alas, Commissioner, it’s because he has children from a first marriage! They wouldn’t be very happy to find out—’

  ‘I understand. Thank you for that explanation.’

  She walked him to the door. ‘Protect him, Monsieur. He takes so many precautions that sometimes I imagine he must feel threatened.’

  He remembered the Duchesse de La Vrillière’s last plea. All of the duc’s women wanted to protect him.

  ‘We’ll be sure to,’ he said.

  Nicolas rejoined Bourdeau, who was waiting for him downstairs. They walked back to their carriage. After a long silence, which the inspector respected, he recounted his visit, but as if talking to himself.

  ‘So that was it!’ he said in conclusion. ‘The pure side of an impure man.’

  ‘Heavens!’ said Bourdeau. ‘Please stop “Noblecourting”, and put it in plain words.’

  ‘The minister has a secret family: a charming young lady, and a child about a year old. It’s clearly a side of his existence he wants to preserve at all costs. Hence these nocturnal escapes and this desire to keep his double life a complete secret.’

  ‘What a man!’ exclaimed Bourdeau. ‘Who would believe it to look at him? The Beautiful Aglaé, countless other women, responsibilities of State, and what else?’

  ‘As for me,’ replied Nicolas gravely, ‘I have no idea where the truth of the man lies. In his licentiousness or in this garden of innocence preserved as it was before the Fall?’

  ‘Anyone listening to you would think that the more like a devil a man is, the more he aspires to get back to the Garden of Eden.’

  Nicolas laughed and grimaced at the same time. ‘Don’t make me laugh, it pulls on my wound. I’ll only be able to smile for the next few days, although the circumstances hardly lend themselves to much smiling. I’m going to get a few hours’ rest and then we’ll meet again at dawn, at the Châtelet.’

  ‘What are your instructions?’

  ‘Send some men to Rue Christine to collect the contents of the younger Duchamplan’s wardrobe and bring them to me. We’ll also have to get the body of the unfortunate Vitry identified, or at least what’s left of him. It won’t be easy, but I don’t have much doubt it’s him. I’ll go and see Lenoir and Testard du Lys. Not forgetting Sartine, if he’s in Paris. I’ll put together my case, and the day after tomorrow we’ll summon the suspect.’

  ‘W
ho for now is only charged with acts of debauchery on a minor.’

  ‘Not forgetting kidnapping, which, if all goes well, will earn him the whip, the brand, the iron collar and life imprisonment in a house of detention.’

  ‘That’s true, although I fear we can expect a lot of argument and a lot of outside interference from those trying to thwart our procedure.’

  ‘That’s why I think it’s vital that we expedite things as quickly as possible. Like you, I expect the worst.’

  ‘What about Chambonas?’

  ‘I fear he’s untouchable. The Lieutenant General has had proof of his secret activities for a long time now. To implicate him would be the equivalent of untangling a thread that would lead us too close to the throne.’

  ‘Will the time ever come when the law applies to everyone?’

  ‘When the Bourdeaus are in power,’ said Nicolas affectionately.

  Nicolas gave his last instructions concerning the interrogation of the younger Duchamplan and, if need be, other protagonists in the case, as well as some special instructions which he had now had time to think about. He was a little angry with himself at not opening up more to Bourdeau, but he did not like to reveal a plan of campaign which depended to a large extent on his intuition – even though there was a degree of material evidence to corroborate it. It was a kind of superstition in him to keep quiet about his intentions. A detective was like an artist: he did not like to reveal too much all at once.

  In Rue Montmartre, the whole household was asleep; only Mouchette was waiting for her master. She gave some questioning little cries and disapprovingly sniffed the smell of muddy water that he gave off. He decided to remedy this, unable to imagine slipping into his bed in such a filthy state. Hot water was cooling in the kettle on the stove. He undressed, and as he did so, weariness overcame him, and all his pains revived. Catherine, wakened by the noise, found him as naked as the day he was born, trying unsuccessfully to wash himself. She gave a cry when she saw the bloodstained bandage around the middle of his body. She took matters in hand. He was washed, soaped, combed, and rubbed down, and his bandage gently but firmly changed. After sipping a schnapps eggnog flavoured with cinnamon, he went upstairs, exhausted but already feeling his old self, and slipped into his bed for a few hours’ rest.