The Châtelet Apprentice

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  The conversation with Catherine had confirmed what Nicolas already knew about Madame Lardin and her loose morals. According to his servant, the commissioner had been reduced to the undignified roles of deceived husband, penniless gambler and unscrupulous master. However, his character seemed to Nicolas to have quite another and a more disturbing dimension which, in her simplicity, this kind-hearted woman had failed to realise. As to the cryptic phrase found in Lardin’s coat pocket the day before he disappeared, he really had no idea what it could mean.

  Once again Nicolas contemplated the magnitude of his task. His head was still buzzing with Monsieur de Sartine’s words. He suddenly thought about the King, who must also be waiting for news from his Lieutenant General of Police. He had a new awareness of the dramatic background to this whole affair: the war that was still going on, the soldiers on the battlefield in the snow and mud, the heaped-up corpses and the flocks of crows. A shudder ran right through him.

  Nicolas decided to return to Rue des Blancs-Manteaux. He needed to change and to tidy himself up: he had a thick growth of beard and it was time to renew his bandage. He also needed to inform Madame Lardin of the evidence that apparently confirmed her husband’s death. It would be interesting to assess the nature and intensity of the putative widow’s grief.

  He thought about Marie. What had become of her? Would she be there to greet him or had she already gone off to her godmother’s? Nicolas had come to a decision that was both practical and ethical: he could no longer remain at the Lardins’. Being in charge of the investigation left him no choice. It was impossible for him in all conscience to be both their investigator and their lodger. He was already planning to have the area around the house put under watch if Bourdeau, who was always so precise and careful, had not already arranged it. On the other hand he had to have someone to see to his washing and he did not know whether Louise Lardin had found a replacement for Catherine or whether she was now living alone, anxious to rid herself of everyone around her.

  He had been so taken up with these thoughts that he was back in the city before he realised it. The lights were brighter and more numerous. As his carriage neared the Seine it was surrounded by shouting and laughter, and it passed through a group of masked revellers making a hullabaloo. One of them climbed onto the footboard, and with one hand brushed the snow away from the window. In his death’s head mask he then pressed his face up against it, and for several long minutes Nicolas had to endure a confrontation with the Grim Reaper, who had been dogging his every step for the past few days.

  Soon he was back in Rue des Blancs-Manteaux. It looked just as peaceful and deserted as before, except that there was someone huddled in the church doorway. Uncertain who it might be, he pretended not to have noticed anything. It was either a beggar or one of Bourdeau’s spies. The inspector really did think of everything. Beneath that placid appearance he hid a wealth of experience and policing expertise. It could not possibly be someone tailing him, unless his enemy was a mind-reader and had predicted Nicolas’s return.

  Setting aside this mystery for the moment, he put his key in the lock and noticed that it had been changed and that he could no longer get in. He decided to use the knocker, an operation he had to perform several times.

  Eventually the door opened and Louise Lardin appeared, holding a lighted torch and looking surly. She was wearing a ball dress with a loose back, off-white in colour with silver embroidery. The tight-fitting and low-cut bodice revealed her powdered bosom. The skirts of the dress were rounded and extended at the back by an ample train which was raised over the pannier. This allowed the whole petticoat to be visible, as well as two or three layers of enormous flounces. Her face, excessively powdered and made up, was dotted with beauty spots, with cheeks highlighted in bright red and lips painted vermilion. Two large tresses arranged in a loop fell down the nape of her neck onto her shoulders.

  ‘Is it you, Nicolas?’ she said in a shrill voice. ‘I thought you’d disappeared too. Judging by your clothes and appearance, you’ve merely fallen into bad company. Whatever the case, I have decided to ask you to leave this house. Gather up your rags immediately. I’m not in the mood to take in vagrants.’

  ‘This is what I wear for my work, Madame, when the circumstances warrant,’ replied Nicolas. ‘Your judgement is perhaps too hasty. As to your desire to see me off the premises, I’d already made up my mind to leave anyway. It’s quite obvious that I am not welcome here.’

  ‘All you needed to do was to make yourself wanted, Nicolas.’

  The suggestiveness of the remark made the young man blush.

  ‘Let’s end the conversation there, Madame. I’ll leave tomorrow morning; in this weather and at this hour it would be difficult for me to find shelter for the night. But before I go I have some serious matters to discuss with you.’

  She did not move, but remained firmly in the middle of the hallway.

  ‘To reply in kind, Madame, allow me to express my surprise at finding a woman whose husband has disappeared dressed up for a ball.’

  ‘You are very insolent all of a sudden. It so happens that I am indeed wearing a ball gown and that I was about to go out to enjoy myself and have a good time as a woman of my age is entitled to do. Does that satisfy you, lackey?’

  ‘That would no doubt satisfy a lackey but it in no way satisfies a representative of the Lieutenant General of Police.’

  ‘You are getting too big-headed, Monsieur.’

  ‘You, Madame, are becoming very irritable and seem barely interested in the sad matter that brings me here.’

  Louise Lardin straightened herself and adopted a provocative pose, resting both hands on the panniers of her dress in a way that shocked Nicolas. In a flash the veneer of respectability cracked to reveal the harlot who had been so much in demand at La Paulet’s.

  ‘Sad matter? Have you taken it into your head to talk to me about those grisly remains you’ve dug up from the rubbish at Montfaucon? Does that surprise you? I’m better informed than you thought. It’s my husband, isn’t it? What difference do you expect it to make to me? You went grubbing about in the filth and you got your money’s worth. What were you expecting? Did you want me to act the part of the distraught widow? I never loved Lardin, and now I’m rid of him. I’m free, free and I’m off to the ball, Monsieur.’

  Nicolas suddenly found her very attractive in her vivacity, transformed by a kind of pride. She was getting excited, and around her the train of her dress swished through the air with a faint rustle of satin.

  ‘As you please, Madame, but first you will have to answer some questions, which to judge from your reactions so far should not prove too upsetting for you. My task has been made easier and I’ll come straight to the point. I should add that I expect someone as high-minded as you to give me straightforward answers. Otherwise I will regrettably have no alternative but to resort to other means.’

  ‘So be it, Monsieur Apprentice Commissioner … I yield to the threat of force, for fear of torture … But be quick. There are people waiting for me.’

  ‘Last Friday evening you went out. Where did you go and at what time did you come home?’

  ‘Why should I remember any particular day? I don’t keep a record of my activities.’

  ‘I should point out to you, Madame, just to jog your memory, that it was the very evening your husband disappeared.’

  ‘I think I went to vespers.’

  ‘At the church of Blancs-Manteaux?’

  ‘Where else can you go to vespers?’

  ‘At that church or another?’

  ‘Oh, I see that old battleaxe of a cook has been talking to you … I went to the Petit-Saint-Antoine.’

  ‘In a black cape and a mask?’

  ‘And what if I did? A real lady who ventures out after nightfall during Carnival is putting her virtue at risk unless she wears clothes appropriate for the occasion.’

  ‘And this cape was meant to protect you from the snow, was it?’

  She stared at
him and moistened her lips.

  ‘It wasn’t snowing. It was to shelter me from the wind.’

  Nicolas stopped talking. There followed a long silence until Louise Lardin asked in a husky voice:

  ‘Why do you hate me, Nicolas?’

  She drew near him. He was struck by her fragrance, a mingled scent of hair powder, make-up, a hint of irises and something stronger that dominated the rest.

  ‘Madame, I am merely doing my duty, but I would have preferred it to have taken me to a house other than this one, where I have been welcome for so long.’

  ‘Everything can be as before with a little effort on your part. My husband is no more. What can I do about it? What must I do to convince you that I know nothing about the cause of his death?’

  Nicolas did not want to be diverted. He tried another approach.

  ‘They say that the new Dauvergne motet sung that night at the Petit-Saint-Antoine was very beautiful.’3

  She avoided the trap.

  ‘I’ve no taste for music and I don’t know anything about it.’

  ‘What did you do yesterday? Did you stay here?’

  ‘I was with one of my lovers, Monsieur. Yes, I have lovers, as you know full well. What else would you expect of a fallen woman, and a kept one at that?’

  A tiny particle of powder came away from her face and fell onto her bodice. The sincerity in her voice made her seem pitiful.

  ‘Does that satisfy you?’

  ‘I’m grateful to you for your frankness,’ replied Nicolas, blushing slightly. ‘Would you mind telling me the name of this man?’

  ‘To prove I’m being genuine I can tell you that it was Monsieur Mauval, a man who knows what love is and, as you are aware, knows how to punish interferers.’

  Nicolas ignored the insult, but noted the threat. The world suddenly seemed very small to him.

  ‘At what time did he meet you?’

  ‘At midday, and he left me very early this morning. I feel ashamed for you, Monsieur, for subjecting me to this inquisition.’

  ‘I was forgetting, Madame, to express my condolences on the death of your relative.’

  He had risked this glancing reference, hoping to catch his opponent off guard and find the chink in her armour. It was to no avail. Louise Lardin did not appear to know about her cousin Descart’s death.

  ‘A husband forced upon you is not a relative,’ she replied. ‘Besides, this sudden concern of yours does not impress me. On that note, Monsieur, I must leave you, since I can hear the carriage coming to collect me. I hope that by tomorrow morning you will have left my house.’

  ‘One more word, Madame. Where is Mademoiselle Marie?’

  ‘At her godmother’s in Orléans: she has decided to turn her back on the world and become a novice with the Ursuline Sisters.’

  ‘That’s rather a sudden vocation.’

  ‘The Lord moves in mysterious ways.’

  ‘Where was Marie the night the commissioner disappeared?’

  ‘In town, at a friend’s.’

  ‘Madame, who killed your husband?’

  She half-smiled, wrapped herself in a cape with a fur collar and twirled around.

  ‘The streets are dangerous during Carnival. He must have encountered some masked murderer.’

  She went out, slamming the door behind her, without so much as a glance in Nicolas’s direction.

  Nicolas remained rooted to the spot. This duel had drained him and tired him even more. Either Louise Lardin was innocent and her comments merely bore the hallmarks of cynicism and amorality, or she was an actress without equal. He believed also that this desire to provoke and this determination to flaunt her sinfulness were perhaps an attempt to hide something else. How could anyone suspect someone who denounced her own lack of morals in the strongest possible terms? Nicolas was not accustomed to confronting an opponent of this nature. His youth was a drawback and the range of his experience was too limited. He had barely begun his collection of characters. He liked things to be done according to rules and found cynicism disconcerting, the product of a twisted mind. And yet during the past week so much had happened to him, and so quickly. He found Louise Lardin’s remarks offensive, an insult to the rules governing social behaviour. Another idea crossed his mind: perhaps Louise’s attitude was in essence merely the last attempt of a lost soul to avoid falling into deeper degradation, and her sincerity the homage that vice pays to virtue.

  But this was hardly the time to philosophise. Nicolas was alone in the house and he had to take advantage of it. He set aside any scruples he may have had: they were of little consequence compared with the importance of his assignment. In the library someone – the commissioner, Louise or another individual – had cleared out all the papers. Madame Lardin’s bedroom had nothing to offer either. He looked thoughtfully at the rumpled sheets. An empty bottle and two glasses seemed to provide evidence of the antics of two lovers. The shadowy figure on the look-out in Rue des Blancs-Manteaux, if he was indeed one of Bourdeau’s men, would perhaps have some information about the timetable of Mauval and his mistress.

  Nicolas carefully examined the clothes and the shoes and did the same in Marie’s bedroom. There, something surprised him. The young woman’s wardrobe seemed complete. Had she left without any luggage? He compared his sketch of the footmarks found in Vaugirard with a pair of muddy ankle boots. They matched.

  In the end tiredness got the better of him. Nicolas went slowly up to his garret and remembered that the following day he was due to leave the house for ever. He had been neither happy nor unhappy there; his only concern had been to learn and to do well during the months of his apprenticeship. It would take its place amongst his memories and regrets, along with all the other things and people left by the wayside, because life or death or a small inner voice had decided it and there was nothing he could do.

  He collected up his clothes and prepared his portmanteau. As he delved into the pocket of the coat he would be wearing the next day he came across a small piece of paper folded into four. He opened it and first of all saw his forename in the corner of the document, then deciphered the words he already knew:

  Do two make three?

  Enfolded in these arms

  Some seek their solace.

  So, when Nicolas was still in Guérande, Lardin had wanted to leave him this cryptic message. But why? And what did it mean? It was while he was thinking about this that the young man fell asleep, overcome with tiredness.

  Notes – CHAPTER IX

  1. During the ancien régime, people who committed suicide were sometimes tried and even sentenced to be hanged on the gibbet and their family disgraced. Even if this practice had gradually disappeared, traces of it remained in the popular consciousness.

  2. ‘Since you are a great judge, Monseigneur Saint-Yves de la Vérité, listen to me.’

  3. Violinist and composer (1713–1797). he was Superintendent of the Royal Music in 1764 and a member of the French Royal Academy of Music, of which he was three times director.

  X

  TWISTS AND TURNS

  Quippe series vinculorum ita adstricta ut

  Unde nexus inciperet quoque se conderet

  Nec ratione nec uisu perspici posset

  For the set of ropes was so well bound that it was impossible to decide either by reasoning or by looking where the intertwining started and where it was hidden.

  QUINTUS CURTIUS

  Friday 9 February 1761

  Lying on the ground, he felt the sun glow red upon his closed eyelids. After a wild race across the moorland he had tied his horse to the remains of a broken-up boat half buried in the sands. The sound of the surf had made him drowsy. And suddenly the familiar noise had stopped: he had never noticed until then how the ocean’s movement could cease. He needed more air, sat up and opened his eyes, but shut them again immediately, dazzled by the light. A whirlwind of sensations came over him and he found himself in bed, chilled to the bone. The previous night, after the ordeals of the day, h
e had sunk into unconsciousness fully dressed. He had not bothered to close the shutters as he normally did, and a ray of winter sunlight now shone upon his face. He stretched carefully, like an animal, limb by limb. A good night’s sleep had rid him of the pain, leaving in its place a numbness and stiffness reminiscent of the fatigue felt by an out-of-practice rider after a day in the saddle. As he did every morning, he took a deep breath to drive away the fears of the night and felt ready to face a new day.

  Nicolas ached and felt dirty. He was in need of a good bath, but this was easier said than done. After some thought he decided to use the resources available. Catherine used a large wooden, hooped tub for soaking the washing, and that would have to do. He would light the kitchen stove and heat some water. Cheered by this prospect, he went over to the window. In the foreground the garden was a blanket of white on which could be seen the criss-crossing traces of birds and cats. The day was magnificent and cold. Further away, on the roofs of the neighbouring houses, the snow sparkled with glints of blue.

  He finished his packing by gathering up the modest objects he valued so much: a tiny naïve engraving of Saint Anne; his law books; four volumes of the Grand Dictionnaire de police by Delamare; an ancient copy of the Curiosités de Paris by Saugrain the elder in a 1716 edition; a customary of Paris; an old missal that used to belong to Canon Le Floch; the Almanach royal for 1760; two volumes of the reflections of Father Bourdaloue, of the Society of Jesus, concerning various matters of religion and ethics; Le Diable boiteux by his fellow Breton Le Sage, born in Sarzeau, which, like Don Quixote, he had read over and over again throughout his childhood; a broken fan, a gift from Isabelle; and lastly a hunting dagger, given to him by his godfather the marquis on the day he had killed his first boar. He still had bitter memories of how disapproving and outraged people had been that this honour was being bestowed on a foundling of low birth. He had bought an old studded leather trunk second-hand for a modest sum which, together with his portmanteau, was all he would need to move his possessions.