The Châtelet Apprentice

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  Where would he go? He had to find lodgings that were not too expensive. In the meantime he had thought of asking Bourdeau to take him in, but apart from the fact that the inspector lived with his wife and three children in cramped accommodation it seemed to Nicolas rather undignified to call on the help of his deputy. It risked putting him in an awkward position that might jeopardise their good relations, which he valued above everything. Père Grégoire would certainly be happy to welcome him back to Rue de Vaugirard, but the prior of the monastery might refuse; Nicolas’s way of life and the irregular hours his job obliged him to keep did not seem compatible with the routine of a monastery. Of course he could approach Monsieur de Sartine, but his superior preferred to remain aloof from these practical details and Nicolas did not want to risk having to face that ironic look he knew so well. He had to sort things out for himself.

  All of a sudden he remembered an offer made some time ago by his mentor, Monsieur de Noblecourt. The former procurator at the Parlement of Paris, a widower with no children, had been quick to notice how cold Lardin was towards his pupil. On several occasions he had suggested to Nicolas that he share his epicurean solitude by occupying a pleasant bedroom that no one used. At the time Nicolas had turned down the offer because, even if the Lieutenant General of Police had never said it in so many words, he considered himself to be on official business in the house on Rue des Blancs-Manteaux. Regular questioning by Monsieur de Sartine had confirmed this impression. But now the more he thought about it, the more the possibility of calling on Monsieur de Noblecourt’s help seemed a godsend. He was, moreover, truly fond of the kindly and witty old magistrate. Feeling reassured, he decided to have his bath.

  The house was silent and there was nothing to indicate that Louise Lardin had returned. Nicolas relit a candle before venturing into the darkness of the staircase. With the instincts of a sleuth that were becoming second nature to him, he carefully examined the steps, and then the tiled floor in the corridor. No traces of snow or mud were visible. It was clear that no one had entered the house since the previous evening.

  He went into the pantry to prepare for his bath. First he needed to relight the stove. He knew where Catherine kept the kindling and the charcoal needed for this operation. He was immediately overcome by a sweet, cloying smell that pervaded the room. He thought that there must be a dead rat in a corner or under a piece of furniture, poisoned by some of the arsenic bait that the cook regularly put down. His search proved fruitless and he tried to ignore the smell. He blew on the glowing fire, which crackled cheerfully. All that remained was for him to fill the pot from the indoor fountain and wait until the water warmed up.

  The wooden tub was kept in the cellar alongside bottles of wine, jars of grease and a supply of fat and hams – the latter being protected by cloth sacks that Catherine guarded jealously. Nicolas opened the Gothic-arched door onto a stone staircase that led down into the cellar. The room had been part of the original foundations of an earlier building, now no longer standing. Once more the same acrid smell took Nicolas by the throat. He went down the steps and held up his candle: on one of the butcher’s hooks hung a shapeless bulk wrapped in some brown jute material. A pool of congealed blood had spread across the floor beneath it.

  Holding his breath because of the appalling stench, with his heart racing, and knowing all too well what he was about to discover, Nicolas tugged at the sack. It fell onto the floor to reveal a wild boar, half decomposed and hung by its forelegs. Had the beast been left behind by Catherine, or had it been put there since? He knew game had to be hung until it was tender, and in his early childhood he had been haunted by the vision of the waterfowl that the marquis sent to the canon, who was very fond of this strong-tasting meat; their heads had been riddled with worms and Joséphine would wait until their beaks dropped off before she cooked them. However, he had never known this process taken to the stage of putrefaction. On the floor there were many footprints, some of which came to a stop in front of a large wooden frame with bottles arranged along its shelves. He looked at this long and hard. As soon as he’d found the tub he went back upstairs, anxious to escape the confined atmosphere and the stench, and returned to the pantry where the water was beginning to boil.

  Nicolas undressed and glanced towards a large shining copper saucepan, which he had often used as a mirror. He looked a frightening sight with his growth of beard and his body covered with bruises and grazes. He removed his dressings: the wounds to his head and side had healed over well; the apothecary had done a good job. He poured the boiling water into the tub, but the water fountain was now empty. He opened the door leading out into the garden and, shivering with cold, filled a jug with clean snow in order to cool down his bath. He added a little potash,1 which Catherine used for doing the washing, squatted down in the tub and poured water over himself with the ladle. The warmth of the water relieved his aches and pains. He slowly drifted off into a pleasurable state of torpor that gave him an enjoyable moment’s respite.

  As someone who railed so bitterly against the new fashions in cleanliness, his guardian the canon would not have missed the opportunity to criticise this pleasure. The subject, along with the philosophers of the Enlightenment and Diderot’s Encyclopédie, was a source of heated and unending debate between his guardian and his godfather. The canon maintained that nothing intimate could escape God’s notice, and that propriety required that on going to bed you should hide your body from yourself. For him personal care should not involve the use of water and should disregard the body except for the face and hands, the only visible parts. All effort should be concentrated on keeping undergarments clean. The marquis, who delighted in these friendly sparring matches, chortled and in Voltairean vein referred to the unholy smell of clerics of every persuasion. He said that as a form of purgatory he would like to see them immersed in a bath of soapy water. His military career had proved to him the usefulness of what was now known as ‘hygiene’. The marquis even claimed that he had escaped epidemics thanks to this habit. This was why he had encouraged Nicolas to adopt his ways. At the Jesuit school in Vannes the young man had suffered from not being able to satisfy what had become for him a daily necessity.

  He eventually got out of the tub and dried himself carefully. He had the impression of having shed his former self in the bath water. The scabs of his wounds had been softened by the warm water. He decided to sacrifice an old shirt in order to make some lint, a belt to hold in place the dressing for his side and a bandage for his head. He remembered that Catherine kept ointments and medicinal vinegar in a drawer in the sideboard, and sure enough he found there a small phial of ‘Roman liqueur’, with instructions for its use wrapped round it. He washed his wounds with it, redid his dressings and, after shaving, put on fresh clothes. He decided against having something to eat or drink as the smell was still just as persistent and made him feel queasy. He put everything back in place, went upstairs to get his luggage, and after checking that he had not forgotten anything, he left his apprentice’s garret.

  He now needed to find a carriage to transport his belongings. He could leave his luggage in the doorway and go to look for a coachman touting for custom, but that would incur the serious risk of finding nothing there when he came back. And he could not reopen the door once he had shut it, as he did not have the new keys.

  His thoughts then turned to the shadowy figure of the day before. He opened the door and looked out at the portal of the church of Blancs-Manteaux. The man was still there, stamping his feet and clapping his hands. Nicolas motioned to him. He hesitated and looked first one way then the other before crossing the snow-covered street, and Nicolas immediately recognised him as one of the informers used by the police department. He asked him to go to Rue Vieille-du-Temple, near Saint-Anastase hospital, to find him a carriage. Meanwhile he, Nicolas, would keep watch. The man confirmed that Louise Lardin had not returned home.

  A cab soon appeared and the informant got out. Nicolas put his luggage on board and gave the
coachman his mentor’s address in Rue Montmartre, at a place called ‘Pointe Saint-Eustache’ opposite the church of the same name. The magistrate owned the five-storey house and rented out the upper floors, retaining only the main living areas on the first and second floor. The ground floor was shared by a bakery and the servants’ quarters occupied by Marion, the housekeeper, and a footman called Poitevin, who was almost as elderly as his master. Nicolas thought that he might be able to recover the clothes he’d hidden in the half-light of the side chapel of Saint-Eustache, if they had escaped the keen vigilance of the beggars who haunted the building.

  The carriage moved in silence, but for the bells on the horse that tinkled merrily. The city was emerging from the heavy pall of cloud and mist that had covered it for days. Once they reached the market of Les Halles, the throng became more and more dense and the vehicles were almost at a standstill. Eventually the carriage passed Pointe Saint-Eustache and entered Rue Montmartre.

  Nicolas was pleased to see the tall mansion of the former procurator of the Parlement of Paris once again. Pot-bellied and lopsided, it seemed firmly rooted in the Parisian soil. Over the years its side walls had widened and bulged, like those of a beached galleon. The curved line of its balconies with their wrought-iron ornamentation looked like the lips of a giant statue and seemed to be breaking into an enigmatic yet kindly smile. Nicolas felt cheered by the sight; he liked this house. After paying the fare he set down his luggage in the archway of the carriage entrance, where the smell of bread from the neighbouring bakery wafted through the air. He went up to the first floor and knocked on the door. Old Marion’s wrinkled face creased with pleasure when she recognised him.

  ‘Oh! Monsieur Nicolas. How lovely to see you. The master was complaining only yesterday that you’d stopped coming to see him. You know how fond he is of you.’

  ‘Good morning, Marion. I would have come to pay him my respects earlier, if circumstances had not prevented me.’

  A small water spaniel, a frizzy grey ball, shot up like a firework and began to jump around Nicolas, yelping happily.

  ‘Just look how delighted Cyrus is to see you!’ said Marion. ‘He knows exactly who his friends are, and the master’s. I always say that animals have more common sense than we do …’

  A voice could be heard enquiring about the visitor.

  ‘I think the master’s getting impatient. He’s having his hot chocolate in his bedroom, as usual. Follow me. He’s going to be so pleased.’

  Monsieur de Noblecourt’s bedroom was a handsome-looking room, with pale-green panelling set off with gold. It overlooked Rue Montmartre through two glazed doors that opened onto the balcony. The master of the house had often described to his pupil the pleasure he took each morning in daydreaming as he drank his chocolate, dressed in his floral chintz morning gown and wearing a crimson skullcap. From daybreak he would watch the street activities multiply, and cast a philosophical eye over the thousand and one incidents of everyday life. He would drift into a pleasant state of drowsiness, the warmth of the exotic beverage and the particular languid feeling it produced sometimes sending him into a blissful sleep. Cyrus went to and fro between Nicolas and his master, then jumped onto the magistrate’s knees.

  ‘The sun and Nicolas have returned, alleluia!’ exclaimed the old man. ‘My dear child, sit down. Marion, quick, a chair and a cup. Bring us as fast as you can some hot chocolate and some of those soft rolls from my tenant the baker.’

  Beneath the skullcap beamed a chubby face, with surprisingly pale eyes. To the right of his large, ruddy nose was a very noticeable wart, which Nicolas, who had not forgotten his classical education, compared to Cicero’s. His witty, greedy mouth was set between drooping, blotchy jowls and a chin that had once been prominent but was now enfolded in a triple layer of flesh.

  ‘You see how devout I am in my habits, if not in anything else,’ Monsieur de Noblecourt continued. ‘I surrender to old age as it creeps up on me, gradually and gently … Soon I shall no longer move from this chair. I’ll have another one made, an old-fashioned wing chair with a tray, and on casters, why not? I could have it turned into a commode and I’d never get out of it. After all, one year when the winter was extremely harsh Marshal Luxembourg’s wife had a sedan chair brought up to her drawing room to protect her from draughts. I’ll stay where I am and one morning Marion’s ghost – incidentally she is much older than I am – will find me slumped over my cup of chocolate.’

  Nicolas knew his old friend well. All this was mere provocation, intended to make him react, and he would have gone on if necessary until Nicolas did so.

  ‘I find you in very high spirits for someone soon to succumb to gout, Monsieur,’ he replied. ‘Your cup has nothing to fear. Here you go again imitating your friend Monsieur Voltaire – your contemporary unless I’m mistaken – who for the last quarter of a century has been proclaiming that he won’t survive another year and that the combined forces of all his ailments will forthwith snatch him from the admiration of Europe and the veneration of his friends. You are the stuff that centenarians are made of. I should add that you have an obligation to your younger friends. Who will they have to talk to if you desert them? Real gentlemen are too few and far between for us to allow them to disappear.’

  Monsieur de Noblecourt began to clap with delight and Cyrus showed his approval by barking.

  ‘Very well, Monsieur. I give in. You know your audience and how to flatter people. It is in the nature of things for the pupil to one day surpass the master. But I’m an old chatterbox. Nicolas, you owe me some explanation for your sudden disappearance.’ He stroked the spaniel with a still-plump hand. When it had calmed down, the animal rolled over and spread out its paws to reveal its pink belly.

  ‘Monsieur, the death of my guardian required me to return to Brittany. After paying him my last respects, I returned to Paris to a difficult situation. You presumably know about Commissioner Lardin’s disappearance. Monsieur de Sartine has put me in charge of the investigation.’

  After he had expressed how much he shared Nicolas’s grief, the former procurator’s round face and mild-mannered expression suddenly changed. He was wide-eyed and open-mouthed. The discovery that his pupil had advanced so rapidly in his career produced in him a mixture of surprise and disbelief.

  ‘What a piece of news! Monsieur de Sartine’s representative! That’s far more important that Lardin’s disappearance. Lardin was a friend, admittedly, but I preferred to keep him at arm’s length. I even saw him last week.’

  Marion interrupted him firmly by setting down on the card table another pot of chocolate and a cup and saucer in Rouen china, as well as a plate of the famous soft rolls and a pot of jam.

  ‘I see, Nicolas, that you have friends in the right places. I myself am not allowed such fruity delicacies.’

  ‘I should think not!’ exclaimed Marion. ‘You can have some if you help me peel quinces, as Monsieur Nicolas did one day last September. In any case, you’re too greedy.’

  Marion poured out the piping-hot drink and continued her recriminations under her breath. The cups filled with a foaming, light-brown liquid that exuded the warm aroma of chocolate and the subtle hint of cinnamon. Cyrus jumped onto Nicolas’s knees, knowing how kind the young man was towards him. Nicolas, whose hunter instinct was ever alert if unobtrusive, and whose mind was still focused on one thing, waited until Marion had left the room before bringing the conversation around to Lardin.

  ‘On which day did you say you met with him?’

  ‘Last Thursday.’

  ‘So it would appear that you were one of the last people to have seen him.’

  ‘It was only a brief meeting. He seemed extremely gloomy, even more so than usual. You know him. Secretive, spiteful, restless. Not a very likeable person. But a good policeman all the same, and that’s why we got on with each other. Last Thursday he was the same as ever. Still, I felt sorry for him as he left. He seemed distraught out of all proportion.’

  ‘What about
Madame Lardin?’

  Monsieur de Noblecourt seemed lost in contemplation of some delightful apparition.

  ‘The lovely Louise? It’s some time now since I paid her my respects. She’s a tasty morsel, though near on thirty, but I’m too old for that. However, with her it must be said that age doesn’t come into it and whether it’s a lusty young lad or a grisly old man it all goes down the same way, so to speak, provided there’s the sound of silver …’

  He emphasised his words by winking so energetically that his skullcap was disturbed and slipped across his forehead. The old man took a sip of chocolate, wiped his mouth, helped himself to a roll then put it back down with a sigh and leant towards Nicolas. He went on in a whisper:

  ‘I smell a rat, my dear child. I’m not so cut off from society as to be unaware of the rumours circulating about Lardin. Or naïve enough not to have understood Monsieur de Sartine’s motives in lodging you with this diabolical couple, against all reason.’

  He stopped, but Nicolas remained stony-faced.

  ‘Don’t tell me that the Lardin woman hasn’t made advances to you?’

  This time Nicolas turned bright red.

  ‘Well, well,’ said the old man, ‘as much as that? Dear, dear. But I don’t want to know about it. There was a curse on that house. Don’t ask me why, but I felt it coming. I had a feeling Lardin would come to a sad end, either from his secret debauchery or from some all-consuming passion. The coveting of flesh or money, the “leech” as Solomon calls it, is a sign of the times we live in. We want unbounded pleasure. If it were possible to move through walls and delve into the most secret places we would discover the depravity going on there. As an elderly sceptic, an epicurean if ever there was one, I survey the time in which I live and stigmatise its morals after I have punished its crimes.’