The Phantom of Rue Royale (7 page)

At last the commissioner spoke. ‘There’s one thing that puzzles me,’ he said. ‘Why did the young woman lace up her corset so tightly?’

Nicolas whistled for a cab. They had to get back to Place Louis XV, more specifically to the place where the corpses had been gathered together, to find a grief-stricken family searching for a young girl – or young woman, although the corpse lying in its sack at the Basse-Geôle bore no ring.

Their carriage reached Rue Saint-Honoré by way of the
quais
and the cesspools of Rue du Petit-Bourbon and Rue des Poulies, which ran alongside the old Louvre. Nicolas looked out at these foul clusters of hovels, so close to the palaces of the kings and so conducive to every sickness of body and mind.

The western end of Rue Saint-Honoré consisted of a long row of shops selling fashion, shops which dictated style in the city. At the beginning of each season, the master artisans of this luxury trade dispatched porcelain dummies all the way to distant Muscovy in the north and to the very interior of the Grand Turk’s seraglio in the south. These dummies bore the latest wigs and were carefully dressed in the season’s novelties. The other half of the street, towards La Halle, was given over to more down-
to-earth
pleasures, such as the Hôtel d’Aligre, a celebrated temple of delicacies, which had been open for a year, its window filled with hams and
andouilles
. One evening, Bourdeau had given him a fashionable new
ragout
to taste:
choucroute
from Strasbourg. This dish, which was now much in demand, had won acclaim from the Faculty, which had declared it ‘refreshing, a cure for scurvy, producing a refined, milky liquid that makes the blood bright red and temperate’. The establishment’s trout
au bleu
came directly from Geneva in their own
court-bouillon
, and rumour had it – a rumour confirmed by Monsieur de la Borde – that the King himself sometimes delayed his dinner if this special delivery was late in arriving at Versailles.

Already the wet slate roofs of the Capuchin monastery near the Orangerie flashed grey on their left. The fiacre turned into Rue de Chevilly, then briefly into Rue de Suresnes, and at last neared the cemetery belonging to the parish of La Madeleine. Here, it slowed down, blocked by a dense, silent, grim-looking crowd, which was itself barred from the parish and its dependencies by a cordon of French Guards. Nicolas banged with his fist on the front of the box to stop the vehicle and stepped out. A man in a magistrate’s black robe, whom he recognised as Monsieur Mutel, Commissioner of the Palais-Royal district, came forward and shook his hand. The two men with him bowed. One was Monsieur Puissant, the police official responsible for performances and lighting, and the other was his deputy, Monsieur Hochet de la Terrie. Both were old acquaintances.

‘My dear colleague,’ Mutel said. ‘These gentlemen and I have been organising the identification of the bodies. There’s so little space that, if we let it, the crowd would come rushing in and we’d
have a new disaster on our hands. I assume Monsieur de Sartine has sent you to help us?’

‘Not exactly, although we are at your disposal. We’re here to carry out a preliminary investigation following a suspicious death noted last night. We need to consult … I assume you have lists?’

‘We have three. A list of bodies having means of identification on them, a second list of those already identified by their nearest and dearest and a final list with descriptions of missing persons to help our assistants try to find the relative or friend in question. But the faces are often terribly disfigured, which makes it quite difficult to recognise anyone. What’s more, there’s a storm brewing and we won’t be able to preserve the bodies for too long … Even the Basse-Geôle couldn’t contain them all!’

The commissioner came closer to Nicolas and, in a low voice, enquired after Monsieur de Sartine’s state of health.

‘Well, you know him, my dear fellow,
simplicitas ac modestiae imagine in altitudinem conditus studiumque litterarum at amorem carminum simulans, quo uelaret animium
.
1
But without touching his wigs …’

Both men were fond of the classics, and occasionally, when they needed to be discreet, they enjoyed conversing with the help of Latin quotations.

‘
Bene
, that’s certainly an interesting symptom! I’m reassured, though. This is a grave crisis, but he’ll get through it. The truth will out, and sooner rather than later. We just have to let the stupid and the envious stew in their own juice!’ He winked. ‘Don’t worry, anything I find out about last night’s incompetence I’ll pass on to you.’

Nicolas smiled and made an evasive gesture with his hand. His
brilliant entry into the corps of commissioners at the Châtelet in 1761 had impressed his colleagues. By now, most had learnt to appreciate him for his particular qualities and readily opened their hearts to him about their problems, confident that he would be able to bring pressure to bear on the Lieutenant General. Without exaggerating his natural charm, Nicolas had been able to honour some of the older veterans with his services.

The registers had been laid out in the church. All around them rose the cries and weeping of the families. They shared the task among themselves. After a moment, the inspector pointed out a line to him.

‘… a frail young girl,’ Nicolas read aloud, ‘in a pale yellow satin dress, fair hair, blue eyes, aged nineteen …’

He questioned the police officer who was keeping the register.

‘This entry is at the end. It can’t have been long since these particulars were given. Do you remember the person who gave them?’

‘Yes, Commissioner, it was only a quarter of an hour ago. A gentleman of about forty, accompanied by a young man. He was looking for his niece. He seemed in a very emotional state and gave me a seal from his shop so that we could reach him in case we found the girl.’

He noted the number of the entry and looked through a cardboard box in which various papers were being stored. ‘Let’s see … number seventy-three … Here we are!’ He took out a leaflet. ‘At the sign of the Deux Castors, Rue Saint-Honoré, Paris, opposite the Opéra. Charles Galaine, furrier, manufacturer and purveyor of furs, muffs and coats.’ The girl’s name was apparently Élodie Galaine.

The decorative seal showed two beavers facing each other. Their tails framed an engraving representing a man in a fur coat and hat reaching out his hands towards a fire. The commissioner wrote down the address in pencil in his little black notebook.

‘Let’s not waste time,’ he said. ‘We’ll go straight there.’

As they were getting back into their carriage, Tirepot appeared and held Nicolas back by a button of his coat.

‘Here’s what I can tell you. The City Guards were having a merry time of it last night. They happily got through a lot of bottles in the taverns round about, celebrating their new uniforms. They went to lots of different places, but in particular to the Dauphin Couronné. La Paulet will be able to tell you more. She asked me to tell you and Monsieur Bourdeau that she waited for you, that your food got spoilt, but that she realised what was happening. She went on and on about a piece of news she said was sure to please you. She’s expecting you tonight at about ten; it’ll be worth your while …’

Nicolas was once more about to climb into the carriage when Tirepot again detained him.

‘Not so fast! Have a look at what they’ve been hiring people to distribute. The city lot are behind this. I heard from a proofreader who was using my convenience that it was produced in a
workshop
that prints adjudication announcements for the aldermen. Sorry about the state of it!’

He handed the commissioner a stained poster. Nicolas threw him a coin, which he made as if to refuse, while seizing it in
mid-air
. The lampoon was crude and obscene. Its target was Monsieur de Sartine and beyond him, the First Minister, Choiseul. They certainly were not losing any time at the Hôtel de Ville, thought
Nicolas. As a loyal subject of the King and a magistrate, he was shocked by these accusations. Not that he wasn’t used to such hate-filled writings: he had been hunting them down for ten years, under two royal mistresses. He kept seizing them and destroying them in disgust, but the hydra possessed a hundred heads and was constantly reborn.

Their carriage set off and again went through the cordon of French Guards. Nicolas had the coachman ask an officer for permission to go along Rue Royale. The cab slowly moved those few hundred fateful yards. Nothing remained of the previous night’s tragedy except for scraps of clothing and scattered shoes, which would soon provide a harvest for the second-hand clothes dealers. The rain that had fallen during the storm was gradually erasing the brown stains on the ground. In the crude afternoon light, the immediate causes of the tragedy were like so many accusing witnesses: trenches, blocks of stone, the unfinished street. Place Louis XV was emerging from the disaster, and teams had already started to clear the remains of the structure from which the fireworks had been launched. The ambassadors’ mansion and the Garde-Meuble stood resplendent in all their hieratic solemnity. The wind was chasing away the last miasmas of the night. Tomorrow, everything would be back to normal, as if nothing had happened. And yet Nicolas could still hear the cries of agony. As they went past the Garde-Meuble and along Passage de l’Orangerie to Rue Saint-Honoré, he thought with anguish of how the evening’s merriment had turned sour. Before long, their carriage stopped near the corner of Rue de Valois, outside a fine-looking shop with the sign of the Deux Castors. The window, in its frame of carved wood, displayed scenes of
trappers and savages hunting animals native to the various continents. The glass was protected by a grille with gilded points in the shape of pine cones. Through it, in the gloom of the shop, a number of stuffed animals could be seen. Nicolas pointed out some naked dummies to Bourdeau.

‘At the end of spring, the hides and garments are taken down into cool cellars fumigated with herbs to protect them from insects.’

‘You’re very knowledgeable about these things. Some lovely lady, I suppose …’

‘And you’re very nosy …’

A small bell tinkled as he opened the door. They were struck by a strong smell, which reminded Nicolas of a certain wardrobe in the Château de Ranreuil in which, as a child, he had often played, burying his face in the fur clothes that belonged to his godfather, the marquis. A brown-haired woman stood by the light oak counter. She was still young, wore a grey taffeta dress with large lace oversleeves, and was studying a piece of paper with a stern expression on her face. She lifted her head – Nicolas admired her pale complexion – and looked angrily at a young girl, little more than a child, in a maid’s cap and apron, who was shrinking into herself, her head lowered like someone caught in the act. The girl had an angular, unprepossessing face and the mulish expression of a small, hunted animal. The two men approached in silence.

‘Miette, my girl, either someone stole it from you or you stole it yourself.’

‘But, Madame …’ the girl moaned.

‘Quiet, you hussy, you’re getting on my nerves!’

While the maid fiddled with a corner of her apron, the woman’s eyes came to rest on the girl’s feet.

‘Where have you been? Look at your shoes … Your face is dirty, your clothes are a mess! Who would think, in a respectable house –’ Suddenly she noticed Nicolas. ‘Get out of my sight, you wicked girl! Gentlemen, to what do I owe your visit? We have some wonderful bargains at this time of year. Hats, pelisses, cloaks, muffs. Buy now for the autumn. Or else, for your lady, a fresh consignment of sables just in from the North. I’ll call my husband, Monsieur Galaine – he can tell you everything you need to know about his hides.’

The woman disappeared through a side door with bevelled glass panels.

‘There’s someone who’s not too worried about her niece!’ Bourdeau muttered.

‘Let’s not jump to conclusions,’ said Nicolas in a conciliatory tone. ‘We’re still not sure who the unknown girl is. The lady simply has a good head for business.’ He always guarded against first impressions, even though experience told him they were often accurate.

The lady in question reappeared and invited them into a kind of office. Behind a wooden table, covered in samples of hides, were two men. Both seemed on their guard. The older of the two was sitting with his arms folded. The other stood leaning with one hand on the back of the armchair. Nicolas, alert as ever to fleeting impressions, detected a smell he knew well, the kind given off by an animal at bay or a suspect during inter rogation. This smell, imperceptible to anyone other than him, was
superimposed
on the acrid stench of furs pervading the shop. There
was something about the two men that did not suggest honest merchants getting ready to vaunt the quality of their
merchandise
. The older of the two was the first to speak.

‘You gentlemen no doubt wish to take advantage of our bargains? I have some articles here which might interest—’

Nicolas interrupted him: ‘Are you Charles Galaine the furrier? Did you go to La Madeleine cemetery this morning and leave a description of your niece, Élodie Galaine, aged nineteen?’

He saw the man’s hand tighten so much that it turned white. ‘That’s correct, Monsieur …?’

‘Nicolas Le Floch, commissioner at the Châtelet. This is my deputy, Inspector Bourdeau.’

‘Do you have news of my niece?’

‘I’m sorry to have to inform you that I myself found a body answering the description you gave to a police officer at La Madeleine cemetery. It would therefore be advisable, Monsieur, if you could come with me to the Grand Châtelet to help identify the body in question. The sooner, the better.’

‘My God! How is it possible? But why to the Grand Châtelet?’

‘There were so many victims that some have been transported to the Basse-Geôle.’

The younger man bowed his head. He looked like his father but with softer features; small, deep-set blue eyes; a broad nose and light chestnut hair. He was biting the inside of his cheek. His father, whose features were more virile, showed no particular emotion, apart from two beads of sweat at his temples, just below his wig. They were both wearing light-brown coats.