The Baker's Blood

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  He opened his little black notebook.

  ‘Firstly, repeated and detailed complaints have been lodged against you for having bought children from their unnatural parents and using them in your trade, and for having corrupted a number of married women.’3

  ‘Am I the only person guilty of that? And in any case these complaints have been withdrawn.’

  ‘Including the one pending, which concerns an important lady, the wife of an officer of the crown?’

  ‘I testified against her.’

  ‘Yes, against your will. We shall see what the Parlement decides. To refresh your memory, you may, according to the royal edict of 1734, be branded, whipped and ridden through the streets on a donkey, with your face turned towards the tail, and a straw hat and signs designating you as the keeper of a brothel.’

  ‘I have never seen such obstinacy as yours, Monsieur. What blackmail! If one can’t trust the police, who can one trust?’

  He had to admire the woman’s audacity. He unfolded a small sheet of paper and began reading.

  ‘You are in a great deal of trouble, Madame. The police have just received …’

  By the time he had finished, she was shaking with fear or anger, it was hard to say which.

  ‘And what have I to do with this gentleman? I don’t even know him.’

  ‘How do you know you don’t know him? Did I mention his name? You pay him to steal certain documents.’

  ‘I assure you I do not. Nobody does my profession more honour than I. I could name you—’

  ‘That’s enough. Inspector, write up the statement. Then take Madame away.’

  ‘To prison?’

  ‘No, better still, to Bicêtre. That’ll loosen her tongue.’

  He had wagered a great deal on the effect that would produce. He had not been mistaken. The veneer cracked all at once.

  ‘Oh, Monsieur, don’t ruin me! Why are you so determined to have me sent to that horrible place, adding infamy to the uncertainty of my state? How could you be so cruel?’

  He had to admire her performance. It mattered little that he had lied to her, he had achieved his goal: she seemed on the point of surrendering.

  ‘Madame, I am perfectly happy to hear what you have to tell me, but rest assured that if you make the slightest attempt to deceive me, you will immediately leave Rue des Deux-Ponts-Saint-Sauveur for a grim destination. I advise you not to prevaricate, and to keep to the truth. Then, and only then, will we see what we can do.’

  ‘Do you admit,’ said Bourdeau in a monotone voice, ‘receiving a suggestion from the police clerk Minaud that for twenty-five louis, he would make sure that a complaint against you went missing?’

  ‘Monsieur, I would never dream of … All right, yes, I admit it.’

  ‘Good! That’s a first step. Did you get that down, Inspector?’

  Bourdeau, who was leaning on the mantelshelf, pretending to write, finished scribbling and continued.

  ‘Secondly, do you admit corrupting married women in your establishment?’

  ‘Certainly not!’

  ‘Falling back into her old ways already,’ said Nicolas. ‘Never mind, we have wider weapons. I read. I am, Madame, the unhappiest of women. My husband is a decrepit old man who does not provide me with any pleasure. Should I continue? Should I remind you of the penalty for this crime?’

  ‘I admit it, I admit it,’ said La Gourdan, aghast.

  ‘Good, we’re making progress. Now, let’s go on to something much more recent. I warn you I shall be even more inflexible in this case. Your answers will be proof of your sincerity and will influence my final decision.’

  ‘Go on, Monsieur,’ murmured La Gourdan in a faint voice. She had sat down and was twisting the ruche of her cuffs.

  ‘Madame, on the night of Sunday 30 April to Monday 1 May, a couple, whose clandestine encounters you allow, spent a few hours in this house. Can you tell me any more about that?’

  He was fishing blindly, as he had once fished for crabs among the rocks of Le Croisic. One day he had got a nasty bite from a conger eel which simply would not let go: he still bore the marks. La Gourdan seemed to calm down. He knew what she was thinking: if that was all this was about, there was nothing wrong with giving in on this point.

  ‘In this house, you know, that kind of encounter is not uncommon.’

  ‘You didn’t seem so sure of that a moment ago.’

  She bit her lips again. ‘We offer a refuge for love. Obviously, we have to be discreet, so—’

  ‘So you can’t go too far. I see. Just tell me about that evening.’

  ‘It was a Sunday night, so there weren’t many customers. But a couple did come, the one you’re talking about, I suppose. A woman in a veil – about thirty-five, I’d say – and a young man in a tricorn, with a mask over his face.’

  ‘Come now, Madame, this was no masked ball. Don’t tell me you open your doors to just anyone. What were their names?’

  ‘A messenger had brought me a note from a Madame Marte.’

  Marte, thought Nicolas. Marte, Montmartre, Rue Montmartre. Madame Mourut had not looked very far for her assumed name.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘on the basis of that name, a room was reserved?’

  ‘The usual terms: a fire lit in the hearth and a midnight supper.’

  ‘The usual terms?’ echoed Bourdeau.

  ‘Yes.’ She seemed taken aback: had she said too much?

  ‘Meaning that these encounters were regular?’

  She sighed. ‘They’d been coming here for about six months.’

  ‘What time did they arrive?’ asked Nicolas.

  ‘On the stroke of nine.’

  ‘And leave?’

  ‘That, I don’t know. We don’t keep an eye on how our customers spend their nights.’

  ‘Let’s go back over the details. They arrived together – stop me if I make a mistake – and they came in through the back door, the secret one used by priests. Did they go up to the second floor?’

  ‘The third.’

  ‘Did either of them come down again?’

  ‘… No.’

  He had noticed the hesitation and leapt on it. ‘Actually, I think the man came down.’

  She was looking at him wild-eyed, on the verge of panic. Bourdeau looked at Nicolas, intrigued.

  ‘How do you know that?’ said La Gourdan.

  ‘The commissioner,’ said the inspector, sententiously, ‘has ways of knowing everything, everywhere and at any time. It’s obvious that you don’t know him. It’s also obvious that you are not being entirely honest and that you are breaking our agreement.’

  ‘No, no. If I did so, it was innocently.’

  Both Bourdeau and Nicolas were starting to enjoy this game of tennis, in which the advantage was always theirs.

  ‘All right! About eleven, the couple rang for another bottle. The maid didn’t go up, either because the bell pull was broken, or because she didn’t hear. So the young man came down to the ground floor.’

  ‘Did he meet anyone there apart from the maid?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you that. Anything’s possible. There’s so much coming and going in this house …’

  ‘Lots of ins and outs, I imagine,’ said Bourdeau, completely deadpan.

  ‘Might he have met your other customers?’

  ‘He may well have seen some of my regulars …’

  ‘Even though you said that Sunday isn’t a very busy night.’

  ‘That’s right. But there are always officers up from the provinces, couples …’

  ‘Meetings?’

  ‘Threesomes and foursomes, quite often.’

  ‘That’s not the kind of meeting I’m talking about. I fear, Madame, that my goodwill is fading, thanks to your reluctance to be honest. What do you think, Inspector?’

  ‘I think a dungeon might—’

  ‘Gentlemen, please don’t take advantage of a poor woman!’

  ‘Then let’s have done with this,’ said Nicolas. ‘Someone a
s shrewd as you should have realised by now that we already know a lot, and that what we expect from you is confirmation and details. Was there, yes or no, a meeting in your house on Sunday night? What kind of meeting was it and do you know the names of those who attended?’

  La Gourdan’s reaction betrayed her surprise at how much the two policemen knew about the activities of her house.

  ‘Commissioner, this place sometimes serves as a meeting place for those who wish to gather discreetly. Such was the case, I admit, on Sunday night. An unliveried footman warns me a week in advance. There are a dozen guests. A very mixed group: courtiers, a priest, merchants …’

  ‘What kind of merchants?’

  ‘Grain merchants, from what I gather.’

  ‘Could one of them have seen the young man in question on Sunday night?’

  ‘I really don’t know … anything’s possible.’

  ‘Do you know the names of those who meet?’

  ‘No, none of them.’

  ‘They should appear on the nightly report you submit to Inspector Marais. What conclusion are we to draw from this omission?’

  ‘Actually, I did find a piece of paper on the floor of the room where they’d just held their meeting. It must have fallen from someone’s pocket. It was all yellow, some kind of old prospectus. There was an address on it: Monsieur Hénéfiance, seed merchant, Aux Armes de Cérès, Rue du Poirier.’

  ‘Better still! Did you keep it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s a pity. Let’s try and get a better idea of the timetable that evening. At what hour did the meeting start?’

  ‘About half past ten.’

  ‘And finish?’

  ‘Just after midnight.’

  ‘I’d like to speak to your maid.’

  ‘Gentlemen, there’s no need to involve—’

  An icy glare from the commissioner quickly cut short this attempt at resistance. La Gourdan rang, and the girl who had admitted them entered.

  ‘On Sunday night,’ said Bourdeau, ingratiatingly, ‘did you show a couple to the room on the third floor?’

  She looked at La Gourdan, who raised her eyes to heaven then signalled to her to answer.

  ‘Yes. A lady in a closed mantle with a hood and a young man in a mask – pale as a wigmaker, he was.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I saw him in breeches when he came down half dressed to look for a bottle. The lady must have drained him dry.’

  She was surprised that her attempt at humour fell flat.

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t say for certain, but it was after midnight. I can’t forget the scene. Those gentlemen were coming out. When he saw one in particular, the young man gave a start and ran back upstairs as if he’d seen the devil.’

  She made the sign of the cross.

  ‘Would you be able to recognise that gentleman?’

  ‘Yes, yes, he was next to a torch. He was wearing a nice dark-red coat. Because he had the light in his eyes, he didn’t notice a thing.’

  ‘If that’s so, then I’m afraid, Madame, that we’re going to deprive you of … of …?’

  ‘Colette,’ said the maid.

  ‘… Colette, for a couple of hours. She’s a crucial witness in a criminal case.’

  ‘Monsieur!’

  ‘We thank you for your help, so willingly given. It goes without saying that we shan’t forget this favour. And you shouldn’t forget Monsieur Minaud. I’m sure the Lieutenant General would appreciate anything you could tell him on that subject!’

  They went back to their carriage, which, having made a great detour, was now going up and down the street, the coachman not knowing outside which house to wait for them. They got back to the Grand Châtelet without mishap. There, in the Basse-Geôle, Colette recognised the corpse she was shown as the man from the meeting, let out a scream and fainted. Once again, Old Marie’s cordial proved its efficacy.

  Notes

  1. See The Châtelet Apprentice.

  2. The good lady of Choisy: Madame de Pompadour.

  3. Married women: anything concerning the sacred institution of marriage was considered extremely serious.

  VIII

  APPEARANCES

  All that follow their noses are led by their eyes

  but blind men; and there’s not a nose among twenty

  but can smell him that’s stinking.

  SHAKESPEARE

  In the inspectors’ office, Nicolas was absent-mindedly leafing through the duty register, which recorded the events of the day as reported by the commissioners, spies and guard posts throughout Paris. Whenever a detail or a name caught his attention, he knitted his brows. Suddenly, he slammed the volume shut, making Bourdeau, who had been calmly smoking his pipe, jump in surprise.

  ‘There’s no point in waiting, we’ve waited long enough! Rabouine tells us the worst has passed. That’s always the case: the tide recedes just when you finally decide to contain it!’

  ‘It’s because Turgot, having returned from Versailles, seems to have taken matters in hand. Our men have been sent out to arrest the insurgents.’

  ‘Doubtless with the usual caution: to refrain from overt force in order to avoid violent reactions.’

  ‘On the quiet, as usual! The spies locate the suspects, and they’re arrested either when they separate or when they arrive home! The latest news is that mounted musketeers have been told to clear the streets and disperse what’s left of the crowd. The comptroller general didn’t have an easy task: the Maréchal de Biron, captain of the guards, wouldn’t hear of it. He actually had to be shown orders in the King’s handwriting before he would admit that he was wrong!’

  Nicolas had already stopped listening, his mind elsewhere. He was wondering, without telling the inspector, where the Chevalier de Lastire, whom Sartine had so offhandedly imposed on him, could possibly be. Had the disturbances made it hard for him to show his face? Or was he following them closely, his mission being to report on them? The man himself had been quite sceptical about the possibility of unrest. This brief reflection led to another, more intriguing one. The presumed murder he was trying to clear up appeared linked in some mysterious way to events in the kingdom, and yet everything seemed to point to the fact that these same events had been long planned. He stood up.

  ‘Pierre, I’m going straight to Rue du Poirier to find out about Hénéfiance. I need to set my mind at rest. I’m convinced that our case has some kind of connection with the meetings at La Gourdan’s brothel. I want to drive this Hénéfiance into a corner before all these people go to ground. It will give me a better idea of what we’re looking for. In the meantime, find out about Mourut’s notary. Remember what La Babine said. We’ll meet back here. Whoever’s first will wait for the other.’

  The commissioner’s carriage took a roundabout route to get to Rue du Poirier. Leaving the Grand Châtelet, it went along Rue Saint-Jacques-la-Boucherie and Rue des Arcis as far as Rue du Cloître Saint-Merry. This stretch of the journey allowed him to observe that pockets of unrest remained here and there, but that the conflagration was now sporadic. The police were out in the open now, reinforced by the musketeers. The city nevertheless bore the scars of the mob’s anger: many shops, and not only bakeries, had had their windows and doors smashed in. There had clearly been a lot of looting, made all the easier by the incompetence of the authorities.

  They turned into Rue Taillepain, then Rue Brisemiche, and finally came out into Rue du Poirier. It was a narrow, muddy, foul-smelling street, which had clearly not changed in centuries. Sartine, a great expert on Paris, had once explained to him why so many of these streets had names connected with bread: it was an allusion to the former bakery in the Saint-Merry cloister and the loaves made there for the canons. It had also long been known as a place of ill repute, a place where you could find the lowest class of prostitutes, decrepit streetwalkers, many just out of prison, who haunted the alleys and tollgates. Getting out of his carriage, he took a
few steps and looked curiously at the old, half-timbered buildings, which reminded him of the houses in Auray, back home in Brittany. You could still see the hook from which the iron chain that had closed off the street several centuries earlier had once hung.

  An unpleasantly musty smell seized him by the throat. A few steps away, he saw a strange construction, a kind of large box made out of rough-hewn old planks with a sloping roof nailed to it. The whole thing was leaning back against a blind wall and was supported on the right by the gnarled trunk of a Virginia creeper whose still bare branches rose into the sky. On the roof of this intriguing edifice, an old, hairless dog lay asleep, its head on a big flat stone that confirmed how solid the construction was. There was an awning at the front, articulated so that it could snap shut like a trap. Sitting on an old sheepskin was an elderly legless cripple bent over his task. Behind him hung garlands of old shoes, indicating that he was a cobbler. Nicolas approached him politely.

  ‘Good evening, friend! With all the disturbance there’s been today, your street’s really quiet.’

  The man looked him up and down, as if assessing what he might expect from this fine figure. The examination must have been conclusive because, after spitting out the tacks he had in his mouth, he gave Nicolas a toothless smile.

  ‘That’s because there’s nothing to loot in this poor street. Those loudmouths I saw passing this morning have to learn to be patient. I swear, on my plank and my stool, that all this is just birdseed for simpletons and that they won’t be any better off in the long run. But here I am, chatting away, instead of getting on with my work. Name’s Jacques Nivernais, at your service. If your shoes are damaged, which doesn’t seem to be the case here, I’m the man to mend them.’

  He seized a low-fronted shoe and made ready to polish the heel with a piece of wood.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Nicolas.

  ‘A nice hard, smooth piece of boxwood I rub over and over the leather of the heel to make it shiny. You have to rub it in hard, a shoe like this doesn’t change all by itself!’