The Saint-Florentin Murders

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  ‘Did you see the shoes?’ Bourdeau went on. ‘Not a trace of blood. Nothing. Clean and polished.’

  ‘Perhaps he cleaned them, we’ll have to ask him.’

  Nicolas wrote something in his little black notebook, then asked Bourdeau what time it was.

  ‘That’s what I thought, it’s getting late. But it’s vital that we hear all the testimonies today. Let’s divide up the task. I’ll question the Swiss Guard and you have a word with the caretaker. Then we’ll meet again and see what we’ve come up with.’

  *

  They again found the valet waiting for them in the shadows of the corridor. Once more, the thought crossed Nicolas’s mind that the valet had not left them for a single second. Was he simply being diligent, to the point of obsequiousness, or had someone told him to keep an eye on everything they did? He led them into a new maze of corridors. They went past the linen room and came to some adjoining quarters. Provence pointed out to Bourdeau the entrance to the caretaker’s lodge, then, taking another staircase, he led the commissioner to the Swiss Guard’s sentry box on the ground floor below, at the corner of the left facade, near the gate. The man, who was tall and stooped, had taken off his wig, and his cranium gleamed in the candlelight. He immediately put his wig back on. He was truly monumental. Nicolas recalled that the largest houses in the city specifically sought out such giants to fill this kind of office. This one was so tall that the commissioner had to look up at him.

  ‘You know who I am, you welcomed me earlier. What is your name and how old are you?’

  ‘Pierre Miquete, about forty.’ He did not wait for the questions. ‘This is what I can tell you. There was a loud cry from the courtyard. I should tell you that the window of my bedroom looks out on the gate. I was eating my morning soup. I should tell you that I put in leftover dry bread, which the kitchen boy passes to me. It’s better in soup. So, yes, the cry … I went running. There was Jacques, doing the same. Yes, I should tell you his name is Jacques, like the caretaker. Everyone was crying, “Murder! Murder!”’

  ‘Everyone?’

  ‘Provence, Eugénie, the caretaker and Jacques.’

  ‘Was it light?’

  ‘I don’t remember. The emotion, you know. Seems to me …’

  ‘Did you see the bodies?’

  ‘Certainly not! The slightest drop of blood makes me faint.’

  Nicolas risked something that sometimes worked. ‘Were you in love with her?’

  The response was rapid, but not what he had expected. ‘With that girl? Of course not. I should tell you, Commissioner, that I’ve accumulated a certain amount since I’ve been in Monseigneur’s service. I need something a bit more substantial than a little streetwalker. But the other one doesn’t want me. And they all warmed his bed, her like all the rest. I could weep, I’m that besotted, but she doesn’t want to know anything about me.’

  ‘Who are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m talking about Eugénie burning the midnight oil with Missery, but now that he’s abandoned her, she still won’t look at me.’

  Good Lord! thought Nicolas. But he asked only, ‘And where were you last night?’

  ‘In my room.’

  Nicolas went back to his study on the mezzanine. He wondered if he should respond immediately to the minister’s wish to be informed of the initial results of the investigation. Nothing that he could tell him seemed likely to arouse his interest. Should he bother him with a host of bizarre details and vague, contradictory testimonies? Unlike Monsieur de Sartine, the Duc de La Vrillière had little taste for the nitty-gritty of police work: he needed something to get his teeth into. It would be better to hold off for the moment.

  Nicolas sat staring at the fire. His mind flew back to the limbo of his childhood, and he saw himself at Guérande, watching rapt as the logs collapsed in a cloud of sparks. Night was falling by the time he returned to reality. This mansion oozed dissimulation and hatred: it was an impression that gripped him like a feeling of suffocation. All the elements had been in place for a tragedy. All the witnesses might have had reasons to hate the victim, but all of them were equally falling over each other to disparage the major-domo. It still remained to be established that the solution did indeed lie within the walls of the Saint-Florentin mansion. What was the role of that mysterious stranger whose bloody footprints had guided him as far as the balcony? Of course, that could have been an attempt to divert suspicion from the inhabitants of the house and to lead the investigators along a false path. He reflected for a long time. When Bourdeau entered the room, now dimly lit by the last gleams of the dying fire, he found him with his chin in his hand and his eyes staring into space.

  ‘Good hunting, Pierre?’

  ‘The caretaker, Jacques Blain, twenty-eight years old, well built, a bit of a lady killer, was mad about the chambermaid,’ declared Bourdeau. ‘Didn’t see a thing. Just went to fetch the doctor from Rue Saint-Honoré. He hates Missery, in fact he hates the whole household. This mansion is a real cesspool of wickedness!’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘What else? A stew made with three rabbits, for one man. I saw the skins hanging in his window. He did me the honour of letting me try it.’

  ‘Did you like the seasoning?’

  ‘The sauce was a little thin. It didn’t even cover the meat.’

  ‘And what conclusion do you draw from that?’

  ‘Where I come from, we mix the blood with vinegar to thicken the stew at the last moment and give the sauce more taste. The fact remains, three rabbits are a lot for one man. He even wanted to give me a second helping.’

  ‘Does the mansion have a rabbit hutch?’

  ‘Yes, in the inner courtyard.’

  ‘We’ll have a look. Any other discoveries?’

  ‘You saw me taking some objects from the major-domo’s chest of drawers. Here they are.’

  The inspector had placed two boxes on a pedestal table. Nicolas leaned over them.

  ‘Well, well! Some Sultana’s Aphrodisiac and some pastilles of cantharides. Does Monsieur Missery have a few problems performing?’

  ‘And that’s not all,’ said Bourdeau. ‘In Marguerite’s room, I found, hidden at the back of a cupboard, whole sacks full of pieces of candle. There has indeed been trafficking, but she was the culprit!’

  ‘Three rabbits for a single man, a Don Juan who needs chemical help, and as much wax as you could wish! The plot thickens, and so does our investigation.’

  IV

  CONFUSION

  Ab hoc cadavere quidquam mihi opis expetebam?

  From this corpse left without burial, what resources could I draw?

  CICERO

  Sitting at a small pedestal table in Monsieur de Noblecourt’s bedroom, Nicolas was just making a start on his third slice of Mainz ham. He poured himself another glass of light red wine. On his return, late in the evening, Catherine had put together this robust midnight supper and brought everything up to the bedroom. The master of the house, who had been about to go to bed and was alerted by his dog, Cyrus, of Nicolas’s arrival, had rung down to make sure the commissioner was informed that he wished to speak to him. At his age you didn’t need much sleep, either because your aches and pains kept you awake or because your happy or bitter memories of a long life led you into a half-dozing state of reverie. He took particular pleasure in these evening meetings in the course of which Nicolas would confide in him, taking careful note of his ever-sensible remarks. The magistrate’s existence was now confined to his house, apart from a few ceremonial visits, his daily walk as prescribed by Tronchin, his doctor from Geneva, and the few special evenings when the splendours of his table were lavished on those close to him. Having devoured the ham, Nicolas next tackled a dish of orange and almond pastries all shiny with icing sugar. Two lustful pairs of eyes converged on this marvel: one belonged to the host, his mouth greedily half open, and the other to Mouchette, the cat sitting on his lap. From her difficult early days, the poor animal had retained an insatiable a
ppetite which nothing could discourage and which extended to dishes not usually much appreciated by the feline species. Cyrus, ever the teacher, would watch over his young friend, always ready to instruct her, firmly but gently, in good manners. The old dog was indebted to her: his new responsibilities as the elder partner, wise in the ways of the house, had rejuvenated him. Monsieur de Noblecourt shook himself and adjusted his nightcap, as if wanting to break the spell the food and wine had cast on him. He delicately served himself a drop of amber-coloured herb tea from a small but thick Chinese porcelain teapot filled with hot water and maintained at the ideal temperature.

  ‘Alas,’ he sighed, tasting the beverage, ‘here I am, reduced to the great King’s diet! A compote of prunes and a sage tea. Fagon himself would not object.’1

  ‘I assume your lunch and dinner are more abundant,’ remarked Nicolas.

  ‘Of course, but farewell the wonderful excesses I once enjoyed! One day, you’ll see what it costs to restrain oneself.’

  ‘Go on, complain! The world passes over you, leaving few traces. If you don’t yield to temptations, you’ll remain a young man.’

  ‘That’s enough, you flatterer. You’d do better to tell me about your day. But before that, let me tell you the latest news. A friend of mine, who came to lunch …’

  ‘So you lunched in style?’

  ‘I nibbled,’ said Noblecourt with a laugh, ‘and so did he. This friend of mine, as I was saying, who is well informed about the gossip at Versailles, not to mention what is said in the ministries of foreign courts, thinks – and this will interest you – that the Queen was not very happy that Monsieur de Sartine was chosen as Minister for the Navy. She’s protecting him out of consideration for Choiseul, whose friend he was. She would have preferred him to succeed the Duc de La Vrillière as Minister of the King’s Household. She was sorry to see that they had placed the former Lieutenant General of Police in a department so unsuited to his talents.’

  ‘The Duc de La Vrillière does not appear to have fallen out of favour,’ observed Nicolas. ‘They say that the King is not on speaking terms with him because of his very existence, but Maurepas is his brother-in-law. And as for Sartine, his talents suit him for any kind of position, however distant from those fields he particularly favours.’

  ‘Of course!’ Monsieur de Noblecourt agreed. ‘Secundo, the mood of Mesdames, and especially of Madame Adélaïde, has become increasingly bitter as their influence has lessened. The Queen is said to have developed a certain bias against them, from which she will not depart. If they behave themselves, fine, but she won’t tolerate any excessive pretensions, and the kind of conceit they’re occasionally prone to will be repressed.’

  ‘Mesdames have aged badly,’ remarked Nicolas.

  He remembered with nostalgia the radiant horsewoman in her hunting costume … Fourteen years had gone by since his first encounter with Madame Adélaïde in the course of a lively jaunt.

  ‘Tertio,’ Monsieur de Noblecourt went on, ‘there’s every indication that the Queen will act in the same way towards her brothers-in-law. Monsieur – reserved, cautious, even secretive – takes a certain amount of care over his conduct, but the Comte d’Artois has none and constantly falls into a familiarity he believes is permitted because it has been tolerated so far. As for the King, despite his austere life, everyone thinks he’s soft and weak. He won’t do anything to control his brother’s activities. Only the Queen could put him in his place, if she wanted to. This situation’s going to cause a lot of trouble.’

  ‘Well, Mercury of the latest news, what of the quarto?’

  ‘You can laugh, but this is much more serious. A pamphlet! No one is sure of its author, but Monsieur de Beaumarchais is suspected. Choiseul is the principal target along with the Queen, whose entourage is denounced as being in the pay of the former minister.’

  He lowered his voice so much that the cat began miaowing anxiously.

  ‘Be quiet, Mouchette!’ Noblecourt growled. ‘The pamphlet goes so far as to claim that the State is doomed if the King does nothing to curb his wife’s ambition and coquetry. The gist of it – listen to this – is that Louis XVI cannot have children and that the princes, his brothers, should be on their guard against some new, loathsome intrigue which the young Queen may decide to go along with.’

  ‘Yet one more example of the prevailing infection of the century!’ said Nicolas, getting carried away. ‘One more slander to add to all the others that have appeared over the years, against which we endlessly raise ever-illusory barricades!’

  ‘I fear that the deplorable aberrations attributed to the late King opened the way to all kinds of knaves and rascals,’ observed Noblecourt. ‘We saw a succession of disturbances, scandals, injustices and upheavals. Morals and principles went by the board, and everything was left to chance. Now only the wicked remain on the scene to face a spineless government, and among them there is a spirit of intrigue and conspiracy of an intensity without precedent in this kingdom. The most sacred duties are forgotten and nothing is respected, nothing is safe from the blackest horrors.’

  ‘Your friend seems to me quite well informed,’ said Nicolas, choking on a pastry. ‘And quite bitter, too.’

  There was a silence. ‘I won’t conceal it from you any longer,’ Monsieur de Noblecourt said at last. ‘It was the Maréchal de Richelieu who honoured me with his visit. He stayed nearly two hours.’

  It seemed to Nicolas that the maréchal, ‘old Court’ if anyone was, played almost no part in affairs of State now, even though, as First Gentleman of the Bedchamber, he still appeared at Versailles. Rebuffs and disdain had no effect on him: he continued to impose his presence on the new King, who looked at him without seeing him and paid him no heed. In these conditions, it was not surprising that he remembered his old friends, and Monsieur de Noblecourt, always susceptible to the attentions of the great lord, offered him the opportunity to harbour still the illusion of his own importance.

  ‘Now I understand,’ said Nicolas. ‘The maréchal is champing at the bit, ever hoping for what will never come again. As I’m sure you know, his trial is dragging on in the parlement and is causing a scandal.’

  ‘Not surprisingly,’ said Noblecourt, again lowering his voice. ‘He’s accused by the opposing party, Madame de Saint-Ginest, of forgery and of bribing witnesses. They say the proceedings are alarming and the depositions unimaginably long!’

  The candle in one of the candlesticks sputtered and went out, plunging the room into semi-darkness.

  ‘That’s all too true. Does he at least still seem all right?’

  ‘The bile of the whole thing has affected his mind and he, who was always so carefree, has become embittered and endlessly repeats the same wicked barbs with which you are familiar. The things he comes out with!’ Noblecourt raised a sententious finger. ‘A bad word sometimes tells us more than ten beautiful sentences. He has dreamed all his life of joining the council. Aut causa, aut nihil.’

  ‘No doubt,’ said Nicolas. ‘But what infirmity of mind makes him think he still has a future at his age? Why doesn’t he prefer history, to which he contributed so much? Why doesn’t he talk about his victories and the glory that went with them?’

  ‘Alas, he lacks two essential qualities! Virtue and perspective. Concerned as he is with the impression he makes, he ought to stop complaining about the faults of the time. Serenity resides only in the soul of an honest man, and the maréchal is anything but that. But what about you? Tell me about your day.’

  The former procurator sank into his armchair, his eyes half closed. Mouchette, having found nothing substantial to satisfy her appetite, began cleaning herself meticulously. Nicolas launched into a precise account, taking care not to omit any detail. He had sometimes noted Monsieur de Noblecourt’s curious ability to absorb the facts of a case. His reflections often led to observations that seemed strange at first, but frequently proved to be wise and far-sighted. Nicolas’s account was punctuated with exclamations of satisfaction and
surprise, and when he had finished Noblecourt was silent for some time, while Nicolas, made thirsty by his speech and the salt in the ham, finished off the bottle of red wine from Champagne, more tawny-coloured than red in fact, and invigoratingly light.

  ‘First, I must congratulate you,’ Noblecourt said at last. ‘Out of favour in the spring, back in favour by autumn! That’s a disgrace to be envied! Here you are, back in the saddle, and I’m sure Monsieur Lenoir, in whose good faith I continue to believe, will reconsider his prejudices. I pray to heaven that the affair into which you have been drawn is not a trap intended to destroy the greatest expectations! You shake your head? Think about it. The Duc de La Vrillière has gone over the head of his Lieutenant General of Police. He’s not doing you a good deed. He’s involving you in an affair that concerns his own house and his own domestic staff. He himself is not so well thought of at Court, every week his exile is announced as being imminent, and only his kinship with the First Minister protects him. On the one hand, he places you in a situation in which you might annoy your own chief, and on the other, he drags you down with him in his fall, if such is the outcome. So follow my advice: tell Monsieur Lenoir everything. He will be grateful to you, and your combined interests will withstand the storms. Continue to appear at Court and try to keep the King informed. What happens privately in great kingdoms cannot leave him indifferent. In this way, you will protect your rear and be prepared for any eventuality.’