The Saint-Florentin Murders

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  ‘That sounds like sensible advice to me,’ said Nicolas, ‘and I shall certainly follow it.’

  ‘As for the case itself, it couldn’t be more delicate. Cases involving domestics always are. It is a world in which treachery reigns. Take your chambermaids: a woman who serves another needs much more skill and flexibility than a man in the same situation. There is no middle way: a chambermaid is either in a position of the most gratifying intimacy or in one of the most humiliating dependence. A servant, if he wants to maintain his position, must always have a ready answer, anticipate his master’s whim, remedy his bad mood, flatter his self-esteem, and, last but not least, feign sincerity. All this implies falsehood and deception. A noble house is a state in miniature, with its plots, its alliances, its dissimulation and, sometimes, its humble devotion.’

  Noblecourt reflected for a moment before continuing.

  ‘Add to all that one vital question. Why did the Duc de La Vrillière send for you? You are not, I wager, fooled by the compliments and vain protestations of goodwill he has lavished on you. He knows you’re on the sidelines at the moment and sends for you. All right. But why? Is it because he thinks that anyone can be bought, and that a man on the sidelines, investigating a crime committed in a minister’s mansion, might turn a blind eye to certain things?’

  ‘Do you think him capable of that?’

  Monsieur de Noblecourt sat up in his chair and struck the armrests with his hands. ‘I am surprised, Monsieur,’ he exclaimed, ‘that, after so many years at the highest level of the police force, you still have that bedrock of innocence which is a tribute to your good heart but reduces your perceptiveness. But what can I do? Your old friend owes it to himself to be the devil’s advocate, the worst is always a possibility and certainly shouldn’t be ruled out a priori. I remember how hurt you were when, being yourself personally implicated in a crime, I was forced to investigate you. It was not that I believed you guilty, but the possibility had to be considered before it could be ruled out.2 To tell the true from the false with full knowledge of the facts, one must first abandon the idea that one possesses the truth.’

  Monsieur de Noblecourt always surprised Nicolas. This affable man had a strength and an authority which rarely manifested themselves but which, for that very reason, were all the more striking.

  ‘To return to your victim,’ Noblecourt went on, ‘look into her origins. That’s a procurator speaking. As you know, there are rules governing the servant classes, rules it’s not advisable to contravene. A domestic cannot enter into service without declaring his or her name or nickname, his place of birth and where he has served. He must present a notice from his previous master, without concealing anything. He cannot leave him without his consent and a certificate. Unmarried servants of both sexes cannot have private rented rooms without the written permission of their masters. They are forbidden to give or lend their lodgings to tramps or other suspicious characters. A good police force should also be concerned with routine laws. When regulations and conventions are circumvented, we enter a shifting, uncertain terrain, which often conceals strange phenomena. The rule itself is seldom meaningful, but its lack sometimes is.’

  A long silence ensued. Monsieur de Noblecourt sighed, pleased with his turn of phrase. His eyes wandered over the shadowy areas of the room, as if making an inventory of its details.

  ‘Oh, what merit your profession possesses!’ he resumed. ‘The first is that of diversion. Monsieur Tronchin, my doctor, told me one day that, unable to purge certain catarrhs, he diverted them to another less dangerous part of the body … Dying should appear to us a natural, impartial accident. I am a happy man, in spite of everything. As a magistrate, I may have been cast aside, but I live through your investigations by proxy. Dying is a small thing, the most difficult part is to detach oneself from the affections and objects that surround one. My father often told me about the last days of Cardinal Mazarin, when he summoned up the strength to bid farewell to his collections. Alas, my books, my study, who will cast on you the loving gaze to which I have accustomed you?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Nicolas, ‘I don’t like you when you’re in one of these strange moods. They’re usually a sign that a bad attack’s on the way.’

  Noblecourt smiled. ‘It’s nothing but the melancholy of autumn.

  But how could I confound

  That destiny whose round

  Gives each man his due …

  For I say goodbye to myself

  When I say farewell to you3

  My friends, my books, my cabinet of curiosities …’

  ‘What a memory you have, like a young man’s!’ cried Nicolas, applauding.

  ‘Insolent boy!’ said Noblecourt, choking with laughter. ‘In making that comment, you make things worse for yourself, since the second part of your sentence goes without saying.’

  Reassured about his friend’s condition, Nicolas took his leave and went up to his apartments. Mouchette followed him. The old tiled floor served her as a sleeping place next to the commissioner’s bed.

  Tuesday 4 October 1774

  Nicolas awoke well before the daylight began turning the wallpaper in his room white. Every morning, Mouchette, sated with sleep but hungry and playful, would jump on her master’s bed and tread all over it. Her purring would finally draw the sleeper from his slumbers, and he would go and open the door for her. She would run, her tail lifted in the air, to the delights left for her by Catherine, the first person up, who would be noisily lighting the stoves.

  The commissioner had not given up washing in the courtyard. It was a reminder of his youth, a quick shock that restored vigour. He would then come back upstairs to shave and do his hair. Mostly he wore his natural hair, tied with a ribbon, except on solemn occasions or when he had to go to Versailles.

  That morning, drawn by the hustle and bustle, the variety of sights offered to the pedestrian, he decided to go for a long walk on the banks of the river. Mentally, he ran through his schedule. Bourdeau was to inform him of the time set for the autopsy. Before that, he intended to report to Monsieur Lenoir: he would both meet the wish his chief had expressed and protect himself from the reprimand that might come from the man’s irritation at a mission whose only instigator was the minister. He would have to find the most neutral, but also the most skilful way to present his report, and he always found walking a good way to clear his mind.

  A bright autumn sun made everything look beautiful, bathing the scene in an already brilliant golden light. As he walked, Nicolas looked at faces. The animated crowd paraded around him, in rhythm with his steps, a plethora of brief encounters. This game fascinated him: the glances exchanged and missed, offered, retained or rejected, hinting at all kinds of possibilities. He tried – not always successfully – to bring a conclusive moral judgement to bear on each face, based on his experience as a collector of souls. He would arrange them in a corner of his mind, like the insects in the collections of the Jardin du Roi. He knew, however, how futile this approach was. If it always held true, how easy it would be to track down criminals! His own past experience had taught him that an angelic appearance could well conceal other appetites. The pace of the world and society was such that appearances often proved to be nothing but deception and illusion.

  At the entrance to Pont-Neuf, he turned for a moment to look at the familiar peremptory figure of the bronze horseman, a helmsman steering the city towards the open sea.4 He walked along Quai du Louvre, then Quai des Tuileries. He was heading towards the garden and the Terrasse des Feuillants when a crowd attracted his attention. This small chattering throng was bustling around a form lying on the edge of the embankment. He approached. An individual whom he recognised as a spy who patrolled the gardens eavesdropping on conversations immediately came up to him and informed him what was happening. A boatman had spotted a strange shape floating just below the surface as he was crossing the river on his boat. With his boat hook, he had retrieved what turned out to be a dead body. A porter turned the inert mass o
ver with his foot, and the disfigured face of an old man was revealed. The crowd recoiled in horror. The drowned man’s right eye had been gouged out, and the arch of the eyebrows was broken and gaping. Nicolas shook his head. He was accustomed to sights like this. Boatmen, for the most part, could not swim and they were sure to drown if they fell in the water. Whenever they had to rescue a drowning man, they would haul the body out of the water with a hook, latching on to an eye or wherever else the implement landed – which might well kill the person they were trying to save. In this way, even when the victim had survived the cold, the fear, the backwash from the boats, or hitting the pillars of the bridges, his rescuer’s hook might well finish him off.

  The watch took things in hand. Nicolas crossed the Tuileries Gardens and came to Place Louis-le-Grand5 and Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, the location of police headquarters. He was greeted there by the footman as an old acquaintance and immediately led into the Lieutenant General’s study. The fact that he was received so quickly and with such good manners was a favourable sign. Indeed, the reception was more courteous than usual. But there was also a hint of anxiety in it. Monsieur Lenoir could not have been expecting Nicolas to perform this requested duty so early in the case.

  ‘I came as soon as I could,’ said the commissioner with a bow, his tricorn in his hand, ‘to answer your wishes, Monseigneur, and report to you, as is only proper, such news as is likely to retain your attention.’

  ‘Rest assured, my dear Commissioner, that your zeal and promptness are much appreciated. I assume they are connected to the affair for which the minister summoned you, thanks to my intervention.’

  He emphasised the word ‘intervention’, like an actor in the old Hôtel de Bourgogne. It seemed unnecessary to Nicolas, but his chief needed something to cling to if he wished to recover a prestige somewhat tarnished by the Duc de La Vrillière’s lack of consideration towards his Lieutenant General of Police. The commissioner then embarked on an exercise at which he excelled, one which had once earned him the favour of Louis XV: telling a story without tiring, making suggestive or enlightening observations while bringing out the crucial elements. He kept strictly to the facts, careful not to mention the various hypotheses which he and Bourdeau had already formed. Lenoir listened with a forced little smile, constantly stroking his left cheek with the tip of the quill pen which he had been using when Nicolas had arrived. At the end, he did not ask any questions, and for a long while rummaged through the heap of papers on his desk. Nicolas thought nostalgically of the desk as it was in Sartine’s day: never more than one paper, along with the current edition of the Almanach royal, or else wigs lined up as if on parade. The Lieutenant General seemed to be absorbed in his reading. At last, he looked up.

  ‘Monsieur Le Floch, apart from the events in Rue Saint-Florentin, I would appreciate it if you could apply your usual discernment to a number of urgent matters which, given their importance, not only put me in an awkward position, but compel me not to entrust them to just anybody.’

  ‘I await your orders, Monseigneur,’ replied Nicolas soberly.

  Lenoir cleared his throat. ‘For example,’ he resumed, ‘Monsieur de Vergennes has just passed me a dispatch from our minister in Brussels. He draws our attention to the disappearance of two young girls of good family. They fled their mother’s house a few days ago. One is twenty and the other seventeen. The first bears a few marks of smallpox …’

  He plunged back into the document while Nicolas opened his notebook and began writing.

  ‘That’s a good idea, note down these details … What were we saying? Yes, smallpox, with a neat waist, blue eyes and black eyebrows. The younger girl also has blue eyes and black eyebrows: she is pretty and a little taller than her sister. They speak French, and also Flemish quite badly. The elder girl speaks English, better than the younger one who only knows a few words. They have a lot of good-quality clothes with them. I have a list here: two linen undershirts, camisoles embroidered in muslin, two yellow silk undershirts, one blue and grey striped satin undershirt, a blue-green dress on a white background with red flowers, a dress with a brown and yellow check pattern, a yellow damask dress, a taffeta dress with gauze embroidery, two white cotton dresses, two cotton undershirts with blue stripes, black and white English-style hats and some pink and blue satin muffs. But it’s possible they’ve disguised themselves as men. They were seen taking the mail coach for France, and there is every reason to suppose they were planning to come to Paris. Since then, there’s been no trace of them. I hardly dare imagine the dangers such innocent young girls may run in our capital … Look into it, and report back to me.’

  ‘If I find them,’ observed Nicolas, ‘they’ll have to be arrested.’

  ‘Of course. They’ll be put out of harm’s way in a convent while their family makes arrangements to have them brought back home. If that happens, we’ll immediately inform our people in Brussels.’

  Nicolas was about to take his leave. His chief made a gesture to detain him.

  ‘One more thing. If I am to believe what Sartine has told me about you, for a long time you were responsible for the safety of the King and the royal family.’

  ‘Damiens’s attempt on the late King’s life revealed some glaring shortcomings,’ replied Nicolas evasively.

  ‘It so happens that the Queen has complained to His Majesty about the presence of mysterious strangers in her gardens at Trianon …’ He consulted a paper. ‘On 10 August, Claude Richard, the head gardener, and his son Antoine came across two women wearing dresses and hats they thought rather strange. The women looked them up and down. A relative of the Queen’s had a similar encounter. The King told me about it yesterday after Mass.’

  Nicolas gave a grimace of discontent. ‘Why have we been informed of this so late in the day? In this kind of affair, speed is a guarantee of success.’

  ‘I have no idea!’ said Lenoir, shaking the quill he was still holding. ‘The first time the Queen mentioned it to the King, he shrugged it off. She tried again after her servants started getting worried. Look into it and set her mind at rest. Last but not least …’

  Nicolas could not believe his ears. Was there a shortage of police officers, that everything should be placed on his shoulders at the same time? He did, however, note that the instructions he had just been given implied that he should address the Queen directly.

  ‘Last but not least,’ said Lenoir solemnly, ‘I am sending you on a mission of State to the cattle farmers in Faubourg Saint-Antoine. I want you to go outside the walls immediately, see the principal representatives and make sure each man takes the appropriate measures. Mutual interest calls for discreet and immediate action. The worst thing would be for the rumour to spread. The panic that would ensue if such disturbing news became known would ruin their business. I repeat, do your best and do it quickly. The King has been informed of the situation and is following the matter personally.’

  He punctuated this exhortation with a blow with the flat of his hand. Nicolas, who understood nothing of this final affair, thought it all quite exaggerated. If only he had been able to grasp the nature of this new mission his chief wished to entrust to him!

  ‘Monseigneur, I am your obedient servant, and at the King’s command. But may I ask you to clarify—’

  ‘Ah,’ said Lenoir, bursting into laughter and making a small gracious bow, ‘how absent-minded I am! I was talking to you as if to myself. The thing of it is, our southern provinces are infected by a putrid, pestilent disease which attacks cattle, one that has been making sporadic appearances since 1714.’

  ‘The disease known as anthrax?’

  Lenoir looked at him with a touch of surprise. ‘Apparently. Not only does this plague affect animals, but the Faculty has established that it could also infect the human population. Where does it come from? you will ask. How has it reached our southern provinces? It actually began ten leagues from Bayonne, in the village of Villefranque, which only survives, it must be said, thanks to its tanneries.’ />
  ‘So the problem originates with the hides?’

  For the second time, Lenoir looked at Nicolas with interest. ‘You think quickly, and you think well. These hides are usually unloaded at the port of Bayonne, some of them coming from Holland, but most from Guadeloupe. Be that as it may, the contagion has been rife for years among the Batavians and has destroyed most of the horned animals on our island. Whenever it has shown itself, they have tried burying the carcasses, but we have to take into account the fact that some may be tempted to disinter them in order to get at the leather. And what of the carnivores, like wolves, which try to eat them? These contaminated hides are a danger to those who work with them. For example, a letter from the priest at Salces, in the diocese of Mende in Gévaudan, notifies us that two skinners died within a few days of anthrax on the face, with monstrous swellings on the head, neck and chest.’

  ‘Is there any known cure?’ asked Nicolas.

  ‘They keep trying to find one, they keep experimenting. The directors of the Royal Veterinary Schools have set out a presentation of the symptoms which has striking similarities to the description given by the ancients, so striking it’s as if it were drawn directly from it. From which these learned men have concluded that we are no more advanced on this matter now than we were in the time of Lucretius, Virgil and Ovid, and that it is vital to bring the spirit of research and enlightenment of our present-day physicians to bear on this important subject. The doctors claim to have cured a patient with a potion composed of red wine from Bordeaux, Theriaca Andromachi, extract of cinchona, contra-herva, serpentine from Virginia, oil of amber, sweetened spirit of nitre, volatile spirit of eau-de-Luce ammonia, and God knows what else. A real alchemists’ stew.’