The Saint-Florentin Murders

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  That mixture of anger, genuine confidences and clever omissions made him confused and uneasy. It was not easy to tell the difference between a truthful presentation of facts and a subtle attempt to divert suspicion. After all, she herself had revealed to him the interest the Duchamplans might have in Jean Missery’s death. That reinforced the idea that they had been alarmed at the widower’s passionate attachment to a young girl like Marguerite Pindron, especially if, since her escape from the faubourgs, she had acquired a certain experience. Whether that man, grief-stricken and tormented by desire, had managed to win her heart or she herself had discovered where her interest lay, a marriage could only be harmful to the expectations of the Duchamplan family. Marguerite had become a threat and an obstacle.

  But her death did not resolve the matter. If the widower became infatuated with someone else, then the fortune he had inherited from his wife would melt like snow in the sun. Examples abounded, both at Court and in the city, of men of his age so ruled by their senses that they yielded to the most extravagant demands of greedy young girls, who in their turn hastened to transfer the goldmine to some good-looking and hot-blooded secret lover. In this way, a fortune could vanish in the blink of an eye. It would therefore seem much more sensible to get rid of the widower rather than his mistress, the latter being merely a stopgap solution. Admittedly, thought Nicolas, the Duchamplans were one lead among many others. He recalled Sister Louise’s reaction to his announcement that her brother-in-law had been wounded. What had she known at that point? What had the Duchesse de La Vrillière told her during their long interview that morning? Nicolas recalled having told the duchesse at the Saint-Florentin mansion the previous evening that the major-domo was wounded and that it seemed likely he had turned on himself the weapon with which he was believed to have cut his mistress’s throat.

  The nun’s reaction seemed false if that was what she had been told. Had she assumed that the facts were known, or did she have some hidden reason not to believe in the suicide theory?

  It was already dark when Nicolas’s carriage dropped him in Rue Montmartre. His sudden appearance interrupted the baker’s boys from the shop on the ground floor as they were mercilessly teasing the bell ringer of the dead. This old man, dressed in a dalmatic adorned with an embroidered silver skull and crossbones, was shaking his bell with one hand and holding a lantern in the other, and calling out in a pitiful tone his lugubrious refrain:

  ‘Wake up, wake up, all you who sleep,

  Pray for the dead who lie so deep!’

  He thanked Nicolas, who slipped him an écu before reprimanding the baker’s boys with a smile. As soon as he entered the servants’ pantry, he sensed that something dramatic had occurred. Marion sat slumped on a bench, her head in her hands, while Poitevin was polishing with fanatical care a pewter ewer which did not require so much attention. Only the sight of Bourdeau in an apron and of Catherine beside him, the two of them bent over the bread oven, reassured him somewhat. They did not seem to be part of the atmosphere of anxiety that weighed on the house.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Nicolas.

  ‘Oh, Monsieur Nicolas,’ moaned Marion, ‘our master was taken ill when he came back from Saint-Eustache. As you know, he’s a churchwarden of his parish. This evening there was a meeting of the council. He came back completely red in the face, with the veins sticking out on his forehead! He collapsed in the doorway.’

  ‘I went to fetch the doctor,’ said Poitevin, ‘the same one who tended Monsieur when he was attacked.1 God be praised, Dr Dienert was at home in Rue Montorgueil, and came running immediately. At first, he suspected an apoplexy. We laid Monsieur down – he had already regained consciousness. We made him take some drops of alcali fluor diluted in water, as well as a decoction of tamarind, and we also made him tighten his garters to slow down the rush of blood to his head. He’s much better now. He asked us not to bother you with his condition, he says he’ll receive you with Monsieur Bourdeau as soon as you’ve finished eating. That’s bound to cheer him up.’

  Despite this advice, Nicolas was already rushing upstairs. Catherine stopped him with an emphatic look.

  ‘Don’t move, he’d only think he’s worse than he is. He’s quite all right. I should know. He’s just too edgy. Something got on his nerves. Bourdeau was there, he’ll tell you.’

  Nicolas sighed, telling himself that Catherine, a former canteen-keeper in the King’s armies and something of a witch, possessed the skill and the means to treat many illnesses, and that he himself had often benefited from her care.

  ‘I gave him some liquid to counter it, the kind that you know,’ she whispered in his ear.

  He went upstairs to change after this day of constant errands, following Mouchette up the concealed staircase that led to his quarters. As usual, she kept putting her head between the bars and giving provocative little cries as she slouched up the steps. Every time he made a move to grab hold of her, she leapt out of his reach. Feeling fresher, he went back to the servants’ pantry and discovered an unusual spectacle.

  Bourdeau was hopping on the spot and moaning as he placed some steaming puffed-up rolls, which gave off an appetising odour, on the large table in the pantry. Once he had divested himself of his burden, he blew on his burning fingers and rubbed them on the vast apron that enveloped his paunch. Meanwhile, Catherine was bustling at the stove. Nicolas’s nose quivered: the aroma of roast poultry reminded him how hungry he was.

  ‘Oh, oh!’ moaned the inspector. ‘It’s hotter than hot.’

  ‘Your little creatures seem done,’ said Catherine. ‘I’ll take out the pot.’

  ‘Please don’t lift the lid – the taste would escape with the steam. You should leave them to cool in their own juice.’

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ cried Nicolas. ‘What feast is being prepared here? Is this some gluttonous annexe of Ramponneau’s?2 Have we been transported to Gargantua’s pantry or to his “painted cellar” of Chinon?’

  ‘He doesn’t know how right he is!’ cried Bourdeau, delighted.

  Marion put a finger to her lips. ‘My God, how noisy you all are. You’re going to wake Monsieur.’

  ‘A cousin of mine from Chinon is visiting my house,’ explained the inspector. ‘As a feast was expected and I didn’t want to take Marion and Catherine by surprise, I plundered Madame Bourdeau’s preparations and brought what we needed. Catherine lent me a hand baking the pâtons.’

  ‘The pâtons?’

  ‘Yes, here they are, all hot. Where I come from, they’re called fouées.’

  Bourdeau brought out a vast wicker basket from under the table. From it, he extracted an earthenware pot covered with an oiled paper tied with straw, and three bottles of wine.

  ‘A fouée,’ he went on, ‘is like bread but much better. Ground flour, leaven, salt and water. Knead it well then let it rest. After that, you just have to shape the pâtons by hand, then into the oven with them. They pretend to ignore the heat, they move, shake, rise, swell, form bubbles, climb, collapse, rise again, relax, and finally turn golden brown, and you take them out and burn your fingers. That’s the whole story!’

  He grabbed one of these little treats, cut it with a knife, and opened the earthenware pot to reveal an immaculately white layer of fat. This he removed, then took out some crushed rillettes with which he stuffed the roll. Nicolas’s mouth was watering at the mere sight of this operation. He only took a mouthful: it melted in the mouth, so well did the whole thing combine the crusty and the soft. The heat loosened the meat, which in turn moistened the bread with its juices.

  ‘The secret of good rillettes,’ said Bourdeau with his eyes lowered, ‘lies in matching the pieces of pork used. These are of my own invention. I put in shoulder, loin, tenderloin, and belly, and add plenty of salt, pepper, herbs and spices. Plus my secret, which I shall reveal to you: a spoonful of honey and a splash of white wine! Add water until everything is covered and leave for six hours. When the whole thing has cooled down, I knead it and mix the mea
t and the fat.’

  ‘You’re a saint, my dear Pierre …’

  Bourdeau continued stuffing the pâtons.

  ‘And still the fouées keep coming!’

  ‘Indeed,’ a sepulchral voice suddenly proclaimed, ‘it’s not a fairy tale but a fouée tale!’

  Monsieur de Noblecourt had appeared, draped in an indoor robe of wine-coloured calico, his head wrapped in a knotted madras.

  Everyone laughed and cried out. A chair was brought forward and the newcomer dropped majestically onto it. Marion began complaining loudly about his foolhardiness, but Catherine, delighted by the turn that the evening had taken, calmed the old nurse.

  ‘I’m starving,’ said Noblecourt. ‘My bedroom was gradually filling with sweet aromas that tickled my nose. Cyrus’s nose, too, I think!’

  The dog, who was lying under the armchair, barked happily at his master’s voice. Bourdeau and Nicolas sat down in their turn. More fouées were prepared, which the magistrate gobbled up. He demanded wine.

  ‘Where is this nectar from?’

  ‘From a small, well-exposed vineyard, covered with flint gravel. Small peach trees grow between the vines. Their fruit with its pink and white flesh bursts with a thick, delicious juice …’

  ‘Talking about fruit,’ continued Noblecourt, ‘no prunes and sage tea for me tonight. I’m eating and drinking. Does that good Dr Dienert think I don’t know he suspected apoplexy? Why should I be living on light and not very nourishing food, and depriving myself of strong liquor, spicy and tasty food? From now on, I am going to stuff my face, and seek out violent passions, excessive heat and excessive cold!’

  He looked around provocatively at his audience.

  Catherine clapped her hands. ‘Where there is appetite, there is no danger!’

  ‘In truth,’ said the procurator, ‘the joy of finding myself surrounded by my friends tempers my irritation.’

  ‘Tell us what happened,’ said Nicolas. ‘Nothing is likelier to calm the temperament and dispel an anxiety than to talk about it freely.’

  ‘How right you are. You all know that I am a churchwarden of my parish, Saint-Eustache, and that I’m the oldest on the council. At six o’clock, I was there, dealing with council matters, when a man named Bouin suddenly appeared and demanded to be heard immediately. He was kicking up such a fuss that in the end we agreed to see him. All puffed up with arrogance, he introduced himself as a former timpanist of the company of the King’s gendarmes.’

  ‘There’s that one,’ said Nicolas, ‘plus four companies of bodyguards: Charost, Noailles, Villeroi and d’Harcourt.’

  ‘He continued in a shrill tone and told us quite bluntly that the King having granted, through the edict of 1756, the right of commensality to the timpanist of his gendarmes, after twenty years of service, of which this Bouin fellow felt justly proud, he should therefore enjoy the honours, prerogatives, privileges, franchises, freedoms, pledges, rights, fruits, profits, revenues and emoluments befitting his status. He peppered his speech with words which aroused the ire of the assembly, words so brazen I prefer to pass over them in silence.’

  ‘Today’s a day for petty quibbling,’ sighed Nicolas.

  ‘And toads who want to inflate themselves,’ replied Noblecourt, his hearing as sharp as ever. ‘Without getting off his high horse, and without drawing breath, he commanded us, the company of wardens of Saint-Eustache church, to make sure that he enjoyed full honours, was given precedence in assemblies immediately after the King’s magistrates, and had the privilege of being brought in by the above-mentioned churchwardens … by us, would you believe it …’

  He was choking with anger, and beating his chest with his clenched fists, startling Mouchette, who called him to order with a determined blow of her paw, her final warning before she retaliated by scratching him.

  ‘Calm down, my darling, I’m not angry with you! Being brought in, as I was saying, by the churchwardens and presented with the consecrated bread immediately after the choir and the nobility, and before everyone else. Not content with this demand, he added the obligations of his rank in parish assemblies and processions, citing in support of this claim a royal decree of 1686. In short, I thought I was hearing again the bitter recriminations of my friend the Duc de Saint-Simon, fulminating against the disputes over precedence at the Court of the great King. But he was an eagle!’

  He emptied his glass in large gulps and peered into the pot, which was still emitting little hissing noises.

  ‘How could such an insignificant individual ever imagine that all this was possible? Did he really intend to appear with the characteristic insignia of his former state? Why not with his timpani? Does the scoundrel not know that the consecrated bread is always distributed indiscriminately, without any fuss, depending simply on the place occupied by each person in the church? Did Our Lord, when he distributed the bread, establish a list of privileged people? Did he not say, “The first shall be last”? What nonsense to maintain, as this Bouin does, that in such an assembly, such a great throng of people, one should oblige each person to state his name and status, and assign him a chair to sit on, somehow describing oblique and circumflex lines, offering each parishioner a particular oblation according to his claims, while trying not to humiliate some nor arouse the jealousy of others.’3

  ‘Who on earth put such an idea in his head?’ asked Bourdeau.

  ‘Do you need to ask? An outstanding casuist in the parlement: Président de Saujac, to name but one. Just when we needed it, his proverbial bad faith has blossomed into a cause without rhyme or reason. Although he versifies pleasantly enough, so I’ve been told. But he’s taking poor Bouin for a ride, because for him the prose verdicts of that herald are gospel truth!’

  ‘And, just like a young man, you’re falling into the trap of this provocation! Your blood has been stirred and there’s sweat on your brow!’

  ‘That’s how I’ve managed to stay so young,’ said Noblecourt with majestic pomposity. ‘Everyone thinks so, and you yourself just confirmed it.’

  A new burst of laughter punctuated his words.

  ‘But,’ he continued, stirring in his armchair, ‘isn’t there something else to get my teeth into? This moaning, steaming pot is afraid, I think, of being neglected.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Bourdeau, ‘that’s my masterpiece. You will consider it as such after you’ve tasted it. Here are a couple of hens from my province. My cousins raised them lovingly. Last night, Madame Bourdeau poached them in a thick, well-conditioned poultry stock. Today, I braised them in the oven in a good-sized pot with the lid firmly closed. This method has the double advantage of not drying out the meat while at the same time giving it a crispy skin.’

  ‘And I,’ said Catherine, ‘in order not to leave these poor beasts alone, have made some noodles from my province, some spaetzle gently fried in butter, with a touch of Muscat.’

  Bourdeau took out the fowl with a delicacy unusual in this big, fiery man. He carved them with a silver knife handed to him by Poitevin. With each incision of the blade, little jets of juice and grease spurted out, like so many fragrant fountains. The three guests threw themselves on their plates. A great appreciative silence fell over the room, broken only by the snapping of bones, Cyrus’s moans and Mouchette’s imploring cries: both animals were trembling with envy and demanding their share of the feast.

  ‘See how reasonable I am,’ said Noblecourt, who had contented himself with a wing. ‘I shall be the first to speak. Let us give thanks to Bourdeau for this delight. Assure your wife of our ravenous gratitude. I am your humble servant. That said, my children, where are we with our investigation?’

  Bourdeau smote his head. ‘I should have told you, Nicolas …’

  ‘Is there some news? You’re forgiven in advance. The hens plead in your favour.’

  But Bourdeau’s expression was sufficient indication that the joking was over.

  ‘This morning in Rue Glatigny, at the bottom of the steps leading to the river, at the corner of the p
riory of Saint-Denis-de-la-Chartre, the watch discovered the body of a young girl.’

  ‘Alas,’ said Nicolas. ‘Every day …’

  ‘Except that this one had had her throat cut. I saw her in the Basse-Geôle. Exactly the same wound as the Pindron girl! A curious funnel shape and a great loss of blood …’

  Notes – CHAPTER V

  1. See The Phantom of Rue Royale.

  2. Ramponneau was a famous innkeeper in La Courtille.

  3. This debate is taken from contemporary archives, as quoted at length by the historian A. Franklin.

  VI

  DIVERSIONS OF THE HEART

  If the grass had borne her, a flower would not

  have received the imprint of her steps.

  LA FONTAINE

  Everything had frozen in the room, where, a moment earlier, the greatest merriment had reigned. It was Nicolas who broke the silence.

  ‘Many crimes are committed in this city,’ he said in an unsteady voice. ‘It could always be a coincidence.’

  ‘Highly unlikely. I went to the Basse-Geôle, where the body had, of course, been taken. I was able to proceed with the usual observations and Sanson, back from a session using the boot, was quite happy to help me. After much reflection, he went out and came back soon afterwards with a quarter-pound of plaster. He quickly prepared a paste and turned his attention to the body from the Saint-Florentin mansion.’

  Marion gave a cry of horror.

  ‘Catherine,’ said Noblecourt, ‘I think it’s time for Marion to rest. She’s been exerting herself far too much today … These evenings aren’t good for her at her age; they’re only for young men like me. Go, and may the night be kind to you.’