The Saint-Florentin Murders

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  ‘Did the King talk to you about this case?’ Sartine asked, with a thin-lipped smile.

  ‘He did in fact enquire about it.’

  ‘Please keep me informed of any new developments, Nicolas.’

  He was about to rejoin the company when Nicolas detained him.

  ‘Is there something else?’

  ‘Yes, Monseigneur. An unexpected encounter which I’d like to bring to your attention. Yesterday, in the lower gallery of the palace, I met a man who appeared to be wearing makeup and had spectacles with tinted lenses. He fled when he saw me approach.’

  ‘Did you recognise him? Who was he?’

  ‘Lord Ashbury, with whom I had dealings in London. That mission with which you are familiar …’

  Sartine reflected for a moment. ‘The head of British intelligence in Paris! That’s as strange as it’s disturbing. I don’t like it. Inform Lenoir. Find out what foreigners entered our ports and Paris. We need to know what false name he’s using. Nicolas, we’ve never stopped working together, and the future … But don’t forget to check up on Bourdier. The navy is waiting for its system of codemaking.’

  Nicolas was pleased that Sartine had not reiterated his obsession with the return of Choiseul. He was under no illusions about the sincerity of a man whose capacity for secrecy and devious intrigues he had often observed. Working beside him every day for many years had convinced him that Sartine tended to conceal the true reasons behind his actions. He kept his secrets close to his chest and, like all good politicians, always had several irons in the fire. In addition, one area of his activities was still a closed book to the commissioner: his membership of the Freemasons. Did his work in the lodge lead him to embrace the theories of the philosophers’ party? In doing so, was he conforming to the spirit of the times, or had he compromised with this hidden influence the better to control it?

  In truth, what bound Nicolas to Sartine, apart from a grateful loyalty reinforced by the vicissitudes of the investigations and tribulations they had been through together, was the certainty that this Frenchman from Barcelona, who did not belong to the high nobility – less even than the commissioner himself – constantly demonstrated at every moment a devotion, a passion, a love of the public good in the person of the King. It was not for nothing that the ermine that adorned his magistrate’s gown, a symbolic part of the mantle of ceremony, represented the authority and exercise of a justice delegated to him by the monarch.

  As for Nicolas, he felt himself to be above all these political choices. The religious debate which had scarred the century only preoccupied him as a cause of public unrest. What made him indignant was the mingling of opposites, the unnatural collusion between the pious, the Jansenists and the parlements. The constant aggressive opposition from the parlements, briefly brought down by the imperious will of Maupeou with the support of the late King, made him fear the future, especially as Louis XVI’s youth and inexperience made it unusually hard to predict. But he would do his duty, trying to remain an honest man amid the compromises required by his position.

  Midnight was approaching when the Comte d’Arranet walked the minister to his carriage. The scene was illumined by the torches of the servants, who stood in a semicircle. Semacgus offered Nicolas a lift back to the Hôtel de la Belle Image in his carriage. La Borde was returning to Paris, where his young wife was waiting for him. As he was leaving the house, Nicolas thought he caught a glimpse of a face at the top of the staircase, a face that could only be Aimée’s. Sartine’s proposal had filled the admiral with excitement. Clearly, the prospect of leaving this period of inactivity behind delighted a man who, like so many general officers of his age and seniority, feared he would no longer be able to serve. They all promised to see each other soon, and Nicolas was asked to regard this house as his own.

  Semacgus’s carriage slowly turned into the drive which led to the Avenue de Paris. As it was about to go through the gate, it suddenly came to a halt.

  Friday 7 October 1774

  Distant voices echoed in his head. They faded then came back again, sounding more distinct. There was some kind of pressure on his left temple. Where was he? In what kind of dream? He could not open his eyelids, they were too heavy … He had an overwhelming desire to let go, to spiral slowly down into a bottomless pit. To sink, to sink for ever …

  ‘Damnation! He’s fainting again. Pass me the vinegar, Mademoiselle.’

  ‘It’s a good thing he has a hard head,’ said d’Arranet. ‘And that the shot went wide. And that you’re here, my dear Semacgus.’

  ‘It’s my coachman you should thank. His reflexes were good; without him we’d be holding a wake!’

  ‘Trying to kill my guests at my door, in Versailles! Could the real target have been the minister?’

  ‘Anything’s possible,’ said Semacgus. ‘This isn’t the first time they’ve tried to kill him. It’s been a bad year for him, this is the third time. Ah, now he’s getting a bit of colour back.’

  Nicolas opened his eyes. He was lying on a bed in a richly decorated room. Semacgus was looking at him anxiously, the Comte d’Arranet standing beside him. Aimée was sitting on the bed, holding his hand. He tried to sit up, and the pain went to his head. But it was no worse, he thought, than when he’d been hit while playing with his schoolmates in Guérande.

  ‘Don’t move,’ said Semacgus. ‘A bullet grazed your temple. With that kind of wound, you lose a lot of blood and you faint. But you’ve been through worse. I’m going to put a bandage on. Mademoiselle will now tear your beautiful shirt to shreds.’

  To his embarrassment, Nicolas realised that he was bare-chested.

  ‘And you will sleep here, Monsieur,’ said d’Arranet. ‘That’s an order. The idea of someone trying to kill people on my property! I feel responsible for your condition …’

  Nicolas tried to protest.

  ‘Not a word. I’m going to check the surrounding area. Tonight, everyone will take turns on watch. Tribord will see to that. Semacgus, you will sleep here, and don’t argue.’

  ‘Why did they miss me?’

  ‘Heavens!’ said the surgeon with a laugh. ‘I fear the wound has made him stupid. Instead of congratulating yourself! My coachman, caught by surprise when that long face appeared, hesitated for a moment and then struck the individual with his whip. The lash was red with blood. Watch out for people with scars from now on. That deflected the shot from its intended trajectory and saved you.’

  ‘Didn’t you catch him?’

  ‘There’s gratitude for you!’ retorted Semacgus, showing him his blood-spattered grey doublet. ‘You fell into my arms. For all I knew, you were dying. Was I supposed to leave you there?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Guillaume. I’m not quite myself yet.’

  Could it be that this attempt had some connection with the progress of his investigation into the murder at the Saint-Florentin mansion? Semacgus cauterised the wound with rum, as if he were back on board ship and tending the wounded during a sea battle. He made his patient take a large swig of the liquor, lightly bandaged his head, told him he ought to get some sleep, and snuffed out the candles. He would look in on him again tomorrow. There was a certain amount of bustling about as a room was got ready for the doctor. For some time after that, Nicolas could hear the master of the house giving orders to his servants. Aimée took a last glance at the wounded man and went back to her room. The d’Arranet mansion went to sleep, protected by the comte’s men, who were posted about the grounds with lanterns.

  Nicolas woke with a start. The parquet floor was creaking so much that it was impossible to mistake the source of the sound: someone had entered the room. His heart began to pound. He forced himself to remain still and tried to control his breathing. Perhaps because of the emotion, the pain in his temple, he realised, had receded. Someone had very carefully turned the key in the lock and was now approaching the bed. He was surprised to find that he did not feel afraid. He breathed in a smell of verbena, and another aroma, that of a warm body. A mo
ist finger touched his mouth and a hand slid over his chest. He sensed rather than heard a garment being impatiently removed and falling to the floor. His mind was a mixture of confusion and expectation. Suddenly, he was submerged in a stream of hair. He put out his hands, touched a naked body, and at the contact that body collapsed on him. His mouth found another mouth, lips that opened. The satiny softness of a shoulder devastated him. Slowly, he turned over. Between the kisses sighs replaced words. More tender, more complex, more ardent, they responded to the sensations, marked their stages, and the last sigh of all, which hung suspended for a time, told Nicolas that he should render thanks to love.

  A deep voice was muttering something close to him. He sat up with a start.

  ‘Well, well!’ cried Semacgus. ‘You’ve been fighting windmills! Your bed is ravaged. You must have had a fever … You’ve even lost your breeches.’

  Embarrassed, Nicolas pulled up the sheet. Semacgus lifted the bandage and examined the wound. His big nose was quivering and his eyes smiling in a manner that was extremely ironic.

  ‘It’s looking good. The wound has already closed and a scab is forming. One more scar to your name. You bear your service record on your body. It enhances your innate charm.’

  Nicolas was wondering about what had happened that night. Had it been a dream? But there were so many details he remembered … Wasn’t he completely unpregnated with a light scent and the smell of another body? It was obvious that the wily Semacgus had noticed, which explained that air of smugness. He mocked himself. Was it only when someone tried to kill him that he found himself in such a flattering position? The same thing had happened with La Satin … He felt sufficiently recovered to get back to Paris. The naval surgeon had no objection.

  After putting on one of the admiral’s shirts, his own having been torn to shreds, Nicolas again donned his fine grey coat, now stained, and went down to take his leave. He was greeted warmly by the Comte d’Arranet, who again invited him to consider this house as his own. There was no sign of Aimée; admittedly, it was early. His departure went off without incident. The coast was clear: the servants had been up all night to make sure that no new danger threatened him. Tribord gave him an enthusiastic wave. Semacgus remarked that he had made a friend, a friend who could be useful.

  Nicolas did not reply, still trying to catch any allusion on the part of the surgeon to the events of the previous night. From time to time, he wondered if it had all been a dream. And yet, the memories and traces of Mademoiselle d’Arranet’s nocturnal visit remained so vivid, so tangible that he found that hard to believe. He strove not to think, putting off until later the task of contemplating a situation the consequences of which were hard to untangle in the heat of the moment. Too many different feelings were at work in him. Above all, he preferred for now to dismiss his qualms at having betrayed the Comte d’Arranet’s trust and violated the laws of hospitality.

  So it was that they rode back to the Hôtel de la Belle Image in silence. There, he changed and paid his bill. On the road to Paris, Semacgus abandoned him to his thoughts. Nicolas pretended to sleep. In the end, he shook himself like a horse confronted with a hurdle and, once past the Porte de la Conférence, asked to be taken to the Châtelet. There was no more time to lose; the investigation had to resume. It was almost midday and he was hoping to find Bourdeau.

  Looking grave, the inspector greeted them at the door of the duty office with the news that a third victim of the killer with the hand had just been discovered in the early hours of the morning, on the banks of Île des Cygnes.

  Notes – CHAPTER VIII

  1. See The Châtelet Apprentice.

  2. The Menus-Plaisirs was the establishment that made sets and costumes for Court celebrations and ceremonies.

  IX

  APPROACHES

  The justice of the combat will challenge fervour

  PETRARCH

  As Semacgus wanted to take part in the expedition, he put his carriage at their disposal. Without omitting any detail, Nicolas informed them of the events that had taken place at Versailles and the state of his investigations. What he had discovered about the Duc de La Vrillière’s artificial hand astounded them. The inspector admitted that it was an extremely important clue, which could take the investigation into some very murky areas. He spontaneously posed the question that Nicolas had already been asking himself: why had he, supposedly loyal to Sartine, been chosen to conduct the investigation?

  Semacgus suggested two possible answers: either the minister was hoping in this way to keep a close watch on the investigation by using a colleague who was well known to him, or he considered the case so serious that only Nicolas appeared to him capable of solving it. To this, Nicolas himself objected that, if that were so, the minister should have been perfectly open with him, which had not been the case. A long silence followed, in which the three friends continued to pursue their thoughts. The carriage had crossed the Seine and was driving along the quais on the left bank, through the neighbourhoods of Beau Grenelle and Gros Caillou, to get to the faubourg downstream of the city.

  Nicolas forced himself out of his reverie. ‘How did you learn of the discovery of the third body?’ he asked.

  ‘There was a general instruction to all the commissioners and inspectors, as well as the men of the watch, to report any discovery of this nature to the duty office,’ replied Bourdeau.

  ‘Do we know anything so far?’

  An unformulated thought crossed his mind like a sacrilege: he would have to include the Duc de La Vrillière among the suspects and check his whereabouts at the time of the murder.

  Bourdeau appeared embarrassed. ‘What we know so far is fairly gruesome. You know the nature of the place where the victim was discovered. The hundred thousand oxen brought into Paris to be slaughtered for meat leave behind four hundred thousand feet, not to mention horns and intestines. All these remains are collected together, put on wagons, taken to that infernal island and thrown into vast incinerators, which work round the clock, to be turned into oil for lamps, night lights, frying, and to grease the cogs of machines. That’s Île des Cygnes!’

  ‘A pretty name for such an unpleasant place!’ said Semacgus. ‘It would appear that we’re getting close to it, judging by the stench. It’s worse than the bilges on a three-decker!’

  The carriage turned right towards the little arched bridge over the canal separating the island from the bank. A number of rudimentary smoke-shrouded buildings rose amid dismal vegetation strewn with a few poplars. They saw horses, a stretcher, an empty wagon and a group of men who seemed to be waiting for them.

  Nicolas recognised Rabouine, no doubt dispatched by Bourdeau to keep an eye on things, and an officer of the watch named Baroliot, whom he had met several times in the course of his investigations. A large red-faced man was talking to them excitedly and wiping his brow with a kind of rage.

  Baroliot approached and greeted them. ‘Nasty business, Commissioner.’

  He led them to the far end of a small yard, where a wagon was parked, with a grey nag harnessed to it. The contents were piled high, and covered with a tarpaulin; the stench that escaped from it left no doubt as to their nature. Behind the wagon was a tall openwork door half concealing the top of a huge incinerator from which thick black smoke emerged.

  ‘The tripe shop of Île des Cygnes,’ said Rabouine.

  Helped by Baroliot, he removed the tarpaulin. The smell became even more overpowering. Bourdeau took out a pipe and hastened to light it. Nicolas took out his snuff box, hurriedly took a pinch, and abandoned himself with delight to a prolonged bout of sneezing.

  At first sight, the wagon contained a heap of feet, horns and guts. The last flies of the season covered it like a thick black cloak, making it difficult to get a good look at the contents. It was only when they moved closer that they were able to make out a body amid this horror, although all that could really be seen was a pale, almost yellow face with its eyes open, the young, almost childlike features frozen in a
n expression of terrified surprise. Nicolas ordered the corpse to be taken down. Some workers were called. Armed with huge wooden shovels, they carefully dug out the body and placed it on a stretcher. Semacgus waved a branch which he had just torn off a shrub to disperse the persistent swarm of insects. He leant over the body.

  ‘A young girl or woman of about, hmmm … eighteen or twenty … Marks of smallpox. Eyes blue, as far as it’s still possible to judge. Gaping wound on the neck. Appears to be almost naked. An undershirt, striped.’

  ‘Time of death?’ asked Nicolas.

  ‘Hard to say. We should find out more from the autopsy.’

  ‘Who found her?’ asked Bourdeau.

  The fat man hurried forward. ‘The morning shift, as they emptied the wagon.’ He pointed to the tall door. ‘There’s a slope up there. The guts are slid straight into the incinerator. The men are so used to it, they don’t really think about it any more.’

  ‘Could the body have escaped their attention?’

  ‘Yes, of course. According to them, they carry out their work quite mechanically.’

  ‘So something unusual alerted them?’

  The man opened his hand and gave Nicolas a small round object. ‘The rays of the rising sun hit this; that was how they saw the girl. Actually, apart from that, the wagon seemed less full than usual.’

  ‘A sweet box,’ said Nicolas. He turned it, making it shimmer. It was golden, and bore a garland of green stones and, on the lid, a coloured enamel miniature representing four Cupids freeing birds from a cage, with the words ‘Cupid the engraver’ and four lines of verse:

  In childhood love dreams

  That when the birds are freed

  To our hearts it seems

  That pleasure is what we need