The Saint-Florentin Murders

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  ‘Bourdeau likes people to try and kill you just so that he can save you,’ said Semacgus, provoking general laughter.

  ‘Well, now, my bloodhounds,’ said Nicolas, ‘any news?’

  ‘First,’ said Bourdeau, ‘about the sweet box, because that’s what it in fact is. We went to the Johac mansion in Rue Saint-Merri, where there’s a large shop selling all kinds of precious boxes, including snuff boxes, in vast quantities, all different from one another and all in the latest fashions. I would never have thought there were so many, in gold, silver, enamel, pasteboard, shell, ivory, Irish leather, shagreen and God knows what else!’

  ‘I see you were dazzled.’

  ‘Shocked, rather, by this display of pointless luxury. What it all cost could have fed a great many starving mouths.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Semacgus sardonically, ‘here comes Rousseau again!’

  ‘You may mock, but the day will come … Well, now’s not the time. Anyway, we showed them the box. Although they weren’t absolutely sure, they all thought it was the work of a master. One of the assistants, the oldest of them, suggested that although there was no signature, it might be from the hand of Robert-Joseph Auguste, a highly regarded maker, who lives in Rue de la Monnaie. We found him and questioned him. He’s a silversmith who supplies the leading courts of Europe. He formally identified his work from his hallmark, the pointer’s head.’

  ‘But who was the buyer?’

  ‘I’m coming to that,’ said Bourdeau, amused by Nicolas’s impatience. ‘This is going to surprise you. The box turns out to have been ordered by the Comte de Saint-Florentin, Duc de La Vrillière, the current Minister of the King’s Household.’

  ‘Let’s take things one at a time. Was he sure it was him?’

  ‘No, because he didn’t come in person. He sent a messenger. But Auguste, who appears to know the Court, recognised this messenger as a person of quality. In addition, he paid the full amount in one go.’

  ‘Which is not always characteristic of a gentleman these days,’ remarked Nicolas with a smile. ‘Did he provide you with a description?’

  ‘Medium height, a haughty expression, bulging eyes, expensive clothes. Powdered wig.’

  ‘That won’t get us very far! But good work all the same!’

  ‘I have something even more curious, if possible,’ said Rabouine, straightening his thin body. ‘That particular wagon only covers the left bank of the river. It leaves from Pont des Tournelles. We found the driver. Where? At the police station in the Port aux Tuiles. He told us a really unbelievable story …’

  ‘Yet another one!’

  ‘This morning, about one or one thirty, he got down to pass water near the Fort des Tournelles. He had already begun his shift outside the walls. He exchanged a few words with a man who wanted a light for his pipe. To thank him, this individual offered to buy him a drink in a low tavern. Our driver claims to have drunk too much and can’t remember anything else after that. He came to on the river bank, stripped of his clothes and money, surrounded by boys and outraged women shouting, “What a mess!” He was taken to the police station, but couldn’t give any other details.’

  ‘To cut a long story short,’ said Bourdeau, ‘he can’t throw any light on what happened to his load. The fact remains that an unknown person, having got the driver drunk, stripped him and presumably put on his clothes to deceive the night watchman on Île des Cygnes. What about the next stops on the itinerary? you will ask. The wagon didn’t stop to pick up anything between Quai Saint-Bernard and the Gros Caillou, much to everyone’s surprise.’

  ‘But how in heaven’s name,’ said Semacgus, ‘could the guard at the incinerator on Île des Cygnes not notice anything?’

  ‘He’s half asleep by the time he opens the gate. It was pitch dark. There was a new moon.’

  Nicolas consulted the calendar in the Almanach royal for 1774, which as usual was lying on the table. ‘That’s correct, new moon on 5 October, the feast day of Sainte Aure, the abbess. Well, gentlemen, I’m very pleased with your work. Let’s sum up. The body was dumped on the wagon between one and one thirty, two at the latest, by an unknown person who got rid of the driver. Bearing in mind the estimate of the time given by Dr Semacgus here, I think we can state without too much fear of contradiction that the murder was committed somewhere quite close to Quai des Tournelles.’

  ‘Unless,’ said Bourdeau, ‘it was taken there to put us off the scent.’

  Semacgus seemed puzzled. ‘I wonder about this elaborate staging. They could have just hidden the body, if they wanted to be sure it would go into the incinerator.’

  ‘That’s precisely what the criminal didn’t want,’ replied Nicolas. ‘If he had let the wagon do its usual round, the body of the unfortunate victim would have been well hidden and would never have attracted attention and been discovered. Of course, there was still a risk it might not have been, but the gamble paid off and the body was found. It’s also obvious that whoever did this knew that the round existed. All of which brings us back to the idea that the solution to this mystery can be found in the area of Pont des Tournelles.’

  ‘Water,’ Semacgus went on, ‘and consequently the river, are ever present in this case. What our friends here don’t know is that the body of the victim, who was raped, was covered with evaporated soapy water. What do you make of that?’

  At this point, Old Marie appeared, bearing Nicolas’s beautiful grey coat, now perfectly cleaned. Nicolas checked that the bloodstains had left no trace that might have condemned Master Vachon’s masterpiece to the attentions of the second-hand clothes dealers. The art of the cleaners was more than a match for the dangers of a dirty city. But Marie was shaking his head sadly.

  ‘I didn’t find anything about your foreigner, Monsieur Nicolas, although I looked in all the registers. He must have slipped through the net.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Nicolas. ‘His name is Francis Sefton, and he arrived in Paris on about 20 September. He’s passing himself off as a racehorse merchant. And for good measure, let me tell you that the lover of Marguerite Pindron is very likely to have been young Duchamplan, first name Eudes.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ said Bourdeau. ‘Where did you find that out?’

  ‘It was all thanks to Dr Semacgus’s knowledge of the Norman accent.’

  *

  The doctor invited the company to dinner at an inn in Rue Montorgueil chosen as much for its reputation for good food as for its proximity to Noblecourt’s house. He did not want to tire Nicolas out, knowing how trying his night and day had been. At first, the conversation of the four guests continued to turn around the case that had brought them together. A hamper of oysters gave Nicolas the opportunity to assert that he loved this mollusc when it was white and fat, which scandalised the rest of the table, except for Semacgus, who did not give an opinion, but merely stated that he could not imagine any other joy for the oyster than health, which pleased everyone. A macaroni pie followed. The final course was a dish of sheep’s tongues in parcels, which they enjoyed so much that the host was treated to a drink and asked to conform to tradition and detail all the stages of the making of this delight. What you had to do, he said, was cut the tongues in half and fry them in a little oil with parsley, chopped shallots, diced chives and mushrooms, salt, pepper and nutmeg. When they had cooled, you had to place them, one by one, between thick slices of bacon then wrap them in paper. Once they were wrapped, you grilled them and served them when they were simmering. As a final touch, before serving you sprinkled a little veal juice over them. Wild applause greeted this poem, before a dish of late vineyard peaches appeared to refresh both mouths and heads. Semacgus accompanied Nicolas back to Rue Montmartre, where only Catherine was still up, dozing by the fireplace in the servants’ pantry. He did not wake her, but was unable to escape the vigilance of Mouchette, who spat at him, doubtless angered by an absence she found unacceptable. But she was not one to bear a grudge; no sooner had Nicolas got into bed than he heard her purr and felt her we
ight on his chest and her little cold nose come to rest against his cheek. He fell asleep immediately.

  Saturday 8 October 1774

  Nicolas rose refreshed by a dreamless sleep. Catherine, who was shocked by nothing after the horrors of war, changed his plaster and bombarded him with questions. Given the hour, Monsieur de Noblecourt had not yet rung, so Nicolas wrote him a little note to reassure him and to give him a brief summary of the progress of his investigation. As he was planning to visit Bicêtre, he would have to appear in a manner befitting the solemnity of his office. He put on his black magistrate’s gown. The width and length of the sleeves allowed him to conceal two loaded pistols. He gave up the idea of wearing a wig, which would compress his wound and stop it healing. He took his ivory rod, the symbol of his authority.

  Before he left, it occurred to him that the presence of Lord Ashbury demanded a degree of caution. In spite of his cumbersome attire, he would have to leave Noblecourt’s house by an unusual route. With Poitevin’s help, he placed a ladder against the wall between Noblecourt’s garden and that of the neighbouring house. Thanks to this ploy, he was able to leave through a carriage entrance leading to Rue du Jour, opposite the convent of the Daughters of Sainte Agnès.

  From there, he got to Rue Coquillière, where he hired a cab for the day. He left Paris through Faubourg Saint-Marceau, which was just waking up. He was struck once again by the hustle and bustle of the countless taverns serving adulterated brandy, cheap wine and cider to a sinister-looking collection of characters – and sometimes even to children.

  Barely a league separated Bicêtre from the centre of Paris. Nicolas, leaning out of the window, suddenly saw on the horizon a huge building on the top of a hill to the right of the road to Fontainebleau. From that distance, the hospital looked like a palace, its bright mass towering over the surrounding countryside with its vineyards, windmills, and, in the distance, the Seine. It seemed to Nicolas that this ideal location must be of great benefit to the sick. The air there must be pure, not to be compared with the miasma enveloping hospitals in the city. But he changed his mind when he began gradually to smell a stench that reminded him of the great knacker’s yard at Montfaucon and the incinerator on Île des Cygnes.

  His carriage arrived at the main entrance just as an elegant coupé was coming to a halt ahead of it. A man dressed all in black got out and gave him a friendly wave. As Nicolas approached, he recognised Dr de Gévigland, who had treated Jean Missery at the Saint-Florentin mansion. He took off his tricorn and returned the doctor’s greeting.

  ‘I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon,’ he said. ‘I’m more delighted than I can say. Have you come to see a patient?’

  The doctor smiled but appeared embarrassed. ‘Believe it or not,’ he murmured, ‘I’ve come to buy a few corpses.’

  Nicolas, hardened by his experience of the Basse-Geôle, did not bat an eyelid. ‘For anatomical purposes, I assume?’

  Gévigland’s black eyes grew even more sombre, as if drowning in sadness. ‘Alas, I wish that were the case, but it so happens that for a long time now I’ve been studying the bodies of those suffering from venereal diseases or, more precisely, I’ve been performing autopsies in order to assess the side-effects of the remedies inflicted on them, from which, most of the time, they die. Sometimes, the cure is deadlier than the disease.’

  ‘What methods do they use here?’

  ‘Rubbing with mercury ointment, sulphur baths and a prolonged diet. Patients are immersed four at a time for several hours in the same bathtub, because there aren’t enough of them. Nor is there enough access to water. One single very deep well, inadequate channels, and thousands of inmates! Is this your first visit here?’

  ‘My duties have never brought me here before. All I know is that Bicêtre is both a prison and a hospital.’

  ‘A prison for the most repulsive dregs of humanity, a hospital for the most terrible of diseases, and a tomb for the incurably insane. May I suggest you visit the place in my company, unless you’re here on urgent business …?’

  ‘I’m here in connection with my investigation into the case with which you are familiar. I am looking for a man who’s suffering from venereal disease, the victim’s former fiancé. Is he still here? I have no idea. In the meantime, I’ll gladly follow you.’

  ‘Leave it to me, I know everyone here. The house is run by a mother superior who has officiating nuns and an army of assistants at her command. Admittedly, the population of this place fluctuates during the year. In winter, it can reach four thousand five hundred.’

  With a pang in his heart, Nicolas followed his guide, who explained to him in measured tones the terrible scenes that appeared before them. The hospital, which they visited first, housed individuals infected with venereal disease. The wards were filled with rows of beds that seemed to stretch to infinity. He noted that each bed often contained five or six unfortunates stagnating in their own excrement. The atmosphere was so stifling that he was almost overcome with nausea. Hideously cankered creatures crawled across the floor towards the visitors and held out their hands.

  ‘They prefer the hard floor,’ said Gévigland, ‘to the infection and filth of the beds.’

  ‘Are they forced to take refuge in this hell?’ asked Nicolas, appalled.

  ‘The police pick them up in places of ill repute. Others come of their own accord. Some reserve their places a long time in advance, when they’re still only suffering light symptoms. By the time they finally get here, the disease has often reached its deadliest stage.’

  ‘Do any of them ever recover?’

  ‘Yes, sometimes. But I should point out that it’s the rule in this hospital that recovery must occur within a given time. Unfortunately, the disease itself doesn’t play by the rules. The result is that the patient, after being tormented with useless remedies, leaves without being cured. You can imagine the consequences!’

  They entered a series of long, echoing galleries. Through the windows, the great well in the central courtyard could be seen. They climbed some steps, descended others, and finally reached the area for the insane and the common prisoners. Gévigland gave his name, and the gate to the insane enclosure was opened.

  ‘Here begins the final circle of hell,’ he said. ‘Everything you’ve seen so far was nothing. This isn’t a hospital, it’s a freak show. The worst part of it is that the sane prisoners are mixed with the mad. This means that men who are in any case despised for their conduct, have to bear, in addition to their sentence, the aggression and insults of the insane. As a result, a stay in this house of detention often becomes a slow descent into madness.’

  ‘What do the doctors do?’

  ‘You must be joking! They’ve never had any doctors. Worse still, the place has become a kind of theatre for fashionable society. From time to time, for a little money to the guards, people who like that kind of thing come to feast their eyes on these degrading visions. Being treated as objects of curiosity causes slight signs of madness to degenerate into paroxysms of frenzy. They start out mad and end up rabid. Some of these visitors treat them as if they were wild beasts in cages, teasing them and provoking their fury. You have to see it to believe it.’

  ‘To think that I, a commissioner at the Châtelet, knew nothing of these horrors!’ said Nicolas, his blood running cold with revulsion.

  Their presence unleashed a pandemonium of cries and obscene gestures.

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ replied the doctor. ‘For many Parisians, especially among those of the highest rank and the most enlightened, the cruelties committed at the very gates of the city are as foreign as those of the savage populations in the New World.’

  ‘What about the Church?’ asked Nicolas.

  ‘The opinion of the Church is that the patients should be grateful for the charity shown them and that the prisoners must expiate their sins. You have to understand that everyone follows the logic of his own viewpoint. The philosophers obviously protest at prisoners and madmen being put
together. But in their sensitive humanity, they’re interested – with justification – in what happens to the prisoners, but they ignore how badly the insane are treated, with the horrors of prison added to the terrible burden of their condition. Everyone agrees they should be hidden away and prevented from harming others, but it might be more sensible to understand them and treat them.’

  They proceeded to a building reserved for young children. Gévigland explained to Nicolas that only those aged under twelve were kept there.

  ‘You mean, I suppose,’ said Nicolas, ‘that this is part of the hospital, and that these are orphans who’ve been brought here through public charity.’

  ‘Not a bit of it. They’re actually prisoners, and the parents of these wretches are still alive.’

  ‘I’m astonished that creatures of that age can become the victims of laws of which they know nothing and which they wouldn’t understand even if they’d known of them. If they’ve committed punishable acts, they should be sent back to their parents to be chastised by them.’

  ‘But these children haven’t broken the laws of the kingdom in any way. They’re only guilty of small domestic misdemeanours. It’s their parents who’ve placed them here.’

  ‘And I assume this terrible treatment doesn’t reform them?’

  ‘You assume correctly. They usually leave prison worse than when they came in. A hundred times worse. Even separated into cells, they can at least hear each other, corrupt each other with their words, urge each other to vice. In this way, blind parents themselves become the instruments of their own children’s depravity and inflict on them the most refined as well as the most terrible of all punishments.’

  The worst still remained to be seen. The doctor led Nicolas to the centre of the hospital courtyard. The commissioner shuddered at the sight of the barred windows that overlooked it, behind which pale, hideous figures screamed insults.

  Gévigland stamped his foot on the cobbled ground.