The Saint-Florentin Murders

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  ‘Just imagine, Monsieur, twenty feet underground, directly below where we are now, there are different kinds of dungeons, veritable tombs. Can you see these narrow slits here and there? They’re skylights, which let in a feeble semblance of light, not into the dungeons, which have to be kept in total darkness, but into the passage that leads from one to the other. But if I were ever, by some misfortune, to find myself in such a deplorable situation, I think I’d prefer the tomb-like solitude of these cells rather than the communal room in the prison.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘The foulest excesses are committed on the prisoners’ very bodies. All kinds of vices are practised as a matter of course, and even in public. Simple decency forbids me to go into detail. I’m told that many prisoners are “simillimi faeminis moeres, stuprati e constupratores”, lost to all modesty.’

  ‘But who are the unfortunates who’ve been plunged into this hell?’

  ‘Do you need to ask?’ said the doctor, with bitter irony. ‘Minor offenders, guilty of street brawls, drunkenness, indecency, debauchery, and God knows what else. None is here after being convicted of the worst crimes in a regular court. They’re all here for what are called offences of disorder.’ He smiled. ‘Please don’t think that observation is directed at you. I can see how indignant these things make you feel, and I appreciate that.’

  ‘But it should be directed at me,’ replied Nicolas. ‘At the beginning of my career I recall reading a report addressed to Monsieur de Sartine, who was then Lieutenant General of Police, which said that the prisoners at Bicêtre were there because of arrests made by the military police, courts martial, the Criminal Lieutenant, and local justices, especially for poaching. You can rest assured that I shall inform Monsieur Lenoir of the situation here.’

  ‘Nobody so far has ever taken the slightest steps to remedy such terrible conditions.’

  For a long time they were silent, while their presence continued to provoke a cacophony of cries and insults.

  ‘I think your gown has a lot to do with this welcome,’ observed Gévigland. ‘They recognise that you’re a commissioner … But I’ve taken up too much of your time. I’ll take you to the mother superior and she will point you in the direction of the gaolers who keep the registers.’

  An elegant staircase led them to the first floor of the central building. A nun hurried forward, making the flagstones resonate. Nicolas asked her to announce him to the mother superior, and took his leave of Monsieur de Gévigland. He was admitted into a small cell in which the only furniture consisted of a deal table and two stools. A short woman shrouded in black veils was looking at him, her hands in her sleeves.

  ‘Many commissioners pass through this house,’ she said in a high-pitched voice, ‘but few have asked to see me. Is this another inspection, like the one in 1770? Isn’t the charity dispensed by this establishment enough to justify its existence? Are you trying to pick a quarrel with us?’

  She made a gesture with her hand, as if swatting flies.

  ‘Don’t worry, Reverend Mother,’ replied Nicolas, ‘I haven’t come to Bicêtre for an inspection. In connection with a case I’m investigating, I need to find someone I believe is currently in this house.’

  ‘A madman or a patient?’ she asked curtly.

  ‘A patient, according to our sources. Admitted in the last six or eight months. His name is Anselme Vitry, he was a gardener in Popincourt, and he’s between twenty and thirty years of age.’

  ‘Did he come here of his own free will, or was he brought here by the military police? That’s an important point.’

  ‘Without being absolutely sure, I would incline to the second hypothesis.’

  She clapped her hands. The nun who had ushered Nicolas in immediately appeared and received instructions from her superior.

  ‘Do you know the Duchamplan family, Reverend Mother?’ asked Nicolas.

  She seemed to relax as soon as she heard this name. ‘Of course! Monsieur Duchamplan the elder is an administrator of Bicêtre, and we can always count on his benevolence. As for his sister, Louise of the Annunciation, of the Daughters of Saint Michel, we sometimes write to one another. Occasionally, she sends us unfortunate creatures to treat, and sometimes, in her great compassion, she takes in patients of ours who’ve been cured.’

  ‘You must surely also have met her younger brother?’

  She laughed. ‘Such a charming boy! He sometimes comes to visit our patients. He talks to them and brings them treats.’

  ‘Isn’t that a somewhat unusual activity for a young man of his age?’

  ‘Charity has no age,’ she said, testily.

  The nun came back into the cell. ‘The commissioner must come with me to the clerk’s office.’

  ‘I shall not detain you, Monsieur,’ said the mother superior.

  He bowed to her and left the room.

  The clerk, an unassuming man, eventually found Anselme Vitry in the registers. Some marginal annotations beside his name cast light on his situation. Arrested during a raid on a brothel in the company of an infected girl, he had been brought to Bicêtre. There, it had been found that he was not suffering from the disease. As they were not sure what to do with him, he had been freed after a short stay in the house of detention.

  ‘I remember him well, Commissioner,’ said the clerk. ‘He would tell his story to anyone who’d listen. That he’d been betrayed by his fiancée, that he’d felt so desperate he’d left his house, his parents and his beloved garden. But he was lucky, the rascal.’

  ‘In what way, my friend, did this luck manifest itself?’

  ‘A gentleman who often visits us took an interest in his fate. And as this gentleman was looking for a coachman and Anselme knew how to handle horses, he ended up hiring him.’

  ‘Can you tell me the name of this unexpected saviour?’

  The man again consulted his register. ‘His name is Monsieur Duchamplan.’

  *

  Nicolas rewarded the clerk and left Bicêtre. For a long time, he had the feeling that the foul stench of the place was following him about. So, as he had foreseen, a new suspect had emerged in the case of the murder of Marguerite Pindron. However, this discovery, far from simplifying his conducting of the investigation, was leading him down some disquieting paths. A definite connection had been established between the victim’s former fiancé and the major-domo’s family. It was now all the more vital to question Eudes Duchamplan, and also to track down young Vitry. Nicolas ordered his coachman to return to the Grand Châtelet. On his arrival, Old Marie told him in a low voice that a strange visitor was waiting for him in the duty office. There, he was greeted as soon as he entered by a man with a sickly face, wearing a beaver hat, whom he knew well, having benefited from his help on a previous case.

  ‘Good day to you, Monsieur Restif,’ he said, removing his black gown. ‘Has “the owl” trapped some prey he would like to offer the police as a tribute?’

  ‘There’s no need to mock me, Monsieur Le Floch. Fate has pursued me since our last encounter. The roof of my lodging at the Presles mansion collapsed. I am now living in Rue du Fouarre. I am pursued by creditors demanding I pay off the debts of my last wife, who abandoned me, and reduce my publisher’s bankruptcy. In addition, I’m suffering the consequences of a nasty bout of the clap. As you know, I’m never in a brothel without a purpose. For years, I’ve been seriously engaged in a rational organisation of vice in Paris: in a word, bringing order to disorder.’

  Nicolas knew that, if he did not intervene, he was in for a long sermon. ‘Yes,’ he cut in, ‘we know you’re determined that order and morality should reign in our streets, and we appreciate it, believe me. But have you something particular to confide in me?’

  Restif de la Bretonne lowered his head and looked down at his dog-eared shoes. His demeanour was a surprise to Nicolas, who was accustomed to the fellow being boastful.

  At last, Restif made up his mind to speak. ‘As you know, I’m in the habit of roaming the streets
of this vast capital in the middle of the night. I try to do good, and sometimes manage to save a poor girl from perdition. A week ago, on the corner of Rue Pavée and Rue de Savoie, I saw a man running after a girl of about twenty. You can imagine the kind of thing he was saying to her. She seemed more curious than lost. I approached and introduced myself as usual. I told the man he was committing a terrible act, he’d even gone so far as to suggest … I spoke to the girl about honour and modesty and implored her not to yield to the corrupter. The man went off to other base acts, and the girl cursed me, told me to leave her alone, and ran away … Imagine my surprise, on the night of Sunday to Monday, as I was looking at the river at the end of Impasse Glatigny, to discover on the steps leading down to the water the body of that same girl, with her throat cut.’

  ‘Why didn’t you call the watch immediately?’

  ‘Nothing could have brought her back to life, and where she was she was sure to be discovered as soon as the sun rose. But … you know my little ways … I couldn’t resist … they were so delightful …’

  From his brown woollen frock coat, he took a pair of dancing shoes similar to those worn by Marguerite Pindron, and of the same elegant workmanship.

  ‘The interest of what you’ve brought me somewhat tempers my anger at the fact that you concealed information and clues from the King’s police force,’ said Nicolas. ‘Are you aware how great a sin that is?’

  ‘I dare to hope, Commissioner,’ replied Restif, hypocritically, ‘that the interest of my words, and what I still have to tell you, will appease your legitimate annoyance.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Not only did I recognise the girl, but I have a description of the man who was talking to her.’

  ‘As far as the girl’s concerned,’ replied Nicolas, impassively, ‘you’re not off the hook yet. You’ll have to come with me to the Basse-Geôle to identify the body, and take a look at another.’

  ‘Will I be able to see the feet?’

  Nicolas shrugged in exasperation. ‘That’s enough, Monsieur! Just carry on, I’m listening.’

  ‘The corrupter in Rue Pavée,’ he said, rubbing his hands, ‘was not unknown to me. This wasn’t the first time I’d caught him at these vile activities.’

  ‘Do you know his name?’

  ‘Oh, no. Nor can I describe him, for he habitually wears a cloak with the collar turned up and his hat pulled right down. On the other hand, I’ve twice managed to follow him. He uses a cab and, would you believe, drives it himself.’

  ‘Would you by any chance have noticed the number?’

  ‘Indeed I did,’ said Restif triumphantly. ‘It’s 34 NPP.’

  Nicolas gave a start. Could it really be that, by some incredible coincidence, the cab he had taken to go to Popincourt, the number of which echoed his own age, had been driven by someone involved in this grim affair? Sometimes, a detective’s luck depended on coincidence.

  ‘Do you think he picks up women for himself?’

  ‘Hardly! My instinct tells me he’s part of a group. In fact, I’m convinced of it. The brothel-keepers probably know more about this than I do. They’re the ones you should ask.’

  There was a knock at the door of the duty office. It opened and the merry faces of Sanson and Semacgus appeared. Restif turned pale when he recognised the executioner, and had to sit down as if he were about to faint. Nicolas drew his friends into the gallery and asked Old Marie to give the visitor a shot of his herbal remedy.

  ‘My dear friends, you both look very cheerful. And you seem in a hurry to tell me something.’

  ‘Very definitely,’ said Sanson. ‘The doctor and I have continued our examination of the two victims, and we’ve been able to make an observation which we’re sure will surprise you.’

  ‘An observation,’ said Semacgus, ‘that would have been surprising in only one victim, but in two …’

  ‘Gentlemen, tell me what you have to say, I’m undergoing tortures just listening to you.’

  ‘In the stomachs of the two victims, we found traces of their last meals.’

  ‘Is that all?’ said Nicolas, stamping his feet with impatience.

  ‘Without Monsieur Semacgus, who has been around the world, and whose knowledge of botany is considerable, I wouldn’t have known what it was. But undigested fibre is not all that common.’

  ‘To cut a long story short,’ said Semacgus, ‘they had both been gorging themselves on pineapples. Now in this part of the world, even cultivated in a greenhouse, this bromelia doesn’t always ripen well, which can make it hard to digest. Whether we may conclude from this that they were both in the same place, I leave to a certain highly able commissioner at the Châtelet to determine.’

  Nicolas was silent for a moment. ‘What would I do without the two of you? Semacgus, where can one find greenhouse pineapples in Paris?’

  ‘At the Jardin du Roi, certainly. In some aristocratic mansions and, outside the walls, in certain private houses.’

  Now Bourdeau appeared, followed by Rabouine. Nicolas suddenly remembered that Restif was waiting. They went to fetch him, and a long procession wound through the bowels of the old feudal castle. It did not take Restif long to identify the girl from Impasse Glatigny. To be even more certain, Nicolas had the shoes tried on the corpse. They were also found to match the ones discovered in the roasting room of the Saint-Florentin mansion. Restif had recovered his spirits and was watching these experiments with an expression of ecstasy. He was unable to identify the other body. He was ceremoniously conducted to the entrance of the Grand Châtelet, where he immediately melted into the crowd. The conference resumed in the duty office. Nicolas informed those who had not been present what he had just learnt from ‘the owl’.

  ‘In order to restrict the search,’ he said, ‘I suggest we rule out the aristocratic mansions and the Jardin du Roi. We can always go back to them if our search proves fruitless. Given that the corpses have been discovered in Paris, the solution lies in the city or in the faubourgs.’

  ‘What are your immediate intentions?’ asked Bourdeau. ‘Any instructions?’

  ‘Following Restif’s advice, I’m going to pay a little visit to the Dauphin Couronné. I want to find out a little more about these Parisian parties and the people who organise them. I’m sure La Présidente will be able to tell me something on the subject. As for you, Pierre, I’d like you to investigate Monsieur Bourdier, the engineer who lives at the corner of Rue des Canettes. He’s needed for some top-secret work. Monsieur de Sartine wants to know if he can count on the man’s loyalty.’ He looked at his watch; it was two thirty. ‘Let’s meet here again at seven.’

  Nicolas got back to his carriage. He noted that a new young messenger boy had replaced the old one, who had shot up and now served the Secretary of State for the Navy. In passing, he also observed that Rue Royale was being cleared, and that the stones and trenches which had caused the terrible disaster of 1770 had completely disappeared. The door of the Dauphin Couronné brought back memories of his early years in Paris. The little black girl who used to open the door to him was now a tall young woman who greeted him joyfully and threw her arms around his neck.

  ‘Madame will be pleased to see Monsieur!’

  Her words surprised him somewhat, for his relations with La Présidente had always been quite distant – although he was grateful to her, of course, for her indiscretion in London, without which he would never have discovered that he was a father.

  He thought he had gone back ten years into the past. There, on an upholstered chaise longue, lay La Paulet, the former mistress of the place, enveloped in a satin chenille with a flowery pattern, apparently asleep. Her slack face revealed her ravaged, distended flesh, in whose folds, as always, the top layers of cream and rouge had cracked. Her dressing gown had slipped, revealing monstrously swollen legs, wrapped in bands of pink fabric. He felt as if he were in front of a flower stall in the market from which a pair of swollen feet stuck out incongruously, spilling over the sides of he
r soft leather slippers. He coughed, to announce himself. The mass shook itself, and all at once he saw those familiar inquisitive little eyes. An ambiguous smile lit up her face. She lifted her wig and scratched her ivory-white cranium. He remembered that in the old days she would take great care of what remained of her hair, massaging it every day with ointment of beef extract and orange flower water. The years had passed …

  She guessed what he was thinking. ‘You’re peering at … my poor head,’ she said with her customary familiarity. ‘There were only a few tufts left. Now I just sponge it. No more vermin, no more scabs. Everything is clear. Damn it, don’t just stand there gawping! I know you’re surprised to see me. Yes, I’m back on duty and plan to make a few new appointments.’

  ‘But what about La Présidente?’

  ‘Oh, don’t talk to me about her! No sooner was she in the saddle than she started playing the grand lady, looking down her nose at everyone as if she was born in the chapter of Notre-Dame!’ She crossed herself. ‘Instead of running the business as I asked her, she lorded it over everyone, got drunk, spent her money on trifles. The way it was going, everything that had taken years of hard labour on my part to build up would soon have been frittered away.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘You know me. I don’t bear a grudge, but things had gone too far, and the bailiffs would have been at the door before long. I left my retreat and my poor people to save the house. Otherwise, ruin! You can’t imagine how hard it was to restore order. La Présidente had lost control, and everyone was taking advantage of her, to the detriment of the house’s reputation. Once Madame Disaster had been booted out, I got down to work despite my infirmities.’ She sighed. ‘Oh, how I miss La Satin!’

  ‘But you seem to be in rude health,’ said Nicolas. ‘You’ve put on a little weight perhaps, but your complexion is just as rosy.’

  ‘That’s very bold of you to make fun of me! All this is your fault. Did you have to make La Satin desert me? I was too good-hearted. And why did you thrust me into the arms of your smooth-talking master, that Monsieur de Noblecourt I didn’t know from Adam? He really hoodwinked me, that one! Madame Paulet here, Madame Paulet there. I should have stuck to my path, which is to believe only what I find out for myself and not listen to yarns. He played on old Paulet, staking everything on my goodness: my affection for the boy, my concern to please an old friend like you. And to what end? Here I am, plunged back into business and putting my immortal soul at risk.’