The Châtelet Apprentice

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  Receiving no reply she became worried, turning to stare into the shadows.

  ‘Who are you? Who allowed you to enter?’

  Nicolas pushed the door shut and removed his hat. She let out a faint cry and restrained herself from rushing into his arms.

  ‘I see, Isabelle, that now I truly am a stranger at Ranreuil.’

  ‘Can it be you, Monsieur? How dare you come here after all that you have done?’

  Nicolas looked bemused.

  ‘What have I done, except trust you, Isabelle? Fifteen months ago I had to obey your father and my guardian, and leave without saying goodbye to you. You were, it seems, in Nantes, staying with your aunt. That’s what I was told. I left and during all these months that I’ve been alone in Paris, not a word, not a single reply to my letters.’

  ‘Monsieur, I am the one with grounds for complaint.’

  Nicolas’s anger grew in the face of such an unfair remark.

  ‘I thought you had given me your word. I was very foolish to believe someone so unfaithful, someone …’

  He stopped, out of breath. Isabelle looked at him, petrified. Her sea-blue eyes were brimming with tears, whether of anger or of shame he did not know.

  ‘Monsieur, you seem very skilled in reversing roles.’

  ‘Your irony hurts me, but you are the unfaithful one. You are the one who made me leave.’

  ‘Unfaithful? In what way? These words are beyond me. Unfaithful …’

  Nicolas began to pace around the room, then suddenly stopped in front of a portrait of a Ranreuil who stared sternly at him from his oval frame.

  ‘They’re all the same, century after century …’ he muttered under his breath.

  ‘What are you talking about, and what has it to do with us? Do you think he’s going to come down from his frame and reply to your soliloquising?’

  Isabelle suddenly seemed to him frivolous and detached.

  ‘Unfaithful, yes, you. Unfaithful,’ Nicolas repeated sombrely, drawing closer to her.

  He stood over her, furious, reddening, with fists clenched. She was frightened and burst out sobbing. Once again he saw the little girl whose childhood sorrows he used to console and his anger subsided.

  ‘Isabelle, what is happening to us?’ he asked, taking her by the hand.

  The young woman huddled against him. He kissed her.

  ‘Nicolas,’ she stammered, ‘I love you. But my father told me you were going to Paris to be married. I didn’t want to see you again. I made it known that I was in Nantes, at my aunt’s. I couldn’t believe that you had broken our oath. I felt lost.’

  ‘How could you have believed such a thing?’

  The suffering that had tormented him for so many months suddenly vanished in a burst of happiness. Tenderly he held Isabelle to him. They did not hear the door open.

  ‘That will do. You forget yourself, Nicolas …’ said a voice behind him.

  It was the Marquis de Ranreuil, hunting whip in hand.

  For an instant the three figures seemed rooted to the spot like statues. Had time stopped? Was this eternity? Then, everything restarted. Nicolas was to retain a terrible memory of this scene, one that would haunt him at night from then on. He let go of Isabelle and slowly turned to face his godfather.

  The two men were the same height and their anger made them even more painfully alike. The marquis was the first to speak.

  ‘Nicolas, I want you to leave Isabelle alone.’

  ‘Monsieur, I love her,’ replied the young man in a low tone.

  He drew closer to her. She looked at each of them in turn.

  ‘Father, you misled me!’ she exclaimed. ‘Nicolas loves me and I love him.’

  ‘Isabelle, that is enough. Leave us. I must speak with this young man.’

  Isabelle put her hand on Nicolas’s arm and squeezed it. At this heartfelt gesture, he turned pale and faltered. She rushed out, gathering up her flowing dress.

  Ranreuil, who had regained his customary calm, said in a low voice:

  ‘Nicolas, please understand that all this pains me greatly.’

  ‘Monsieur, I understand nothing.’

  ‘I no longer wish you to see Isabelle. Do you understand?’

  ‘I understand, Monsieur, that I am nothing but a foundling, taken in by a good man and that I must disappear.’

  He sighed.

  ‘But know, Monsieur, that I would have laid down my life for you.’

  He bowed and was preparing to leave when the marquis stopped him, grasping him by the shoulders.

  ‘My godson, you cannot understand. Trust me, one day you will. I cannot explain anything to you now.’

  Ranreuil suddenly seemed old and tired. Nicolas freed himself and left.

  At four o’clock the young man galloped away from Guérande with no hope of ever returning. All he was leaving there was a coffin still awaiting burial and an old woman crying in a grief-stricken house. He was also leaving behind his childhood and his illusions. He would never think back on this senseless journey home.

  Like a sleepwalker, he passed through forests and rivers, towns and villages, stopping only to change horses. However, sheer exhaustion forced him to take the fast mail-coach to Chartres.

  It was the very day on which old Émilie had spied two suspicious-looking individuals in Montfaucon.

  III

  DISAPPEARANCES

  Y quieren que adivine

  Y que no vea …

  And they want him to guess

  Without being able to see …

  FRANCISCO DE QUEVEDO Y VILLEGAS

  Sunday 4 February 1761

  Entering Paris brought Nicolas back to earth with a jolt. He emerged from a long period of torpor.

  Darkness had fallen long before the mail-coach reached the central post office in Place du Chevalier-au-Guet. His carriage had been delayed because of the waterlogged and sometimes flooded state of the roads. The Paris he was returning to was one he had never seen before. Despite the weather and the lateness of the hour, a wave of madness was engulfing the whole city. He was straight away surrounded, jostled, overwhelmed and taunted by groups of yelling revellers. Laughing beneath their masks, they cavorted around and got up to all sorts of mischief.

  A procession in cassocks, surplices and square caps mimicked the funeral rites of a straw dummy. A wretch dressed as a priest and wearing a stole imitated the celebrant. All around them were prostitutes pretending to be pregnant nuns, weeping and wailing. The whole cortege advanced by torchlight, blessing the spectators with a pig’s trotter dipped in dirty water. Everyone seemed caught up in the frenzy and the women were by far the most daring.

  A masked prostitute threw herself on Nicolas, kissed him and whispered in his ear ‘you look as grim as death’ as she handed him a grinning skeleton’s mask. He quickly freed himself from her embrace and went off under a hail of abuse.

  Carnival had begun. From now until Ash Wednesday, the nights would be given over to riotous youths mingling with the rabble.

  Shortly before Christmas Monsieur de Sartine had brought together all the commissioners of the districts, and Nicolas, although in the background, had been present at this council of war. After his bitter experience of the scandalous excesses that had marked the carnival of 1760, the first after his appointment, the Lieutenant General had no wish to see a repetition of events that had worried even the King. Fines and arrests were no longer adequate. Everything had to be anticipated and brought under control; every cog in the police machine had to function with absolute efficiency.

  Now that he was confronted with the realities of the night, Nicolas understood Monsieur de Sartine’s words better. All along his route bawdiness was the order of the day. He soon regretted not following the prostitute’s advice by putting on a mask. Had he worn the same garb as the revellers, he would have passed unnoticed; he would not have had to brush with rampaging gangs who broke windows, extinguished lanterns and performed all sorts of dangerous pranks.

  These ar
e real saturnalia, thought Nicolas, noting how everything had been turned upside down. Prostitution, which was normally confined to a few specially designated areas, showed its various faces with total impunity. Night became day with its rowdiness, singing, masks, music, intrigues and enticements.

  The Saint-Avoye district, which included Rue des Blancs-Manteaux, seemed calmer. Nicolas was amazed to see the Lardins’ residence extensively lit up as the commissioner and his wife rarely had guests, and never in the evening. The door was not locked so he did not need to use his key. He heard a loud conversation echoing from the library. The door was open, and he went in. Madame Lardin had her back to him. She was standing up and talking angrily to a short, burly man in a cloak. Nicolas recognised him as Monsieur Bourdeau, one of the inspectors at the Châtelet.

  ‘Don’t worry! Look here, Monsieur, the fact is I haven’t seen my husband since Friday morning. He hasn’t been home since … We were supposed to be having supper with my cousin, Dr Descart, in Vaugirard. It may well be that his duties have detained him overnight: I have the misfortune to be married to a man who never tells me what he does with his time. But three days and now almost three nights without news, I just can’t understand it …’

  She sat down and dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.

  ‘Something has happened to him. I know it has, I can sense it. What should I do, Monsieur? I’m desperate.’

  ‘Madame – I think I can tell you that Monsieur Lardin was assigned to uncover a clandestine gambling den. It’s a very delicate case. But here’s Monsieur Le Floch. He’ll be able to help me tomorrow if by any chance your husband does not reappear, though I am sure that he will.’

  Louise Lardin looked round, stood up and clasped her hands, dropping her handkerchief as she did so. Nicolas picked it up.

  ‘Oh! Nicolas, there you are. I’m so pleased to see you. I’m so alone and at my wits’ end. My husband has disappeared and … You will help me, Nicolas, won’t you?’

  ‘Madame, I’m happy to do so. But I share Monsieur Bourdeau’s opinion: the commissioner has doubtless been held up by this case, which I know something about myself – it does indeed involve some delicate matters. Rest yourself, Madame. It is late.’

  ‘Thank you, Nicolas. How is your guardian?’

  ‘He’s dead, Madame. I thank you for your concern.’

  With a sorrowful expression she held out her hand to him. He bowed. Louise Lardin left the room, without so much as a glance at the inspector.

  ‘You know how to calm down the ladies, Nicolas,’ he commented. ‘My compliments. I’m very sorry to hear about your guardian …’

  ‘Thank you. What’s your feeling? The commissioner is a creature of habit. He occasionally spends the night away from home but he always tells his wife in advance.’

  ‘Of habit … and of secrets. But the main thing for this evening was to allay his wife’s fears. You managed that better than I did.’

  Bourdeau studied Nicolas and smiled, his eyes sparkling with a kindly irony. In whom had Nicolas noticed the same expression? Perhaps in Sartine, who often looked at him in the same way. He blushed without picking up on Bourdeau’s words.

  The two men conversed a few moments more and agreed to decide their next move at dawn. Bourdeau took his leave. Nicolas was on his way up to his attic when Catherine, who had been listening to everything in the shadows, suddenly emerged. Her broad, snub-nosed face seemed pallid in the light of the candle.

  ‘Poor Nicolas. I pity you. How terribly sad. You are alone now. All goes badly, you know, here also. Very badly, very badly.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing. I know what I know. I am not deaf.’

  ‘If you know something you must tell me. Don’t you trust me any more? You want to add to my suffering. You’re heartless.’

  Nicolas immediately regretted his lack of sincerity towards the cook, whom he loved dearly.

  ‘Me, heartless? Nicolas cannot say that.’

  ‘Well then, Catherine, speak up. Remember that I haven’t slept for several days.’

  ‘Not slept? But, my little one, you must. Here, there has been a big argument between Monsieur and Madame last Thursday about Monsieur Descart, Madame’s cousin. Monsieur accused her of flirting with him.’

  ‘With that sanctimonious bigot?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Nicolas was pensive as he went back to his bedroom. As he unpacked his bag, he thought about what Catherine had said. Of course he knew Dr Descart, Louise Lardin’s cousin. He was a tall, lanky individual, who always reminded Nicolas of the wading birds in the marshes around Guérande. He did not like his receding profile, accentuated by the lack of a chin and a bony, hooked nose. He felt uncomfortable in his presence; with his preaching voice, his obsession with obscure quotations from the scriptures and his knowing nods, the man irritated Nicolas. How could the beautiful Madame Lardin allow herself to be taken in by someone like Descart? He was suddenly annoyed with himself for not being more concerned about Lardin’s fate and, with that, he fell asleep.

  Monday 5 February 1761

  It was early morning when he left the sleepy household. Only a glum and silent Catherine was up, relighting her kitchen stove. Evidently the commissioner had not returned. Nicolas made his way to the Châtelet via streets littered with rubbish from the night’s celebrations, like a receding tide. He even saw a clown in a soiled costume snoring amidst the filth in a carriage entrance. As soon as he arrived he set about writing two notes, one to Père Grégoire and the other to his friend Pigneau, to inform them of the canon’s death and of his own return. While he was taking the notes to the post office, the usual little Savoyard chimney sweep appeared with a message from Monsieur de Sartine, asking Nicolas to drop everything and come over to Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin.

  When he entered the Lieutenant General’s office Nicolas witnessed a strange spectacle. Sitting in his armchair, the most serious-minded man in France seemed deep in meditation, his brow furrowed. He kept crossing and uncrossing his legs, and tossing his head to the great despair of a hairdresser’s assistant who was attempting to arrange his hair into neat curls. Two manservants were opening oblong boxes and carefully removing different styles of wigs that they placed, one after the other, on a dummy clad in a scarlet dressing gown. All Paris knew that Monsieur de Sartine had a strange hobby: he was a passionate wig collector. Such an innocent quirk could be tolerated in a man who had no other known weakness. But on this particular morning he did not seem satisfied by the display and was muttering menacingly.

  Having protected Sartine’s face with a screen the assistant hairdresser applied large quantities of powder to his head, and Nicolas could not help smiling at the sight of his chief surrounded by a whitish cloud.

  ‘Monsieur, I am very pleased to see you,’ said Sartine. ‘Not before time. How is the marquis?’

  As usual Nicolas was careful not to reply. But for once, Sartine repeated his question.

  ‘How is he?’

  He gazed intently at Nicolas. The young man wondered if Sartine, who was always well informed, did not already know all that had happened in Guérande. He decided to remain vague.

  ‘Well, Monsieur.’

  ‘Leave us,’ said Sartine, dismissing the servants attending him with a wave of the hand.

  He leaned against his desk, a position he often adopted, and, most unusually, invited Nicolas to be seated.

  ‘Monsieur,’ he began, ‘I have been observing you for the past fifteen months and I have every reason to be satisfied with you. Do not get carried away, you know very little. But you are discreet, thoughtful and precise, which is essential in our profession. I shall come straight to the point. Lardin has disappeared. I do not know the exact circumstances and I have some grounds for concern. As you know, I exercised my discretion in assigning him to some special cases, and he was to report back only to me. Upon your life, Monsieur, do not breathe a word of what I am telling you in confidence. Lardin enjoys great freedo
m in all this. Too much freedom, perhaps. However, you are too observant not to have noticed that I do sometimes question his fidelity, do I not?’

  Nicolas nodded cautiously.

  ‘He is working on two cases,’ continued Sartine, ‘one of which is particularly delicate because it involves the reputation of my men. Berryer, my predecessor, dealt me this card, so to speak, when he left the position. I could have done without it. I must tell you, Monsieur, that Commissioner Camusot, the head of my Gaming Division and an essential cog in the police machine, has for years been suspected of protecting back-street gambling. Does he profit from it? Everyone knows that the dividing line between the necessary use of informers and unacceptable practices is a very fine one. Camusot has a henchman, a certain Mauval. He is a dangerous individual. Be wary of him. He acts as an intermediary to rig the card games with his agents. Then the police raids and arrests follow. And you know that, according to the regulations, the money confiscated …’

  He gave Nicolas a questioning nod.

  ‘A portion of the sums confiscated goes to the police officers,’ said Nicolas.

  ‘There speaks a true pupil of Monsieur de Noblecourt! My compliments. Lardin was also working on another case, which I cannot tell you about. All you need to know and remember is that it is, in a way, beyond us. You do not appear particularly surprised by what I’ve said. Why must I speak to you like this?’

  He opened his snuffbox, then snapped it shut, without taking a pinch.

  ‘The truth is,’ he went on, ‘I have no choice in the matter, and I have to confess that in this instance I am forced to try a new tack. I have here a special commission for you that will give you full powers of investigation and the ability to call on the assistance of the authorities. I will inform the criminal lieutenant and the lieutenant of the watch. As for the district police commissioners, you already know them all. Respect the conventions, however: be firm with them, but do not get into open conflict. Don’t forget that you are representing me. Solve this mystery for me, for a mystery it seems to be. Set to work immediately. Begin with the night reports, which are often very revealing. You will have to learn how to compare them and piece things together, even if they at first seem unconnected.’