The Châtelet Apprentice

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  The silence continued until Bourdeau, swearing under his breath, drew Nicolas’s attention to what was happening in the room. The two suspects had got up and after downing a last glass were on their way out of the tavern. The inspector whispered to Nicolas to count slowly up to thirty. Only then could they themselves leave without raising the alarm, and without running the risk of bumping into the men they were tailing. Bourdeau had given orders to their guide to keep a discreet eye on the two rogues as they left, so as not to lose track of them. He advised Nicolas to pretend to be drunk. They staggered to their feet, leaning on each other, and then left the seedy tavern, knocking into tables as they went.

  The cold took them by surprise. It had started snowing again. Bourdeau pointed to the footsteps in the snow and the impression left by the wooden leg. The weather was on their side: all they had to do was follow the tracks. They did not have far to walk; a few hundred feet from the tavern was the entrance to a dead-end, a narrow cart track with faggots of brushwood on either side. A shadowy figure pointed in the direction of the alleyway and disappeared. A wooden gate covered with some kind of awning closed off the access to a piece of land. Through the gaps in the fencing a massive warehouse or barn could be glimpsed in the darkness. No sound could be heard. The inspector whispered in Nicolas’s ear that if there were two ways out they ran the risk of letting their quarry get away, and since the constables had not yet arrived they had to act alone and straight away. Nicolas nodded his approval.

  Bourdeau pushed the gate gently. It opened with a creak. They groped their way into the enclosure. Immediately Nicolas felt a hood of coarse material being put over his head as the tip of a knife was pressed against his ribs. He heard a dull thud next to him followed by the sound of a body falling to the ground. A voice rang out:

  ‘Hell, this beggar’s had it. These loaded sticks are good for smashing heads in. We’ll see about the body later. Let’s get to work on his mate to find out what they were up to.’

  Hands tied, Nicolas was thrust forward. His head was covered with a sack tied tight round his neck, which was half choking him. He realised they were going into a building. Someone struck a light, and he was able to see dimly through the material. They sat him down on a stool and the sack was roughly pulled off him. A torch fastened to a ring on the stone wall lit up a barn cluttered with objects and assorted items of furniture. In the midst of this chaos he immediately recognised Semacgus’s elegant cabriolet. Despite his ordeal, he could not help thinking that at last he was nearing his goal or that at the very least a significant new stage had been reached.

  His next thought was for Bourdeau. Was he dead? Perhaps these would be his final reflections. He had to find a way of leaving a trace, a message, a clue. But how?

  In front of him stood a person of average height with thin, dirty-yellow hair and eyes of differing colours that reminded him of that suave young man who had stolen his watch when he had first come to Paris. His face was pitted with the marks of smallpox. He was pointing a large knife at Nicolas. The other person must have been standing back, and he could not see him.

  ‘Keep your pistol trained on him. Got to be careful. So, my young Monsieur, you’ve been following us. Grubbing around, eh? Let’s have a closer look at what you’re hiding.’

  He began to search Nicolas methodically. The young man was pleased he had left all his personal belongings behind at the Châtelet. He hoped that the little pistol tucked away inside the old frock coat would go unnoticed, but the man gave a triumphant grunt when he discovered it.

  ‘Well, what’s this, then? Look what I’ve just fished out.’

  He pushed the barrel of the weapon against Nicolas’s mouth so violently that his lip split. Nicolas tried to put him off the track.

  ‘Monsieur,’ he replied – and immediately regretted this mark of politeness that betrayed him – ‘my friend and I were looking for Monsieur Chauvel’s house. Could you tell me if it’s in these parts?’

  ‘Well, if this fine one here ain’t trying to have us on. I reckon he’s scared. You hear that, Bricart? Just look at them pretty little hands. All that don’t go with the rest. You wouldn’t be one of them spies by any chance? And dressed up for Carnival, to top it all!’

  Nicolas shuddered. The man did not even bother to disguise their names. It was a bad sign if he were really dealing with hardened criminals.

  The other man came nearer. He was older, and had a thick white moustache and a wooden right leg. His clothes were a strange combination of threadbare items of military kit and civilian rags. He was leaning on a cudgel and held a loaded pistol in his hand. He went up to Nicolas to sniff him and stayed by his side.

  ‘Smells of wallflowers. A real swell. Believe me, dear young Monsieur, your number’s up and you might as well tell us all you know. Give him a prod, Rapace.’

  ‘Ain’t I just going to make him spit it all out. I’ve got what it takes to make him blab.’

  He prodded Nicolas in the chest, right on his wound, which started to bleed again. The young man could not hold back a cry of pain.

  ‘And sensitive with it. Come on, talk. Talk or I’m going to bleed you …’

  Rapace was about to continue when there was a sharp, cracking sound. The barn door suddenly burst open and Bourdeau’s voice yelled out:

  ‘You’re surrounded! Don’t move. Throw your weapons down.’

  Bricart was flabbergasted and looked all around him, panic-stricken.

  ‘Keep calm! He’s having us on. He’s on his own,’ said Rapace.

  He grabbed Bricart’s pistol and pointed it at Bourdeau.

  ‘You there, the ghost, hands up.’

  While doing what he was told Bourdeau shouted out:

  ‘Over here, watchmen!’

  ‘Shut up or I’ll shoot.’

  A few seconds passed, agonisingly slowly. They were all frozen in anticipation. Nothing happened.

  ‘For an old soldier, you’ve lost the knack, Bricart.’

  ‘I just don’t understand it. I heard his skull explode.’

  ‘If you don’t want me to chop your little friend into bits,’ Rapace continued, ‘you’re going to explain to me what you were looking for.’

  The knife was getting nearer to Nicolas’s neck, making his heart thump painfully. So everything was going to end here then, in the depths of this godforsaken faubourg … Suddenly a shot rang out and, with a look of surprise, Rapace fell like a log, a bullet in the middle of his forehead. With a jerk, Nicolas knocked over the stool he was tied to and shoved Bricart, who lost his balance and fell to the floor. Bourdeau leapt forward and threw his full weight onto the old soldier before disarming him. He tied his hands behind his back with a leather strap lying on the floor, then freed Nicolas.

  ‘Bourdeau, I thought you were dead. Thank God, you’re safe. I owe you my life.’

  ‘Let’s say no more about it. Monsieur de Sartine would never have forgiven me for failing to keep my promise to protect you, and I wouldn’t have forgiven myself either.’

  ‘But, Bourdeau, explain this miracle to me.’

  ‘Well, Monsieur, each time I set out on an expedition that might prove dangerous I wear a hat of my own making.’

  He showed him a large Regency felt hat. The bottom of it was lined with an iron skullcap, held in place by silk netting.

  ‘But what about the gunshot?’

  ‘The hat again. My little pistol, the twin brother of the one I gave you, is fitted to the side, behind the right-hand brim. They never search hats. Needless to say it takes some getting used to and I’ve done a lot of target practice to get a result I’m quite proud of. The only drawback is that you can only fire it once because this miracle of design doesn’t have a repeat mechanism. I’ll get you a hat made to go with your pistol.’

  ‘But why didn’t you fire straight away?’

  ‘It would have been very risky. I preferred to wait. What shall we do now? Do we wait for the watch?’

  ‘They should be here very soon.
But I’ve a surprise for you, Bourdeau.’

  Nicolas took the torch and went up to the carriage that had been stowed away.

  ‘But you’re bleeding, Monsieur.’

  ‘That rogue reopened the wound in my chest, but it’s nothing. Take a look at this cabriolet instead. It’s Semacgus’s. The horse must have been sold already.’

  He opened the door of the carriage. The light suddenly fell upon the beige upholstered seat. It was covered with a large stain of dried blood that had dripped onto the floor and formed a blackish pool. The cabriolet had been used to kill someone or transport a body that had been bled dry. The two men looked on in horror.

  ‘I really don’t think we’re going to find Saint-Louis alive,’ said Bourdeau.

  Nicolas took charge of operations again.

  ‘As soon as the constables arrive see that they carry out a detailed search of the barn and the land. Not a word must be said about Rapace’s death. This cabriolet will need to be taken back to the Châtelet for Semacgus to identify. I’m taking Bricart back for a preliminary interrogation. I’ll report to Monsieur de Sartine tomorrow morning. Bourdeau, I’m relying on you to sort everything out here. As soon as you’ve finished, come and find me. I’m afraid we’re not going to get much sleep tonight.’

  Tirepot’s spy appeared, followed by an officer of the watch and a group of constables. They carried out Nicolas’s orders. As he was about to leave he walked up to Bourdeau and held out his hand:

  ‘Thank you, my friend.’

  Nicolas felt light-hearted on the journey back to Paris. The numerous signs of deadly danger had now taken on a new meaning. The future, which until then had looked uncertain, now seemed clear. Even the presence at his side of a known criminal could not detract from Nicolas’s feeling of relief, to which was added the satisfaction of having done Bourdeau justice. The ordeal had strengthened him, as a mountain stream tempers the red-hot blade of a sword. Death, which he had smelled on Rapace’s breath, was now only a distant threat; he felt cleansed and more self-assured. It was as if he had been reborn and now saw things in a different light. The cab, even the pain in his chest and the falling snow all filled him with joy and gratitude. He smiled because his dark imaginings were now giving way to brighter ones and, incorrigible as ever, he had veered from one extreme to the other. He revelled in his euphoria until he reached the Châtelet.

  When he had changed Nicolas went to find his prisoner, as he wanted to question him at once. He had often noticed that a suspect had fewer defences if interrogated immediately. It was only later on, when the criminal had had time to think things out, that they were able to put together a battery of assertions and denials. Nicolas had obtained a bottle of brandy from the gaoler. His intuition was telling him to take it gently with Bricart, and only to blow hot or cold and try another tack if the first approach did not work.

  When he went into the cell he was struck by the change in Bricart. With the lantern he had brought he could see the old soldier sitting on his plank-bed. The beam of light showed a man huddled up, almost bald, his sallow complexion flecked with brown marks. His face, pitted with old scars, bore the signs of age. His dull eyes were bloodshot and his lower lip flabby and trembling. Nicolas went over to the prisoner and untied his hands. He filled an earthenware cup with brandy and held it out to him. After a moment’s hesitation the old soldier downed it in one gulp. He wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve.

  ‘So now you’re all on your own,’ said Nicolas. ‘You’ve got no mate to back you up. You alone are charged with a serious crime. If you ask me, there’s only one thing you can do: unburden your conscience.’

  The man did not react.

  ‘Let’s start at the beginning. Bricart can’t be your real name. So what is it?’

  The other man hesitated. It was obvious that he was weighing up the pros and cons of keeping silent. Or would his desire to relieve his anxiety by talking get the better of him?

  ‘Jean-Baptiste Lenfant, born at Sompuy in Champagne,’ he said at last.

  ‘In what year?’

  ‘I never knew. The priest talked about “the year of the great freeze and the wolves”.’

  ‘Were you a soldier?’

  Bricart raised his head. A visible transformation came over him and, after asking for a drink, he launched into a breathless account of his whole life. Yes, he had been a soldier and for a long time, too, until that damn wound on the battlefield at Fontenoy. When he was twenty his name had been drawn by lot for the royal militia. It was bad luck and he might just as easily have avoided it. He could still picture the scene as he left his village. Many of his friends were in tears, protesting that they were being led to the slaughter. Their mothers were there, wringing their hands. He could still smell the stench of the stinking uniforms that had belonged to those killed in the previous war, or so it was rumoured. He could still feel the weight of the haversack, so heavy that it pulled you back and cut into your shoulders. It was the begin-ning of a long trudge through the winter mud to reach the regiment or the fort. Their clogs fell to pieces, their socks were shredded to bits and by the time they reached the bivouac their feet were bleeding. Some recruits did not survive, others mutilated themselves deliberately. For all of them there was the sorrow of having left behind their loved ones, and the homesickness that destroyed all hope. Then each day had followed the next. Things became routine, with moments of happiness amidst all the suffering. There were the mates, the drinking sessions, pilfering that turned into looting, the bellyfuls of stolen poultry and fruit and the girls from the farms and the taverns.

  But one day everything came to an end on the battlefield. Why then, why him? It began with a reveille blasting out in the cold dawn. The enemy had begun their attack at five o’clock. The officers of the general staff galloped past in their brightly decorated uniforms. On a hillock in the distance you could see a grey and gold spot and beside it a red one. The sergeant muttered it was the King and his son, the dauphin. For the first and last time in his life Bricart had seen the Marshal of Saxony, so ill from the effects of the pox that he had to be carried around in a wicker chair, his body swollen with dropsy. He was shouting angrily at the officers, whipping up their energy and castigating their indiscipline. Everything got going to the sound of the bugles, and one by one the columns moved up to the front line.

  Then, just as suddenly, everything was over. The surprise of the impact, the first impression that nothing has happened, that you’ve saved your skin and that you’ll get up simply covered in earth and in the blood from a mate mown down beside you. Next comes the feeling of soaking in a warm liquid and then, growing stronger and stronger until it makes you scream, the terrible pain from the leg shattered by a cannonball. He was left lying there until nightfall and had put a tourniquet on his thigh himself. He had been half-dead when he was picked up. But before that he had heard the frightening clash of battle, the shrieks, the whinnying of the horses, the screaming that had gradually given way to the wailing of the wounded and the groaning of the dying. Near him a hussar crushed beneath his horse was crying softly, calling out for his mother. He had had to fight off looters, women and even children who snatched from those poor corpses their pathetic riches, including the braid sewn onto their uniforms. Then he had been taken in a cart to a dressing station. The ground was covered with blood and human remains. Surgeons were maiming the poor devils for life. His right leg went. He stayed there for days. Each of the wounded lay in his own excrement, worse than if he had been sleeping on dung. They were all swarming with vermin, and the dead served as mattresses for the living. Yes, he’d been a soldier and they’d made good use of him as cannon fodder.

  Now that he was an invalid, with no means of support and no rank, he was left to his own devices with only his threadbare uniform and his wooden leg to comfort him. He went back to his village. His mother and father had died long since, and his few cousins had given him up for dead and his meagre inheritance had been dispersed. Reduced to poverty,
he had wandered far and wide, then had the idea that in the big city he would be able to provide for himself more easily. But what could an invalid unfit for manual labour hope for? He could not read or write and was barely able to sign his name. He was afraid of ending up in the Hôpital Général, locked up like an animal amongst the lunatics who were given their food on the end of a bayonet. He knew what he was talking about because he had been caught once and put away in Bicêtre. Miraculously he had escaped and he dreaded the idea of going back there.

  Bricart had livened up as he told his story. The colour had returned to his cheeks. But under the influence of the alcohol he became prostrate again, his head slumped on his chest. Nicolas could not help pitying this fellow to whom life had been so cruel. But the time had come to apply pressure and to get either a formal confession out of him, or information likely to help the progress of the investigation. It was essential that Nicolas corroborate the various facts already in his possession. He decided on a direct line of attack. Bricart’s reactions would indicate how he should follow up the interrogation.

  ‘You’re in danger of something much worse than Bicêtre!’ said Nicolas. ‘Be a good fellow and tell me what you were up to with Rapace. And to start with, where does the bloodstained cabriolet in your barn come from?’