The Châtelet Apprentice

  Discover the next Nicolas le Floch Investigation

  Praise for The Châtelet Apprentice

  ‘Reading this book is akin to time travel: it is an exhilarating portrait of the hubbub and sexual licence of Paris during an eighteenth-century carnival … The period detail is marvellously evocative, Le Floch is brave and engaging, and even though the story takes place almost 250 years ago, it is curiously reassuring that in many ways, Paris, and human nature, have not changed at all.’ Economist

  ‘Parot succeeds brilliantly in his reconstruction of pre-revolutionary Paris, in splendid period detail’ Times

  ‘A solid and detailed evocation of pre-revolutionary France – the poverty and squalor, side by side with the wealth and splendour, are brought lovingly to life. And the plot has all the twists, turns and surprises the genre demands.’ Independent on Sunday

  ‘A terrific debut. … Working without modern investigative techniques in a police force reliant on torture, Le Floch confronts the ethical dilemmas of the period in a novel that brilliantly evokes the casual brutality of life in eighteenth-century France.’ Sunday Times

  THE

  CHTELET APPRENTICE

  JEAN-FRANÇOIS PAROT

  Translated from the French by Michael Glencross

  For Madeleine and Edouard

  This work is published with support from the French Ministry of Culture/Centre national du Livre

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Plan of Nicolas Le Floch’s Paris

  Dramatis Personae

  The Châtelet Apprentice

  PROLOGUE

  I THE TWO JOURNEYS

  II GUÉRANDE

  III DISAPPEARANCES

  IV DISCOVERIES

  V THANATOS

  VI EROS

  VII SOUND AND FURY

  VIII BETWEEN SCYLLA AND CHARYBDIS

  IX WOMEN

  X TWISTS AND TURNS

  XI FAR NIENTE

  XII THE OLD SOLDIER

  XIII IN AT THE KILL

  XIV DARKNESS

  XV HUNTER AND QUARRY

  EPILOGUE

  Notes

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  NICOLAS LE FLOCH’S PARIS

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  NICOLAS LE FLOCH : an investigator appointed by the Lieutenant General of Police in Paris

  CANON FRANÇOIS LE FLOCH : Nicolas Le Floch’s guardian

  JOSÉPHINE PELVEN (known as FINE) : Canon Le Floch’s housekeeper

  MARQUIS LOUIS DE RANREUIL : Nicolas Le Floch’s godfather

  ISABELLE DE RANREUIL : the marquis’s daughter

  MONSIEUR DE SARTINE : Lieutenant General of Police in Paris

  MONSIEUR DE LA BORDE : First Groom of the King’s Bedchamber

  GUILLAUME LARDIN : a police commissioner

  PIERRE BOURDEAU : a police inspector

  LOUISE LARDIN : Commissioner Lardin’s second wife

  MARIE LARDIN : Commissioner Lardin’s daughter by his first marriage

  CATHERINE GAUSS : a former canteen-keeper, the Lardins’ cook

  HENRI DESCART : a doctor of medicine

  GUILLAUME SEMACGUS : a navy surgeon

  SAINT-LOUIS : a former black slave, Semacgus’s servant

  AWA : Saint-Louis’s companion and Semacgus’s cook

  PIERRE PIGNEAU : a seminarist

  AIMÉ DE NOBLECOURT : a former procurator

  PÈRE GRÉGOIRE : the apothecary of the monastery of the Discalced Carmelites

  LA PAULET : a brothel-keeper

  LA SATIN : a prostitute

  BRICART : a former soldier

  RAPACE : a former butcher

  OLD ÉMILIE : a former prostitute, a soup seller

  MASTER VACHON : a tailor

  COMMISSIONER CAMUSOT : the head of the Gaming Division

  MAUVAL : Commissioner Camusot’s henchman

  OLD MARIE : an usher at the Châtelet

  TIREPOT : a police informer

  CHARLES HENRI SANSON : the hangman

  RABOUINE : a police spy

  PROLOGUE

  Prudens futuri temporis exitum

  Caliginosa nocte premit Deus…

  ‘Knowing the future,

  God conceals the outcome in darkest night …’

  HORACE

  On the night of Friday 2 February 1761, a horse-drawn vehicle was laboriously making its way along the highway that leads from La Courtille to La Villette. The day had been gloomy, and at nightfall, sullen skies had unleashed a fierce storm. If anyone had been keeping a watch on this road they would have noticed the cart pulled by a scrawny horse. On the seat, two men stared into the darkness, the black flaps of their capes partly visible in the gleam of a shabby lantern. The horse kept slipping on the wet ground and stopping every twenty or so yards. Two barrels thudded against each other, jolted about by the ruts in the road.

  The last houses in the faubourgs disappeared, and with them the few remaining lights. The rain ceased and the moon could be glimpsed between two clouds, casting a bluish light over a countryside enveloped in a shapeless, drifting mist. Hillsides covered with brambles now rose up on either side of the track. For some time the horse had been tossing its head and tugging nervously at the reins. A persistent smell hung in the cold night air, its lingering sweetness soon giving way to an appalling stench. The two shadowy figures had pulled their cloaks down over their faces. The horse stopped, let out a strangled whinnying and flared its nostrils, seeking to identify the foul smell. Even when lashed with a whip, it refused to get going again.

  ‘I think this nag is giving up on us!’ exclaimed Rapace, one of the men. ‘I’m sure it can smell meat. Get down, Bricart, take it by the bit and get us out of here!’

  ‘I saw the same thing at Bassignano in 1745 when I was serving in the Dauphin’s Regiment with old Chevert. The beasts pulling the cannons refused to go past the corpses. It was September, it was hot and the flies …’

  ‘Stop, I know all about your military campaigns. Grab the beast by the neck and hurry up. It just won’t move!’ shouted Rapace, hitting it twice on its skinny rump.

  Bricart grumbled and jumped down from the cart. When he reached the ground, he sank into the mud and had to use both hands to pull out the wooden stump fitted to his right leg. He went up to the crazed animal, which made one last attempt to signal its refusal. Bricart seized the bit but the desperate beast jerked its head away, striking him on the shoulder. He fell flat on the ground, uttering a stream of obscenities.

  ‘It won’t budge. We’re going to have to unload here. We can’t be far.’

  ‘I can’t help you in this mud; this damned leg is useless.’

  ‘I’ll get the barrels down and we’ll roll them towards the pits,’ said Rapace. ‘It should only take two goes. Hold the horse; I’m going to look around.’

  ‘Don’t leave me,’ whined Bricart. ‘I don’t like it here. Is this really where they used to hang people?’

  He rubbed his bad leg.

  ‘So much for the brave old soldier! You can talk when we’ve finished. We’ll go to Marthe’s tavern. I’ll treat you to a drink, and a trollop, too, if you feel like it. They stopped hanging people here before your grandfather’s time. Now there’s only dead cattle from the city and beyond. It’s the knacker’s yard – it used to be at Javel but now it’s here at Montfaucon. Can’t you smell the stench? In the summer, when there’s a storm brewing, you even get a whiff of it in Paris, all the way to the Tuileries!’

  ‘You’re right, it stinks and I can feel presences,’ murmured Bricart.

  ‘Oh, shut up. Your presences are nothing more than rats, crows and m
ongrels: horribly fat ones, all fighting over the carcasses. Even the scum off the streets come here to scrape around for something to eat. Just thinking about it makes my mouth feel dry. Where did you hide the flagon? Ah, here it is!’

  Rapace took a few swigs before handing it to Bricart, who emptied it greedily. They could hear high-pitched squeals.

  ‘Listen: rats! But enough talk, take the lantern and stay with me, to give me some light. I’ve got the axe and the whip: you never know who we may come across, not to mention the smashing-up we’ve to do …’

  The two men moved cautiously towards some buildings which they could now make out in the beam of the lamp.

  ‘As sure as my name is Rapace, here’s the knacker’s yard and the tallow vats. The lime pits are further on. Walls of rotting flesh, piles and piles of it, believe me.’

  Nearby, crouched behind a carcass, a shadowy figure had stopped what it was doing, alarmed by the whinnying of the horse, the swearing and the light of the lantern. The figure trembled, thinking at first that it was the men of the watch. By order of the King and the Lieutenant General of Police they were patrolling more and more, in order to drive away the poor starving wretches who fought with carrion eaters for left-overs from the feast.

  This huddled ghost was merely an old woman in rags. She had known better times and, in her prime, had even attended Regency dinners. Then her youth faded and the beautiful Émilie had stooped to the most abject form of prostitution, along the quais and at the toll-gates, but even that had not lasted.

  Now, diseased and disfigured, she survived by selling a foul soup from a portable stewing pot. This concoction, which was largely made out of scraps stolen from Montfaucon, risked poisoning her customers and infecting the city and its faubourgs.

  She saw the two men unload the barrels and roll them along before emptying their contents onto the ground. Her heart was pounding so hard that she could not hear what was being said and dared not grasp what they were doing. Instead, old Émilie strained her eyes to make out the two dark shapes – red, she thought – now lying close to the building containing the tallow vats. Unfortunately the light from the lantern was dim and renewed gusts of wind made its flame flicker.

  What she saw she did not understand and could not bring herself to imagine, paralysed as she was by a fear beyond words. And yet the old woman was gripped by a curiosity which made the horrible scene even more incomprehensible to her.

  One of the two men was laying out on the ground what looked like items of clothing. With a tinder-box he struck a light that flared up briefly. Then a sharp crackling sound could be heard. The old woman huddled closer to the rotting flesh, no longer even aware of its acrid emanations. She was fighting for breath, oppressed by an unknown terror. Her blood froze, and all that she saw as she lost consciousness and slid to the ground was a light that was growing bigger.

  Where the gallows once stood all was silence again. The cart moved off into the distance, and with it the muffled echo of conversation. Darkness closed in and the wind blew like a gale. What had been left behind on the ground gradually began to come to life: it seemed to be writhing and devouring itself from within. Faint squeals could be heard and a frantic scuffling began. Even before dawn, the huge crows were awake and coming closer, soon followed by a pack of dogs …

  I

  THE TWO JOURNEYS

  ‘Paris is full of adventurers and bachelors who spend their lives rushing from house to house and men, like species, seem to multiply by circulating.’

  J.-J. ROUSSEAU

  Sunday 21 January 1761

  The barge glided along the grey river. Patches of fog rose up from the water, swathing the banks and refusing to yield to the pale light of day. The anchor, weighed one hour before dawn as the regulation required, had had to be dropped again because the darkness was still impenetrable. Already Orléans was receding into the distance and the currents of the River Loire in spate carried the heavy craft swiftly along. Despite the gusts of wind that swept across the deck, a cloying smell of fish and salt filled the air. It was transporting a large cargo of salted cod, as well as some casks of Ancenis wine.

  Two silhouettes stood out at the prow of the boat. The first belonged to a member of the crew, his features tense with concentration, peering at the murky surface of the water. In his left hand he held a horn similar to those used by postilions: in the event of danger he would sound the alarm to the skipper, who was holding the tiller at the stern.

  The other was that of a young man, booted and dressed in black, with a tricorn in his hand. Despite his youth there was something both military and ecclesiastical about him. With his head held high, his dark hair swept back and his intense stillness, he looked impatient and noble, like the figurehead of the boat. His expressionless gaze was fixed upon the left bank, staring at the bulk of Notre-Dame de Cléry, the grey prow of which parted the white clouds along the shore and seemed to want to join with the Loire.

  This young man, whose resolute attitude would have impressed anyone other than the bargee, was called Nicolas Le Floch.

  Nicolas was rapt in contemplation. A little more than a year earlier, he had followed the same route in the opposite direction towards Paris. How quickly everything had happened! Now, on his way back to Brittany, he recalled the events of the past two days. He had taken the fast mail-coach to Orléans, where he planned to board the barge. As far as the Loire, the journey had been marked by none of those colourful incidents that normally relieve the boredom of travel. His travelling companions, a priest and two elderly couples, had watched him all the time in silence. Nicolas, accustomed to the open air, suffered from the confined space and the mixture of smells inside the carriage. Five disapproving looks soon put an end to his attempt to open a window. The priest had even made the sign of the cross, presumably on the assumption that this desire for freedom was the work of the devil. The young man had taken the hint and settled back into his corner. Gradually lulled by the monotony of the journey he had drifted off into a daydream. Now the same reverie came over him on the barge and, once again, he saw and heard nothing more.

  Everything really had happened too quickly. After receiving a solid classical education from the Jesuits in Vannes, he had been working as a notary’s clerk in Rennes when suddenly he had been summoned back to Guérande by his guardian, Canon Le Floch. Without further explanation he had been fitted out, given a pair of boots and a few louis d’or, as well as plenty of advice and blessings. He had taken leave of his godfather, the Marquis de Ranreuil, who had given him a letter of recommendation for Monsieur de Sartine, one of his friends, who was a magistrate in Paris. The marquis had seemed to Nicolas both moved and embarrassed and the young man had not been able to say goodbye to his godfather’s daughter, Isabelle, his childhood friend, who had just left for Nantes to stay with her aunt, Madame de Guénouel.

  With a heavy heart he had left the old walled town behind him, his sense of abandonment and separation intensified by his guardian’s visible emotion and the heartrending cries of Fine, the canon’s housekeeper. He had felt lost during the long journey over land and water that was taking him to his new destiny.

  As Paris had drawn near he had become aware of his surroundings again. He could still remember how scared he had felt when he first reached the capital. Until then, Paris had been little more than a dot on the map of France hanging on the schoolroom wall in Vannes. Astounded by the noise and bustle of the faubourgs, he had felt bewildered and vaguely uneasy before this enormous plain covered by countless windmills. The movement of their sails had reminded him of a group of gesticulating giants straight out of that novel by Cervantes which he had read several times. He had been struck by the crowds in rags that constantly came and went through the toll-gates.

  Even today he could remember when he’d first entered the great city: its narrow streets and enormously tall houses, its dirty, muddy thoroughfares and multitudes of riders and carriages, the shouts and those unspeakable smells …

 
On arrival he had wandered around lost for hours, often ending up in gardens at the bottom of dead-ends or finding himself back at the river. Eventually a pleasant young man with eyes of differing colours had taken him to the church of Saint-Sulpice and then to Rue de Vaugirard and the monastery of the Discalced Carmelites. There he was given an effusive welcome by a portly monk, Père Grégoire, a friend of his guardian, who was in charge of the dispensary. It was late and he was given a bed in the garret straight away.

  Taking comfort from this welcome, he had sunk into a dreamless sleep. It was only in the morning that he discovered his guide had relieved him of his silver watch, a gift from his godfather. He resolved to be more wary of strangers. Fortunately the purse containing his modest savings was still safe inside a secret pocket that Fine had sewn into his bag the day before he left Guérande.

  Nicolas found the regular pattern of life in the monastery reassuring. He took his meals with the community, in the great refectory. He had begun to venture out into the city equipped with a rudimentary street map on which he marked in pencil his tentative explorations so as to be sure of finding his way back. There were many aspects of life in the capital which he disliked, but its charm was beginning to work on him. He found the constant bustle of the streets both appealing and disconcerting; on several occasions he had almost been run over by carriages. He was always surprised by how fast they went and how they suddenly appeared from nowhere. He quickly learnt not to daydream, and to protect himself against other dangers: stinking muck that splashed his clothes, water from the gutters that poured down on passers-by, and streets transformed into raging torrents by a few drops of rain. He jumped, dodged and leapt aside, like a Parisian born and bred, in the midst of all the filth and a thousand other hazards. After each outing he had to brush his clothes and wash his stockings: he only had two pairs and was saving the other for his meeting with Monsieur de Sartine.