The Phantom of Rue Royale Page 4

  He made a preliminary search of the body. The victim had nothing on her except her clothes – of high quality, he noted. No bag or reticule, no jewellery. One of her hands was clenched: he prised it open to reveal a small pierced pearl, of jade or obsidian. He wrapped it in his handkerchief. Bourdeau returned with two porters and a stretcher.

  As they stared at the young victim’s distorted face, they were overcome with exhaustion. It was out of the question that they would go to La Paulet’s and eat now. The sun rising on this grim, bloodstained morning could not dissipate the damp mist which presaged a storm. Paris was shapeless and colourless, apparently finding it hard to awaken from a tragedy that would gradually spread to city and court, districts and faubourgs, and, when it reached Versailles, would cast a shadow over the waking moments of an old King and a young couple.

  NOTES – CHAPTER I

  1. ‘Here, there is nothing.’

  2. Louis XV’s eldest daughter (cf. The Man with the Lead Stomach).

  3. The author cannot resist quoting this very eighteenth-century statement by Talleyrand, spoken when he presented to Emperor Franz of Austria the jewels originally given as a gift by Napoleon to Marie-Louise.

  4. A net was stretched across the Seine at Saint-Cloud to collect the bodies of the drowned.

  II

  SARTINE AND SANSON

  Sic egesto quidquid turbidum redit urbi sua forma legesque et munia magistratuum.

  Thus emptied of its turbulence, the city recovers its usual form, its laws and its magistrates with their practice.

  TACTITUS

  Thursday 31 May 1770

  Nicolas moved through a suspended city, a city surprised by its own suffering. Everyone had his own version of the events to peddle. Little groups conversed in low voices. Some noisier ones seemed to be pursuing a long-standing quarrel. The shops, usually open at this hour, were still closed, as if observing a state of mourning. Death had struck everywhere, and the spectacle of the wounded and dying being brought back to their homes had spread the news of the disaster throughout Paris, made all the worse by the false rumours inevitably aroused by such a tragedy. People seemed struck by the fact that this catastrophe had happened during the celebrations for a royal wedding. It was a bad omen, and it made the future uncertain and vaguely menacing. Nicolas passed priests carrying the Holy Sacrament. Passers-by crossed themselves, took off their hats or knelt before them.

  Rue Montmartre lacked its usual animation. Even the familiar, reassuring smell of freshly baked bread coming from the baker’s shop on the ground floor of Noblecourt’s house had lost its enchantment. Breathing it in, he immediately remembered the terrible, musty odour of wet fire and blood hovering over Place Louis XV. An officer of the watch had lent him a mare, a cantankerous animal which snorted and pulled back its ears. Bourdeau had remained on the scene to help the commissioners from the various districts who had come running as reinforcements.

  Nicolas’s first impulse had been to gallop to police headquarters in Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin. But he knew all too well that, despite the gravity of the moment, Monsieur de Sartine would not have tolerated anyone appearing before him with a soot-blackened face and dishevelled clothes. He had often experienced the apparent insensitivity of a chief who did not accept any weakness in himself, and hated having to deal with that of his subordinates. The King’s service was all that mattered, and there was no particular advantage in being injured, bruised and dirty. On the contrary, such a lapse in the proprieties would have brought disfavour on anyone who dared to appear in that way. To Monsieur de Sartine, it would have demonstrated neither courage nor devotion, but rather a contempt for all that his office represented, a licentiousness that went against everything he believed in.

  The bells of Saint Eustache were chiming seven o’clock as Nicolas handed the reins of his nag to a young baker’s boy who stood gaping in the doorway. He went straight through to the servants’ pantry where he found his maid, Catherine, slumped beside her stove, fast asleep. He surmised that she had not gone to bed but, having heard of the tragedy, had decided to wait up for him. Old Marion, Monsieur de Noblecourt’s cook, whose age excused her from heavy work, slept later and later these days, as did Poitevin the footman. Noiselessly, he went out to the courtyard and washed himself at the pump, as was his custom in summer. Then he tiptoed upstairs to his room to change his clothes and brush his hair. For a moment he considered telling the former procurator that he was back, but when he thought of the detailed account he would have to give, and the thousand questions that would follow, he changed his mind. He missed being greeted by Cyrus, the little, grey, curly-haired water spaniel. The days were long gone when the dog would jump up and yap excitedly when he arrived. The animal was now quite old and stiff, and only the slow movements of his tail still showed how pleased he was to see Nicolas. He spent all his time on the tapestried rug, from where he observed events surrounding his master with eyes that were still alert.

  Nicolas thought about the passage of time. Soon, it struck him, he would have to bid farewell to this witness to his first steps in Paris. The idea occurred to him that the compassion he felt for Cyrus was a way of avoiding having to think of other imminent farewells which were just as inevitable. He gently placed a short note of explanation in Catherine’s lap and left the house without a sound. He went back to his restive mount, and the baker’s boy smiled and handed him a brioche, still hot from the oven. Remembering that he had not had dinner, he wolfed it down. The buttery taste was a delight to the palate. ‘Come on,’ he said to himself, ‘life isn’t so bad. Carpe diem!’ It was a phrase constantly repeated by his sybaritic friend Monsieur de La Borde, who loved female dancers, fine food and works of art, and was currently writing an opera and a book about China.

  In Rue Neuve-Sainte Augustin, an unusual amount of activity indicated that the night’s events had left their mark. Nicolas climbed the steps four at a time. The elderly manservant greeted him with a flustered look on his face. He was an old acquaintance, for whom Nicolas was almost part of the furniture.

  ‘Here you are at last, Monsieur Nicolas. I think Monsieur de Sartine is waiting for you. I’m very worried: it’s the first time in years he hasn’t asked to see his wigs. Is the case so serious?’

  Nicolas smiled at this reminder of his chief’s innocent obsession. Contrary to the custom of the house, the servant led him to the library. He had only once before had the opportunity to enter the beautifully proportioned room, with its shelves of white oak and its ceiling painted by Jouvenet. He remembered admiring the work of this artist when his guardian, Canon Le Floch, had taken him one day to the parlement of Rennes, and every time duty called him to Versailles he would gaze in awe at the splendid tribune of the royal chapel, which was decorated by the same painter. He tapped softly at the door and opened it. He thought at first that he was alone, until he heard a curt voice he knew well. Monsieur de Sartine, in a black coat and powdered wig, was perched at the top of a stepladder consulting a red Morocco-bound book embossed with his coat of arms: three sardines.

  ‘Greetings, Commissioner.’

  That gave Nicolas pause. The Lieutenant General only addressed him by his rank when he was trying to master his anger – an anger directed less at his men than at the general inertia or obstinacy of things.

  He was looking up at the figures on the ceiling, apparently deep in thought. Nicolas respected his chief’s silence for a few moments, then decided to begin his report. He gave the number of dead which, by early that morning, had been approaching a hundred. Nevertheless, in his opinion, this figure could well be much greater, even by as much as ten times, since many of the injured were unlikely to recover.

  ‘I know what you did, you and Bourdeau. Believe me when I say that it is a comfort to me to know that you were there to bear witness for our force.’

  It occurred to Nicolas that Monsieur de Sartine was ill, and that his illness went deeper than anything he might have imagined. His manifestations of satisfaction w
ere so rare that they were seen as events, and, besides, he never came out with them when a case was in progress. Nicolas saw him opening and closing his book mechanically, as if unsure what to say or do next.

  In a low voice, as if speaking to himself, Sartine resumed, ‘“This man has marr’d my fortune, and manhood is call’d foolery when it stands against a falling fabric …”’

  Nicolas smiled inwardly and recited aloud, ‘“… The tag whose rage doth rend like interrupted waters, and o’erbear what they are used to bear.”’

  Monsieur de Sartine slammed the book shut, slowly descended the stepladder, then turned and looked at Nicolas with ironic severity. ‘You allow yourself to improvise on my words, I think!’

  ‘I step aside in favour of Coriolanus and continue his.’

  ‘So, my Shakespearian friend, what is your opinion of last night? “Paint me Nicolas distraught amid these horrors …”’

  ‘Lack of preparation, improvisation, coincidence and disorder.’

  He gave a brief account of the night’s events, without going into details which Sartine surely knew, since Sartine always seemed to be well informed, in some mysterious but effective way, about anything, whether happy or tragic, that happened in the capital with whose care he was entrusted. He mentioned the incident with the major from the City Guards, and described the layout of the area, the absence of any organisation, the initial episode with the fireworks and the disaster that had been its inevitable consequence. He did not fail to mention how certain privileged individuals had distinguished themselves on this battlefield by laying about them with their canes or even their swords and sending their carriages rushing through the crowd, nor how circumstances had left the field clear for crooks and thugs from the faubourgs.

  Sartine had sat down in a bergère covered in crimson satin and was listening with his eyes half closed, his chin on his hand. Nicolas noted his pallor, his drawn features, the dark patches on his cheekbones. When he had met Sartine for the first time, it had struck him that he looked older than his age – a fact the Lieutenant General played on to assert his authority when confronted with older interlocutors who might consider him a young upstart. He did not deign to look at Nicolas until the latter’s account of his adventures as a chimney sweep. At that point he looked sharply at his deputy’s clothes, confirming to Nicolas that he had done the right thing in changing them. The satisfied smile that lit up his chief’s face for a fraction of a second was highly gratifying.

  ‘Yes,’ Sartine said, ‘it’s as I feared …’

  He seemed to feel a kind of bitter joy in observing that, once again, events had justified his anxieties. He brought his fist down on the beautiful inlaid backgammon table before him.

  ‘I did, however, indicate to His Majesty that the city authorities were not in a position to control an event of that size.’ He thought for a moment, then went on, ‘Eleven years with no disasters, no mistakes, and now this Bignon, this cheap, stupid, powerless provost, usurps my authority, poaches on my territory and cuts the ground from beneath my feet!’

  ‘We’ll soon be able to apportion blame,’ Nicolas ventured.

  ‘Do you really believe that? Have you ever had to deal with these snakes? At court, the war of tongues can be deadlier than a battlefield. Calumny …’

  Nicolas’s body still ached in places, bearing witness to the risks he had taken and the dangers he had confronted, which were just as real as those with which the Lieutenant General was now faced. ‘Monsieur,’ he said, ‘your past, the confidence that the monarch—’

  ‘Balderdash, Monsieur! Favour is by essence volatile, as our drawing room apothecaries and chemists say! People always remember the bad things we are supposed to have done. Do they ever take into account our efforts and our successes? Well, that’s as it should be. We are the King’s servants, for better or worse, and whatever it may cost us. But that this ridiculous provost, who has used his alliances and relationships to advance himself and who has obtained everything without having to make any effort, and certainly without deserving it, that such a man should be the cause of my disgrace, that’s something I can’t get over. He’s the kind of person who’s puffed up with pride when he mounts a good horse, or sports a plume in his hat, or wears fine clothes. What nonsense! If there’s any glory in those things, it should go to the horse, the bird or the tailor!’

  Again he struck the gaming table. Nicolas, astonished by this uncharacteristic outburst, suspected a touch of play-acting in his chief – and suspected, too, that his last words had been a quotation, although he could not immediately identify it.

  ‘But we’re straying from the point,’ Sartine went on. ‘Listen carefully. You’ve been with me for a long time now and you are the only person I can tell these things. The reason I feel so strongly about this affair is that beneath such struggles for influence, major interests are always at play. You know that I am friendly with the First Minister, the Duc de Choiseul. Even though they had their disagreements and didn’t always trust each other, by and large he was close to Madame de Pompadour …’ He broke off. ‘You had dealings with her, didn’t you?’

  ‘I often had the privilege of speaking with her and serving her, when I first started working for you.’

  ‘And even, if I remember correctly, performing some signal services for her.2 The last time our poor friend received me, she was no more than a shadow of her former self … She was burning hot and complained of being frozen, her face looked drawn, and her complexion was pale and mottled …’

  The Lieutenant General broke off, as if the memory was too painful to evoke.

  ‘I’m straying from the point again. My relations with the new favourite are quite different. She has neither the contacts, nor the political grasp, nor the subtle influence of the lady of Choisy,3 who was distinguished by her education, her studied elegance, her sure taste in arts and letters, and her native charm – well, she was born under the sign of Pisces. This one’s a decent enough girl, but she’s been thrown into the subtle ins and outs of the Court without preparation, apart from the wrong kind, perhaps.’

  He lowered his voice, and looked around at the shelves of his library.

  ‘The worst of it is, whatever’s been achieved during the day she undoes at night. By arousing the old King’s senses she ensures her influence. Choiseul is obsessed with getting his revenge on the English. As he’s unsure how long he’ll keep his position, he’s in such a hurry to achieve this end that he has a tendency to rush in and make stupid blunders. He’s antagonized the new mistress or, more precisely, he resents her for having succeeded where his own sister, Madame de Choiseul-Stainville, failed – God knows she put her heart and soul into it! What’s all this to do with me, you will ask. I’ve been dragged into this quarrel against my will. Keep this to yourself: on the King’s orders, I had to go to Madame du Barry and protest my loyalty. I had to promise her, almost on my knees, that I would do everything I could to prevent the publication of scandalous writings, which, unfortunately for me, have multiplied and spread – the work of journalists and printers paid for by Monsieur de Choiseul himself.’

  ‘I recall, Monsieur, your ordering me to track down a lampoon called The Nocturnal Orgies of Fontainebleau. But where does Provost Jérôme Bignon fit in to all this?’

  ‘There’s the rub. He’s wooing Madame du Barry. You see, my dear Nicolas, the regrettable position in which last night’s events place me, apart from my sadness at any example of bad administration by the city authorities. I’ll be held responsible, because no one knows that the celebrations were taken out of my hands.’

  ‘And yet the marriage of the Dauphin does seem like a genuine success on Choiseul’s part. Everyone sees it as his crowning achievement. He always wanted to forge an alliance with Austria.’

  ‘You’re right, but nothing is closer to a precipice than a summit. You now have all the inside information I can give you – except for one other thing. Last night, His Majesty and Madame du Barry went to Bellevue to se
e the fireworks from the terrace of the chateau. They didn’t know anything of the tragedy at the time. On the other hand, the Dauphine and the King’s daughters went to Paris. On Cours-la-Reine, they were admiring the illuminations when they heard cries of terror that got them all aflutter. The coaches did an about-turn, with the princess in tears …’

  He stood up, checked the position of his wig and readjusted it with both hands.

  ‘Commissioner, here are my instructions. They must be followed to the letter. You will use every means necessary to draw up a report on the events in Place Louis XV: how they started, who was responsible, who was at fault, who interfered. You will try to determine the exact death toll. Don’t let anything stand in your way. People may try to obstruct you. We should be prepared for the worst: they may even threaten your life. You will report only to me. Should I fall out of favour and be unable to use my authority, or should I lose my life, then speak to the King on my behalf. You have the necessary access, since you hunt with him. This is a personal service I am asking of you, and I would be grateful if you would perform it with the rigour you have always demonstrated. Naturally, all this requires absolute secrecy.’

  ‘Monsieur, I have a request to make.’

  ‘You want Inspector Bourdeau to assist you? Your wish is granted. His past record speaks for him.’

  ‘I’m very grateful. But I had something else in mind …’

  Monsieur de Sartine appeared impatient, and Nicolas sensed that he had no desire to prolong an interview in which he had been forced to reveal a number of secrets and confess to a certain helplessness.

  ‘I’m listening, but be quick.’

  ‘You know my friend Dr Semacgus,’ Nicolas said. ‘He assisted me all night and, as we were looking over the victims who had been taken to La Madeleine cemetery, our attention was drawn to the body of a young woman who seems not to have been crushed or otherwise injured in last night’s disaster, but strangled. I’d like to pursue the case.’