The Châtelet Apprentice Read online

Meanwhile Nicolas seemed to be searching for something else and was ferreting around, crouching, with his nose to the ground. Suddenly he asked Bourdeau to give him a piece of paper and he began to trace some small craters that pockmarked the ground. They had left their impression in the clayey soil before it had been covered up by snow and hardened by frost. Nicolas made no particular comment. He did not wish to pass on the fruits of his reflections, even to Bourdeau. It was not that Nicolas mistrusted him but he was quite happy to lend a certain air of mystery to a turn of events that put the inspector at a disadvantage. He did not enjoy having to be so cautious but he felt it advisable so long as he himself was unclear about things and had not found a satisfactory explanation for some of his own observations.

  He responded to his companion’s quizzical expression with a toss of the head and a sceptical look. They carried the trunk away. They had forgotten about old Émilie who was watching them with a dazed expression and recoiled as they walked by. Nicolas grabbed her by the arm as they went past and took her back to the carriage. She was crying quietly and her tears made her make-up run, disfiguring her face so much that Nicolas took out his handkerchief and with infinite gentleness wiped away the black and red streaks that were streaming down her cheeks.

  The return journey was gloomy. Nicolas remained silent, deep in thought. Night was falling by the time they went through the toll-gate. Nicolas suddenly ordered the coachman to drive into an adjacent street and to extinguish the lantern. As he jumped down he had just enough time to glimpse a horseman galloping along the main street; it was the same man who had been watching them in the knacker’s yard.

  At the Châtelet Nicolas had the trunk containing the presumed remains of the Commissioner put away for safe keeping in the Basse-Geôle. He also decided to keep old Émilie in his care so that he could question her again and he paid for her to be put in a cell with special privileges, and served a hot meal. He then withdrew to the duty room to write up a brief report for Monsieur de Sartine recounting his visit to Descart and the journey to Montfaucon, but omitting the conversation with Semacgus. His conclusion, subject to further checks that he planned to carry out, stated that the remains discovered could well be those of Guillaume Lardin.

  Notes – CHAPTER IV

  1. The Jansenists represented Christ with arms unopened on the Cross.

  2. The medical service for the French navy was founded in 1689 and was largely made up of surgeons. Doctors, holders of degrees in medicine, were trained in the universities whereas navy surgeons were trained in schools of surgery in Rochefort, Toulon and Brest. Throughout the eighteenth century doctors attempted to prevent surgeons from practising medicine or even tending the sick.

  3. L. Batalli. Italian doctor and author of De Curatione per sanguinis missionem (1537).

  4. G. Patin (1605–1672). Professor of medicine at the Collège de France.

  V

  THANATOS

  ‘But here for our victim is the unaccompanied song that fills mortals with dread.’

  AESCHYLUS

  NICOLAS had returned quite late to Rue des Blancs-Manteaux. The house was silent and he hoped Catherine had left him some food keeping warm in a dish on the stove, as she usually did. Sure enough he found that the table had been laid for him with bread and a bottle of cider. He noticed a stew containing a strange vegetable – a root vegetable that Catherine had first come across when working in the field kitchens in Italy and Germany, and now grew in a corner of the garden at the back of the house. These stewed ‘potatoes’1 filled the kitchen with their aroma. He sat down to eat, poured himself a drink and filled his plate. It made his mouth water to see the vegetables in their glossy sauce with a sprinkling of parsley and chives.

  Catherine had given him the recipe for this succulent dish. You had to choose good-sized potatoes, then proceed extremely slowly, giving the various ingredients time to combine together and not getting impatient, which was essential if it were to be a success. First she carefully peeled her large potatoes, preferring to round them off. Then she diced some bacon and cooked the pieces gradually before removing them from the dish after they had given out all their fat but, most important, had not yet changed colour. Then, she specified, the potatoes had to be put into the boiling fat and left to slowly turn golden brown, together with some unpeeled cloves of garlic and a handful of thyme and laurel. This way the vegetables would be covered with a crispy coating. As they continued to cook they would soften right through. Then and only then should you sprinkle a whole tablespoonful of flour over them, stir the dish vigorously and a few minutes later pour half a bottle of burgundy over it. After adding salt and pepper you leave the dish to simmer slowly for a good half-hour. The sauce thickens and becomes soft and smooth, like satin, giving a light and moist coating to the potatoes that stay golden and tender beneath the sweet-smelling crust. The secret of successful cooking, said Catherine, was to love doing it.

  Nicolas’s plate was not level and he noticed that it was resting on a piece of paper on which he recognised the cook’s poor and almost childish handwriting. The message was brief: ‘The slut insulted me this evening, tomorrow I will tell the whole story.’ He finished his meal hurriedly. It was out of the question for him to go and find Catherine right then in order to question her; she rented a furnished room in a house a few doors away. He felt a twinge of remorse at the fact that, although he had lived at the Lardins’ for more than a year, he had never been inquisitive enough to find out exactly where his friend lived. As he climbed the stairs Marie suddenly appeared on the landing and dragged him up a few more steps. She huddled up to him, so close that he could smell her fragrance. Her cheek brushed against his and he noticed that she was crying.

  ‘Nicolas,’ murmured the young woman, ‘I just don’t know what to do. This woman disgusts me. Catherine said horrible things to her that I didn’t understand. They hit each other. She threw Catherine out. Catherine was a second mother to me. And what about my father? Where is he? Do you have any news?’

  She clung to his coat. He was stroking her hair to calm her down when a noise made them start. She tore herself away from him, pushed him further up the stairs and pressed herself against the wall. A shadowy figure carrying a light walked to and fro on the landing, then all was normal again.

  ‘Goodnight, Nicolas,’ she whispered.

  She rushed off to her room, light as a bird, and Nicolas returned to his garret, vowing that he would have a long talk with her. Normally when his mind was preoccupied he had difficulty getting to sleep. On this occasion he had so many worries that he could not focus on one in particular, and he immediately fell into a refreshing slumber.

  Wednesday 7 February 1761

  Nicolas left the house early in the morning. It seemed strangely silent. Postponing any attempt to solve the mysterious events of the night, he hurried off to the Châtelet, eager to continue his investigations. He had given orders for the remains found in Montfaucon to be deposited in a small closet next to the Basse-Geôle. This was often used to hide the most gruesome or offensive sights from the eyes of the public allowed inside the morgue. No visitor other than Nicolas or Bourdeau was to be let in.

  This precautionary measure had proved useful; as soon as he arrived he was told that a man had reported late at night to the inspector on duty. He claimed he had been delegated by Commissioner Camusot to examine the finds. Despite all his arguments, threats and outbursts of anger he had not been allowed to see the evidence. This confirmed Nicolas’s conviction that he was being watched and had been since Monsieur de Sartine had given him this assignment. The individual in question was undoubtedly the mysterious horseman who had been spying on them in the knacker’s yard. The first thing that came into his mind was that it was Mauval, Commissioner Camusot’s confidant. If his hunch were wrong, he did not rule out the possibility that the spy had been planted by the Lieutenant General of Police, with the task of double-checking his own investigation.

  Nicolas continued to believe that Monsi
eur de Sartine was not playing fair with him. He could understand why but he considered the consequences of this lack of trust, which was a sign of his junior status and insignificance. His superior could not explain certain facts to him, at best for higher motives, at worst because he, Nicolas, was a mere plaything caught up in the workings of higher political interests, a blind pawn moved around a chessboard to mislead the opponent. In fact, Monsieur de Sartine had opened the way for him but without seeking to influence the course of the investigation.

  Once more Nicolas’s roving imagination led him to constantly question his own ability; he was incapable of simply waiting for events to unfold. Nicolas realised that he still had a lot to learn, but he vowed that he would give as good as he got, with weapons of his own choosing.

  He took comfort from this decision and, on Bourdeau’s advice, he gave orders for the human remains to be examined in the torture chamber next to the record office of the court. It was a dark room with a vaulted ceiling, lit only by narrow mullioned windows, whose openings had metal hoods intended to prevent any screams being heard outside whilst stopping anyone from having too good a view of the bloody proceedings down below. Several solid oak tables, chairs and stools provided sparse comfort to the magistrates, police officers and clerks of the court who worked there. What caught Nicolas’s attention were the executioner’s implements, carefully lined up along the walls. Racks, wooden boards, wedges, hammers, mallets – all of varying sizes – pincers, buckets, funnels, trestle beds, metal rods, swords, execution axes – the whole nightmarish arsenal of instruments of torture and judicial death was here on display. Nicolas could not help shuddering at the sight of this equipment, all the more threatening as it seemed to have been neatly put away by a tidy workman after his day’s labour.

  Awaiting Nicolas were Bouillaud, the Châtelet staff physician on duty,2 and his second-in-command, Sauvé, a surgeon, both looking stuffy and impatient. Bourdeau had sent for them early in the morning, one from Rue Saint-Roch and the other from Rue de la Tissanderie. Both of them had obeyed the summons with bad grace, as it upset the regular pattern of their work. They seemed annoyed and looked Nicolas up and down. The young man immediately realised that he had to impose his authority from the outset: above all he must not waste words. Giving the two important figures a dark look, he took the Lieutenant General’s commission out of his pocket and, unfolding it, handed it to the two physicians. They glanced at it frostily.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Nicolas began, ‘I have asked you here to help throw some light on this matter. In the first place I have to tell you that the opinions you give me must on no account be divulged. They are intended for Monsieur de Sartine who is in sole charge of this case and who relies on your discretion. Do I make myself understood?’

  The two doctors silently acquiesced.

  ‘You will be paid your usual fees.’

  Two sighs of relief were heard and the atmosphere became more relaxed.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Nicolas resumed, ‘here is what was found late yesterday afternoon in Montfaucon, under several layers of snow. The clothes you see were not covering the limbs. We have reason to believe that these remains are those of a man murdered in the night of Friday to Saturday last. We shall first proceed to list the clothes, then you will give your opinion on the bones.’

  They all approached the large table. Bouillaud and Sauvé, overcome by the smell, unfolded large white handkerchiefs. Bourdeau took a pinch of snuff. Nicolas would have liked to do the same but it was his job to handle the clothes so he held his breath instead.

  ‘A pair of torn breeches, stained with a blackish matter. Ditto for a shirt, two black stockings, a black leather doublet …’

  Suddenly inspired, he discreetly searched the pockets of this item. In the right-hand one he felt under his fingers a scrap of paper and a metal disk. He was about to examine them but decided to conceal them in his hand. He resumed his inventory.

  ‘Two leather slippers, apparently belonging to the same pair. The buckles have been torn off. Finally, a carved wooden cane with a silver pommel. Gentlemen, I am listening.’

  Bouillaud looked at his colleague hesitantly, then after a sign of encouragement from him put his hands together and stated:

  ‘We have before us human remains. A corpse, if you prefer.’

  Nicolas gave him a sardonic look and said:

  ‘I have the greatest pleasure in noting that your hypotheses are in line with my own. We are therefore making great strides. Having stated the basic fact, would you be so kind as to move on to the details. Let’s take the head, for instance. I note that the top of the skull is intact, smooth, without any trace of hair …’

  He leant over the table, pinching his nose and pursing his lips, and pointed to a precise area at the summit of the skull: a darker mark, with a sort of deposit.

  ‘In your opinion what could that be?’

  ‘Congealed blood, without the slightest doubt.’

  ‘The jaw seems to be broken, the teeth have not been found, except for the molars that remained on the bone. The head was severed from the torso. As to the latter, it looks flayed. What’s the cause of this appearance?’

  ‘Decomposition.’

  ‘Can you tell me if it’s a man or a woman, and above all how long the person has been dead?’

  ‘It’s difficult to say. It was covered with snow, did you say? It was doubtless frozen.’

  ‘So what can you conclude?’

  ‘We do not wish to commit ourselves in a case so far removed from the normal run of things.’

  ‘Do you think that any crime is normal?’

  ‘We consider abnormal, Monsieur, the conditions you impose on the exercise of our profession. This secrecy and air of mystery do not suit us. To put it in a nutshell, you have here the fragments of a naked corpse eaten away by frost. There is no more to add. In any case this is not unusual and you seem unaware, Monsieur, that every year the records of the Basse-Gêole provide descriptions of the sorry remains of corpses found on the banks of the Seine that were used by medical students for anatomical demonstrations.’

  ‘But what about the clothes and the blood?’

  ‘The body had been robbed. It was dumped in Montfaucon.’

  The surgeon kept mechanically nodding his head in time with the pompous-sounding phrases of his colleague.

  ‘I am grateful for the valuable help that you have agreed to give me,’ said Nicolas. ‘You may rest assured that Monsieur de Sartine will be informed of your zeal in serving his justice.’

  ‘We do not come under Monsieur de Sartine’s authority, Monsieur, and do not forget our fees.’

  They left the room rather stiffly. Bourdeau had to step aside to let them by.

  ‘So much for that, Bourdeau,’ sighed Nicolas. ‘How can we establish the identity of our corpse?’

  He had forgotten about the scrap of paper and the round, metal object he had stuffed into his pocket.

  ‘Gentlemen, may I be of assistance to you?’

  Nicolas and the inspector turned round, surprised by a soft voice coming from the darkness at the far end of the room. It went on:

  ‘I am so sorry to have taken you by surprise. I was here well before you came and out of discretion did not think it right to interrupt. You know, I am part of the furniture.’

  The character stepped forward into the light streaming through one of the windows. He was a young man of average build, about twenty years old, already plump. He had a full, handsome face, with honest-looking eyes, and even a white and well-groomed wig did not make him seem any older. He was wearing a puce-coloured coat, with jet buttons, a black waistcoat, breeches and matching stockings. His shoes were so highly polished that they mirrored the light.

  Bourdeau went up to Nicolas and whispered to him:

  ‘It’s “Monsieur de Paris”, the hangman.’

  ‘I presume you know me,’ continued the latter. ‘I am Charles Henri Sanson, the public executioner. Don’t introduce yourselves. I’ve kno
wn who you are for a long time, Monsieur Le Floch, and you, too, Inspector Bourdeau.’

  Nicolas stepped forward and held out his hand. The young man moved back.

  ‘Monsieur, I am honoured, but that is not the custom.’

  ‘Monsieur, I insist.’

  They shook hands. Nicolas felt the hangman’s hand tremble in his own. His reaction had been instinctive: he had experienced a sort of solidarity with a lad of his own age who, admittedly, practised a dreadful calling but, like Nicolas, served the King and his justice.

  ‘I think I may be of some assistance to you,’ said Sanson. ‘It so happens that in my family, for obvious reasons, we are well versed in the study and understanding of the human body. On occasion we care for people and reset dislocated limbs. I myself learnt to my cost the usefulness of this science in one appalling instance which also earned me several hours in a prison cell and forced my uncle Gilbert, the executioner at Rheims, to resign his office.’

  He added with a sad smile:

  ‘People have a strange idea of the hangman. In fact he’s just a man like any other, but one whose position imposes on him greater duties and a greater rigour.’

  ‘What is this appalling instance you refer to, Monsieur?’ Nicolas asked, intrigued.

  ‘The execution of the regicide Damiens in 1757.’3

  In a flash Nicolas could see in his mind’s eye the engraving from his childhood, depicting the ordeal of Cartouche.

  ‘In what way was this execution different from the others?’

  ‘Alas, Monsieur, it involved a man who had struck out at the sacred person of the King. He was liable to the special punishment meted out in such cases. I can still see us, my uncle and myself, dressed as is the custom in the executioners’ uniform. We had on blue breeches, a red jacket embroidered with a black gallows and ladder, as well as dark-pink cocked hats on our heads and swords at our sides. Our fifteen servants and aides were for their part dressed in fawn-coloured leather aprons.’