The Châtelet Apprentice (18 page)

Looking up, Catherine let out a scream when she saw Nicolas and attempted to stand. She let go of Awa who fell to the floor unconscious, and then looked around for some item with which to defend herself. Nicolas did not understand her reaction at all.
He had completely forgotten about his sinister-looking outfit and his coarse, grimy make-up. But Catherine was not the sort of woman to just stand there helplessly. In her younger days as a canteen-keeper she had been involved in various dirty tricks, ambushes and brawls with soldiers or a civilian rabble and she had always come through them with flying colours. Grabbing a large kitchen knife from the table, she lunged at the stranger. Meanwhile Awa began to have convulsions, whilst being spattered with blood gushing from a beheaded cockerel that lay on the kitchen floor.

Nicolas avoided the blow and let Catherine pass him, carried by her own momentum, so that he was now behind her. He managed to grab her around the waist and was then able to speak into her ear.

‘So, my dear Catherine, is this how you welcome Nicolas?'

The effect of his words was immediate. She dropped her knife and tearfully threw herself into the young man's arms. Sensibly he sat her down on a chair.

‘Well! How you treat your friends, and dressed up like that!'

‘Forgive me, Catherine, I'd forgotten all about the disguise.'

He took off his felt hat to reveal his head swathed in a
blood-soaked
bandage.

‘My God, Nicolas, what has happened to you, my poor little thing?'

‘It would take too long to explain. Tell me instead about this witches' sabbath. Is Awa ill?'

Catherine seemed embarrassed. She twined around her finger a long wisp of grey hair that poked out from the mob cap which crowned her old snub-nosed face. Eventually she made up her mind to speak.

‘She is not ill. She wanted to talk to her demons.'

‘What do you mean, her demons?'

Catherine started to rattle off the story.

‘In her country people have strange ways to talk to the spirits. She prepares a sort of herbal tea that she breathes in. Then we behead a cockerel. She starts to dance like a possessed woman. She capers about like a goat. Then the poor thing looks at the pool of blood. She lets out a scream and starts to tear at her face. I have much trouble calming her down. She is still very agitated.'

‘But what is the purpose of all this?'

‘She wanted to find out what happened to Saint-Louis. Well, the way they do. She is a good girl and I like her very much. Do you know, she has a way with eggs …'

Nicolas, who knew that Catherine could go on for ever about culinary matters, stopped her immediately.

‘So what did she conclude from all this witchcraft?'

Catherine was so frightened she crossed herself.

‘Never say that word. It is how they do things. We must not judge them. We know not their customs. Perhaps ours seem as strange to them. You know, Nicolas, I have travelled much and have seen many things I do not understand.'

Nicolas admired the common sense and kind-heartedness of this simple woman. She went on:

‘To see how dejected she is since, I do not think the reply was favourable. What misfortune. And poor Monsieur Semacgus who has been arrested. Nicolas, you will get him out, yes?'

‘I will do my best to uncover the truth behind everything that has happened,' the young man replied cautiously.

Awa, though still stretched out on the floor, seemed to be calm again. She was resting, as if drowsy. Nicolas took
Catherine's hands and looked her straight in the eye.

‘Tell me about Madame Lardin,' he said. ‘And don't hide anything from me because I already know enough to be able to tell what is true and what is not. In any case you left a note that I found in the kitchen on Tuesday evening, under my plate …'

‘You must know how that woman really was. She was unfaithful always to poor Monsieur Lardin. He could not have done more to make her life pleasant. Clothes, finery, jewels, furniture – all his money went on her. And the evil creature, the more he gave, the more she wanted. And also there were her fancy men; Descart, poor Semacgus and a gallant with a scar across his face. That one, he really frightened me. She opened her legs to all of them, the bitch! And always more and more demands. She really stuffed her belly. Monsieur I liked very much. He was good to me, even if he was surly and hard on other people, and on you too, my poor Nicholas. Even if he also had his faults. He went with whores when she would not have him. He gambled very much at
lansquenet
and
faro
. The more he gambled the more he lost. He came back to me in the early morning, always in a shocking state …'

‘But in that case how could he keep up such a standard of living?'

Catherine took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes. She sighed, then spat on the piece of material and tried to wipe the grime off Nicolas's face as if he were a child. He let her do it, and for a moment he thought he was back in Guérande; old Fine's face superimposed itself on Catherine's.

‘It was I who helped him. All my savings went to him. Being a cook in the army is not enough to live on. Sometimes there is something extra from booty or looting but only when you have a
winning streak. Once my old man was dead I inherited a small property that I sold. It was a tidy sum and I kept it for later. The commissioner went on at me so much that in the end I gave it to him in dribs and drabs. For the last year he has not even paid me my wages. I kept the house going by mending clothes in the neighbourhood. Then there was Marie. She was so sweet that I did not want to give up – it was for her that I did not leave earlier.'

‘You did in the end …'

Catherine sighed.

‘On Tuesday, two days ago, I hear the evil woman tell Marie to pack her bags. She wants her to go the next day to her godmother in Orléans, someone completely unknown to us. Marie is screaming, crying and pleading with her, the poor lamb. I get very worked up and join in and I give the lady a piece of my mind. She is all high and mighty and treats me like dirt. I cannot make any headway with her. The wicked thing has a tongue like quicksilver, and whatever I say she has an answer for. Then she goes for me claws first and nearly strangles me. I have bites and scratches all over.'

She showed him her big arms covered with marks.

‘She threw me out there and then, despite little Marie's pleas. What could I do? I was at my wits' end by the time I left. I spent the whole night thinking where to go. I thought of Monsieur Semacgus. He has always been so good and kind to me, so I decide. The next day I come here. I say to myself, “Even if he had fallen into the clutches of that evil creature like the others, perhaps he will understand.”'

She stroked Nicolas's forehead.

‘You know, Nicolas, I have nothing left. I am a poor woman and getting old. I am still strong and I can be of help to people.
What will become of me? There is no cure for my situation. At my age it is easy to get into hardship and fall on hard times. I would rather die. I will throw myself into the Seine. I will not bring disgrace on anyone as I have no family.
1
It is a pity because with my little nest egg I could have scraped by.'

Catherine's poor, plain-looking face crumpled and her tears began to flow again. She hiccuped as she attempted to pull herself together and her ample bosom heaved with despair. She did not cry, she simply let out a controlled, rasping sigh. Nicolas could not bear to see her so distressed.

‘Catherine, stop. I promise to help you. You can rely on me.'

She sniffed and looked at him, her face suddenly beaming.

‘But first,' he continued, ‘you must answer my questions. Do you feel up to it? It's very important.'

She nodded, now calm and attentive.

‘On the night Commissioner Lardin disappeared were you at the house in Rue des Blancs-Manteaux?' Nicolas asked.

‘No, definitely not. That Lardin woman gave me the evening off. I stayed with my landlady eating fritters and listening to revellers yelling in the street. I went to bed at about eleven o'clock and the next day I was in my kitchen by seven, relighting my stove.'

‘Nothing in particular struck you that morning?'

‘Wait a minute … Madame woke up very late.'

‘Later than usual?'

‘Yes, at about midday. She told me she had caught a cold. And that did not surprise me. Her ankle boots were soaking wet. Ruined by the snow. I pointed it out to her and I got told off as usual. She said that she had gone to vespers. Vespers, wearing Carnival clothes and a mask!'

‘Did that surprise you?'

‘Yes and no. From time to time she did go to church to give herself airs and graces. Not for the good Lord, for sure, but to be seen, of course, and to eye up the men. She even said it had been the church of Petit-Saint-Antoine. But dressed like that …'

‘She could have gone to Blancs-Manteaux church.'

‘Exactly what I thought. With the weather as it was on Friday it would have been much easier just to go across the road.'

‘There's something else I want to ask. Were you responsible for the commissioner's clothes?'

‘He would not let anyone touch them. He always had papers in his pockets. I washed his shirts and underclothes.'

‘Who was his tailor?'

‘You know him, Nicolas; it is Master Vachon, who fitted you out when you arrived in Paris so oddly dressed.'

Nicolas had detected an air of embarrassment about Catherine. She was clenching her hands so tightly that the skin was turning blue. He ventured to probe a little deeper.

‘How do you know there were papers in his pockets?'

She began to cry silently.

‘Catherine, I must have an answer. You must understand that it may help me in my investigation. If you can't confide in me, who can you confide in?'

‘I always searched his clothes,' Catherine continued, sobbing. ‘When he had big winnings he threw the coins loose into his pockets. Rather than letting everything be lost again, I put aside a small amount for household expenses. I got into the habit when I saw he never counted the money. But, Nicolas, I swear to you, it was never for me. I am no thief.

She held up her head defiantly.

‘But I would be quite entitled to reimburse myself for my advances and my unpaid wages.'

‘And among these papers did you notice anything in particular?'

‘Nothing, except the day before he disappeared. I have not thought about it since but it may be of importance. Perhaps it is, perhaps not. There was a scrap of paper, with your name in the corner.'

‘My name? Do you remember what it said?'

‘Oh yes. It was very short and it intrigued me. It was like a proverb. Yes, that is it: “Do two make three? Enfolded in these arms, some seek their solace.”'

‘And you haven't seen this piece of paper since then, have you?'

‘Never. No more than I have seen Monsieur.'

Nicolas considered that there was nothing more he could get out of Catherine. After comforting her once more, he helped her to lay Awa on her bed and left Semacgus's house.

Rabouine had been as good as his word and a cab was waiting for him in the lane. The carriage was shrouded in darkness. The snow softened every sound and accentuated the feeling of captivity in the cramped space inside the vehicle. The snow fell slowly in large flakes sent swirling upwards by an occasional gust of wind, sometimes forming fragile halos around the lights of the scattered houses.

Slumped in the corner of the carriage, his head leaning against the velvet upholstery, Nicolas looked out blankly. He was not sorry to have gone to Vaugirard. He had the feeling of having done some useful work. One thing was certain: Descart's house harboured a mystery. Yet he could not be certain whether the
intruder had found what he was looking for or had given up. And what exactly had he been searching for?

The ensuing events had not enlightened him at all – except for the discovery that Africa had set up camp with its witchcraft and pagan practices at the gates of the capital. He suddenly remembered an incident from his not-so-distant youth. One day, after he had hurt his elbow during one of the brawls that were such a common feature of the matches of
soule
, Fine had taken him to a woman who ironed coiffes and had a
well-established
reputation in the area as a bonesetter. While his nurse was crossing herself, the woman had begun a strange chant, then after spinning around several times she had placed a nail in his hand and asked him for a coin. Then she had rested his head on her black skirt, and ten years later he could still remember its strange odour. She had dipped her hand into a pot filled with a sticky substance and had rubbed it vigorously onto the injured part, reciting some words in Breton, which he still remembered:
‘Pa'z out ar jug braz, Otro Saint Erwan ar Wirionè Clew ac'hanan.'
2
His arm, which he had been unable to straighten out a moment before, had miraculously become flexible again. The old woman had warned him that from then on he would know when it was going to rain from a pain in his arm, and that it would not go away when he was old. That time had not yet come.

So poor Awa had merely been following her own custom in order to try to find out her companion's fate. Nicolas had not forgotten about Saint-Louis either, but as time passed there seemed to be less and less hope of finding Semacgus's servant.

The conversation with Catherine had confirmed what
Nicolas already knew about Madame Lardin and her loose morals. According to his servant, the commissioner had been reduced to the undignified roles of deceived husband, penniless gambler and unscrupulous master. However, his character seemed to Nicolas to have quite another and a more disturbing dimension which, in her simplicity, this kind-hearted woman had failed to realise. As to the cryptic phrase found in Lardin's coat pocket the day before he disappeared, he really had no idea what it could mean.