The Phantom of Rue Royale (16 page)

This explanation seemed to satisfy the King.

‘Now,’ Nicolas went on, ‘apart from the fire and the
congestion
in Rue Royale, the City Guards should have been there in greater numbers and under stronger command. Their leaders were playing pontoon in a neighbouring tavern rather than doing their duty and protecting the public. One thousand five hundred
livres
to the colonel of French Guards to deploy one thousand two hundred men accustomed to this kind of gathering would have made all the difference. Finally, the greatest mistake was to let the guests from the ambassadors’ mansion drive their carriages into Rue Royale.’

‘All that is clear, Monsieur. What is the death toll from that sad day?’

The King had turned to Sartine, who made a sign to Nicolas to continue.

‘As Monsieur de Sartine ordered, I tried to establish a precise count of the victims. Officially, a hundred and thirty-two deaths. The Procurator General did the same, and we compared our figures, taking care to collect the death certificates of all those
who died as a result of these terrible events. The total is one thousand two hundred.’

‘As many as that?’ said the King, overcome with emotion.

‘We’ve been able to break it down as follows: five monks, two priests, twenty-two persons of distinction, a hundred and
fifty-five
bourgeois, four hundred and fifty-four of the common people, and eighty who drowned, plus those who were taken home or to hospital.’

The King, always drawn to macabre details, wanted to know the state of the bodies that had been recovered. Nicolas replied briefly, and Sartine, anxious like him not to plunge the monarch into gloom, hastened to change the subject. He recalled the plan put forward by his office to ensure that, in future, hard stones would be cut and worked on only in quarries, to avoid dangerously cluttering the streets and squares of Paris. ‘As the King no doubt knows,’ he went on, ‘Monseigneur the Dauphin has entrusted to me six thousand
livres
from the sum which Your Majesty allows him for his little pleasures and has asked me to use it for the benefit of the most unfortunate.’

‘I’m pleased that he feels such compassion for the fate of my subjects. I know that he has great respect for you – and he’s usually extremely sparing of his respect.’

Nicolas had the impression that Sartine was blushing.

‘Do you have anything less sad to tell me, Sartine?’

‘Sire, the Bishop of Traves managed to get hold of a cab in which there was already a female passenger. Gallant young prelate that he is, he apologised a thousand times on the way to her residence. It was impossible subsequently to conceal from
him the fact that the lady in question was La Gourdain, Paris’s leading madam.’

The King laughed. ‘Ah! I wager some of his colleagues would have recognised the lady! Is that all, Sartine?’

‘Nothing else that could interest or amuse Your Majesty.’

The King stretched his legs and rubbed his hands in glee. ‘Is that so, Sartine? There is something else happening in your good city. I hear there is agitation abroad, that people are gathering, that emotions are running high. First there was Saint-Médard, now there is Rue Saint-Honoré.’

He was looking intently at Sartine. Nicolas, who was once again behind his chief, took out his little black notebook, opened it and delicately placed it in the Lieutenant General’s hand. This gesture did not escape the King’s notice.

‘Have you forgotten something?’

‘No, Sire,’ said Sartine coolly. ‘I was just checking my notes in case any event that might interest Your Majesty had slipped my mind.’

Nicolas did not quite grasp what was happening.

‘Ha, ha!’ said the King. ‘I’ve caught you. It seems I have to inform you that there have been some strange manifestations within a family of shopkeepers near the Opéra. People are saying it’s a repeat of the scandalous events that occurred over the grave of Deacon Pâris. You know how these things start … I can already see the archbishop sticking his nose into the
administration
and policing of the city, just as he did some time ago when he managed to extract from me a
lettre de cachet
, which you quite rightly considered an extraordinary and unacceptable
encroachment
on your jurisdiction. Here are my orders. Young Ranreuil,
who has again proved his worth and his cool head, will take up temporary residence in the house and investigate the supposed possession. Once he has penetrated its mystery, he will give me a detailed report. He must go at once.’

‘Your Majesty’s orders will be carried out.’

The King rose. He seemed rejuvenated. ‘This interview shall remain between the three of us. You, Sartine, will come to your audience tomorrow, the day of Pentecost, and then you will do me the pleasure of staying to dine with me in my private
apartments
. As for you, Ranreuil, to horse, tally-ho, tally-ho! Good hunting!’

They bowed. The King bade them farewell with a charming gesture and disappeared in the direction of his apartments. Monsieur de La Borde walked them to the ambassadors’ staircase, one floor below. The sunlight in the main courtyard was dazzling. Nicolas opened his mouth to speak, but Sartine forestalled his question.

‘I know what you’re going to say, Nicolas. Thank you for trying to get me out of a sticky situation. But the King was so pleased to tell me something he thought I didn’t know that I had no desire to spoil his pleasure.’

Having delivered this lesson on how to be a courtier and a loyal servant, Sartine, beaming all over his face, left Nicolas and set off to find his crony Saint-Florentin and tell him that his disgrace would not be happening yet awhile.

From Monsieur de La Borde, who wanted to invite him to supper, Nicolas learnt that the King could not stop singing the praises of his visitors, both Sartine and ‘young Ranreuil’ who ‘was a
first-class
hunter in every field, and a good servant’, in his own words. He declined the invitation, informed his friend of the turn of events and the orders he had received, and asked him for help to get back to the capital as quickly as possible. Monsieur de La Borde immediately took him to the Place d’Armes, and from there to the great stable where, after some discussion, a dappled grey horse was brought out. Nicolas would entrust it to police headquarters when he got to Paris, and a messenger would bring it back to Versailles.

It was almost midday. By carriage, it took at least two hours to reach Paris. Going at a decent speed on a good horse, the length of the journey could be reduced. The gelding set off at a fast trot. Nicolas thought about the scene he had just lived through. He was always touched by his encounters with the King. The anecdote of the door to the great gallery being forced open was a transparent apologia for the regrets he must feeling over another
decision he now knew to have been unwise. To express such regrets openly was not his custom, but he had suggested enough to dispel any doubts on the subject. The King was not easily fooled, except when he wanted to be. He had his own channels through which to discover things, and this information helped him to reach a balanced judgement. That observation filled Nicolas with joy and reinforced his loyalty to the man whose profile he remembered seeing on coins when he was a child. The King could come down off his pedestal without seeming in any way diminished, quite the contrary. The events of Rue
Saint-Honoré
, Nicolas thought, could only have been brought to Louis’s attention by someone close to him. The Opéra was not far from the Galaines’ shop, almost opposite in fact, and there had been a ball that evening. Lost in thought, he almost ran over a little girl who stood at the side of the road, offering bunches of wild flowers she had gathered in the surrounding woods. It was the horse that saved the child by rearing, which almost unseated Nicolas, even though he was a good rider. To gain forgiveness and to calm the terrified girl, he bought her entire stock at ten times the correct price, which was why, when he rode through Porte de la Conférence and entered Paris just before two o’clock, he was laden with flowers.

In Rue Montmartre, Marion and Catherine were stunned by this unexpected harvest. Nicolas brought Monsieur de Noblecourt up to date with the situation, and advised everyone not to worry in any way, as he would only be absent for a few days at the most. He packed a few changes of clothes and his toilet requisites in a portmanteau, as well as a miniature lantern and pistol, masterpieces of precision given him by Bourdeau. Then he
led his horse to Rue Saint-Augustin, left it there, and walked to Rue Saint-Honoré by way of Rue d’Antin and Rue Neuve-
Saint-Roch
.

The church of Saint-Roch reminded him of an intriguing if relatively trivial case he had dealt with recently. It concerned an individual who had found a way to be invited to a wedding feast every day of his life. Good-looking and friendly, he would regularly don his black ceremonial coat and attend weddings in the larger parish churches. He would mingle with the crowd, and after the Mass would follow the guests to the feast. As the guests of the two families were often meeting for the first time, he would pass unnoticed. Distributing compliments and best wishes to all and sundry, he would get a good meal for his pains. Then a friend of Monsieur de Sartine’s, a notary, having noticed the man for the fourth time, informed the police. Nicolas accompanied the notary to a big wedding at Saint-Roch. They soon spotted the black coat, and the notary ventured to ask the man ‘whose side’ he was on. ‘On the side of the door,’ he replied, and took to his heels. The commissioner intercepted him. Having been severely
reprimanded
, the man had to promise to mend his ways, and ended up becoming a police spy. His distinguished appearance and his familiarity with society were ideal for the job, especially at Opéra balls.

At the Galaine house, Nicolas found the door closed. Two French Guards were at their posts, dozing. Seven o’clock was a reasonable hour for a bourgeois family in Paris to be having their supper. He knocked at the carriage entrance. After a few
moments, he heard shuffling footsteps, and an elderly female servant in an apron appeared, her head held high like the tortoises in the Jardin du Roi. Tufts of dirty yellow hair peeked out from beneath her cap. She had pale eyes, and her sagging face was crisscrossed with deep lines. Her breasts drooped over her large stomach. From the stains on her apron, Nicolas guessed that she was Marie Chaffoureau, the cook. Presumably Miette had not yet recovered enough to come and open the door to visitors.

‘What do you want at this hour? If it’s charity, we’ve already given – there are no scraps left in this house!’

He made a mental note of the remark.

‘Could you inform your master that Commissioner Le Floch wishes to speak to him?’

The old face creased in a kind of smile. ‘Why didn’t you say so before, Monsieur? Please come in. I’ll tell the master.’

They entered a courtyard that ran alongside the main building. It had seen better days: grass was growing between the uneven paving stones, and old, mildewed crates were in the last stages of decay. The cook noticed his expression.

‘It’s not like it was before. I mean, in the days of Monsieur’s father. There was a horse and carriage then, and all sorts of things …’

Marie Chaffoureau took him through an open door, which led to a small corridor, and pointed him in the direction of the office where he had had his first interview with Charles Galaine. She disappeared, muttering something incomprehensible. He did not have long to wait. From somewhere nearby, he could hear voices raised in argument. A door was slammed. Charles Galaine entered the room, clearly in a foul mood.

‘Not only do you not respect the fact that we are in mourning, Commissioner, but you present yourself at an hour when any respectable family has gathered for—’

‘You’re preaching to the converted, Monsieur. But I am not here on the orders of the police, nor at the request of a magistrate.’

‘Then—’

‘I am here on the personal orders of the King, to pursue my investigations and report on them to His Majesty …’

Nicolas did not think he was exceeding his instructions by linking his ongoing criminal investigation with the events of the previous night.

‘The King!’ said Galaine in astonishment. ‘But how does the King know … Anyway, it was nothing but a fit of hysterics.’

‘The King knows everything that happened in this house last night. He also knows of the scandal and commotion that your maid’s fit of madness provoked. Such disorder cannot be allowed in the capital, with the risk of agitating a populace all too ready to be roused for all kinds of spurious reasons. And if it was just hysterics, why were you and your family praying?’

‘Monsieur, what do you intend to do?’

‘Follow orders and request hospitality for a few days.’

Galaine made a gesture of surprise.

‘Oh, don’t worry, I shan’t expect you to feed me for free. I’ll pay for my board and lodgings. Do you think the King is so poor that he cannot pay his servants’ expenses? If you wish to discuss it, let’s do so. A good hotel is four or five
livres
a day.’

‘But all I have is a wretched cubby hole, a maid’s room …’

‘That will do. So, four
livres
for accommodation, plus two
livres
for food, that makes six
livres
. Shall we make it eight? Is that all right with you?’

Galaine’s cheeks had turned a little red. ‘Your humble servant, Monsieur. Will you share our supper? We were just about to start.’

Nicolas bowed and followed him out of the room.

The private part of the house was behind the shop, to the left of Charles Galaine’s office. It was a growing fashion among the Parisian shopkeeping class to set aside one room for meals. The dining room they entered was windowless, apart from a bull’s-eye in the wall adjoining the office, which even in the middle of the day probably let in very little light. The only illumination now came from a number of poor-quality candles. The atmosphere in the room was so musty that Nicolas immediately felt a little nauseous. He was rather perfunctorily introduced to the family, and six pairs of eyes turned to him. The master of the house took his place at the head of the table between his sisters, Camille and Charlotte. At the other end sat Madame Galaine, with her stepson Jean on her right and on her left a fair-haired young man who was introduced as Louis Dorsacq, the shop assistant. To the right of her stepbrother, a little girl of seven or eight, with an angular face, was bent over her plate, apparently sulking. An extra place was set, and Nicolas was curtly requested to sit down opposite the child.

After a clear soup, into which they dipped dry bread, a dish of pigeons and broad beans was brought. The birds were so meagre, they seemed to have shrunk in the cooking. To the visible irritation of Monsieur and Madame Galaine, the older of the two sisters, Charlotte, supported by her younger sister’s excited
chirping, began inveighing against the style of the house in general and this dish in particular. Never, she said, would they have seen such a thing while their father was alive. He had increased the family’s holdings and had not risked the business on speculative adventures and the perils of the sea. Oh, it was shameful to have to reiterate such basic precepts in front of a stranger. She threw a vicious glance at Louis Dorsacq and, changing the subject, recalled what the duties of shop assistants were, in both the wholesale and retail sectors, and how they had to behave. A young man in such a position had to be conscientious, sensible, loyal and not given to cheating, for those who did soon brought loss and ruin to merchants. Last but not least, an assistant had to make a constant effort to do his duty and give his employer nothing but satisfaction. The
coup de grâce
was administered by the younger sister, who expressed the opinion that, for a post like this, a fair-haired young dandy was the opposite of a good servant.

Nicolas looked anxiously at the pigeon on his plate, which slid about in its sauce, resisting all attempts to tear it apart. The two sisters were watching him and laughing. Now Charlotte piped up again, but her brother did not even deign to lift his head. As for his wife, she was having a bluestocking conversation with the assistant, comparing the new auditorium at the Opéra with the one at Versailles. Camille’s harsh voice again dominated the table. What were these measly pigeons? Surely, examples of those urban birds which so annoyed the people of Paris with their flapping and their droppings. Caught in a net, they were force-fed by men blowing grass from their own mouths down the birds’ crops. Then their throats were cut open, and the half-digested
grass was taken out and again blown into the birds, which were not killed for another two days. As the police had responsibility for the supervision of food supplies, Nicolas was only too aware of this practice. Absurdly, Charlotte started asking for parrot. Little Geneviève stood up, her hand over her mouth, pushed back her chair, which fell, and ran out of the room. Charles Galaine looked up and pounded on the table with his fist. Two glasses fell, and wine stained the tablecloth and dripped onto the wooden floor, forming a sinister red blotch, like blood.

‘That’s enough, sisters, that’s too much! Go back to your rooms!’

He was a shy man, but formidable in his anger. Everyone stood up: first Camille and Charlotte, looking offended, then Jean Galaine, lost in thought. Charles Galaine bade good night to the commissioner and asked him to forgive his sisters. The cook would show him to his room. Madame Galaine exchanged a few words with the assistant and left the room without so much as a glance at Nicolas. The assistant, who did not sleep in the house but in furnished lodgings nearby, was about to leave when Nicolas held him back.

‘Monsieur, I’d like to have a word with you.’

His mouth twisted in an ugly pout. ‘Tomorrow if you like, Monsieur. I’m expected somewhere this evening.’

Nicolas took him firmly by the arm, opened the door to the shop and pulled him inside.

‘There’s time enough for that. You seemed quite forthcoming on the subject of the boxes at the new Opéra. Oh, I agree with you, the auditorium has met with a great deal of criticism. The orchestra sounds dull, you can’t hear the voices and the
decorations are shabby, poorly coloured and out of proportion to the dimensions of the theatre. And those infamous boxes. Ah, the boxes!’

As Nicolas spoke, he kept prodding the young man until he fell into a chair.

‘The first level aren’t very high,’ Nicolas resumed. ‘And, what’s more, not very advantageous for women. As for the foyer … Ah, the foyer: completely unworthy of the majesty of the place. Don’t you think so? With those steep, narrow staircases. No space. As a matter of fact, why don’t you tell me your whereabouts on the thirtieth and thirty-first May, more specifically from four in the afternoon on the thirtieth until six in the morning on the thirty-first. It’s quite simple, there’s no point in complaining. The sooner we’re finished, the sooner you’ll be able to go.’

‘How can I remember that, Monsieur, and, besides, what is it to you?’

‘It’s a great deal to me. Come on, I’m listening, or would you rather I took you with me to the Grand Châtelet? Let me help you. Just tell me what time you finished work on the thirtieth of May, the day of the festivities in Place Louis XV.’

‘That I can tell you. It was six o’clock.’

‘Am I to understand that there are other things you are hiding from me?’

His only response was another pout.

‘Was that the usual time?’