Читать книгу The Phantom of the Rue Royale: Nicolas Le Floch Investigation #3 - Jean-Francois Parot - Страница 18

The past is gone, the future yet lacks breath,

The present languishes ’twixt life and death

J.-B. CHASSIGNET (1594)

Nicolas whistled for a cab. They had to get back to Place Louis XV, more specifically to the place where the corpses had been gathered together, to find a grief-stricken family searching for a young girl – or young woman, although the corpse lying in its sack at the Basse-Geôle bore no ring.

Their carriage reached Rue Saint-Honoré by way of the quais and the cesspools of Rue du Petit-Bourbon and Rue des Poulies, which ran alongside the old Louvre. Nicolas looked out at these foul clusters of hovels, so close to the palaces of the kings and so conducive to every sickness of body and mind.

The western end of Rue Saint-Honoré consisted of a long row of shops selling fashion, shops which dictated style in the city. At the beginning of each season, the master artisans of this luxury trade dispatched porcelain dummies all the way to distant Muscovy in the north and to the very interior of the Grand Turk’s seraglio in the south. These dummies bore the latest wigs and were carefully dressed in the season’s novelties. The other half of the street, towards La Halle, was given over to more down-to-earth pleasures, such as the Hôtel d’Aligre, a celebrated temple of delicacies, which had been open for a year, its window filled with hams and andouilles. One evening, Bourdeau had given him a fashionable new ragout to taste: choucroute from Strasbourg. This dish, which was now much in demand, had won acclaim from the Faculty, which had declared it ‘refreshing, a cure for scurvy, producing a refined, milky liquid that makes the blood bright red and temperate’. The establishment’s trout au bleu came directly from Geneva in their own court-bouillon, and rumour had it – a rumour confirmed by Monsieur de la Borde – that the King himself sometimes delayed his dinner if this special delivery was late in arriving at Versailles.

Already the wet slate roofs of the Capuchin monastery near the Orangerie flashed grey on their left. The fiacre turned into Rue de Chevilly, then briefly into Rue de Suresnes, and at last neared the cemetery belonging to the parish of La Madeleine. Here, it slowed down, blocked by a dense, silent, grim-looking crowd, which was itself barred from the parish and its dependencies by a cordon of French Guards. Nicolas banged with his fist on the front of the box to stop the vehicle and stepped out. A man in a magistrate’s black robe, whom he recognised as Monsieur Mutel, Commissioner of the Palais-Royal district, came forward and shook his hand. The two men with him bowed. One was Monsieur Puissant, the police official responsible for performances and lighting, and the other was his deputy, Monsieur Hochet de la Terrie. Both were old acquaintances.

‘My dear colleague,’ Mutel said. ‘These gentlemen and I have been organising the identification of the bodies. There’s so little space that, if we let it, the crowd would come rushing in and we’d have a new disaster on our hands. I assume Monsieur de Sartine has sent you to help us?’

‘Not exactly, although we are at your disposal. We’re here to carry out a preliminary investigation following a suspicious death noted last night. We need to consult … I assume you have lists?’

‘We have three. A list of bodies having means of identification on them, a second list of those already identified by their nearest and dearest and a final list with descriptions of missing persons to help our assistants try to find the relative or friend in question. But the faces are often terribly disfigured, which makes it quite difficult to recognise anyone. What’s more, there’s a storm brewing and we won’t be able to preserve the bodies for too long … Even the Basse-Geôle couldn’t contain them all!’

The commissioner came closer to Nicolas and, in a low voice, enquired after Monsieur de Sartine’s state of health.

‘Well, you know him, my dear fellow, simplicitas ac modestiae imagine in altitudinem conditus studiumque litterarum at amorem carminum simulans, quo uelaret animium.1 But without touching his wigs …’

Both men were fond of the classics, and occasionally, when they needed to be discreet, they enjoyed conversing with the help of Latin quotations.

‘Bene, that’s certainly an interesting symptom! I’m reassured, though. This is a grave crisis, but he’ll get through it. The truth will out, and sooner rather than later. We just have to let the stupid and the envious stew in their own juice!’ He winked. ‘Don’t worry, anything I find out about last night’s incompetence I’ll pass on to you.’

Nicolas smiled and made an evasive gesture with his hand. His brilliant entry into the corps of commissioners at the Châtelet in 1761 had impressed his colleagues. By now, most had learnt to appreciate him for his particular qualities and readily opened their hearts to him about their problems, confident that he would be able to bring pressure to bear on the Lieutenant General. Without exaggerating his natural charm, Nicolas had been able to honour some of the older veterans with his services.

The registers had been laid out in the church. All around them rose the cries and weeping of the families. They shared the task among themselves. After a moment, the inspector pointed out a line to him.

‘… a frail young girl,’ Nicolas read aloud, ‘in a pale yellow satin dress, fair hair, blue eyes, aged nineteen …’

He questioned the police officer who was keeping the register.

‘This entry is at the end. It can’t have been long since these particulars were given. Do you remember the person who gave them?’

‘Yes, Commissioner, it was only a quarter of an hour ago. A gentleman of about forty, accompanied by a young man. He was looking for his niece. He seemed in a very emotional state and gave me a seal from his shop so that we could reach him in case we found the girl.’

He noted the number of the entry and looked through a cardboard box in which various papers were being stored. ‘Let’s see … number seventy-three … Here we are!’ He took out a leaflet. ‘At the sign of the Deux Castors, Rue Saint-Honoré, Paris, opposite the Opéra. Charles Galaine, furrier, manufacturer and purveyor of furs, muffs and coats.’ The girl’s name was apparently Élodie Galaine.

The decorative seal showed two beavers facing each other. Their tails framed an engraving representing a man in a fur coat and hat reaching out his hands towards a fire. The commissioner wrote down the address in pencil in his little black notebook.

‘Let’s not waste time,’ he said. ‘We’ll go straight there.’

As they were getting back into their carriage, Tirepot appeared and held Nicolas back by a button of his coat.

‘Here’s what I can tell you. The City Guards were having a merry time of it last night. They happily got through a lot of bottles in the taverns round about, celebrating their new uniforms. They went to lots of different places, but in particular to the Dauphin Couronné. La Paulet will be able to tell you more. She asked me to tell you and Monsieur Bourdeau that she waited for you, that your food got spoilt, but that she realised what was happening. She went on and on about a piece of news she said was sure to please you. She’s expecting you tonight at about ten; it’ll be worth your while …’

Nicolas was once more about to climb into the carriage when Tirepot again detained him.

‘Not so fast! Have a look at what they’ve been hiring people to distribute. The city lot are behind this. I heard from a proofreader who was using my convenience that it was produced in a workshop that prints adjudication announcements for the aldermen. Sorry about the state of it!’

He handed the commissioner a stained poster. Nicolas threw him a coin, which he made as if to refuse, while seizing it in mid-air. The lampoon was crude and obscene. Its target was Monsieur de Sartine and beyond him, the First Minister, Choiseul. They certainly were not losing any time at the Hôtel de Ville, thought Nicolas. As a loyal subject of the King and a magistrate, he was shocked by these accusations. Not that he wasn’t used to such hate-filled writings: he had been hunting them down for ten years, under two royal mistresses. He kept seizing them and destroying them in disgust, but the hydra possessed a hundred heads and was constantly reborn.

Their carriage set off and again went through the cordon of French Guards. Nicolas had the coachman ask an officer for permission to go along Rue Royale. The cab slowly moved those few hundred fateful yards. Nothing remained of the previous night’s tragedy except for scraps of clothing and scattered shoes, which would soon provide a harvest for the second-hand clothes dealers. The rain that had fallen during the storm was gradually erasing the brown stains on the ground. In the crude afternoon light, the immediate causes of the tragedy were like so many accusing witnesses: trenches, blocks of stone, the unfinished street. Place Louis XV was emerging from the disaster, and teams had already started to clear the remains of the structure from which the fireworks had been launched. The ambassadors’ mansion and the Garde-Meuble stood resplendent in all their hieratic solemnity. The wind was chasing away the last miasmas of the night. Tomorrow, everything would be back to normal, as if nothing had happened. And yet Nicolas could still hear the cries of agony. As they went past the Garde-Meuble and along Passage de l’Orangerie to Rue Saint-Honoré, he thought with anguish of how the evening’s merriment had turned sour. Before long, their carriage stopped near the corner of Rue de Valois, outside a fine-looking shop with the sign of the Deux Castors. The window, in its frame of carved wood, displayed scenes of trappers and savages hunting animals native to the various continents. The glass was protected by a grille with gilded points in the shape of pine cones. Through it, in the gloom of the shop, a number of stuffed animals could be seen. Nicolas pointed out some naked dummies to Bourdeau.

‘At the end of spring, the hides and garments are taken down into cool cellars fumigated with herbs to protect them from insects.’

‘You’re very knowledgeable about these things. Some lovely lady, I suppose …’

‘And you’re very nosy …’

A small bell tinkled as he opened the door. They were struck by a strong smell, which reminded Nicolas of a certain wardrobe in the Château de Ranreuil in which, as a child, he had often played, burying his face in the fur clothes that belonged to his godfather, the marquis. A brown-haired woman stood by the light oak counter. She was still young, wore a grey taffeta dress with large lace oversleeves, and was studying a piece of paper with a stern expression on her face. She lifted her head – Nicolas admired her pale complexion – and looked angrily at a young girl, little more than a child, in a maid’s cap and apron, who was shrinking into herself, her head lowered like someone caught in the act. The girl had an angular, unprepossessing face and the mulish expression of a small, hunted animal. The two men approached in silence.

‘Miette, my girl, either someone stole it from you or you stole it yourself.’

‘But, Madame …’ the girl moaned.

‘Quiet, you hussy, you’re getting on my nerves!’

While the maid fiddled with a corner of her apron, the woman’s eyes came to rest on the girl’s feet.

‘Where have you been? Look at your shoes … Your face is dirty, your clothes are a mess! Who would think, in a respectable house –’ Suddenly she noticed Nicolas. ‘Get out of my sight, you wicked girl! Gentlemen, to what do I owe your visit? We have some wonderful bargains at this time of year. Hats, pelisses, cloaks, muffs. Buy now for the autumn. Or else, for your lady, a fresh consignment of sables just in from the North. I’ll call my husband, Monsieur Galaine – he can tell you everything you need to know about his hides.’

The woman disappeared through a side door with bevelled glass panels.

‘There’s someone who’s not too worried about her niece!’ Bourdeau muttered.

‘Let’s not jump to conclusions,’ said Nicolas in a conciliatory tone. ‘We’re still not sure who the unknown girl is. The lady simply has a good head for business.’ He always guarded against first impressions, even though experience told him they were often accurate.

The lady in question reappeared and invited them into a kind of office. Behind a wooden table, covered in samples of hides, were two men. Both seemed on their guard. The older of the two was sitting with his arms folded. The other stood leaning with one hand on the back of the armchair. Nicolas, alert as ever to fleeting impressions, detected a smell he knew well, the kind given off by an animal at bay or a suspect during inter rogation. This smell, imperceptible to anyone other than him, was superimposed on the acrid stench of furs pervading the shop. There was something about the two men that did not suggest honest merchants getting ready to vaunt the quality of their merchandise. The older of the two was the first to speak.

‘You gentlemen no doubt wish to take advantage of our bargains? I have some articles here which might interest—’

Nicolas interrupted him: ‘Are you Charles Galaine the furrier? Did you go to La Madeleine cemetery this morning and leave a description of your niece, Élodie Galaine, aged nineteen?’

He saw the man’s hand tighten so much that it turned white. ‘That’s correct, Monsieur …?’

‘Nicolas Le Floch, commissioner at the Châtelet. This is my deputy, Inspector Bourdeau.’

‘Do you have news of my niece?’

‘I’m sorry to have to inform you that I myself found a body answering the description you gave to a police officer at La Madeleine cemetery. It would therefore be advisable, Monsieur, if you could come with me to the Grand Châtelet to help identify the body in question. The sooner, the better.’

‘My God! How is it possible? But why to the Grand Châtelet?’

‘There were so many victims that some have been transported to the Basse-Geôle.’

The younger man bowed his head. He looked like his father but with softer features; small, deep-set blue eyes; a broad nose and light chestnut hair. He was biting the inside of his cheek. His father, whose features were more virile, showed no particular emotion, apart from two beads of sweat at his temples, just below his wig. They were both wearing light-brown coats.

‘My son Jean and I will go with you.’

‘Our carriage is at your disposal.’

As all four were leaving, a large, mannish-looking woman in a chenille,2 her head bare and her features distorted, threw herself at the merchant, grabbed the lapel of his coat and harangued him in a shrill tone.

‘Charles, tell me everything. Where is our bird, our beauty? Who are these people? You’re hiding something, aren’t you? This is unbearable. We’ve never counted for anything in this house, unlike … It’ll be the death of me, yes, the death of me.’

Charles Galaine pushed her away gently and sat her down on a chair. She burst into tears.

‘Forgive her, gentlemen. My elder sister, Charlotte, is upset by her niece’s disappearance.’

He turned to his wife, who was watching the scene impassively. ‘Émilie, give our sister a little orange blossom water. I’m going with these gentlemen; I shan’t be long.’

Émilie Galaine shrugged her shoulders, but did not say a word. They left and got into the cab. Whether because he wished to spare his family’s feelings, or because he was indifferent, Nicolas noted that Monsieur Galaine had said nothing of where they were going. He assumed that Madame Galaine was his second wife: how else could she have a son only a few years younger than herself? All the same, her indifference was quite surprising. As for the son, he could barely conceal his anxiety – which might be brotherly concern or might just as easily be something else. The father, on the other hand, was controlling himself to perfection, which made him seem rather insensitive to the possibility that one of his nearest and dearest had died. In truth, Nicolas knew nothing about the family. This investigation had already provoked a great many questions. But the priority was to identify the body. A heavy silence descended on the carriage. Nicolas, sitting opposite the son, saw him mechanically picking at the upholstery on the door. Bourdeau pretended to doze, but in fact he was observing Charles Galaine through half-closed eyes. The merchant sat motionless, staring obstinately into space.

As soon as they reached the Grand Châtelet, things moved quickly. Leaning on his son’s arm, Charles Galaine hesitantly descended the stone staircase to the old prison. All at once they were face to face with the sheet which Nicolas had sealed that very morning, and which had been carried in from the adjoining cellar. The commissioner removed the sheet from the dead girl’s face, then turned his back on the visitors. He heard a dull thud: the son had fainted. Old Marie was called. He poured a few drops of his usual revulsive between the young man’s lips, and for good measure gave him a couple of hearty slaps. The treatment was effective: the younger Galaine came to his senses with a sigh. The usher took him up to the courtyard for a little air. Charles Galaine made as if to follow, but Nicolas stopped him.

‘Please, Monsieur. Old Marie knows what he’s doing; he’s seen it all before. He’ll take care of your son. The important thing right now is that you confirm to me this girl’s identity.’

The merchant looked at the body with alarm, his eyes wide open and his lips quivering. ‘Yes, Monsieur, this is, alas, my niece Élodie. How terrible! But how am I going to tell my sisters? They were so fond of her. She was like their own child.’

‘Your sisters?’

‘Charlotte, my older sister, whom you’ve met, and Camille, my younger sister.’

They went back to the duty office where Monsieur Galaine’s identification was duly written down by Bourdeau.

‘Monsieur,’ said Nicolas, ‘I have a painful duty to discharge. It falls to me to inform you that Mademoiselle Édolie Galaine, your niece, was not crushed during the disaster in Rue Royale. She was murdered.’

‘Murdered! What do you mean? What are you saying? Why would you add an extra burden to a relative already devastated by such terrible news? Murdered? Our Élodie? Murdered? My brother’s daughter …’

As a great lover of the theatre, Nicolas judged the tone false. A noble father’s indignation was a common feature of the current repertoire and was very familiar to him.

‘What I mean,’ he said, more curtly, ‘is that an examination of the body’ – Nicolas avoided the shocking word ‘autopsy’ – ‘proves beyond doubt that this girl, or woman, was strangled. Was she married? Engaged?’

He had no intention of mentioning the victim’s condition, preferring to keep that card up his sleeve, ready to play it when the moment was right. Galaine’s reaction convinced him of the rightness of this decision.

‘Married! Engaged! You’re out of your mind, Monsieur. She was a child!’

‘Monsieur, I’m going to have to ask you a few questions. There are certain things we need to confirm. We know for a fact that a crime has been committed, and the procedure will be set in motion as soon as I have presented my conclusions to the King’s Procurator, who will then refer the case to the Criminal Lieutenant.’

‘But, Monsieur, my family, my wife … I must tell them …’

‘That’s out of the question. When did you last see your niece?’

Monsieur Galaine seemed to have come to terms with the situation. He reflected for a moment.

‘As a member of the furriers’ guild – one of the great trade associations, as you know – I’d been invited to the city festivities. We first met at the house of one of our number, near Pont Neuf. I saw my niece that morning. In the evening, she was due to go to Place Louis XV to see the firework display with my sisters and our maid, Miette. As for me, I got to the square rather late, when the crowd was already very large. In the crush I was separated from my colleagues. I was trapped beside the swing bridge in the Tuileries, and I looked on as the disaster developed. Then I helped with the search for victims until early this morning. When I got home, I was informed of my niece’s disappearance, and I set off for La Madeleine cemetery.’

‘Right,’ said Nicolas. ‘Let’s go through that in order. What time did you get to Place Louis XV?’

‘I couldn’t say for certain. We were quite merry, having drunk a few bottles during our banquet. It must have been about seven.’

‘Could the other members of your guild confirm your presence at that banquet?’

‘You only have to ask them: Monsieur Chastagny, Monsieur Levirel and Monsieur Botigé.’

Nicolas turned to Bourdeau. ‘Take the addresses, we’ll check. Did you meet any other acquaintances during the night?’

‘It was so dark and there was so much excitement that it was almost impossible to recognise anyone.’

‘One more thing. Do you have any idea how your niece died?’

Monsieur Galaine looked up, and an expression of something like bewilderment crept over his face. ‘What am I supposed to say to that? You haven’t told me anything about the circumstances of her death. All I saw was her face.’

It had been a deliberate ploy on Nicolas’s part to only uncover the dead girl’s face thereby concealing the marks of strangulation on her neck. ‘All in good time, Monsieur. I simply wanted to know what you felt. One more point and we’re finished. When you got back to Rue Saint-Honoré early this morning – about six, I think you said – who was in the house? Naturally, your answer will help us to draw up a list of occupants.’

‘My son Jean, my two sisters, Camille and Charlotte, my daughter Geneviève, who’s still a child, Marie the cook, our maid Miette and …’

It did not escape Nicolas’s notice that he hesitated a moment before continuing.

‘My wife and also … the savage.’

‘The savage?’

‘I see I’m going to have to explain. Twenty-five years ago, at our father’s request, my older brother, Claude Galaine, went and settled in New France. The idea was to dispense with middle men and buy furs directly from the trappers and the natives. That way we reduced our expenses and were able to lower our prices in Paris, where there’s fierce competition in the field of luxury goods. But I’m straying from the point. My brother got married on Île Royale, also known as Louisbourg, in 1749.’

Now that Galaine was talking shop, he had become a great deal calmer.

‘The English attacks on our colonies grew more frequent. My brother decided to return to France with his family. His daughter Élodie was just a baby. He obtained a passage on a vessel in the squadron of Admiral Dubois de La Motte, but it was attacked and in the confusion he was separated from his daughter. The return voyage was a disaster. Decimated by illness, ten thousand sailors died before the squadron reached Brest.3 My brother and my sister-in-law did not escape this calamity. My niece, though, survived, and a year and a half ago she was brought back to me by an Indian servant carrying a copy of her birth and baptism certificates. For seventeen years she had been raised by nuns. Since then, she’s been like a daughter to me.’

‘And what about this native? What’s his name?’

‘Naganda. He’s from the Micmac tribe.4 He’s a sly one; I don’t know what to do with him. Just imagine, he got it into his head that he would sleep across the doorway of my niece’s room! As if she had anything to fear from our family! We had to put him in the attic.’

‘Presumably he’s still there?’

‘It’s perfectly all right for him, though I’d have preferred to put him in the cellar.’

‘I imagine that’s where you keep the hides,’ said Nicolas curtly.

‘I see you know the demands of my trade.’

‘I’m going to ask you to step into the antechamber. I need to speak to your son.’

‘Couldn’t I stay? He’s a very sensitive boy, and I’m sure he’s very upset about his cousin’s death.’

‘Don’t worry, you’ll see him soon enough.’

Bourdeau accompanied the witness into the room next to the office of the Lieutenant General of Police, and returned with Jean Galaine. The young man was very pale and was sweating profusely. Nicolas knew from frequent observation that excessive sweating denoted an imbalance of humours, but that it could also be produced by exhaustion or anxiety. When Nicolas told him his cousin had been murdered, he grew even paler, and for a long time he was speechless.

‘Are you Jean Galaine, son of Charles Galaine, master furrier, residing in Rue Saint-Honoré?’ Nicolas asked at last. ‘How old are you?’

‘I’ll be twenty-three on Saint Michel’s day.’

‘Do you work in your father’s shop?’

‘Yes. I’ve been learning the trade. I’ll be taking his place one day.’

‘What were you doing last night?’

‘Walking on the boulevards, looking at the fair.’

‘What time was that?’

‘From six till late at night.’

‘Weren’t you interested in the firework display?’

‘I’m scared of crowds.’

‘There were plenty of crowds on the boulevards. Can anyone testify to having seen you last night?’

‘About midnight I had a few glasses of beer near Porte Saint-Martin, with some friends.’

‘What are their names?’

‘They were just casual friends. I don’t know their names. I’d drunk a lot.’ He took out a huge handkerchief and wiped his brow.

‘Indeed? And was there a particular reason why you were so thirsty?’

‘That’s my business.’

Despite his mild appearance, Nicolas thought, this young man was proving to be distinctly uncooperative.

‘You are aware that we are dealing with a murder and that the smallest detail may be of major importance? Do you have an alibi?’

‘What does that mean?’

Nicolas was struck by his interest in the detail while being apparently unconcerned about the overall picture.

‘An alibi, Monsieur, is proof of someone’s presence in a place other than where a crime has been committed.’

‘So that means you know when and where my cousin was killed.’

The young man was certainly demonstrating an unassailable logic and a great deal of composure. He was perceptive and quick-witted, and probably a lot craftier than he had at first appeared.

‘That’s not the question here. You’ll learn these details in due course. Let’s get back to your whereabouts last night. What time did you return home?’

‘About three in the morning.’

‘Are you quite sure of that?’

‘My stepmother can confirm it for you. A cab dropped her off and she got into an argument with the coachman. He was telling her that at three in the morning the fare was double. Then …’ He bit his lip. ‘Nothing that would interest you.’

‘Everything is of interest to the police, Monsieur. Does it have some connection with your stepmother’s late return? You won’t tell me? That’s up to you, but we’ll find out everything in the end, believe you me.’

The interrogation could have been pursued, but Nicolas was impatient to learn more about this family. The young man could wait.

They rode back to Rue Saint-Honoré in grim silence. Nicolas was going over the answers the two Galaines had given him. He was surprised at their lack of curiosity about the circumstances of their relative’s death. The father had not insisted, and the son had asked no questions. It was nearly six by the time the carriage stopped outside the Deux Castors. Nicolas had forbidden the two men to converse with the other members of the family, and had decided to lock them in the office. He had to strike while the iron was hot, without giving any of them the opportunity to consult each other or to agree on a story. It occurred to him for a moment that he might be jumping the gun. After all, there was nothing to indicate that he was dealing with a domestic crime, with one of the Galaine family as the culprit. And yet his intuition told him that this was the right way to go, and the mystery of a hidden or aborted child strengthened that belief. Unless he was attempting to conceal his niece’s dishonour, the uncle showed no sign of being aware of the situation.

Was it a question of honour? Nicolas Le Floch had often had to deal with matters of family honour during his career in the police force. Among the nobility, an arrogant obsession with the purity of the blood could lead the finest souls astray. Was he not himself the bastard child of this outdated concept? In bourgeois houses, too, honour was invoked whenever there was any offence against the rules of civility, any transgression of the established order, any possibility of censure from prying neigh bours that could lead to a whole family being tarnished for the sins of one of its members. Was that what had happened here? Some magi strates issued warrants for arbitrary arrests in broad daylight. From this point of view, the lettre de cachet was an advance, for it was only issued once every precaution had been taken to avoid scandal. Whereas a judicial arrest inevitably caused a fuss, a lettre de cachet preserved a family’s honour, as the wrongdoer was removed from the world, and his or her ignominy disappeared into some secret dungeon or convent cell. The family whose honour had been offended allowed the Lieutenant General of Police to pry into its secrets, and in return the King buried the sin forever. Had Élodie Galaine died because of an exaggerated conception of honour? Had someone been so perverse as to prefer her death to her salvation?

Bourdeau roused him from his reflections. The carriage had stopped outside the Deux Castors, where a crowd was milling about before the window. A police officer known to Nicolas was barring the door to an angry group of women who had been joined by a throng of onlookers. Nicolas jumped out and elbowed his way through the crowd to ask the officer what was going on.

‘What’s happened, Commissioner, is that a maid from this house, a skinny young girl, ran out half-naked, in fact naked as the day she was born. And there she was, jumping, shaking, falling to the floor, foaming at the mouth and screaming! People gathered to look, some laughing, some concerned. I got here just in time to stop these women stoning her as if she were a mad dog. That was a whole other story. She was as stiff as a piece of wood and tried to bite me. God be praised, her mistress brought out a blanket, and we rolled her in it, took her inside and put her to bed, where she fell asleep.’

The crowd was yelling more loudly than ever. A stout woman shoved Nicolas out of the way with her stomach. Hands on hips, she harangued the crowd.

‘Is it any surprise they want to stop us drowning the witch? Are you planning to stand in our way? Don’t think we haven’t recognised you – you’re Sartine’s henchman!’

‘That’s enough!’ cried Nicolas. ‘Be quiet, woman, or you’ll end up in the Hôpital.5 As for the rest of you, I order you in the name of the King and the Lieutenant General of Police to disperse immediately, or else …’

Impressed by Nicolas’s authority, backed up as it was by Bourdeau’s robust presence, the crowd withdrew, although not before greeting this mention of Monsieur de Sartine with jeers, which gave Nicolas pause for thought. The two policemen escorted Charles and Jean Galaine from the carriage and into the shop. They were met by Madame Galaine, looking very pale in the candlelight. There ensued a silent scene during which Bourdeau pushed the men into the office, while Nicolas turned to the woman.

‘Madame …’

‘Monsieur, I must see my husband immediately.’

‘Later, Madame. He has identified the body of your niece by marriage. She was murdered.’

Émilie Galaine showed no reaction. In the flickering light of the candles, her face remained impassive. What did this absence of feeling mean? Nicolas had occasionally encountered such self-possession before, and knew that it often concealed great emotion.

‘Madame, can you account for how you spent yesterday?’

‘There’s no point in questioning me, Commissioner, I have nothing to say. I went out, I came back.’

‘Madame, that doesn’t tell me much. Do you expect me to be satisfied with that?’

‘I don’t care – that’s all you’re going to get from me.’ The colour was returning to her face, as if the blood had begun circulating more quickly beneath her skin. ‘You’ve come into this family to bring us bad luck. I’ve answered your question: I went out; I came back. There’s no point insisting.’

‘Madame, it is my duty to warn you that as soon as a case of homicide has been referred to the Criminal Lieutenant in charge of criminal investigations, the King’s justice will be able to use various means to make you talk, whether you like it or not.’