The Phantom of the Rue Royale: Nicolas Le Floch Investigation #3. Jean-Francois Parot
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the space, he had got stuck and could descend no further. For several minutes he stretched like a cat, lifting first one shoulder then the other. He remembered the grotesque movements of a contortionist he had seen at the last Saint-Germain fair. At last he managed to force his way through and continue his descent. He felt as if he were being sucked down into a vacuum. Almost immediately, he fell onto a pyramid of logs in a huge fireplace. The pyramid collapsed noisily under his weight, and his head hit a bronze plaque which bore the arms of France. He was surprised not to be knocked senseless. He got up carefully and checked the condition of his joints. Apart from a few grazes, he was unharmed. He looked at himself in a huge pier glass crowned with floral decorations in stucco: a stranger, black with soot, face like a scarecrow’s, britches torn and tattered. He walked across an unfinished, undecorated room which looked as if it belonged in a barracks rather than a palace. He opened a door and found that he had come out on the floor where the drawing rooms were. Here, the guests were crowded around the balconies. There was as much bustle as in an overturned hive. Some people had gathered at the windows, where they jostled for a view of the square, others were holding forth. Nicolas had the feeling that he was watching some absurd spectacle, a comedy or ballet in which automata endlessly repeated the same gestures. Nobody paid him any heed, even though his filthy appearance should have attracted notice.
He got back to the staircase leading to the attic. As he climbed it, he heard Semacgus’s solemn tones alternating with the sharper voice of Monsieur de La Briche. They were both coming downstairs so quickly that they almost fell into Nicolas’s arms. With the disaster on the square increasing in scale, Monsieur de La Briche had tried to send for Nicolas, only to find the lock of the door that led to the roof obstructed by a mysterious object in gilded metal, a kind of spindle, which he now gave to the commissioner. The key itself was lying on the ground. Clearly, someone had been playing a practical joke on the spectators on the roof. He would see to it that the culprit was found – probably an insolent footman, or else one of those pages in blue who, in spite of their youth, considered themselves entitled to do anything because they were close to the throne.
‘Commissioner,’ said Monsieur de La Briche, ‘you must help me to restore a little order. The crush is terrible, and we have so many injured we don’t know what to do with them. They’re being brought in all the time. The City Guards are nowhere to be found. When things started to go wrong, their leader, Major Langlumé, went off to give orders to his men, and that’s the last anyone saw of him. On top of that, I keep hearing that there are bandits among the crowd attacking honest citizens.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Many of our guests have been drawing their swords to force their way through the crowd. A lot of people have been killed that way, not to mention those run down by carriages. The envoy from Parma, the Conte di Argental, has had his shoulder dislocated, and the Abbé de Raze, minister to the prince-bishop of Basle, was knocked down and is in a terrible state.’
‘Has Monsieur de Sartine been informed of what is happening?’ Nicolas asked.
‘I dispatched a messenger to him. By now he should be acquainted with the gravity of the situation.’
Two men entered, carrying an unconscious woman in a frilly dress, one of whose legs was hanging at an odd angle. Her bloodstained face had been so flattened that it no longer looked human. Semacgus rushed to her, but after a brief examination he rose and shook his head. Other bodies were arriving, equally devoid of breath. For a while, they helped to receive the injured with the meagre means at their disposal. Nicolas was waiting for the return of the emissary who had been sent to Sartine. When he did not reappear, Nicolas retrieved his coat and went outside in order to get a clearer picture of the disaster. He took Semacgus with him.
After making their way through the crowds of people coming in and out of the building – some of them, they were annoyed to observe, mere idle onlookers – they emerged on Place Louis XV. The great noise of the festivities had died down, but cries and moans rose on all sides. Nicolas ran straight into Inspector Bourdeau, his deputy, who was giving orders to some men of the watch.
‘Ah, Nicolas!’ he exclaimed. ‘We don’t know if we’re coming or going! The fire has been contained, the water pumps from La Madeleine and Saint-Honoré market have seen to that. Most of the criminals have scattered, although some are still trying to strip the dead of their belongings. The victims are being removed, and those bodies that have been identified have been taken to the boulevard.’
Bourdeau seemed overwhelmed. The vast esplanade looked like a battlefield at night. An acrid black smoke rose into the air, whirled about, then, blown back down by the wind, fell again, shrouding the lights beneath a lugubrious veil. In the middle of the square, the remains of the triumphal structure stood like a sinister scaffold. Wreathed in smoke, the bronze monarch looked down at the scene, unruffled and indifferent. Semacgus, who had noticed Nicolas looking at the statue, murmured, ‘The Horseman of the Apocalypse!’ To their right, in Rue Royale, people had started to lay out the dead against the wall of the Garde-Meuble and were searching them in order to determine their identities and putting labels on them so that they could be recognised more easily by their families. Bourdeau and his men had restored a semblance of order. The area had been cordoned off with some difficulty and groups of volunteers were going down into the trenches on Rue Royale. A chain was starting to form. As soon as the victims had been brought out, an attempt was made to determine which of them were still alive so that they could be taken to the improvised emergency posts. There, doctors and apothecaries who had come running did whatever they could to treat them. Nicolas noted with horror that it was no easy task to bring up the bodies; those who lay at the bottom were crushed beneath the weight of those on top, and it was difficult to disentangle the various layers. He noted, too, that most of the dead belonged to the humblest classes. Some of them had wounds which could only have been caused by deliberate blows from canes or swords.
‘The street was claimed by the strongest and richest,’ Bourdeau muttered.
‘The criminals will get the blame,’ Nicolas replied. ‘But the cabs and carriages played their part in the slaughter, and those who forced their bloody way through even more so!’
They worked all night, helping to sort the dead and injured. As the sun was rising, Semacgus drew the commissioner and Bourdeau to a corner of La Madeleine cemetery where a number of bodies had been gathered. He had a puzzled look on his face. He pointed to a young girl lying between two old men. He knelt and uncovered the upper part of her neck. On each side were bluish marks that appeared to have been left by fingers. He moved the dead girl’s head. Her mouth was twisted and half open, and let out a sound like sand.
Nicolas looked at Semacgus. ‘That’s quite a strange injury for someone who’s supposed to have been crushed.’
‘That’s my impression, too,’ the surgeon agreed. ‘She wasn’t crushed; she was strangled.’
‘Have the body put to one side and taken to the Basse-Geôle, Bourdeau, we’ll have to tell our friend Sanson.’ Nicolas turned to Semacgus. ‘You know, he’s the only person I’d trust with an operation like that – apart from you, of course.’
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.’