The Châtelet Apprentice: Nicolas Le Floch Investigation #1. Jean-Francois Parot
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of the men. ‘I’m sure it can smell meat. Get down, Bricart, take it by the bit and get us out of here!’
‘I saw the same thing at Bassignano in 1745 when I was serving in the Dauphin’s Regiment with old Chevert. The beasts pulling the cannons refused to go past the corpses. It was September, it was hot and the flies …’
‘Stop, I know all about your military campaigns. Grab the beast by the neck and hurry up. It just won’t move!’ shouted Rapace, hitting it twice on its skinny rump.
Bricart grumbled and jumped down from the cart. When he reached the ground, he sank into the mud and had to use both hands to pull out the wooden stump fitted to his right leg. He went up to the crazed animal, which made one last attempt to signal its refusal. Bricart seized the bit but the desperate beast jerked its head away, striking him on the shoulder. He fell flat on the ground, uttering a stream of obscenities.
‘It won’t budge. We’re going to have to unload here. We can’t be far.’
‘I can’t help you in this mud; this damned leg is useless.’
‘I’ll get the barrels down and we’ll roll them towards the pits,’ said Rapace. ‘It should only take two goes. Hold the horse; I’m going to look around.’
‘Don’t leave me,’ whined Bricart. ‘I don’t like it here. Is this really where they used to hang people?’
He rubbed his bad leg.
‘So much for the brave old soldier! You can talk when we’ve finished. We’ll go to Marthe’s tavern. I’ll treat you to a drink, and a trollop, too, if you feel like it. They stopped hanging people here before your grandfather’s time. Now there’s only dead cattle from the city and beyond. It’s the knacker’s yard – it used to be at Javel but now it’s here at Montfaucon. Can’t you smell the stench? In the summer, when there’s a storm brewing, you even get a whiff of it in Paris, all the way to the Tuileries!’
‘You’re right, it stinks and I can feel presences,’ murmured Bricart.
‘Oh, shut up. Your presences are nothing more than rats, crows and mongrels: horribly fat ones, all fighting over the carcasses. Even the scum off the streets come here to scrape around for something to eat. Just thinking about it makes my mouth feel dry. Where did you hide the flagon? Ah, here it is!’
Rapace took a few swigs before handing it to Bricart, who emptied it greedily. They could hear high-pitched squeals.
‘Listen: rats! But enough talk, take the lantern and stay with me, to give me some light. I’ve got the axe and the whip: you never know who we may come across, not to mention the smashing-up we’ve to do …’
The two men moved cautiously towards some buildings which they could now make out in the beam of the lamp.
‘As sure as my name is Rapace, here’s the knacker’s yard and the tallow vats. The lime pits are further on. Walls of rotting flesh, piles and piles of it, believe me.’
Nearby, crouched behind a carcass, a shadowy figure had stopped what it was doing, alarmed by the whinnying of the horse, the swearing and the light of the lantern. The figure trembled, thinking at first that it was the men of the watch. By order of the King and the Lieutenant General of Police they were patrolling more and more, in order to drive away the poor starving wretches who fought with carrion eaters for left-overs from the feast.
This huddled ghost was merely an old woman in rags. She had known better times and, in her prime, had even attended Regency dinners. Then her youth faded and the beautiful Émilie had stooped to the most abject form of prostitution, along the quais and at the toll-gates, but even that had not lasted.
Now, diseased and disfigured, she survived by selling a foul soup from a portable stewing pot. This concoction, which was largely made out of scraps stolen from Montfaucon, risked poisoning her customers and infecting the city and its faubourgs.
She saw the two men unload the barrels and roll them along before emptying their contents onto the ground. Her heart was pounding so hard that she could not hear what was being said and dared not grasp what they were doing. Instead, old Émilie strained her eyes to make out the two dark shapes – red, she thought – now lying close to the building containing the tallow vats. Unfortunately the light from the lantern was dim and renewed gusts of wind made its flame flicker.
What she saw she did not understand and could not bring herself to imagine, paralysed as she was by a fear beyond words. And yet the old woman was gripped by a curiosity which made the horrible scene even more incomprehensible to her.
One of the two men was laying out on the ground what looked like items of clothing. With a tinder-box he struck a light that flared up briefly. Then a sharp crackling sound could be heard. The old woman huddled closer to the rotting flesh, no longer even aware of its acrid emanations. She was fighting for breath, oppressed by an unknown terror. Her blood froze, and all that she saw as she lost consciousness and slid to the ground was a light that was growing bigger.
Where the gallows once stood all was silence again. The cart moved off into the distance, and with it the muffled echo of conversation. Darkness closed in and the wind blew like a gale. What had been left behind on the ground gradually began to come to life: it seemed to be writhing and devouring itself from within. Faint squeals could be heard and a frantic scuffling began. Even before dawn, the huge crows were awake and coming closer, soon followed by a pack of dogs …
‘Paris is full of adventurers and bachelors who spend their lives rushing from house to house and men, like species, seem to multiply by circulating.’
J.-J. ROUSSEAU
Sunday 21 January 1761
The barge glided along the grey river. Patches of fog rose up from the water, swathing the banks and refusing to yield to the pale light of day. The anchor, weighed one hour before dawn as the regulation required, had had to be dropped again because the darkness was still impenetrable. Already Orléans was receding into the distance and the currents of the River Loire in spate carried the heavy craft swiftly along. Despite the gusts of wind that swept across the deck, a cloying smell of fish and salt filled the air. It was transporting a large cargo of salted cod, as well as some casks of Ancenis wine.
Two silhouettes stood out at the prow of the boat. The first belonged to a member of the crew, his features tense with concentration, peering at the murky surface of the water. In his left hand he held a horn similar to those used by postilions: in the event of danger he would sound the alarm to the skipper, who was holding the tiller at the stern.
The other was that of a young man, booted and dressed in black, with a tricorn in his hand. Despite his youth there was something both military and ecclesiastical about him. With his head held high, his dark hair swept back and his intense stillness, he looked impatient and noble, like the figurehead of the boat. His expressionless gaze was fixed upon the left bank, staring at the bulk of Notre-Dame de Cléry, the grey prow of which parted the white clouds along the shore and seemed to want to join with the Loire.
This young man, whose resolute attitude would have impressed anyone other than the bargee, was called Nicolas Le Floch.
Nicolas was rapt in contemplation. A little more than a year earlier, he had followed the same route in the opposite direction towards Paris. How quickly everything had happened! Now, on his way back to Brittany, he recalled the events of the past two days. He had taken the fast mail-coach to Orléans, where he planned to board the barge. As far as the Loire, the journey had been marked by none of those colourful incidents that normally relieve the boredom of travel. His travelling companions, a priest and two elderly couples, had watched him all the time in silence. Nicolas, accustomed to the