The Saint-Florentin Murders (16 page)

‘Sister,’ said Nicolas, ‘I think that you know of the events which justify my presence and oblige me to disturb your holy work?’

‘The world, Monsieur, is beyond these walls. Nothing can disturb the peace of this place. Are we to suppose that your arrival has some connection with one of our boarders? These sinners sometimes feel the tug of the devil long after they have come here.’

‘Don’t worry, that’s not what this is about. Have you had any news of your brother-in-law, Jean Missery, major-domo to the Duc de La Vrillière?’

The nun’s slit-like eyes narrowed even more, like those of a cat pretending to sleep. ‘I have hardly seen him since the death of
my sister, except at masses marking the anniversary. And even before that …’

She left the sentence unfinished. Nicolas said nothing: he was good at waiting.

‘I always deplored that marriage,’ she resumed. ‘My sister wouldn’t listen to me. Alas, it killed her.’

He could not let such a statement pass unchallenged. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘That the Lord did not bless it and that its still-born fruit killed my sister.’

She opened her hands and the rosary fell, but she did not take any notice. Nicolas picked it up and handed it to her. She resumed speaking.

‘But do you think he was stricken with remorse and contrition? Of course not. I doubt that he deserved such grace. At first, he feigned grief, and those who did not know him may have believed he was sincere. However, in the heat of charity, apparent zeal is only a passing mood, and not a movement of that same grace. It is only too true that the Lord knows our powerlessness … Perdition to him through whom scandal arrives! And as for us, we complain in secret that we are not permitted to condemn out loud, for one does not work for one’s own salvation by neglecting that of one’s brothers …’

What on earth, thought Nicolas, did this obscure speech mean? What was the point of such a pompous declaration? What dark resentment led her to these words full of bitterness and innuendo? He would have to bring her down to earth.

‘Sister, Jean Missery was stabbed last night.’

‘He’s dead, then,’ she said immediately.

He did not reply. The sentence was ambiguous. Was it a question, a statement, a kind of challenge, or was she trying to confirm something she already knew, something she had long wished for?

‘I shall accuse myself in public confession of the joy that I feel,’ she resumed. ‘May God have mercy on him: “He puts no trust in His holy ones, and the heavens are not pure in His sight.”’

He still could not determine whether or not she knew anything about what had happened. He would not have sworn to it.

‘Don’t you find your resentment quite surprising, Sister, you who wear that robe of pity and compassion?’

Her little eyes glittered with a cold light, and her voice turned very shrill. ‘Pity? Compassion? Did he ever have any towards my sister? Did he ever show the least respect for her memory? He preferred to wallow in the mud, and let the beast immediately awaken in him …’ She was wringing her hands. ‘I say this quite bluntly: even if he had asked God to free him from the evil passions that possessed him, do you think that deep down he wished that prayer to be granted? What he wanted, he only half wanted. And to only half want something, means, as far as the result is concerned, not to want it at all.’

‘I understand your emotion, Sister, but what exactly are you referring to?’

‘I’m referring to the various criminal attachments in which my brother-in-law indulged after my sister’s death. His heart was constantly occupied by the perverse concerns of his base being. He put all his senses at the service of his animal desires, adding the scandal of his dissolute conduct in public. Even the walls of this house were shaken by it.’

‘And for these very human sins, did he deserve to lose his life? Could he not have made amends?’

She was looking at him suspiciously. ‘There are a great many minds, my brother, with which there is no other stand to take but that of silence and disapproval. Whatever you say or do, you will never change them: “If your eye offends you, pluck it out, if your hand offends you, cut it off.”’

‘What I don’t understand,’ said Nicolas, ‘is this hatred for a man who no longer had any connection with you.’

‘My sister’s marriage verged on misalliance. Consider that. To marry a man who was nothing but a servant!’ The little woman rose to her full height.

‘Would it not have shown humility to consent to a union sanctified by a sincere mutual affection?’ asked Nicolas.

‘You speak of it very lightly. Not content with getting his hands on a large dowry, he inherited from my sister a substantial fortune which would return to its legitimate source if he died.’

‘Its legitimate source?’

‘Us, the Duchamplans.’

Nicolas paused, then said, ‘Sister, at this juncture I must ask you to clarify a certain number of points.’

She sat down, put her rosary back inside her sleeve, and her face reflected a kind of benign placidity.

‘The words of the Gospel,’ Nicolas went on, ‘edifying as they may be, are not enough to illuminate more material facts. How were you kept informed of the dissolute life your brother-in-law had been leading since he became a widower?’

She shook her head in disgust, as if to say that these debauches had started even before her sister’s death, perhaps when they were
first married. ‘My family kept me informed, as was only right: I am the eldest …’

‘I must insist. You appear very familiar with everyday life at the Saint-Florentin mansion.’

She looked at him in silence, with a contemptuous expression on her face, as if he were talking nonsense.

‘Madame,’ Nicolas went on, ‘I remind you that you must answer the questions of a magistrate engaged in a criminal investigation. I have the power to arrest you if I consider that you are not being as honest as I would have hoped. Do you understand that?’

‘Do not threaten me, Monsieur. Do I, a poor Daughter of Saint Michel, need to remind you that your authority ceases where that of the Church begins?’

‘What does that mean?’

‘That, as a nun of this house, I am dependent on the abbot of Sainte-Geneviève, who has rights of lower, medium and high justice in the jurisdiction of his bailiwick. And please don’t tell me that these rights were suppressed by Louis the Great in 1674. Later edicts have restored them to their legitimate holder.’

‘I see, Sister, that you are very clever, argumentative, and a stickler for the rules, with a degree of knowledge hardly in keeping with the habit that you wear!’

‘My late father, Commissioner, was a sealer of verdicts at the Châtelet.’

‘That’s as may be, but why argue in such an acerbic tone? You are not incriminated, as far as I know. I haven’t forgotten my lessons, and I know that the monarchy prevails over all other authorities, although there is little danger that we will reach that
point. There remain, nevertheless, some flaws in your reasoning. You’re forgetting a vital detail, for example: the restoration of the rights of justice of which you speak is clearly defined in the texts as referring only to enclosures, courtyards and cloisters. Now, as far as I know, your house is located in Rue des Postes and not within the limits of the abbey. Therefore you are within my legitimate power.’

She immediately bristled, purple with rage. ‘I shall appeal to the ecclesiastical authorities, I shall appeal to the Archbishop.’

‘I know Monseigneur de Beaumont very well. In his position, he can hardly be expected to listen to an insignificant nun who rejects the justice of her King.’

She grew even more purple with outrage. ‘I shall not yield.’

‘Well, persist in this obstruction and I shall go to a magistrate and request a monitory, compelling you to reveal to your superiors everything you know about this case. After three monitories without response, you will be excommunicated.’

‘All right, what do you want to know?’

‘Who kept you informed of Jean Missery’s conduct in the Saint-Florentin mansion?’

‘It is painful for me to have to mention a highly placed lady, the Duchesse de La Vrillière, who, as you seem to be unaware …’ here, her voice became ingratiating, even mocking, ‘… is a benefactress of this house. Without her charitable support, how could we hope to care for our unfortunate boarders?’

‘So it was she who kept you informed?’

‘She told me that for months he had been completely besotted with a little hussy, a girl of the streets who had entered her service. The duchesse had rejected her at first, but her husband
had insisted. It made her weep with humiliation, and in her pain she came to our altar to pray for the duc’s soul. I would pray with her.’

‘So the duc, too …’

Sister Louise of the Annunciation closed her eyes with a sorrowful air.

‘Didn’t your brothers try to persuade the widower to behave in a more decent fashion?’ Nicolas asked.

‘The older one is spineless and the younger one lives a carefree life. As for my sister-in-law, she just keeps complaining instead of giving me nephews.’

‘One last thing,’ said the commissioner. ‘What were you doing on the night of Sunday to Monday, let’s say from seven o’clock in the evening to seven o’clock in the morning?’

‘I was sleeping in my cell, until prime. Everyone here will confirm that.’

‘I shall leave you now, Sister, but I would ask you to think carefully and see if you can recall anything that might be of interest to me.’

He took his leave of her. At the door, he turned and saw her standing a few paces behind him, on the alert. He could not resist a parting shot. ‘I almost forgot. Your brother-in-law is not dead. His wound was only superficial. His mistress, on the other hand, was indeed murdered.’

She swivelled round like a top and disappeared through another exit, while the extern sister who had accompanied him came running to open the door.

‘Why should Sister Louise run away like that?’ he asked. ‘I thought she was more concerned with decorum.’ He thought he
heard a little laugh in response. ‘Sister,’ he continued, ‘when was the last time the Duchesse de La Vrillière visited your establishment?’

‘Madame de Saint-Florentin? It’s strange you should mention her. She was here just this morning and had a long talk with Sister Louise …’ She burst out laughing. ‘She’s going to get up on her high horse again because of that, and … we’ll be the ones to pay.’

‘At what hour does the community retire?’

‘At eight o’clock.’

‘Sister Louise, too?’

‘Oh, no,
she
has privileges. Her family has given so much money to this house that she sometimes dines in town.’

‘On what days?’

‘On Sunday evenings. With her brother, they say.’

‘What about last Sunday?’

‘Yes, she was out that night.’

He thanked her and left. In Rue des Postes, he found his coachman waiting impatiently. Night was already falling: he had to join Bourdeau. He was still reeling from what he had just learnt. So Louise of the Annunciation knew everything! She had tried to deceive him. What a dissembler! With that air of hers that would have made the most resolute slink away, she had hidden behind legal technicalities and taken him where she had wanted him to go. She had led him up the garden path, making him look a fool, much to her own amusement.

That mixture of anger, genuine confidences and clever omissions made him confused and uneasy. It was not easy to tell the difference between a truthful presentation of facts and a subtle attempt to divert suspicion. After all, she herself had revealed to him the interest the Duchamplans might have in Jean Missery’s
death. That reinforced the idea that they had been alarmed at the widower’s passionate attachment to a young girl like Marguerite Pindron, especially if, since her escape from the
faubourgs
, she had acquired a certain experience. Whether that man, grief-stricken and tormented by desire, had managed to win her heart or she herself had discovered where her interest lay, a marriage could only be harmful to the expectations of the Duchamplan family. Marguerite had become a threat and an obstacle.

But her death did not resolve the matter. If the widower became infatuated with someone else, then the fortune he had inherited from his wife would melt like snow in the sun. Examples abounded, both at Court and in the city, of men of his age so ruled by their senses that they yielded to the most extravagant demands of greedy young girls, who in their turn hastened to transfer the goldmine to some good-looking and hot-blooded secret lover. In this way, a fortune could vanish in the blink of an eye. It would therefore seem much more sensible to get rid of the widower rather than his mistress, the latter being merely a stopgap solution. Admittedly, thought Nicolas, the Duchamplans were one lead among many others. He recalled Sister Louise’s reaction to his announcement that her
brother-in
-law had been wounded. What had she known at that point? What had the Duchesse de La Vrillière told her during their long interview that morning? Nicolas recalled having told the duchesse at the Saint-Florentin mansion the previous evening that the major-domo was wounded and that it seemed likely he had turned on himself the weapon with which he was believed to have cut his mistress’s throat.

The nun’s reaction seemed false if that was what she had been
told. Had she assumed that the facts were known, or did she have some hidden reason not to believe in the suicide theory?

It was already dark when Nicolas’s carriage dropped him in Rue Montmartre. His sudden appearance interrupted the baker’s boys from the shop on the ground floor as they were mercilessly teasing the bell ringer of the dead. This old man, dressed in a dalmatic adorned with an embroidered silver skull and crossbones, was shaking his bell with one hand and holding a lantern in the other, and calling out in a pitiful tone his lugubrious refrain:

He thanked Nicolas, who slipped him an
écu
before reprimanding the baker’s boys with a smile. As soon as he entered the servants’ pantry, he sensed that something dramatic had occurred. Marion sat slumped on a bench, her head in her hands, while Poitevin was polishing with fanatical care a pewter ewer which did not require so much attention. Only the sight of Bourdeau in an apron and of Catherine beside him, the two of them bent over the bread oven, reassured him somewhat. They did not seem to be part of the atmosphere of anxiety that weighed on the house.