The Saint-Florentin Murders (29 page)

‘Leave it to me, I know everyone here. The house is run by a mother superior who has officiating nuns and an army of assistants at her command. Admittedly, the population of this place fluctuates during the year. In winter, it can reach four thousand five hundred.'

With a pang in his heart, Nicolas followed his guide, who explained to him in measured tones the terrible scenes that appeared before them. The hospital, which they visited first, housed individuals infected with venereal disease. The wards were filled with rows of beds that seemed to stretch to infinity. He
noted that each bed often contained five or six unfortunates stagnating in their own excrement. The atmosphere was so stifling that he was almost overcome with nausea. Hideously cankered creatures crawled across the floor towards the visitors and held out their hands.

‘They prefer the hard floor,' said Gévigland, ‘to the infection and filth of the beds.'

‘Are they forced to take refuge in this hell?' asked Nicolas, appalled.

‘The police pick them up in places of ill repute. Others come of their own accord. Some reserve their places a long time in advance, when they're still only suffering light symptoms. By the time they finally get here, the disease has often reached its deadliest stage.'

‘Do any of them ever recover?'

‘Yes, sometimes. But I should point out that it's the rule in this hospital that recovery must occur within a given time. Unfortunately, the disease itself doesn't play by the rules. The result is that the patient, after being tormented with useless remedies, leaves without being cured. You can imagine the consequences!'

They entered a series of long, echoing galleries. Through the windows, the great well in the central courtyard could be seen. They climbed some steps, descended others, and finally reached the area for the insane and the common prisoners. Gévigland gave his name, and the gate to the insane enclosure was opened.

‘Here begins the final circle of hell,' he said. ‘Everything you've seen so far was nothing. This isn't a hospital, it's a freak show. The worst part of it is that the sane prisoners are mixed
with the mad. This means that men who are in any case despised for their conduct, have to bear, in addition to their sentence, the aggression and insults of the insane. As a result, a stay in this house of detention often becomes a slow descent into madness.'

‘What do the doctors do?'

‘You must be joking! They've never had any doctors. Worse still, the place has become a kind of theatre for fashionable society. From time to time, for a little money to the guards, people who like that kind of thing come to feast their eyes on these degrading visions. Being treated as objects of curiosity causes slight signs of madness to degenerate into paroxysms of frenzy. They start out mad and end up rabid. Some of these visitors treat them as if they were wild beasts in cages, teasing them and provoking their fury. You have to see it to believe it.'

‘To think that I, a commissioner at the Châtelet, knew nothing of these horrors!' said Nicolas, his blood running cold with revulsion.

Their presence unleashed a pandemonium of cries and obscene gestures.

‘That doesn't surprise me,' replied the doctor. ‘For many Parisians, especially among those of the highest rank and the most enlightened, the cruelties committed at the very gates of the city are as foreign as those of the savage populations in the New World.'

‘What about the Church?' asked Nicolas.

‘The opinion of the Church is that the patients should be grateful for the charity shown them and that the prisoners must expiate their sins. You have to understand that everyone follows the logic of his own viewpoint. The philosophers obviously
protest at prisoners and madmen being put together. But in their sensitive humanity, they're interested – with justification – in what happens to the prisoners, but they ignore how badly the insane are treated, with the horrors of prison added to the terrible burden of their condition. Everyone agrees they should be hidden away and prevented from harming others, but it might be more sensible to understand them and treat them.'

They proceeded to a building reserved for young children. Gévigland explained to Nicolas that only those aged under twelve were kept there.

‘You mean, I suppose,' said Nicolas, ‘that this is part of the hospital, and that these are orphans who've been brought here through public charity.'

‘Not a bit of it. They're actually prisoners, and the parents of these wretches are still alive.'

‘I'm astonished that creatures of that age can become the victims of laws of which they know nothing and which they wouldn't understand even if they'd known of them. If they've committed punishable acts, they should be sent back to their parents to be chastised by them.'

‘But these children haven't broken the laws of the kingdom in any way. They're only guilty of small domestic misdemeanours. It's their parents who've placed them here.'

‘And I assume this terrible treatment doesn't reform them?'

‘You assume correctly. They usually leave prison worse than when they came in. A hundred times worse. Even separated into cells, they can at least hear each other, corrupt each other with their words, urge each other to vice. In this way, blind parents themselves become the instruments of their own children's
depravity and inflict on them the most refined as well as the most terrible of all punishments.'

The worst still remained to be seen. The doctor led Nicolas to the centre of the hospital courtyard. The commissioner shuddered at the sight of the barred windows that overlooked it, behind which pale, hideous figures screamed insults.

Gévigland stamped his foot on the cobbled ground.

‘Just imagine, Monsieur, twenty feet underground, directly below where we are now, there are different kinds of dungeons, veritable tombs. Can you see these narrow slits here and there? They're skylights, which let in a feeble semblance of light, not into the dungeons, which have to be kept in total darkness, but into the passage that leads from one to the other. But if I were ever, by some misfortune, to find myself in such a deplorable situation, I think I'd prefer the tomb-like solitude of these cells rather than the communal room in the prison.'

‘Why is that?'

‘The foulest excesses are committed on the prisoners' very bodies. All kinds of vices are practised as a matter of course, and even in public. Simple decency forbids me to go into detail. I'm told that many prisoners are “
simillimi faeminis moeres, stuprati e constupratores
”, lost to all modesty.'

‘But who are the unfortunates who've been plunged into this hell?'

‘Do you need to ask?' said the doctor, with bitter irony. ‘Minor offenders, guilty of street brawls, drunkenness, indecency, debauchery, and God knows what else. None is here after being convicted of the worst crimes in a regular court. They're all here for what are called offences of disorder.' He smiled. ‘Please don't
think that observation is directed at you. I can see how indignant these things make you feel, and I appreciate that.'

‘But it should be directed at me,' replied Nicolas. ‘At the beginning of my career I recall reading a report addressed to Monsieur de Sartine, who was then Lieutenant General of Police, which said that the prisoners at Bicêtre were there because of arrests made by the military police, courts martial, the Criminal Lieutenant, and local justices, especially for poaching. You can rest assured that I shall inform Monsieur Lenoir of the situation here.'

‘Nobody so far has ever taken the slightest steps to remedy such terrible conditions.'

For a long time they were silent, while their presence continued to provoke a cacophony of cries and insults.

‘I think your gown has a lot to do with this welcome,' observed Gévigland. ‘They recognise that you're a commissioner … But I've taken up too much of your time. I'll take you to the mother superior and she will point you in the direction of the gaolers who keep the registers.'

An elegant staircase led them to the first floor of the central building. A nun hurried forward, making the flagstones resonate. Nicolas asked her to announce him to the mother superior, and took his leave of Monsieur de Gévigland. He was admitted into a small cell in which the only furniture consisted of a deal table and two stools. A short woman shrouded in black veils was looking at him, her hands in her sleeves.

‘Many commissioners pass through this house,' she said in a
high-pitched voice, ‘but few have asked to see me. Is this another inspection, like the one in 1770? Isn't the charity dispensed by this establishment enough to justify its existence? Are you trying to pick a quarrel with us?'

She made a gesture with her hand, as if swatting flies.

‘Don't worry, Reverend Mother,' replied Nicolas, ‘I haven't come to Bicêtre for an inspection. In connection with a case I'm investigating, I need to find someone I believe is currently in this house.'

‘A madman or a patient?' she asked curtly.

‘A patient, according to our sources. Admitted in the last six or eight months. His name is Anselme Vitry, he was a gardener in Popincourt, and he's between twenty and thirty years of age.'

‘Did he come here of his own free will, or was he brought here by the military police? That's an important point.'

‘Without being absolutely sure, I would incline to the second hypothesis.'

She clapped her hands. The nun who had ushered Nicolas in immediately appeared and received instructions from her superior.

‘Do you know the Duchamplan family, Reverend Mother?' asked Nicolas.

She seemed to relax as soon as she heard this name. ‘Of course! Monsieur Duchamplan the elder is an administrator of Bicêtre, and we can always count on his benevolence. As for his sister, Louise of the Annunciation, of the Daughters of Saint Michel, we sometimes write to one another. Occasionally, she sends us unfortunate creatures to treat, and sometimes, in her great compassion, she takes in patients of ours who've been cured.'

‘You must surely also have met her younger brother?'

She laughed. ‘Such a charming boy! He sometimes comes to visit our patients. He talks to them and brings them treats.'

‘Isn't that a somewhat unusual activity for a young man of his age?'

‘Charity has no age,' she said, testily.

The nun came back into the cell. ‘The commissioner must come with me to the clerk's office.'

‘I shall not detain you, Monsieur,' said the mother superior.

He bowed to her and left the room.

The clerk, an unassuming man, eventually found Anselme Vitry in the registers. Some marginal annotations beside his name cast light on his situation. Arrested during a raid on a brothel in the company of an infected girl, he had been brought to Bicêtre. There, it had been found that he was not suffering from the disease. As they were not sure what to do with him, he had been freed after a short stay in the house of detention.

‘I remember him well, Commissioner,' said the clerk. ‘He would tell his story to anyone who'd listen. That he'd been betrayed by his fiancée, that he'd felt so desperate he'd left his house, his parents and his beloved garden. But he was lucky, the rascal.'

‘In what way, my friend, did this luck manifest itself?'

‘A gentleman who often visits us took an interest in his fate. And as this gentleman was looking for a coachman and Anselme knew how to handle horses, he ended up hiring him.'

‘Can you tell me the name of this unexpected saviour?'

The man again consulted his register. ‘His name is Monsieur Duchamplan.'

Nicolas rewarded the clerk and left Bicêtre. For a long time, he had the feeling that the foul stench of the place was following him about. So, as he had foreseen, a new suspect had emerged in the case of the murder of Marguerite Pindron. However, this discovery, far from simplifying his conducting of the investigation, was leading him down some disquieting paths. A definite connection had been established between the victim's former fiancé and the major-domo's family. It was now all the more vital to question Eudes Duchamplan, and also to track down young Vitry. Nicolas ordered his coachman to return to the Grand Châtelet. On his arrival, Old Marie told him in a low voice that a strange visitor was waiting for him in the duty office. There, he was greeted as soon as he entered by a man with a sickly face, wearing a beaver hat, whom he knew well, having benefited from his help on a previous case.

‘Good day to you, Monsieur Restif,' he said, removing his black gown. ‘Has “the owl” trapped some prey he would like to offer the police as a tribute?'

‘There's no need to mock me, Monsieur Le Floch. Fate has pursued me since our last encounter. The roof of my lodging at the Presles mansion collapsed. I am now living in Rue du Fouarre. I am pursued by creditors demanding I pay off the debts of my last wife, who abandoned me, and reduce my publisher's bankruptcy. In addition, I'm suffering the consequences of a nasty bout of the clap. As you know, I'm never in a brothel without a purpose. For years, I've been seriously engaged in a rational organisation of vice in Paris: in a word, bringing order to disorder.'

Nicolas knew that, if he did not intervene, he was in for a long sermon. ‘Yes,' he cut in, ‘we know you're determined that order and morality should reign in our streets, and we appreciate it, believe me. But have you something particular to confide in me?'

Restif de la Bretonne lowered his head and looked down at his dog-eared shoes. His demeanour was a surprise to Nicolas, who was accustomed to the fellow being boastful.

At last, Restif made up his mind to speak. ‘As you know, I'm in the habit of roaming the streets of this vast capital in the middle of the night. I try to do good, and sometimes manage to save a poor girl from perdition. A week ago, on the corner of Rue Pavée and Rue de Savoie, I saw a man running after a girl of about twenty. You can imagine the kind of thing he was saying to her. She seemed more curious than lost. I approached and introduced myself as usual. I told the man he was committing a terrible act, he'd even gone so far as to suggest … I spoke to the girl about honour and modesty and implored her not to yield to the corrupter. The man went off to other base acts, and the girl cursed me, told me to leave her alone, and ran away … Imagine my surprise, on the night of Sunday to Monday, as I was looking at the river at the end of Impasse Glatigny, to discover on the steps leading down to the water the body of that same girl, with her throat cut.'