The Châtelet Apprentice by Jean-François Parot Page A

this former woman of pleasure at his leisure. He had never seen a sorrier sight than this pathetic relic of past glories. The old woman was wearing a jumble of rags, one on top of the other. Did the poor creature fear being robbed or was she seeking to protect herself from the cold? This heap of torn and filthy clothes looked as if it were parcelled up in a sort of greatcoat made of some unknown material that might have been felt if the passage of time had not transformed it into a sort of fluffy blanket. The garment revealed in parts the splendid remnants of rich fabrics, bits of yellowed lace, of paste and embroidery in silver and gold thread. A whole past life was summed up in the layers covering this human wreck. Out of a shapeless bonnet tied with a ribbon peered a face at once narrow and bloated, in which two care-worn, mouse-grey eyes darted to and fro, unnaturally highlighted by a bluish black that reminded Nicolas of the moustaches he pencilled in with charcoal when he was a child. Her twisted mouth was half-open and revealed a few stumps of teeth and the tip of a tongue that was still surprisingly pink.
    After a while, the solemn way in which Nicolas was staring ather began to intrigue old Émilie. Out of habit she eyed him in a way that made him blush down to the roots of his hair. He was horrified at what her expression might mean. She immediately realised that she was on the wrong track, and resumed her slumped position. Then she rummaged around in a sort of green satin handbag, which had known better days, and spread out on her lap her remaining treasures: a hunk of black bread, a broken black onyx fan, a few sols, a small horn knife, a brass rouge box and a shard of mirror. She dipped a dirty finger into the rouge and, looking at herself in the triangular mirror, began to make up her cheeks. Gradually she rediscovered the customary and touching gestures of the woman she had once been. She blinked, moved her head back to take better stock of the result of her efforts, pursed her lips, smiled and tried to smooth her wrinkled brow. Instead of the beggar-woman opposite him, Nicolas thought he could see the silhouette of a charming, joyful young girl, who forty years earlier had enjoyed the company of the Regent every evening. Nicolas looked away, moved by this spectacle.
    Soon they were outside the city walls and old Émilie, who had for some time been observing the landscape through the carriage window, recognised the direction they had taken. Pitiful to behold in her anguish, she looked at each of them in turn. Nicolas immediately regretted not having drawn the leather curtains and swore that in future he would pay more attention to this type of detail. Thus he was creating his own method of investigation, as circumstances dictated; the unwritten rules of his profession were impressing themselves upon him day by day. He progressed in his understanding of criminal matters by bringing to them his sensitivity, his skills ofobservation, the wealth of his imagination and his instinctive responses, which were vindicated after the event. He was his own master, in charge of blaming or praising himself. Above all he had learnt that a flexible approach, based on experience, was the only way to get closer to the truth.
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    The carriage stopped and Bourdeau got out to speak to some labourers who had approached them, intrigued by their arrival. On a nearby hill a lone horseman watched them from near a great oak tree, whose branches were heavy with a multitude of crows. Nicolas noted the fact without dwelling on it and helped the old woman down. Her hand was clammy and feverish; she could hardly stand and seemed terror-stricken.
    â€˜My God, I can’t …’
    â€˜Come, be brave, Madame. We are with you. You have nothing to fear. Show us the place where you hid.’
    â€˜I recognise nothing with all this snow, good Monsieur.’
    The sky was clear but the cold here was keener than in Paris. The snow