priest,” Martin echoed in resignation. Politics, the Church, the Army. It was enough to make his head spin.
Having made his point, Didier sat down and set his pince-nez back on the bridge of his nose.
“And if none of this has to do with politics or the Church?” Martin asked as he picked up the thin paper folder, making sure his hand held firm.
“Then, we can assume, the case will go the way of other sordid lower-class dramas. A flurry in the scandal sheets, then a nice evaporating fizzle.” Didier retrieved the document he had been reading when Martin walked in, signaling that their interview was over. Disgusted, Martin started for the door.
“Good day, Martin,” Didier shouted after him. “Remember, the integrity of the courthouse is in your hands.”
Or the integrity of someone’s political ambitions, Martin thought as he fought the impulse to slam the door. Everyone knew that, if he played his cards right, the brilliant, ambitious Didier might one day get the call to Paris or even to a Prefecture.
The sight of Roland, sitting meekly on the bench outside Didier’s office, almost made Martin jump. “Pardon,” the clerk whispered as he got up to return to his master. As soon as Martin was alone, he sank down on the same hard wooden bench. Stinging from the hail of condescension that Didier had rained upon him, Martin needed to calm down before facing the ever-curious Charpentier.
He leaned back, still clutching the file. If Didier was right, the case could blow up in Martin’s face. At least they were on the same side. Against the likes of Rocher, who—Martin’s fist tightened so hard, he almost bent the file in two thinking of it—who had hoped to play a joke on Singer. Martin sighed. He was just as irritated that somehow he had gotten caught in the middle of courthouse politics: Didier intent on proving he can keep the peace in his own district; Rocher being stupid; David Singer being oversensitive. After a moment, he straightened up and stared at the blank cardboard in his hands. At least it was not Aix all over again, not a life-and-death situation for his friend, as it had been for Merckx. Not life and death, except—Martin flipped open the file and fingered its two pages—except for one tiny little boy. That’s what they all should care about. He took a deep breath and began to read.
Today, Thursday 15 November 1894 at 17:45, Pierre Thomas, twenty-six years of age, a tanner residing at rue Drouin 6bis, came to the Palais de Justice at Nancy, Meurthe-et-Moselle, with an accusation that his child, seven-month-old Marc-Antoine, had been murdered and mutilated by a stranger passing through the village of Tomblaine. M. Thomas, who was in a state of obvious inebriation, carried the body of said child in a dirty, torn blanket. He was accompanied by his wife, Antoinette Thomas, twenty-eight years of age, a weaver at the Ullmann factory, and by the widow Geneviève Philipon, thirty years of age, of the village of Tomblaine, whom they employed as a wet nurse.
M. Thomas claimed that the murderer of his child was a “wandering Jew” who had visited the cottage of Philipon.
Mme Philipon testified that late in the afternoon of Wednesday 14 November a tinker, whom she had never seen in the village, came to her door. She asked him to fix a pot. The stranger had a large hooked nose, thick lips, black hair and a beard. He wore tattered clothes. He smelled “funny” and spoke with a strange accent. He did not remove his black hat even after entering the cottage. At that time, two of her daughters, ages ten and seven, were playing in the garden. Her youngest, a daughter, eighteen months old, and the Thomas boy were in the cottage. She observed that the tinker displayed a suspicious interest in Marc-Antoine, even asking if he was a baptized Christian. As soon as the stranger left, she called her older children inside the cottage and locked all the doors.
The next morning when she awoke she found the door
Having made his point, Didier sat down and set his pince-nez back on the bridge of his nose.
“And if none of this has to do with politics or the Church?” Martin asked as he picked up the thin paper folder, making sure his hand held firm.
“Then, we can assume, the case will go the way of other sordid lower-class dramas. A flurry in the scandal sheets, then a nice evaporating fizzle.” Didier retrieved the document he had been reading when Martin walked in, signaling that their interview was over. Disgusted, Martin started for the door.
“Good day, Martin,” Didier shouted after him. “Remember, the integrity of the courthouse is in your hands.”
Or the integrity of someone’s political ambitions, Martin thought as he fought the impulse to slam the door. Everyone knew that, if he played his cards right, the brilliant, ambitious Didier might one day get the call to Paris or even to a Prefecture.
The sight of Roland, sitting meekly on the bench outside Didier’s office, almost made Martin jump. “Pardon,” the clerk whispered as he got up to return to his master. As soon as Martin was alone, he sank down on the same hard wooden bench. Stinging from the hail of condescension that Didier had rained upon him, Martin needed to calm down before facing the ever-curious Charpentier.
He leaned back, still clutching the file. If Didier was right, the case could blow up in Martin’s face. At least they were on the same side. Against the likes of Rocher, who—Martin’s fist tightened so hard, he almost bent the file in two thinking of it—who had hoped to play a joke on Singer. Martin sighed. He was just as irritated that somehow he had gotten caught in the middle of courthouse politics: Didier intent on proving he can keep the peace in his own district; Rocher being stupid; David Singer being oversensitive. After a moment, he straightened up and stared at the blank cardboard in his hands. At least it was not Aix all over again, not a life-and-death situation for his friend, as it had been for Merckx. Not life and death, except—Martin flipped open the file and fingered its two pages—except for one tiny little boy. That’s what they all should care about. He took a deep breath and began to read.
Today, Thursday 15 November 1894 at 17:45, Pierre Thomas, twenty-six years of age, a tanner residing at rue Drouin 6bis, came to the Palais de Justice at Nancy, Meurthe-et-Moselle, with an accusation that his child, seven-month-old Marc-Antoine, had been murdered and mutilated by a stranger passing through the village of Tomblaine. M. Thomas, who was in a state of obvious inebriation, carried the body of said child in a dirty, torn blanket. He was accompanied by his wife, Antoinette Thomas, twenty-eight years of age, a weaver at the Ullmann factory, and by the widow Geneviève Philipon, thirty years of age, of the village of Tomblaine, whom they employed as a wet nurse.
M. Thomas claimed that the murderer of his child was a “wandering Jew” who had visited the cottage of Philipon.
Mme Philipon testified that late in the afternoon of Wednesday 14 November a tinker, whom she had never seen in the village, came to her door. She asked him to fix a pot. The stranger had a large hooked nose, thick lips, black hair and a beard. He wore tattered clothes. He smelled “funny” and spoke with a strange accent. He did not remove his black hat even after entering the cottage. At that time, two of her daughters, ages ten and seven, were playing in the garden. Her youngest, a daughter, eighteen months old, and the Thomas boy were in the cottage. She observed that the tinker displayed a suspicious interest in Marc-Antoine, even asking if he was a baptized Christian. As soon as the stranger left, she called her older children inside the cottage and locked all the doors.
The next morning when she awoke she found the door
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