LIEUTENANT-GENERAL OF POLICE

GABRIEL-NICOLAS DE LA REYNIE

             May, 1667: Gabriel-Nicolas de La Reynie, the newly appointed Lieutenant-General of Police, was meeting with King Louis XIV and Jean-Baptiste Colbert. He must have been feeling pretty good. He had already begun to clean up Paris, both physically and morally—street sweepers to plow through the filth deposited daily by the citizens and horses; street lights to lower crime; even regulating the depth of ladies’ necklines in church.

            So what next? The King complained of the terrible publicity he was getting from the Dutch press, which was capitalizing on the current scandals in the King’s flagrantly adulterous family. And there was another scandal brewing—rumors of poison and witchcraft in the court. If the Dutch got wind of this, His Majesty would be the laughing stock of Europe. Find out what’s going on, he said. And stop it.

            So La Reynie teamed up with Captain Francois Desgrez, and they began hauling in suspects—self-proclaimed witches, sorcerers (really con artists), poisoners, abortionists. They pointed their grimy fingers at the most famous witch in Paris, La Voisin, who had multiple prominent clients. And they whispered that La Voisin’s main client was Athènaïs, Marquise de Montespan, the King’s mistress. Was she after love spells? Or poison? And how do you investigate the King’s mistress without causing a scandal?

Aside from his position of Lieutenant-General of Police, somewhat analogous to our Attorney General, La Reynie was one of several judges. He not only investigated criminals, he interrogated them; brought charges; tried them with his panel of fellow judges; and questioned them under torture.

            He found the suspects had used fortune-telling, promises of romance and good luck, to part the gullible nobility from their money. And if you wanted to get rid of a spouse? Arsenic. It was colorless, odorless, and tasteless, and if administered over a period of weeks, the victim would slowly decline, apparently of natural causes.

            Most of the clients were noblewomen. No matter how wealthy, they were controlled by their fathers, brothers, husbands, sold into loveless marriages. The male courtiers were also trapped: they had to appear at court and flatter the King in order to gain any advancement. So, I called my novel The Menagerie, after the real little menagerie at Versailles. They were all behind bars, with the rest of the wild animals.

            La Reynie kept on for years, digging, interrogating, and torturing suspects. He learned that Athènaïs had a maid that was also La Voisin’s client. Not only was the maid in deep, she had also gotten pregnant by the King when the royal mistress was indisposed. (Louis never turned any female down.) Also implicated was another former royal paramour, the niece of the late Cardinal Mazarin. The evidence against her was so strong she fled the country.

            The investigation took years. During that time, Athènaïs bore the King four children; broke up with him (she was still married); reconciled, two more children; then he went after any available skirt. And he had been listening to La Reynie—no proof of a crime, not yet.

            The testimony grew darker: whispers of a criminal mastermind, a conspiracy of poison and witchcraft that could threaten the kingdom. And worse—a claim that Athènaïs had a black mass celebrated over her naked body in which an infant was sacrificed. Were they telling the truth? Was the King a target of a love spell—or poison? It must remain secret. What if one of the judges leaked it?

            The King decreed that La Reynie must go it alone. Angry and frustrated, La Reynie went on, confiding his thoughts and fears, along with the evidence, in a stack of journals, letters, and transcripts. Finally, it was time to present his case to the King. Copies were made and put in three black coffers: one for La Reynie; one for Colbert, who had retained an attorney for Athènaïs; and one for Louis. And twelve years after it all began, La Reynie and the councilors met again in the King’s study. The result? Hush it up.

            Years later, right after La Reynie’s death, the King burned the contents of his black coffer. He thought he had the only copies, his secret safe. But La Reynie had kept his own records and they are now in the Bibliothèque Nationale. The French honor the memory of the world’s first modern police officer, while historians are still arguing—did Athènaïs have a black mass celebrated over her naked body?