The bedchamber key was not in its customary place, yet the strongbox appeared securely locked. That intact coffer might still have offered some reassurance, within a chamber where nothing else could. Madame Mazel had just been discovered dead; her valet, Lebrun, who was among the first to enter, was still striving to comprehend what was missing. If nothing had been taken, why had she been slain? This question, born at the bedside, was to govern the entire course of the inquiry. Yet the strongbox had indeed been opened, then closed again. The murderer had tidied away a part of his crime behind him.
The townhouse in the Rue des Maçons-Sorbonne, in Paris, received a great concourse of people. Gaming went on there; guests arrived by day and by night; the servants occupied several floors around the reception apartments and the bedchamber of their mistress. Lebrun slept in a room serving as a pantry, near the grand staircase. He knew the doors, the passages, the hours. Such knowledge was part of his office. It was soon to become the very thing that singled him out to the magistrates: someone who knew how to move through the house must surely have aided the person who had committed murder within it.
At night, the keys followed a precise routine. That of an antechamber was placed upon a mantelpiece; that of the bedchamber remained on the inside, near the door. Other exits led toward a small staircase and a wardrobe. There were thus several points of access, several fastenings, and several persons accustomed to handling them. For the household, this network constituted the ordinary mechanism of daily life. In the aftermath of death, it became a map demanding interpretation, where every passage might be construed as proof of complicity.
On the 27th of November, 1689, Madame Mazel had retired to bed toward eleven o’clock. On the morrow, she did not rise at the expected hour. Knocks were sounded, and her son, Monsieur de Savonière, a councillor to the Parlement, was summoned. He arrived accompanied by a locksmith. Before the door, the servants cast about for an explanation of this silence. Some suspected a sudden indisposition. Lebrun feared something graver: he mentioned having noticed an open door during the night. Uneasiness expressed too early may subsequently wear the appearance of knowledge one ought not to possess.
The chamber having been forced, the murder was revealed. Near the victim lay the fragment of a cravat and a napkin rolled in the manner of a nightcap. The bell-pulls had been tied up, preventing their ordinary use. A knife was found among the ashes. The scene bore witness to a struggle, yet an initial inspection of the strongbox disclosed no sign of theft. Lebrun was interrogated immediately. Upon his person was discovered a skeleton key. He was a servant; he carried a key capable of opening several doors. The judges soon seized primarily upon the latter proposition.
He was arrested, together with his wife. The search proceeded. At the foot of the back staircase, a new rope knotted into a ladder and fitted with an iron hook was brought to light. In the garret, beneath the straw, were found a shirt and a cravat collar stained with blood. Lebrun, for his part, bore neither wound nor stain upon his clothes. The tradespeople summoned to compare the articles did not connect them with his possessions. The linen-maids distinguished the shirt from those he wore. Certain chambermaids even believed they recognised the linen of a former footman named Berry, who had been dismissed for theft.
A variety of crafts had been convened around these objects: locksmiths for the doors, cutlers for the blades, ropemakers for the cords, linen-maids for the garments. Each observed with a specialised knowledge what others might easily have confounded. A new rope was not interchangeable with the worn cords of the pantry; two shirts did not become identical simply because they had belonged to domestic servants. These modest distinctions ought to have rendered the figure of the accused less simple. They existed within the inquiry without ever succeeding in commanding its direction.
Lebrun’s wife had likewise been subjected to search. Nothing found at her lodging incriminated her husband. Yet the pair could derive no strength from that absence: discovering nothing did not produce the same effect as displaying a large key. The house multiplied the objects requiring explanation; the prison continued to hold the very same persons.
This fresh trail did not deliver Lebrun. The accusation merely shifted: if he had not struck the blows himself, he might well have admitted the murderer. The skeleton key thus survived the observations that distanced him from the clothing and the weapon. His function, his access, his words spoken before the door retained an ominous significance. Every element that ought to have clarified the roles of specific persons was swallowed up in a broader certainty: it must be someone belonging to the household. Yet a former servant might likewise be acquainted with its habits.
Lebrun was condemned to death. The Parlement confirmed the decree sentencing him to torture, without at that stage carrying the capital penalty to its ultimate conclusion. He continued to deny his guilt. On the 27th of February, 1690, a new decree set aside the initial sentence and ordered further investigations, while maintaining his detention. Lebrun had not been executed. He died nevertheless on the 1st of March, at the age of forty-five, having been carried, unable to walk, to the infirmary. The legal proceedings were still reserving time for themselves; his body had none left.
A few weeks later, at Sens, Jean Gerlat, known as Berry, was apprehended. He was dealing in horses and attempted to purchase his freedom by offering a purse of gold. He was carrying a watch identified as having belonged to Madame Mazel. Brought back to Paris, he was confronted with testimonies placing him in the city at the hour of the crime and with the garments discovered in the house. The watch likewise altered the interpretation of the bedchamber: the appearance of the intact coffer had misled those who believed they could rule out robbery. A single purloined object shattered the deceptive tranquility of a re-locked bolt.
Berry initially accused Lebrun and Madame de Savonière. Then, upon the scaffold, he retracted these accusations. The chronicle records his confession: he had entered through the street door, which had remained unlatched, and had concealed himself in the garret. He had waited there before slipping into the bedchamber during an absence of Madame Mazel. He knew her times of going abroad, knew where to bide his time, and had hidden beneath the bed. The house that welcomed so many visitors had sheltered a man who no longer required an invitation.
According to this same declaration, he had secured the bells, waited for nightfall, and attacked the mistress when she cried out. He had taken money and the watch, restored the keys to their places, abandoned the stained clothing, and quitted the premises. The rope was intended to afford him an alternate escape should the main door prove locked. The articles hitherto dispersed throughout the inquiry now found their coherent place within this narrative. Berry declared that he had acted entirely alone. Lebrun was no longer there to hear the retraction that finally absolved him of the murder.
His widow and the guardian of their five minor children petitioned for the rehabilitation of his memory, the restitution of their seized effects, and the confirmation of the bequests provided for them in Madame Mazel’s will. They likewise claimed damages and interest. On the 30th of March, 1694, the Parlement granted their petition, save for the financial indemnity. Reparation had its calculated limits, its conceded clauses, and its refusal. For the children, it bore first and foremost the name of their father. He had not opened the door to the murderer; he had opened the doors day after day to serve a house which justice had ultimately turned into a snare around him.