The Dream Killer of Paris. Fabrice Bourland

within a few months of each other in extraordinary circumstances, from a violent, incomprehensible fear while their minds wandered through the land of dreams … or nightmares.

      Was it just a coincidence? Or was the Paris-Soir journalist was right? Was there a mystery surrounding the deaths of Brindillac and Ducros? Or had the journalist just come up with the Deadly Sleep phrase because it made a catchy headline?

      ‘How do you intend to proceed, Superintendent?’ I asked, realising that I was more intrigued by this story than I had expected.

      ‘Firstly, by paying a visit to Château B—. I have an appointment with the examining magistrate appointed by the Versailles public prosecutor early tomorrow afternoon. Just between you and me, until yesterday the Justice Minister wanted nothing to do with the death of the Marquis de Brindillac, the public prosecutor couldn’t care less either and the general public likewise. Now, everyone wants to stick their oar in.’

      With a gulp Fourier swallowed the rest of his Burgundy. Wiping a drop of wine from his moustache, he declared in a detached tone: ‘I say! I’ve just had a thought. Since you’re on holiday in our beautiful city, why don’t you come to the château with me tomorrow? You can share your thoughts with me. You can make room in your schedule, surely, to give up a day to shed some light on this case.’

      I couldn’t help smiling. The trap was a little obvious but it had worked perfectly. As Fourier had said, it was certainly mysterious and I also found it rather gratifying, that at the age of twenty-five, my services were required by one of Paris’s leading detectives. Besides, I’d promised James that I wouldn’t let a case slip through my fingers if it presented itself and that I’d alert him as soon as possible. And, in return, Fourier could help me gain access to certain archives for my investigation into Nerval’s death.

      ‘Yes, yes,’ I said. ‘But I warn you, tomorrow evening I will return to 1855.’

      ‘Glad to hear it!’ retorted Fourier. ‘Let’s meet tomorrow at half past eleven at the Gare d’Orsay.’

      ‘What? Aren’t we going by car?’

      ‘Our vehicle has been at the garage for the last two weeks. The Sûreté Nationale might have been allocated more funds but it’s hard to tell sometimes.’

      We had spent longer than expected chatting in the café. Outside, night had almost fallen.

      ‘I must go!’ exclaimed Fourier, looking at his watch. ‘As we speak, the head of the Sûreté and the Préfet de Police are meeting the Interior Minister, Monsieur Sarraut. I imagine he is going to demand close collaboration between our two forces.’

      He threw some coins down on the table. As he shook my hand, he suddenly looked at me curiously.

      ‘By the way, what is this investigation which means I have the pleasure of your company here?’

      ‘The death of Gérard de Nerval.’

      ‘What? The poet?’

      ‘The very same.’

      ‘But wasn’t it suicide?’

      ‘That’s exactly what I’d like to know for certain!’

      From the brasserie, I headed towards the Seine. My expedition to Quai de la Rapée was no longer relevant. Crossing Pont-au-Change, I leant over the stone parapet for a moment and contemplated a passing bateau-mouche with its blinding headlights, which was carrying a handful of tourists awed by the splendours of Paris. The season was over but the fine weather had prolonged the euphoric feeling of summer. Something told me that things were going to take a turn for the worse though. Was it the night itself, which was getting darker by the minute on the horizon, far from the lights of the Seine? Was it the icy shiver that ran down my spine despite the relatively balmy air? Was it the silty black water swirling in the middle of the river and which continued churning long after the boat had passed as if some obscure, ancient underground force was extending its empire to the world’s surface?

      I continued on my way via Boulevard Saint-Germain and Quai Saint-Bernard up to the Jardin des Plantes. As I passed a post office, I stopped to send James a telegram.

      STAYING AT HÔTEL SAINT-MERRI, NEAR TOUR SAINT-JACQUES, ROOM 14.

      SUPERINTENDENT FOURIER REQUESTS ASSISTANCE IN BRINDILLAC CASE (SEE PARIS-SOIR OF 16 OCTOBER ON MYSTERY OF ‘DEADLY SLEEP’)

      STRANGE FEELING.

      ANDREW

      After dining at a restaurant in Bastille, I returned to my hotel where I spent the rest of the evening reading.

      On the two days prior to his death, Gérard de Nerval had visited his friends, one after the other. He was penniless. Several days beforehand he had left his room at the Normandie and found himself homeless. Temperatures outside had dropped to freezing. Those who received him in their homes for a few minutes and others who met him in a reading room or a bar at Les Halles were worried when they saw him leave with nowhere to go, heading out into the snow and the cold, but they knew that there was no way of stopping him. He turned up at the home of Paul Lacroix, a scholar who used the pen name Bibliophile Jacob. He went to Joseph Méry’s but his friend was away. At a reception given by Madame Person, an actress, he had appeared gay and cheerful.

      On the fateful evening of 25 January, on the banks of the Seine near the Hôtel de Ville, Nerval told his friend, the painter Chenavard, who had made it his duty to accompany him in his wandering, that ‘the way forward is clear; it must be followed. The baton is in the hand of the traveller.’

      Then he had walked alone for a long time, taking any street he came to before, at the end of that evening, heading for Place du Châtelet – and Rue de la Vieille-Lanterne …

      * * *

      Late that night, I sat up in bed, my eyes feverish, disoriented by a dream so vivid that for a moment I believed that the scene had really just taken place in front of me. As soon as I had gathered my wits about me and, responding instinctively to the order I had been given in the dream, I grabbed the sheet of paper and pencil at the end of the bed and quickly noted down everything I had seen.

      DREAM I

      NIGHT OF 17-18-OCTOBER

      Bedtime: 10.30 p.m.

      Approximate time when fell asleep: 12.15 a.m.

      Time awoken: 3.05 a.m.

       I am stretched out on my bed and dreaming that I am asleep.

       I am asleep and yet I am perfectly aware that I am in my room at the Hôtel Saint-Merri. In the semi-darkness I can make out the whitewashed walls, the beams crisscrossing the ceiling, the books on the table, my clothes on the back of the chair. I can feel the clean, starched sheets against my skin. A faint odour of wood and furniture polish wafts through the air.

       I dream, aware that I am dreaming. I can actually see myself sleeping. It is a strange sensation – gentle and euphoric.

       Suddenly, although I remember closing the door and locking it, I hear the handle turn, the hinges creak, and the door slowly opens. The figure of a woman is visible in the feeble light from the corridor. I cannot yet make out her face but I recognise her immediately: it is the stranger from the steamer. She is dressed in a green silk tunic, her feet are bare and her blond hair floats over her shoulders as if held up by invisible fingers. Her presence casts a milky light on the objects around her.

       As she moves into the room, my heart begins to beat so hard it almost jumps out of my chest. I would like her to come up to me, to sit down and take my hand. Instead, she heads towards the window, picks up a sheet of paper and a pencil lying on the table and slowly returns to the bed and lays them on the floor.

       She stares at me without blinking. She is even more beautiful than I remembered. I feel she is about to