Read Online The Man with the Lead Stomach by Jean-François Parot - Free Book Online
Authors: Jean-François Parot
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knowledge.
Instinctively, he put the message to his nose and breathed in the scent. He had already smelt this perfume on elderly ladies, the dowagers of the upper echelons of Guérande society who frequented his guardian, the canon, or whom he met in the Marquis de Ranreuil’s chateau. He recognised the lingering scent of face powder and eau de la Reine de Hongrie . He examined the paper: it was an almond-green colour, laid paper with no engraved monogram or watermark, which observations led him to make a connection between the writer of these lines and the face at the window of the Hôtel de Ruissec. The message, handed on by the faithful family major-domo, came most probably from the Comtesse de Ruissec and was clear evidence of her wish to tell him some secret in confidence. One detail, however, intrigued him: the purpose of the meeting was less a desire to enlighten him concerning the vicomte’s death than a supposed request for advice. He reassured himself with the thought that these two things were perhaps not totally unconnected.
Bourdeau was snoring discreetly, giving little groans as he breathed out. Nicolas tried to rest a little, but even the rocking carriage could not lull him to sleep. He was beset by unformed thoughts. Several ideas that had occurred to him now eluded him; he was tormented by this, annoyed with himself for not noting them down as they came to him. Irritated, he gripped the notebook that never left his side and in which he jotted down his thoughts and observations. He had not forgotten that he would have to write a report and give an account to the Lieutenant General of Police. He could hear Monsieur de Sartine’s starchy tones harping on as ever about ‘precision and concision’. But Nicolas had never had any difficulties in this respect and his superior valued his brisk, businesslike approach. He could thank the Jesuits in Vannes for perfecting his written style, but also the notary with whom he had begun his career, who hadtaught him the importance of weighing up his words and choosing them with care.
In the course of these cogitations Nicolas forgot what it was he was trying to remember. It was then he realised he had not checked if there was a duplicate key to the vicomte’s bedroom. He bit his lip; he needed to make sure. He continued to worry about this but then took comfort from the thought that if a copy really had existed, Picard would have told him rather than let him pick the lock.
The carriage came to a sudden halt amidst shouting and the neighing of horses being roughly reined in. In the sudden shifting flicker of lights he heard the coachman arguing. In these times of war, entering and leaving the capital at night was strictly controlled. Nicolas had to make himself known in order to be let through the gates. From then on progress was quicker through a deserted night-time Paris. He dropped Bourdeau off at his house near the Châtelet and set off again towards the church of Saint-Eustache and Rue Montmartre to return to Monsieur de Noblecourt’s mansion. The house, in which he had received such a generous welcome one desperate morning, was always a comforting sight. ‘Mansion’ was in fact rather too grand a term for the sturdy bourgeois dwelling whose ground floor on the street side was occupied by a bakery.
Nicolas always liked to be greeted by the warm smell of the night’s first batch of loaves. It drove away the cares of the day and the troubles of a mind always exercised by suppositions and calculations. It enveloped him like a familiar and reassuringpresence, and provided the transition between a hostile outside world and his return to a friendly and protected space.
He decided not to take the hidden staircase that led directly from the inner courtyard up to his bedroom, and instead opened the door beneath the archway of the carriage entrance. A wriggling furry ball jumped into his arms: Cyrus, Monsieur de Noblecourt’s dog, always welcomed him warmly.
Instinctively, he put the message to his nose and breathed in the scent. He had already smelt this perfume on elderly ladies, the dowagers of the upper echelons of Guérande society who frequented his guardian, the canon, or whom he met in the Marquis de Ranreuil’s chateau. He recognised the lingering scent of face powder and eau de la Reine de Hongrie . He examined the paper: it was an almond-green colour, laid paper with no engraved monogram or watermark, which observations led him to make a connection between the writer of these lines and the face at the window of the Hôtel de Ruissec. The message, handed on by the faithful family major-domo, came most probably from the Comtesse de Ruissec and was clear evidence of her wish to tell him some secret in confidence. One detail, however, intrigued him: the purpose of the meeting was less a desire to enlighten him concerning the vicomte’s death than a supposed request for advice. He reassured himself with the thought that these two things were perhaps not totally unconnected.
Bourdeau was snoring discreetly, giving little groans as he breathed out. Nicolas tried to rest a little, but even the rocking carriage could not lull him to sleep. He was beset by unformed thoughts. Several ideas that had occurred to him now eluded him; he was tormented by this, annoyed with himself for not noting them down as they came to him. Irritated, he gripped the notebook that never left his side and in which he jotted down his thoughts and observations. He had not forgotten that he would have to write a report and give an account to the Lieutenant General of Police. He could hear Monsieur de Sartine’s starchy tones harping on as ever about ‘precision and concision’. But Nicolas had never had any difficulties in this respect and his superior valued his brisk, businesslike approach. He could thank the Jesuits in Vannes for perfecting his written style, but also the notary with whom he had begun his career, who hadtaught him the importance of weighing up his words and choosing them with care.
In the course of these cogitations Nicolas forgot what it was he was trying to remember. It was then he realised he had not checked if there was a duplicate key to the vicomte’s bedroom. He bit his lip; he needed to make sure. He continued to worry about this but then took comfort from the thought that if a copy really had existed, Picard would have told him rather than let him pick the lock.
The carriage came to a sudden halt amidst shouting and the neighing of horses being roughly reined in. In the sudden shifting flicker of lights he heard the coachman arguing. In these times of war, entering and leaving the capital at night was strictly controlled. Nicolas had to make himself known in order to be let through the gates. From then on progress was quicker through a deserted night-time Paris. He dropped Bourdeau off at his house near the Châtelet and set off again towards the church of Saint-Eustache and Rue Montmartre to return to Monsieur de Noblecourt’s mansion. The house, in which he had received such a generous welcome one desperate morning, was always a comforting sight. ‘Mansion’ was in fact rather too grand a term for the sturdy bourgeois dwelling whose ground floor on the street side was occupied by a bakery.
Nicolas always liked to be greeted by the warm smell of the night’s first batch of loaves. It drove away the cares of the day and the troubles of a mind always exercised by suppositions and calculations. It enveloped him like a familiar and reassuringpresence, and provided the transition between a hostile outside world and his return to a friendly and protected space.
He decided not to take the hidden staircase that led directly from the inner courtyard up to his bedroom, and instead opened the door beneath the archway of the carriage entrance. A wriggling furry ball jumped into his arms: Cyrus, Monsieur de Noblecourt’s dog, always welcomed him warmly.
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