Read Online The Saint-Florentin Murders by Jean-François Parot - Free Book Online Page A

‘He’s been with me for fifteenyears, having succeeded his father. Everything concerning the general expenses of the mansion is his responsibility. He chooses the kitchen staff and the other servants, and he has full authority over them, including dismissing them if need be. It is also his job to buy bread, wine, meat, vegetables and fruit from the suppliers. For example, he buys wine by the cask and hands it over to the wine waiter to distribute, and the latter will report back to him on the state in which he has received it. He also has to deal with a grocer for sugar, candles, torches, oils and Lord knows what else! Wood, crockery, oats, hay, straw: all that’s his province. Last but not least – by no means least! – he has to lay out the service for the lunches, dinners and midnight suppers which I give.’
    ‘Do you think he’s honest?’
    ‘I believe he is, but, even if he were not, I would not trouble myself to constantly check up on a servant, however corrupt he might be. When we depend on others, we sometimes have to know when to close our eyes if we want to be well served. Now leave me, I still have some work to do.’
    Nicolas knew there was no point in insisting. He retraced his steps to the antechambers and the great staircase. Deciding to visit the wounded man, he stopped on the mezzanine. He thought he knew his way around the house quite well by now, but realised that it was not possible to go from one wing to the other except via the ground floor. There, he had no difficulty in finding, to the left of the grand staircase, a small staircase leading up to the mezzanine. After several minutes during which he wandered through dark corridors, he at last came to a room with its door open.
    It was a large room, with bergame hangings and three windows that looked onto an inner courtyard. A good fire was blazing inthe hearth. The marble mantelpiece was adorned with a small pier glass with three mirrors set in gilded wood. On a bed with red flowered damask curtains, his legs half covered with a counterpane of quilted calico, lay a corpulent man, his torso wrapped in bloodstained sheets. On the floor, to the left of the bed, were a coat the colour of dead leaves, a matching pair of breeches, a white shirt, and a yellow cravat. The rest of the furniture consisted of a large oak wardrobe, a marquetry table, two armchairs upholstered in yellow serge, a chest of drawers, and a small writing table covered with papers. The overall impression was one of comfort, and even luxury, enhanced even more by the presence on the parquet floor of a Turkish carpet. On a chair with a dust cover sat a man in a black coat and grey wig, apparently dozing. Nicolas realised that this was not the case, and that what he was in fact doing was taking Jean Missery’s pulse. The man turned. A fine pastel face, thought Nicolas, about sixty, perhaps a little more.
    ‘Monsieur, whom do I have the honour of addressing?’
    ‘Commissioner Nicolas Le Floch. I am in charge of the investigation. And you are Monsieur …?’
    ‘Dr de Gévigland. I was sent for this morning to attend to this disaster. There was nothing I could do for the young woman. As for this man, as luck would have it, the blade of the knife missed a rib and did not harm any vital organs. In my opinion, he will recover.’
    ‘Has he regained consciousness?’
    ‘No – which is the only thing that worries me. The wound in itself was not the kind to put him in such a state. I fear there may be something else. He may have hit something in his fall, or itmay be an inflammation of the cerebral humours. I really don’t know. When it comes to this kind of symptom, our knowledge is far from complete.’
    Nicolas was pleased to hear these remarks. It was comforting to know that at least one doctor was devoid of the pedantic arrogance of many of his colleagues, made no attempt to spin yarns, and approached with simple modesty and praiseworthy level-headedness the unfathomable