The Man with the Lead Stomach

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  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 had taught 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 reassuring presence, 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. Cyrus was yelping with pleasure at the sight of a friend he had taken to from their first meeting. After this outpouring of affection he became once more the procurator’s dignified lapdog and, raising his head like a proud steed, preceded Nicolas into the house, only his irrepressible wagging tail still showing his pleasure.

  He headed towards the pantry, regularly checking that Nicolas was following him. The young commissioner deduced from this that Monsieur de Noblecourt was already asleep. Increasingly afflicted with gout, the elderly magistrate enjoyed talking to his protégé, even when Nicolas came back late. He was always eager to hear the police officer’s account of his day’s activities and just as curious to find out the news and the gossip about the town and Court. As he entertained frequently he was one of the best-informed men in Paris; as Nicolas had often been in a position to observe, his advice and opinions enjoyed considerable favour. When he waited up late in his wing chair, Cyrus was the messenger given the task of intercepting Nicolas and leading him to his master.

  One meagre candle lit the pantry dimly. On a low chair, near the stove, a slumped figure heaved peacefully with every breath. Nicolas recognised Catherine, the cook. On seeing her, the pedantic schoolboy in him was awakened and he recalled Boileau’s line: ‘Upon her breast her double chin does droop’. He immediately told himself off for this joke at the expense of someone who had proved unfailingly loyal to him.

  After the fall of the Lardin household,2 Catherine Gauss had at first been given shelter by Dr Semacgus in Vaugirard. But the surgeon already had his own cook, the African Awa, and even though the two women had become friends he could not keep Catherine on. Nicolas had found the solution. Marion, Monsieur de Noblecourt’s housekeeper was getting on in years and had been delighted for Catherine to take charge of the cooking. Nicolas, now comfortably off thanks to his position as commissioner and the extra emoluments accruing from this post, had himself engaged his old friend and therefore shared in the expenses of running the Noblecourt household. The elderly procurator had protested as a formality but he had been touched by Nicolas’s kind gesture.

  Cyrus tugged the bottom of Catherine’s skirt, making her wake up grumpily. As soon as she noticed Nicolas, she wanted to get up but he prevented her from doing so.

  ‘I nodded off waiting for you, my little one,’ she sighed.

  ‘Catherine, how many times do I have to tell you not to wait up for me!’

  ‘You were at the Opéra. Nothing could happen to you.’

  Nicolas smiled at the thought of how his night had started in Grenelle. But Catherine was already busy, laying the table and producing a delicious-smelling pie.

  ‘You must be hungry. I have cold pâté and a bottle of Irancy that the master had a sip of for his supper. He ate heartily.’

  Nicolas sat down at the table for one of those ample and succulent late-night meals that Catherine was so good at, thanks to her Alsace upbringing. The golden crust of the pastry was still warm and the bouquet of red wine and bay leaves made his mouth water. She looked at him apprehensively, waiting for his slightest reaction. The tender meat melted in the mouth.

  ‘You’ve kept this dish a secret from me, Catherine. It’s quite delicious! Is it from your region?’

  ‘Not at all. That one’s a pie. The meat is chopped and marinated in white wine. This dish is from Champagne. You cut pork and veal, and most of all you add fat to make it tender. You let it soak in good red wine with spices, salt, pepper, two days, no more. You make the pastry. You wipe your meat. You line the dish then spread the meat on top and you cover with a round of pastry brushed with beaten egg. You keep it in the oven for a good two hours. It’s better warm or cold. It can also be done with rabbit without needing to bone it. Where I come from we would draw lots for who was going to have the head. Yes, that’s what we did!’

  Once he had eaten enough, Nicolas watched Catherine extinguish the stove and put the leftovers of the meal away in the sideboard. He smiled gratefully and wished her good night. He went up to his room and without undressing lay down on his bed before immediately falling into a deep sleep.

  NOTES – CHAPTER II

  1. Saint-Florentin (1705–1777), Louis Phélypeaux, Comte, then Duc de la Villière, Minister of State in charge of the King’s Household, a department that included among its responsibilities the administration and the policing of the city of Paris.

  2. Cf. The Châtelet Apprentice.

  III

  THE WELL OF THE DEAD

  ‘Misfortunes often form a chain.’

  RACINE

  Wednesday 24 October 1761

  Nicolas was woken by a scraping sound. After looking at his watch he realised that it was Catherine, placing a jug of hot water outside his bedroom door. She had done this every morning since her first day at Monsieur de Noblecourt’s house. She had probably decided to let Nicolas sleep in a little. It was already past seven o’clock. Since his earliest childhood he had got up at six, winter and summer alike: as a boy, whilst barely awake he would serve Mass for the canon, his guardian, in the cold and damp of the collegiate church of Guérande.

  He discovered to his amusement that he had slept fully clothed. Fortunately his wardrobe had increased considerably since his arrival in Paris. His tailor, Master Vachon, who also dressed Monsieur de Sartine, had seen to
that. Nicolas fondly recalled the green coat, originally made for another customer, that he had worn at Versailles on being first presented to the King.

  He felt refreshed and full of energy until the events of the previous day suddenly came flooding back. A rare moment of early morning happiness gave way to the preoccupations of the hunter planning the chase. He noticed his tricorn on the floor. Fortunately he had not slept with it on, as that was said to bring bad luck. This fleeting observation stirred some vague memories that he could not quite pin down. Bare-chested, he had a thorough wash in the water that was already cold. In the summer he used the pump in the courtyard and splashed the water all over himself, but now autumn with its early morning chill was on the way. He reminded himself of what he had to do.

  First he must go to the Hôtel de Gramont and give Sartine a detailed account of what had happened since his departure the previous evening. Perhaps his superior would be able to clarify how those in high places wanted the case to be handled. It was even possible that they might not want it dealt with at all. He must prepare himself for an encounter with a very angry Lieutenant General of Police.

  Then he would quickly return to the Châtelet. He muttered to himself about the inconveniently long distance between the two most important police buildings, a situation that, in his opinion, slowed down work. Inspector Bourdeau would be dispatched to Grenelle to take a fresh look at the scene of the crime and to enquire about the existence of a duplicate key to the vicomte’s bedroom. He wondered whether his deputy had already begun to open up the body with Sanson, the public executioner. Nicolas felt slightly uncomfortable about calling on Sanson’s skills and experience, as it was not normal procedure, but he was only too aware of the routine methods and incompetence of the forensic doctors attached to the Châtelet. So he preferred to do things this way, enabling dreadful discoveries to be kept secret.

  Nicolas would also have to discuss with Bourdeau the arrangements for his meeting with the stranger in the church of the Discalced Carmelites. He was increasingly convinced that Madame de Ruissec was the author of the note.

  Lastly, it would be useful to go fishing for information about the vicomte amongst his superiors and fellow officers in the French Guards.

  Satisfied by this plan of campaign, he finished his toilet by brushing his hair vigorously and tying it with a velvet ribbon. He wore a wig only on very rare occasions, as he disliked the constriction of his head and the clouds of powder required.

  The distant strains of a flute could be heard in the house. If at such an early hour Monsieur de Noblecourt was already eagerly ‘playing the penny whistle’, as he often put it, this spoke positively of his state of health: his gout could not be troubling him too much. Nicolas decided to bid him good day. These morning conversations with the former procurator were always very instructive, full of the wisdom that comes from experience and an understanding of the human soul. He went downstairs to the first floor and into a handsome room with pale green panelling set off with gold, which Monsieur de Noblecourt used as his bedroom and to receive guests.

  As he entered he saw the magistrate firmly ensconced in his armchair, his back stiff, almost arched, his head leaning to the left, his eyes concentrating and half-closed. His purple skullcap was askew, his left leg resting on a damask pouf, while his slippered right foot beat time. His nimble fingers fluttered along the holes of a flute. Cyrus, standing upright on his back paws, the tip of his pink tongue sticking out, was listening to his master in fascination. Nicolas stopped to savour this delicious moment of domestic bliss. But the dog was already leaping towards him and Monsieur de Noblecourt abruptly stopped playing on seeing the young man. Nicolas, tricorn in hand, greeted him by bowing slightly.

  ‘How pleased I am to see you looking and sounding in such good spirits so early in the morning!’

  ‘Good morning, Nicolas. I am indeed better. The pains in my left leg have almost gone and I shall be on my feet for supper if I manage to master this tricky sonata.’

  ‘I’ll wager you composed it.’

  ‘Oh, you rascal, you flatterer,’ the procurator spluttered. ‘Alas, I did not. It’s a piece by Blavet, first flute of the Royal Academy of Music. Unless you have heard this virtuoso perform you can have no idea of how best to position the lips, to hold a note or move the fingers: his is a truly prodigious talent.’

  He put down his instrument on a small card table in front of him.

  ‘Enough of all this. I was indeed hoping to see you at breakfast.’

  He rang and Marion, the housekeeper, suddenly appeared as if out of the shadows. It had been agreed that the elderly servant would retain the privilege of serving her master his first meal of the day. Catherine brought the heavy tray as far as the bedroom door and then handed it to Marion, who was grateful for this kindness.

  ‘Marion, my morning feast. You have yet to see what it is, Nicolas, as I tasted it for the first time only two days ago. The same for Nicolas, please.’

  His triple chin wobbled with laughter and his eyes were screwed in wicked delight.

  ‘Monsieur, what a thing it would be if for the sake of your tendons and muscles you sentenced this strapping young man to your measly breakfast!’

  ‘What do you mean, “measly breakfast”? Show a little more respect for a diet that Fagon drew up for the great king who was our sovereign’s grandfather.’

  Marion went out, only to reappear immediately with a large tray tinkling with silverware and china. She set down in front of her master a dish of cooked prunes and a cup of amber-coloured liquid. Nicolas was allowed his customary whipped chocolate, soft bread rolls from the bakery on the ground floor and a jampot brimming with a bright red jelly. Monsieur de Noblecourt stirred in his armchair and carefully placed his left foot on the floor, letting out a few groans as he did so. His large, ruddy nose seemed to quiver as the pleasant aroma of the exotic beverage wafted towards him.

  ‘Might it not be right … given the improved state of my legs – to allow me, my dear Marion, some respite from sage and fruit compote?’

  Marion grumbled loudly.

  ‘All right, very well,’ sighed Monsieur de Noblecourt. ‘There’s no point in making a scene about it. My arguments are of little weight in this domestic court of law. I see that I am straying from the regulations and that no one will agree with me. I submit, I give in, I surrender my weapons.’

  The servant also sighed and, with a mischievous smile to Nicolas, disappeared as fast as her elderly legs would allow. Monsieur de Noblecourt composed himself once more and contemplated the young man.

  ‘Either I am very much mistaken, Nicolas, or there’s something new afoot. You look as pleased with yourself as a pointer about to go off with the hunt. First, Monsieur, you came home very late. Not that I am spying on you but with my insomnia I heard the carriage entrance slam.’

  Nicolas looked mortified.

  ‘Secondly, as performances at the Opéra do not end so late I assume that one of those pretty creatures who display their charms at the very back of the stage set became an object of detailed study or that you were detained by some unexpected police matter.’

  ‘You know how great my respect is for you,’ said Nicolas. ‘I have always admired in you, Monsieur, a wisdom matched by your sensitivity …’

  ‘Do get to the point. I am burning with curiosity and desperate to know all your news.’

  Nicolas launched into a detailed account of the events of that night, which his host listened to, eyes closed, arms folded across his paunch, with a blissful smile on his lips. He remained silent after the account was finished and Nicolas thought he was dozing. But that was to underestimate Monsieur de Noblecourt. Neither the sage nor the story had sent him to sleep; he was meditating. Nicolas had had many opportunities to observe how the former procurator’s conclusions were always unusual and revealed an unexpected and sometimes surprising way of seeing the world. He opened his eyes.

  ‘At this point being honoured does not mean a great deal,
as it is not the same as being honourable.’

  This cryptic comment was followed by the lengthy tasting of a few prunes.

  ‘My dear boy, you are confronted with the worst sort of courtier, a breed that shamelessly combines false piety and ambition, apparently proud figures who grovel before the powerful. Remove their masks and they disintegrate.’

  As he spoke these weighty words, Monsieur de Noblecourt was slyly moving his spoon towards the jam pot. Cyrus leapt on to his master’s lap, bringing the manoeuvre to a sudden end.

  ‘The Comte de Ruissec is not the figure you describe, an elderly nobleman steadfast in his convictions and his obsession with honour. I have often heard him talked about in society. He comes from a Huguenot family but he renounced that faith at a young age and is careful never to mention his origins. In the army he showed great bravery. But who does not? That sort of man knows no fear.’

  ‘One can know fear and overcome it,’ the young man interjected. ‘For my part I have often been afraid.’

  ‘How touching, Nicolas. Long may God preserve this frankness of yours – such an endearing quality! As I was saying, Monsieur de Ruissec had the reputation of being a fine soldier, but hard and cruel to his men. His career was blighted by rumours of looting and he never reached the high rank for which he seemed destined. He was said to be in league with army commissaries and tax collectors. The profits supposedly supplemented his income. He left the army, sold his estate in the Languedoc and the family chateau. “The walls of towns are built from the ruins of country homes.” He settled in Paris, first in the Place Royale, then quite recently in Grenelle, where he bought the mansion of a bankrupt farmer of taxes in rather murky circumstances. Today people say he is immersed in the world of finance and speculation, where his insignia impress people. Alongside these secret activities he leads what is on the surface a perfectly well-ordered life. He is a supporter of the pious party, introduced to it by his wife, who is in attendance to the King’s daughters. He has obtained a position in Madame Adélaïde’s household. What better cover could there be? Thanks to that he has had access to the Dauphin who, going on appearances, has taken him into his confidence and allowed him into his inner circle.’