The Man with the Lead Stomach

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  ‘This fills you up and anything salted is healthy,’ he said. ‘On board most of the time it was ship’s biscuit with weevils and meat with maggots. But here am I talking and you need to tell me what you’re after.’

  Nicolas put a gold coin on the table. The man trembled with emotion; his hand moved forward, then stopped.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll make good use of it for your tobacco or this excellent rum,’ said Nicolas.

  The coin disappeared without a word. A friendly grunt was the only thanks. Nicolas made do with that.

  ‘Here’s my problem,’ he went on. ‘A ticket for the Comédie-Italienne has come into my possession. Is there a way of finding out where it comes from? There’s no special mark: no date, just a number. Perhaps it refers to a box or a day. But I’m sure that nothing here escapes your eagle eye.’

  Nicolas bit his lip; he had let the words slip out by mistake. Not only was the old sailor one-armed but he was also one-eyed or rather he suffered from leucoma, a white film that covered his left eye entirely.

  ‘From the sail pit to the maintop – this is my domain.’

  ‘Here’s the piece of paper.’

  The man brought a smoking candle closer and raised the ticket to his good eye.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes, the little madam gets everywhere.’

  ‘The little madam?’

  ‘La Bichelière. Mademoiselle Bichelière. Well, that’s her stage name. She’s really lived and burnt the candle at both ends from a very young age. A tasty morsel, nice enough to get your teeth into, but a fortune-hunter too. And what an appetite for money – she’ll have whatever she can get. She’ll clean out anyone who’s flush – old fogeys and young dandies. She sets herself up, sponges out her gun, loads up, rams in the charge, gets into position and opens fire; she never gives up and if her target puts up any resistance she just keeps on firing time after time.’

  ‘You were a naval gunner, I assume.’

  ‘And proud of it, Monsieur. I lost an arm at the battle of Minorca in ’56 with Monsieur de la Galissonnière on a man-o’-war, a sixty-gun frigate.’

  ‘So this ticket …’

  ‘The custom is to give complimentary tickets to the actors, who hand them out to whoever they like. Well … in small quantities. Mustn’t chuck all the money away.’

  ‘But how do you know that this ticket was given by Mademoiselle Bichelière?’

  ‘You’re not easily blown off course, are you, my lad? This figure you can see here corresponds to one of the seats allocated to the young lady. When she doesn’t have a man on her mind, she’s quite a decent girl. Otherwise she’s got a real temper.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You’ve no idea! She wears round, comes upon her victim unawares and fires all her guns. In theatrical circles she’s known as “Bloody Mary”.’

  ‘As bad as that? Who’s she got it in for at the moment?’

  ‘Oh, it’s already over between them! The poor fellow got a real roasting. Just after last Thursday’s performance, in fact. That evening you would have thought part of the set had caught fire. With her there are no half-measures: either the timbers of the whole vessel are creaking with passion or the anchor’s being weighed out of sheer anger. As soon as some swell starts kissing her she can’t help herself. She’s like an alley cat when the moon’s full.’

  ‘Would you happen to know the name of this swell, as you call him?’

  ‘As sure as my name’s “the Clockmaker”.’

  ‘That’s an odd nickname.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got a clock inside my head. I always notice when someone’s late. It wouldn’t do for anyone to miss their watch.’

  ‘So you know who he is.’

  ‘A pale-looking young thing, all powdered. Only the epaulettes give him a bit of calibre.’

  ‘So he’s an officer, is he?’

  ‘I should say so! And not any old regiment but the French Guards. The ones who strut around Paris and are never in the front line. The only attack they ever launch is on the Opéra ball. I don’t know his name. And not for lack of asking every time he went past my cabin, but he just sailed straight on. He’s a vicomte, I think.’

  ‘Was he very attached to her?’

  ‘Like a limpet to a rock. The poor boy thought it was true love and then last Thursday she sent him packing.’

  ‘Did she have someone new lined up?’

  ‘That’s quite possible. I’ve seen a strapping lad come past several times since.’

  ‘Would you be able to recognise him?’

  ‘No, definitely not. He wasn’t looking to be noticed, a very dull fellow. I tried to stop him once; he told me he was taking her a letter.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  The man scratched his head.

  ‘I just noticed a yellowy strand of hair sticking out from under his wig.’

  Nicolas stood up.

  ‘Many thanks. What you’ve told me will be very useful.’

  ‘My pleasure, lad. Come whenever you like. I keep an open house. If you need me my name is Pelven, otherwise known as “the Clockmaker”.’

  ‘Just one more thing: at what time does Mademoiselle Bichelière usually arrive at the theatre?’

  Pelven thought for a moment.

  ‘It’s two o’clock in the afternoon. She’s still at home and won’t show her pretty little face until about four. But if you want to see her she has a cosy little place in a house on Rue de Richelieu, at the corner of Boulevard Montmartre.’

  Feeling somewhat dazed, Nicolas relished the fresh air that hit him full in the face. His inquiry had suddenly taken a new turn. The description of Mademoiselle Bichelière meant that he needed to proceed with caution. What would she have to say about her affair with Lionel de Ruissec? Why had she left him? Were these events in any way linked to the murders of the young officer and his mother? There were many unknown factors in this plot that brought together the worlds of the theatre and the Court.

  Nicolas was lost in thought for a time, and then suddenly found himself back in the bustle of the boulevards. The trees, three or four rows deep, were shedding their last leaves, their fall hastened by the night frosts. In the middle of the thoroughfare a procession of carriages and horsemen trotted past. In many places con artists and quacks had set up stage and were holding forth at crowds of spectators. He noticed the gaudily dressed women with outrageously made-up faces who walked at a slow pace and stared at him. He was always struck by the mixture of town and countryside that still endured. Here there was the odd contrast of popular entertainment alongside mansions inhabited by bourgeois or noble families.

  He had no difficulty spotting the actress’s house. At the entrance he was stopped by an old hag wrapped in an enormous rabbit-skin jacket. Perched on a stool with a straw seat, she was selling jumping jacks and a whole array of combs, needles, pins and playing cards. She stuck out a fat leg swathed in bandages to block his way. Nicolas was used to women of this type. He did not want to arouse any suspicions by revealing his status. He knew that a show of humility and politeness, a discreet smile and above all a few coins would win her over and allay her suspicions. These were the necessary rules of Paris etiquette. Ogling him in a way that made him blush, she smiled lewdly, showing her rotten teeth and greyish tongue. He learnt that La Bichelière was at home.

  On the mezzanine floor, he raised the knocker of a recently revarnished door. It opened and out shot the head of a sharp-featured maid clearly used to receiving visitors without asking any questions. None the less, she gave him an inquisitive glance, which seemed to satisfy her. After taking his tricorn and cloak she showed him into a small drawing room where the strong smell of fresh paint lingered. The accommodation seemed only recently to have been occupied and redecorated. Nicolas recalled the rumours concerning the vicomte’s financial problems, his reputation for spending money and losing a fortune at cards. So it was not only faro and biribi that had affected the young man financially. That grasping Bichelière had also played a pa
rt in squandering a significant part of his wealth. And all the showy luxury of the décor had not been chosen to be tasteful: it reminded Nicolas of places that made no secret of their amorous function. A servant arrived to take him to the actress’s bedroom.

  The windows were still closed and only the dying embers of the fire lit the room, which he immediately found to be oppressive. Nicolas only liked airy places; enclosed and confined spaces always caused him anxiety.

  On the right he could make out an alcove with a canopy. The crown of the structure was decorated with white feathers. Had it not been for the pastel shades of the material, this monstrous piece of furniture would have been reminiscent of some fantastical catafalque. On the left side of the bedroom a floral-patterned screen hid part of the room. He noticed the top of a cheval mirror. At the far end of the room, to the right of the window, was an ottoman covered with heaped-up cushions and loose fabrics, and opposite it a pouf where a grey cat sat and stared at Nicolas with its green eyes. Thick carpets muffled every sound. A few engravings hung on the walls, which were papered with a pattern of vases and talapoin monkeys in staggered rows. All this intensified the stifling effect. The maid had withdrawn, with a wince on her mouse-like face, which was presumably meant to be a smile. At last a voice spoke from behind the screen.

  ‘To what, Monsieur, do I owe the pleasure of your visit? If it’s about paying a bill to a supplier, please make an appointment for five o’clock.’

  And she’s chosen that hour for a very good reason, thought Nicolas. Because that’s when she’s at the theatre.

  ‘That’s not why I’m here at all, Mademoiselle. I would simply like the benefit of your knowledge. Just a little information. I am Nicolas Le Floch, commissioner of police at the Châtelet.’

  There followed a silence during which he had the impression of being examined from head to foot.

  ‘You are rather young for a commissioner.’

  The screen must have had a hole in it for peering through without being seen.

  ‘You yourself, Mademoiselle, are proof that age—’

  ‘Yes, yes. I didn’t intend to offend you. But I know one of your colleagues intimately. His office is opposite the Comédie. He loves vaudeville and occasionally sends me bottles of wine.’

  The words were spoken in a matter-of-fact way but he sensed the underlying warning: ‘I have my protectors, including within the police force, and they are ready to risk their reputations for me. I don’t know what brings you here but remember that if need be I know how to defend myself …’

  ‘Mademoiselle, would you be so good as to examine a piece of paper in my possession and let me have your thoughts on it?’

  A hand with pink fingernails pushed back one of the screen’s panels. It revealed a charming sight. Mademoiselle Bichelière was at her toilet. Her hair was arranged like a child’s, her flowing light auburn locks pulled back by a ribbon. A loosened linen shirt was arranged so as to reveal her delicate bosom, despite the white muslin dressing-gown thrown over her shoulders. She looked at Nicolas, one foot dipped into a porcelain bowl, the other, hidden by a towel, resting on a small stool. Her small eyes were deep blue. Her pencil-thin eyebrows emphasised her regular features and the perfect shape of her face. The dimples on her cheeks added to the expressiveness of the whole. Her mouth was rather large but mischievous-looking, and allowed a glimpse of small, perfect teeth. She had a slightly snub, upturned nose and without this minor flaw she would have been an example of ideal beauty. But Nicolas was one of those men who thought that a small imperfection added to a woman’s attractiveness rather than detracting from it. The dressing table was cluttered with perfume bottles, brushes, combs, ribbons, jars of make-up and powder puffs. By her armchair was a drinks cabinet made from exotic wood and containing a dozen or so small bottles of different colours. The actress’s face took on an embarrassed expression.

  ‘Monsieur, you will, I trust, forgive my rather shocking forwardness, but would you be so kind as to help me wipe my foot?’

  Nicolas bravely entered the fray, his heart beating a little faster. He picked up a towel from the floor and, kneeling down, held it out to the woman, thinking all the time how strange he must look. She straightened her leg and lifted her foot out of the bowl: as she did so the folds of her shift parted gently. Nicolas, now pink with embarrassment, was squeezing her tiny foot and found it to be very heavy. He indulged her as far as putting her foot in a pink mule. She presented her other foot for him to do the same. He stood up and moved back a step. The young woman put on her dressing-gown and went to recline on the ottoman, inviting Nicolas to sit on the pouf. The cat moved away, growled quietly and in the end jumped on to the bed. Nicolas felt uncomfortable on this low piece of furniture, his stomach cramped and knees raised, all too aware of the beans he had eaten and the rum he had drunk. He was too close to the fire and his back was roasting.

  ‘This piece of paper, Mademoiselle …’

  She looked up as if in annoyance and began to twist a wisp of hair around her finger. He proffered the ticket; she looked at it without taking it from him.

  ‘I distribute them amongst my friends. I’m entitled to a certain number of seats.’

  He was desperately thinking of a way to slip the vicomte’s name into the conversation. She was almost certainly unaware of his death. He could risk …

  ‘To my great regret, I’m afraid this may well displease you, Mademoiselle, but I must confess everything …’

  Now it was her turn to look intrigued.

  ‘Confess everything? So what do you have to confess?’

  ‘A friend of mine, the Vicomte de Ruissec, gave me this ticket and he’d told me so much about how beautiful and lovely you were that I used it as a pretext to …’

  None of this made sense. If she asked him what the ticket was a pretext for he would been unable to give an answer. But he had not for a moment imagined the reaction his words would provoke. She rose up as if in the throes of an epileptic fit and tore off the top of her dressing-gown as if she were suffocating. Hair undone, bare-breasted like a Bacchante, the little china doll was transformed into a fury. She jumped up, hands on hips and like a marketplace fishwife began to pour out a stream of insults and abuse.

  ‘Why are you talking to me about that pimp, that piece of filth? A pig: I sacrificed my virtue to him, he fucked me to his heart’s content and then dumped me. If I’d known, I’d have let myself catch the pox just to pass it on. Yes, I’d have peppered him. I’ll stuff his words back down his throat. Won’t I just. He puts on airs and graces, plays the faithful, devoted sweetheart and then runs off with someone else.’

  She stopped for a moment to bite her fist. The tomcat had taken refuge under the bed and was mewling desperately. The maid poked her nose in, then scuttled off, accustomed no doubt to hermistress’s histrionics. Nicolas was taken aback, but at the same time was closely examining a dirty coffee cup on a pedestal table. He could see a mark made by lips to the right of the fine china handle.

  The truce was short-lived. ‘And with a rancid Court whore! That Mademoiselle de Sauveté! Oh! I found out all about her. No one’s exactly sure where she comes from. I hear that she paints, which says it all. That means she must be frightfully ugly. But she’s rich and I predict she’ll be even uglier after she’s married. As for him, he’s broke, he can’t pay my debts any more. Does he want me in the poorhouse dressed in rags? I hate him! I hate him!’

  She let out a scream and fell on to the ottoman in tears. Nicolas was both pleased with what he’d discovered during this outburst and sorry to see Mademoiselle Bichelière in this state.

  Having vented her anger she became more human. Out of sheer kind-heartedness he drew closer to her and stroked her hair, talking to her gently. She was sobbing and clung to him. He clasped her half-naked body, intoxicated by its fragrance. She lifted her face, offered him her lips and pulled him towards her. Nicolas surrendered to his instincts. The ottoman almost collapsed beneath the ardour of their embrace.
The cat, terrified by the din, was hissing furiously. Nicolas could not help hearing a first name that his companion screamed out twice as she sank her fingernails into his back …

  The maid returned very quickly, with a bottle of wine and two glasses. Her arrival prevented any embarrassment between the two of them that might otherwise have arisen. For him this was a tricky moment, when he had to resume his official role in unusual circumstances, even though, like a true gentleman, he had performed to the apparent satisfaction of La Bichelière. But he did wonder whether, with women, appearances were always what they seemed.

  ‘Mademoiselle, at the risk of displeasing you, I must ask when you last saw the vicomte.’

  She looked at him in exasperation as if what had just happened should excuse her from all further questioning.

  ‘So you’re back to being a police officer again. You weren’t quite so curious just a moment ago. You’ve had what you wanted. What is the meaning of this inquisition?’

  ‘You have given me everything I could wish for, Mademoiselle. I have just a few questions. I admit that my visit here is a result of an … The Vicomte de Ruissec has disappeared.’

  He would soon see what results a half-truth would bring. Either she had rare strength of character or she had nothing to do with the death of her lover: she made no attempt to show any concern.

  ‘He can go hang. That’s the least of my worries. I saw him last Thursday and I told him that I knew he was betrothed and that he’d pulled the wool over my eyes. He wanted to sort things out, he said, so that he could keep me. I would have liked to have seen that! Oh, I know his little game; he would have played the knave at Court with his strumpet and then in his spare time would have slid under my sheets. For free, of course.’

  She had resumed her toilet and had drawn the screen again. He could no longer see her. He could hear water being poured.

  ‘What about Tuesday evening?’

  ‘What about it? Are you going to name every day of the week?’