The Man with the Lead Stomach

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  The time seemed right to go off fishing for information about Mademoiselle de Sauveté, the Vicomte de Ruissec’s betrothed. According to Bourdeau’s sources, she lived on the Paris road, the wide avenue opposite the palace. This still predominantly wooded area offered a vista of grand mansions, more modest town houses, the barracks of the King’s regiments and inns, all neatly aligned and almost touching. He went there on foot, leaving his coachman free until four o’clock, when he was to drive him back to Paris.

  As he walked along, Nicolas sketched out a plan of action. It was clear that the young woman must have gone to Paris to attend her betrothed’s funeral at the church of the Theatines.

  She would not be back in Versailles until four or five in the afternoon. That would leave him enough time to question the servants or the neighbours. He was surprised by how modest Mademoiselle de Sauveté’s house looked, because she was said to be wealthy. What stood before him was no more than a modest country villa, a sort of hunting lodge or one of those gatehouses to be found on either side of the grandiose entrances to great estates. The one-storey building was surrounded by a large garden enclosed by a wall. The overall effect was one of neglect: dead leaves were strewn over the lawn and in the flowerbeds unpruned rosebushes still bore their last blooms, withered by the elements. He pushed open the gate and walked towards the house. A large French window was open; he went closer. It opened on to an old-fashioned drawing room with heavy, elaborately turned furniture. The walls were hung with red damask that had faded and was torn in places. The colours of the threadbare carpets had also faded. Like the outside, the room had a sad, neglected look.

  He was about to go inside when he sensed a presence behind him and at the same time he heard a shrill, grating voice.

  ‘What’s this? Where do you think you are and what are your intentions, Monsieur?’

  He turned. A woman stood before him, her right hand resting on a long stick. A full-length dark cloak, in an indefinable colour, almost entirely covered a shapeless purple dress. Her face was hidden by a large muslin veil, which hung over a straw hat; beneath this screen she wore dark glasses, of the sort used by people with failing eyesight. What ghostly creature is this? wondered Nicolas before this shapeless apparition of indeterminate age.

  She must surely be Mademoiselle de Sauveté’s housekeeper or a relative. He introduced himself.

  ‘Nicolas Le Floch, police commissioner at the Châtelet. I beg you to forgive me but I was looking for Mademoiselle de Sauveté to discuss some matters concerning her.’

  ‘I am Mademoiselle de Sauveté,’ said the grating voice.

  Nicolas was unable to conceal his surprise. ‘I thought you were in Paris, Mademoiselle. Your betrothed … Please accept my condolences.’

  She struck the ground with her stick. ‘That will do, Monsieur. You have the temerity not only to enter my house but to presume to mention my private affairs.’

  Nicolas felt a growing sense of annoyance. ‘Where can we talk, Mademoiselle? It so happens that I am empowered to question you and I warn you that—’

  ‘Question me, Monsieur? Question me? And for what reason, I pray?’

  ‘The death of the Vicomte de Ruissec.’

  ‘He killed himself while cleaning a weapon, Monsieur. That does not justify your request.’

  He noted that she seemed well informed of the official version.

  ‘The circumstances of his death have attracted the attention of the police. I must hear your evidence. May we go inside?’

  She barged past him. He caught a whiff of her perfume and followed her. She sought refuge behind a large Spanish leather armchair. He observed her two gloved hands, tensely gripping its back.

  ‘Come, Monsieur. Let us conclude this quickly. I am listening.’

  He decided to precipitate matters. ‘Why is it that you are not at the church of the Theatines?’

  ‘Monsieur, I have a migraine, I have failing eyesight. I have little taste for society and besides, I did not know Monsieur de Ruissec, having only met him once.’

  How absurd! thought Nicolas. Was this a joke at his expense?

  ‘Are you trying to tell me that you saw your betrothed only once?’ he asked. ‘You will understand that I find that strange and hard to believe …’

  ‘Monsieur, you are interfering in family matters. The intended union between us related to private agreements in which personal acquaintance had little place. I should add that such arrangements are not your concern.’

  ‘Very well, Mademoiselle. So I will remain within the boundaries of my function. Where were you on the evening of … your betrothed’s accident?’

  ‘Here.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Yes. I live alone.’

  ‘What about servants?’

  ‘I have a gardener a few days a month, a housemaid twice a week.’

  ‘Why do you live in such isolation?’

  ‘I like solitude. Am I not free to live my life as I wish without someone constantly asking me to give explanations?’

  ‘Did you know the Comte de Ruissec?’

  ‘I was no better acquainted with him than with his son. Our affairs were decided between lawyers.’

  ‘What are their names?’

  ‘That is no business of yours.’

  ‘As you wish. Do you have any family?’

  ‘I am on my own.’

  ‘But you have not lived in Versailles all your life, I assume.’

  ‘I come from Auch originally, and two years ago I settled here to take up an inheritance.’

  ‘And where did that come from?’

  ‘From my family. Monsieur, that is enough. Please withdraw. My poor head can take no more.’

  She made a strange gesture as if she had wanted to offer him her hand to kiss only to restrain herself at the last moment, after realising the incongruousness of the idea. He bowed and left. He could tell that she was watching him until he pushed open the gate. Only then did she slam the French window shut.

  The vision of this strange creature stayed with him. Nicolas could not stop thinking about this being with her ill-defined outline and unbearable voice. The face was indistinguishable, with the gauze veil and thick ceruse. The dark glasses added to the disturbing overall effect. The angel of death with her sunken eyes … It beggared belief that the Vicomte de Ruissec, the noble scion of an illustrious family, should have linked his destiny to a scarecrow who was as ugly as a witch. Nicolas could now really understand why the vicomte sought amorous adventures in the boudoir of a sultry actress, who at least, as he knew only too well himself, could provide grace and laughter as well as a dash of vindictiveness in her love-making. None of this made any sense. What miracle or what mad compulsion had led the Ruissec family to seek a union between its elder son and this screeching harpy? Could it be that money alone was the reason for this absurd mismatch? Nothing seemed to indicate the lady’s vaunted wealth, or else she was plumbing new depths in dissembling and miserliness. Around Guérande Nicolas had met rich country gentry who liked to disguise the extent of their wealth, earning the contempt of other wealthy landowners for whom ostentation was the rule. Perhaps this explained Mademoiselle de Sauveté’s behaviour.

  In any case it was clear that she was completely indifferent to the vicomte’s death. This unclassifiable being had made such an impression on him that he could not take his mind off her, especially her voice with its shrill, false-sounding notes. He must find an explanation for her union with the Ruissec family. Monsieur de Noblecourt’s advice was certainly right: Nicolas would write to the intendant of the generality of Auch to find out more about the lady’s past.

  He was walking away deep in thought when a sweet little voice attracted his attention.

  ‘I say! Have you found what you were looking for? May I offer you my help?’

  A prettily dressed little old lady, with porcelain-blue eyes beneath a goffered lace cap was standing on the doorstep of the house immediately next to Mademoiselle de Sauvet�
�’s.

  ‘In what way, Madame?’

  ‘I saw you talking to our neighbour. Are you one of her friends or someone who …’ She hesitated. ‘Well … is connected with the police?’

  Nicolas was always surprised by the perceptiveness of ordinary people. He was evasive.

  ‘No, I don’t know her. I just needed a piece of information.’

  She blushed and hid her hands beneath a starched pinafore.

  ‘Oh, good! That’s much better. She’s not liked, you know. She doesn’t speak to anyone. And she always dresses the same way. It’s frightening!’

  ‘Does she have servants?’

  ‘None, Monsieur. We find it disturbing. Never a visitor. Whole days go by without her appearing. Sometimes she comes home in a carriage when we haven’t seen her go out.’

  Nicolas smiled. ‘Perhaps you just missed her.’

  ‘Oh, come now! I’m sure you’re from the police but you’re right to be discreet. And I understand why you don’t want to tell me. If I’m so definite about her it’s because my husband and I take it in turns to watch because we’re so intrigued. What did she tell you?’

  She put her wizened little face closer to him, at once apprehensive and inquisitive.

  ‘Nothing that could interest or worry you.’

  The old woman huffed. She had been hoping for more than this but Nicolas had already bid her farewell and hurried away. By sheer good fortune he had learnt something without having to ask. Everything he had just found out fired up his desire to learn more. So Mademoiselle de Sauveté had no servants, whereas she had claimed the opposite. Had she thought it would be that easy to get rid of him? She would soon discover the price of trying to fool the police. The Vicomte de Ruissec’s betrothed was added to the long and growing list of mysteries that had been building up since the beginning of this investigation.

  *

  Nicolas was once again on the vast Place d’Armes. He returned to his carriage, unsure what to do next. He did not know how to find Truche de La Chaux. He was giving this some thought when his coachman handed him a small note. It was a brief message from his friend La Borde. Sartine must have informed him of Nicolas’s arrival and La Borde had then sought out his carriage to leave him this note. In it he asked Nicolas to go and see him as a matter of urgency. A royal page would be waiting for him at about five o’clock at the entrance to the apartments to act as his guide. The prospect of this unexpected meeting calmed Nicolas somewhat. It would soon be time. He went through the palace’s second set of gates and entered ‘the Louvre’, the innermost precinct of the chateau.

  VIII

  MADAME ADÉLAÏDE’S HUNT

  I roam the forest night and day,

  Where king and nobles come to play

  But then I hear the hunter’s cry,

  The fateful sign that I must die.

  JACQUES DU FOUILLOUX

  In the guardroom Nicolas noticed a royal page with fair hair, whose sharp eyes were examining every new arrival from head to foot. He realised this was his guide. He was immediately taken in hand and whisked off through the usual maze of rooms, corridors and staircases. Would he ever manage to find his own way around this palace?! The expedition took them to the very top of the building. He knew that Monsieur de La Borde had been given a small suite of rooms under the eaves, a special favour granted by the King. The royal page opened a door without knocking, as he was a member of the Household; he stepped aside to let Nicolas enter. He was immediately taken by the peacefulness of the drawing room, with its roaring fire in a garnet-red marble fireplace. On the pale oak panelling were small depictions of hunting scenes and above the hearth a magnificent framed map of France. A library set into the wall but also extending either side of a door contained row after row of pocket-books that further contributed to the overall effect of pleasant intimacy. Wearing a chintz dressing-gown but no cravat or wig, Monsieur de La Borde was lounging on a sofa upholstered in a large red floral design on a cream background, and was engrossed in reading a document. He looked up.

  ‘Ah, my dear Nicolas, here you are at last! Thank you, Gaspard,’ he said to the royal page, ‘you may leave but do not go too far away. We might need you.’

  The young man turned on his heels and, after a cheeky little bow, disappeared.

  ‘Make yourself at home, my friend. You will liven up my dreary afternoon. I was compiling the writs from my creditors.’

  He showed him the heap of papers beside him.

  ‘There’s no worse way to spend one’s time,’ said Nicolas.

  ‘No indeed. But enough of that. Nicolas, enlighten me. What stage have you reached? I found out you were at Versailles from Sartine. It seems that you won over the minister this morning. My compliments, he’s not an easy beast to tame! I hear you are now someone who can command respect.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Because you are armed with those ready-signed lettres de cachet, of course!’

  ‘You may rest assured, my friend, I shall not be using them against you.’

  ‘If the service of the King required it, you would not hesitate and you would be right.’

  Once again Nicolas was struck by Monsieur de La Borde’s ability to pick up news. By virtue of this mysterious gift he shared a liking for secrecy that was the outstanding characteristic of his royal master.

  ‘So you were looking for me, were you?’

  ‘Indeed I was. Monsieur de Sartine asked me to inform you that Madame Adélaïde has invited you to her hunt on Monday morning. I can shed no further light on this event, but you need to make arrangements immediately.’

  Nicolas showed his surprise. ‘To what do I owe this unexpected honour?’

  La Borde gave a wave of the arm as if he were brushing away a fly. ‘Don’t worry your head about it. Either it is a sheer whim of the princess’s after hearing mention of you …’ He paused and looked at the clock. ‘Or there is something in the air and the summons – I mean the invitation – has another meaning. You will find out on Monday.’

  ‘I am honoured,’ said Nicolas, ‘but I am not equipped to take part. What can I do?’

  ‘This is where I can help you, my friend. I am leaving Versailles for two days; I have business in Paris. Accept the modest hospitality I can offer you here. You will be doing me a favour. If anyone asks for me, be so kind as to let me know, at this address.’

  He handed him a sheet of paper. Nicolas noted that La Borde had been so sure of his response that everything had been prepared down to the smallest detail.

  ‘I don’t know whether I can accept such a generous offer …’

  ‘Not another word. For your equipment I have the answer also. You know that Madame, on her father’s orders, hunts neither the stag nor the boar. She restricts herself to deer, game that is considered harmless. No special uniform is required for this type of hunt; a jerkin is enough, together with a jacket and boots. We are more or less of the same size. My men will provide you with everything. So that should reassure you.’

  La Borde explained to Nicolas that the First Grooms of the King’s Bedchamber commanded authority over all domestic arrangements in the palace and had at their own disposal a large staff of servants: a cook, a major-domo, a footman and a coachman. They could also eat from the King’s table because there was always too much food and the leftovers were shared out.

  ‘I must quickly go and dress and leave for Paris immediately. Make yourself at home. Any questions?’

  ‘I’m looking for a Life Guard. In your opinion where might I find him?’

  ‘In his barracks or else tomorrow in the Hall of Mirrors while the King is hearing Mass. Gaspard will help you. He’s a cunning little rascal.’

  As he was about to open the door, he stopped and turned.

  ‘Oh! One more thing. The meeting place for the hunt is in front of the palace, facing the park. You are on the list. Make yourself known and get into the carriage. It will take you to the assembly point where you will be given a horse �
��’ he rushed over and took something from the mantelpiece, ‘– in exchange for this note. Be generous with the whippers-in, it will stand you in good stead this time and next: they are the ones who choose the horses! There is nothing for you to worry about – my men have been informed. Gaspard will not leave your side and will tell your coachman to come back on Monday. Lastly, my library is at your disposal.’

  He left the room. Shortly afterwards he reappeared dressed and bewigged, and, after a friendly wave to Nicolas, who was reading, he left.

  This was a special moment for Nicolas. He found it hard to believe that he was in the royal palace. He had never known such splendid surroundings, so far removed from the austerity of the garret in Guérande or even from the good taste of his room at Monsieur de Noblecourt’s house. Even the ancient splendours of the chateau at Ranreuil paled in comparison with what was around him. He had glanced at the titles of the books assembled here, delighting in the look and feel of the bindings. Their subjects included music, history, travels and libertine literature.

  Nicolas suddenly remembered the royal page. He opened the door on to the corridor and found him sitting on a bench. Knowing the sort of person he was dealing with, he gave him a few coins that were pocketed without thanks but with a satisfied grin. He told him he would not be needed for the whole evening, but that on Sunday morning he was relying on being taken by him to the Hall of Mirrors, when the King would be passing through and where he hoped to find Truche de La Chaux.