The Man with the Lead Stomach

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  He felt a dull throbbing in his head. He should not have dispatched his supper and wine so eagerly. And besides, the bed was very hard and the bedroom cold. He tried to pull up the sheet and felt the buttons of his jerkin. He gathered his wits and then recalled the attack. He really had been set upon by two strangers.

  Where was he? Apart from a sore head, he seemed to have no broken bones. As he tried to stretch he realised that he was bound, hand and foot. A familiar odour told him where he was being held prisoner. That musty smell and the reek of extinguished candles and incense could only belong to a consecrated place, a church or monastery. There was no light at all, just darkness. He shuddered. Was he locked away in a crypt or the dungeon of a monastery, where no one would ever find him? He had a growing feeling of suffocation and anxiety.

  One detail kept coming back to him, although it seemed trivial given the gravity of his situation: he had not thought of informing Monsieur de Noblecourt that he would be spending several days in Versailles. He could imagine how worried his friends would be. In the end this nagging thought helped him forget his predicament. Time passed.

  After several hours he heard a noise. A door opened and the light from a lantern dazzled his sore eyes. When he opened them again he could see nothing; someone had gone behind and blindfolded him. He was picked up, carried almost, and dragged outside. He could feel steps underfoot, and then fresh air on his cheeks. He heard the crunch of gravel. Another door opened and he had the impression that they were going back indoors, and was struck by the same church smell. He was made to sit on a straw-bottomed chair, which he could feel under his fingers. His blindfold was removed. His eyelids were swollen and there was a searing pain in the nape of his neck.

  The first thing he noticed was a large black wooden crucifix on a white wall. An old man in a cassock sat at a table, hands clasped, staring at him. His eyes gradually became accustomed to the light. A single candle was burning on an earthenware plate. He stared at the elderly priest. There was something familiar about him but the years had taken their toll on a face he had known in another life.

  ‘My God! Father Mouillard! Is it really you?’

  By what twist of fate did he find himself in the presence of his former master from the Jesuit college in Vannes? He was astonished at the transformation of that lovable man into this wild-eyed and lost-looking figure. And yet it was only a few years since they had last met.

  ‘Yes, it is I, my son. And I am sorry to meet you in these circumstances. You recognised me but I cannot recognise you. I have lost my sight and I thank God for granting me this grace, which spares me the pain of seeing these wicked times.’

  Nicolas understood why his master’s features had changed. In the dim candlelight his eyes appeared almost white and his lower jaw trembled constantly.

  ‘Father, what have you to do with my abduction?’

  ‘Nicolas, Nicolas, one must go through certain trials to reach the truth. It matters little to me how you come to be here; I have no part in that. Go down on your knees and pray to the Lord.’

  He knelt down himself by leaning on the table.

  ‘Even if I wanted to,’ said Nicolas, ‘I could not. I am bound, Father.’

  ‘Bound? Yes, by the error of your ways. You are determined to ignore the right path, the clear path, the one I taught you and from which you should never have strayed.’

  ‘Father, please explain to me why I am here and why you have come. Where are we?’

  The priest continued to pray and replied only after standing up again.

  ‘In the Lord’s house. In the house of those who are unjustly threatened and persecuted and to whose enemies you lend the support of your office, to your eternal shame.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The damned of the Court have charged you with the task of investigating so-called crimes. Your role is to level false accusations against our company, the Society of Jesus.’

  ‘I am merely doing my duty and searching for the truth.’

  ‘You have only one duty: you must obey that inner grace that in all things and all ways abides by God’s glory. You have no other rule of conduct than His divine commandments. You must reject all tyrannical power and repudiate the reign of the evil one, be he even crowned.’

  ‘Am I to conclude from your words that your society is involved in the appalling crimes I am investigating?’

  ‘What we want from you, what I, poor old man that I am, have been instructed to command you is to give up an investigation that may harm an institution from which you have received everything and to which you owe what is best in you.’

  ‘I am the King’s servant.’

  ‘The King is no longer lord of his domain if he abandons the holiest of his servants.’

  Nicolas realised that it was pointless to argue. The old man’s infirmities, and the orders he had received, had obviously so confused his mind that he had lost the even temper that had made him the most respected master at the college in Vannes when Nicolas was a student there. He knew that regretfully he must now lie to Father Mouillard.

  ‘Father, I have difficulty believing you. But I shall meditate upon your teaching and reflect on my actions.’

  ‘My son, that is good and I know you once more. “Whosoever will save his life shall lose it; and whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it.” Listen to the word of the Lord; you can never meditate upon it enough. In all things one must not show so much concern for what the world thinks. By seeking to save ourselves in the present we damn ourselves for eternity. I bless you.’

  Nicolas had never imagined he would have to dupe his old master, but he knew that beyond his venerable person there were other less saintly and more unscrupulous interests that had to be deceived. Father Mouillard fumbled for the candle, which he snuffed out, plunging the room into darkness. Nicolas heard a door open. Someone came up to him and blindfolded him again.

  An unknown voice spoke: ‘Has he agreed?’

  ‘He is going to reflect on it but I think he will do so.’

  Nicolas felt sick at heart at the old man’s confidence.

  The voice went on: ‘In any case, it’s just a first warning.’

  This sounded like a serious threat. Nicolas was again bundled off into a carriage, which immediately set off at full speed. He had now fully recovered consciousness and tried to calculate the distance travelled by counting the minutes. After an hour the carriage stopped and he was pushed out. They untied his hands and threw him unceremoniously into a ditch full of dead leaves and stagnant water. He heard the carriage drive off. He took off his blindfold. Night had fallen. He tried to free his legs. He managed to do so only after half an hour’s struggle, thanks to his penknife that miraculously was still in his jerkin pocket. It was eight o’clock in the evening by his watch, which had also survived unscathed.

  He had been well and truly knocked out, then abducted and must have remained unconscious for many hours before coming to. Where he had been held did not really matter. The important thing was that, without making any secret of the fact, the Jesuits or some Jesuits had had him abducted and had used a poor old man to try to influence him and blackmail him into abandoning his investigation into a case that seemed to threaten the King’s safety.

  What was more, they had not hesitated to use the opportunity of the King’s daughter’s hunt to carry out an outrageous assault on the person of a magistrate. There had to be serious and significant interests at stake for people to go to such lengths. One way or another, he thought as he followed the dark verge of the path, there was a connection between the Society of Jesus and this case. Whether directly involved in the murders or not, the Society feared the result of the investigation and seemed prepared to do anything to hamper its progress. Some seemed to be relying on his loyalty and gratitude. It was true that he had never added his voice to the almost unanimous chorus of critics of the Society. Because of his gratitude for the education he had received and because of the respect he stil
l felt towards his former masters, his feelings towards it had never changed.

  He knew perfectly well that the Society was under threat. On 2 August the King had made it publicly known that he would not pronounce on their fate for another year. However, there had been a series of damning judgements against the Jesuits in cases of bankruptcy. In the Paris Parlement, Abbé Chauvelin had painted a terrifying picture of the Society, depicting it as a hydra with the Old World and the New in its grip. He claimed that its existence in the kingdom was based only on the principle of tolerance and was not an absolute right. By the end of November the French bishops were due to submit their recommendation to the King. They were said to be divided on what position to assume. All this justified and explained why the Jesuits feared a scandal in which they might be implicated and which could have a decisive effect on both public opinion, already deeply hostile to the Society, and on the King’s final pronouncement.

  Nicolas eventually reached a small village. He knocked on the door of a cottage and asked an astonished-looking peasant where he was. In fact his wanderings had not taken him very far from Versailles: he was just between Satory and the royal town. He enquired whether it would be possible to find a carriage to take him back to the palace. After much discussion, dithering and confabulation, which strained his patience, it was arranged for him to be taken back to the palace by a fat farmer who owned a cart. One hour later he was on the Place d’Armes.

  Having followed his instructions to come and collect him on Monday evening, his coachman was there with Gaspard, who was asleep on the box of the carriage. Worried by the rumours of his disappearance, the royal page had come to wait for him to take him back to La Borde’s rooms, as it was difficult to gain access to the palace after the doors and ‘the Louvre’ had been closed. Nicolas simply said that he had fallen from his horse and had got lost in the forest.

  He went up to La Borde’s rooms to wash and to clean the ugly bump on the back of his head. He left a message of thanks for his friend, in which he gave a concise account of the day’s events and their consequences. Gaspard accompanied him back to his carriage. They were firm friends by the time they left each other, the young man offering to do him a thousand favours whenever he came back to Versailles.

  The return journey to Paris was a dreary one. Nicolas was in pain from his injury and very sad that Father Mouillard had been used so wickedly in his declining years to exert pressure on his former pupil. The lasting memory he would have of that day was not the conversation with the King’s daughter, nor his first hunt with the Court, but the distressing picture of the old man.

  When he arrived at Rue Montmartre very late that evening, the house was in turmoil. Marion, Catherine and Poitevin were in the pantry waiting for news. Monsieur de Noblecourt was pacing about in his rooms. When they saw Nicolas they all shouted out at once. The procurator, alerted by his dog, hurried downstairs as fast as his old legs would carry him. This welcome and the anxious questions with which they bombarded him soon restored Nicolas’s spirits, and he was immediately forgiven as soon as they learnt what he was prepared to tell them of his adventures at Court. He reserved for Monsieur de Noblecourt’s ears the one incredible detail.

  IX

  UNCERTAINTIES

  Omission to do what is necessary

  Seals a commission to a blank of danger.

  SHAKESPEARE

  Tuesday 30 October 1761

  Nicolas woke early. His stiff, aching body was painful proof of the treatment he had received the previous day. The throbbing pain from the bump on his neck was excruciating. He remembered similar mornings in his youth, the day after a game of soule. This violent sport in which players were constantly exchanging blows usually ended in an epic brawl and then a hearty feast, washed down with sharp cider and apple brandy, at which everyone became friends again.

  Washing and dressing was a long and painful process. He walked slowly down to the pantry where Catherine saw his sorry state. She assessed the damage and decided to take him in hand. For many years she had been a canteen-keeper and seen her fair share of battles, marches, brawls, soldiers on the spree, strained muscles, wounds and bumps. This experience had taught her a number of practical remedies and a knowledge of poultices, which added to what she had learnt from her peasant childhood in Alsace.

  She rummaged around in the depths of a cupboard and took out a carefully sealed earthenware jug. It was, she claimed, an all-powerful remedy that she kept in store for special occasions: a concoction of herbs in plum brandy. A ‘witch’ from the area of Turckheim, who happened to be her aunt, had bequeathed her a few jugs of it. She guaranteed its miraculous effect.

  Ignoring his protests, she made Nicolas undress, chiding him for being so shy in front of an old woman who’d seen all this before, and worse, when she was with the army. She then rubbed him down vigorously with her magic potion until his skin felt hot. The warming, stimulating effect of this rough and ready application seemed to relax his muscles. To complete her treatment she poured him a small glass of the liquid: initially it made his throat burn but as soon as this wore off he felt its benefits. A feeling of warmth welled up inside him, which extended and speeded up the lotion’s effect.

  Now, according to Catherine, he must get under the bedclothes and sleep until he was completely rested. Nicolas scolded her for not giving him the remedy on his return the previous evening. She replied that muscles need to stiffen before they can be loosened properly and that yesterday, so soon after his misadventure, he would not have been able to work off the pain as he had this morning. Catherine treated herself to a small glass in anticipation of ailments to come, then carefully put the jug back in its hiding place. The rest of the household was still asleep, exhausted from the waiting and dramatic events of the previous night.

  *

  Back on Rue Montmartre Nicolas sensed something unusual. He put it down to his physical state and to his nervousness following the assault and abduction of the previous day. He decided to keep to his usual precautions and discreetly went down Impasse Saint-Eustache.

  Once inside the church he hurried into a gloomy chapel and hid himself in the corner of an altar. He heard footsteps and saw a man in grey, who was obviously following him and who, having lost sight of him, was walking rapidly towards the main door. Nicolas was able to escape the same way he had come in and jumped into a sedan chair waiting for custom. So the hunt was continuing: he was now no longer the hunter but the game.

  When he reached the Châtelet, Bourdeau, who knew from the coachman some of what had happened at Versailles, informed him that Sartine had been detained by the King after his weekly audience and that he would not be returning to Paris until after High Mass on All Saints’ Day, the day after next.

  ‘That certainly does not help matters,’ said Nicolas. ‘Though I have to go back to Versailles in any case.’

  He gave an account of his audience with Monsieur de Saint-Florentin and how he had been given carte blanche to continue his investigation. He described the strange Mademoiselle de Sauveté and the violent end to his invitation from Madame Adélaïde, but he made no mention of the incident in Saint-Eustache, so as not to worry the inspector unduly.

  ‘I do respect your feelings as a former pupil of the good fathers,’ said Bourdeau, ‘but these people really are a menace. I agree with Abbé Chauvelin. These priests take orders only from their general. They are bound together by their vow of obedience. But I don’t think they have much of a future. What you describe sounds like the death throes of a wounded animal. Do you know what people are singing? Loyola was lame and Abbé Chauvelin is a hunchback. The whole of Paris is humming this song.’

  He began to sing it himself in a deep voice:

  Oh company of evil,

  A cripple was your founder,

  A hunchback’s now your curse.

  Nicolas gave a sad smile. ‘I’m not following you down that path, Bourdeau. You know my sense of loyalty towards my teachers. But I think there are bad sheph
erds and I bear a particular grudge against those who dragged Father Mouillard into this reckless adventure.’

  ‘In any case it proves how well organised they are. Did they bring him from Vannes at the drop of a hat, just to debate with you?’

  ‘He’s not from Brittany. He must be living out his last years in one of the Society’s houses.’

  ‘But notice how well informed they were. I can’t imagine Sartine, La Borde or Madame had a hand in this ambush.’

  ‘Of course not. But, Bourdeau, tell me what you found out at the service in the church of the Theatines.’

  ‘It was a fine ceremony, all very dignified. There were not many family members present and even fewer friends. The Comte de Ruissec was prostrate with grief. Apart from how distressed he looked, three other things struck me. First, as you know, the vicomte’s betrothed, Mademoiselle de Sauveté, was absent. As I don’t know her, I made sure I found out about her. Secondly, the vidame was there, a very charming young man and very definitely left-handed! We knew that but I was able to check it when he sprinkled holy water on the coffins. But that’s not all: Lambert, the manservant, is also left-handed … The aspergillum again. Thirdly and lastly, the family kept the vidame out of things. He did not go with the Comte de Ruissec to his mother and his brother’s final resting-place. Isn’t that surprising for a young cleric, albeit a libertine?’