The Man with the Lead Stomach (6 page)

‘And yet it is what decorates the drawing room of your mansion, Monsieur.’

‘I acquired this house from a ruined farmer of taxes, who took great delight in such illusions. For my part I have little liking for them and will have them covered up with paintings or tapestries. But we have not a moment to lose. For the last time, Monsieur, I command you to let me see my son.’

He stood with his hands on the back of an armchair, gripping it so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.

‘Monsieur, it is my duty to inform you that the Vicomte de Ruissec’s body has been removed from this house and taken to a place of justice for a special inquiry.’

Nicolas was expecting an explosion of anger from the comte, but it did not come. The comte’s expression remained intense and full of hatred, his jaw twitching tensely. He sat down and, for a while, remained silent.

‘This is most cruel and quite incomprehensible.’

‘I should add that if such a decision has been taken it is in order both to spare yourself and Madame the comtesse an unbearable sight …’

‘Monsieur, I am used to the spectacle of war.’

‘… And also to consult physicians as to the nature of your son’s wounds.’

He did not wish to go into too much detail and feed the comte’s imagination; there was no point.

‘Are you telling me that they intend to open up my son’s body?’

‘Much to my regret, Monsieur. The procedure might be necessary in order to establish the truth.’

‘But what truth do you hope to establish, given that my son killed himself in a room that was double-locked? You opened it yourself. What purpose can it serve to inflict such treatment on a lifeless body?’

‘Remember, Monsieur,’ Nicolas replied, ‘that this examination may provide precious information and prove, for example, that your son may have injured himself while cleaning his weapon, thus removing the stain of his having killed himself deliberately.’

Nicolas thought that this effort to justify the examination would make no impression on the comte. Sometimes in extreme circumstances mental torment can lead people to cling
desperately
to the slightest hope. Yet Nicolas felt that the comte would not contemplate the idea of an accident, as if he was convinced that it was indeed suicide.

‘As soon as the examinations have been carried out,’ Nicolas continued, ‘with, I can assure you, the utmost discretion and in total secrecy, your son’s body will be properly prepared and returned to you. This is, I think, the best arrangement, one that does not prejudge future developments and leaves open every possibility of preserving your family honour.’

He thought that this comforting promise to make the corpse presentable was quite risky, given the state of the body.

Suddenly the comte stood up. The effect that the
announcement
of the removal of the body had not produced was suddenly triggered by the word ‘honour’.

‘Who are you, Monsieur, to speak of honour? What do you claim to know about it? Honour is something, Monsieur, that one
needs to have been born with to be able to speak of it. Honour comes from the purity of the blood line, uncontaminated by commoners. It goes back to the dawn of time, nourishes generation after generation, and is earned by the sword in the service of the King and of God. How dare you allow this word to cross your lips, Monsieur Police Officer?’

Nicolas held back a childish and conceited desire to remind him of his precise official title, momentarily raising his left hand slightly, then lowering it. It was at this point that the comte laid his eyes on the emblazoned signet ring that the young man was wearing.

It had been sent to him by his half-sister, Isabelle, after the King himself had explained the mystery of his birth, and it bore the coat of arms of the Ranreuils. He had not wished to take up a title that was his by right but he kept this ring in memory of his godfather, whom he only dared to call his father in the secret recesses of his heart. This signet ring was like a bond with what lay beyond the grave. As a child he had admired this time-worn blazon a hundred times or more and now it was his.

Eyes flashing with fury and his mouth twisted in anger, the elderly comte continued, pointing to the ring: ‘How dare you speak of honour and presume to display the arms of a Ranreuil? Yes, my sight is good enough to recognise the blazon of a nobleman who served with me and I still have enough energy to express my outrage at the sight of a hireling forgetting his place in this fashion.’

‘Monsieur, I am of the Marquis de Ranreuil’s blood and lineage, and I would advise you to moderate your language.’

Nicolas had been unable to restrain himself. It was the first
time he had proclaimed his birth after declining to take up its privileges.

‘And so the fruit of sin finds pleasure in contemptible occupations. What, though, does it matter? Such are the times we live in. A century when sons rise up against their fathers, when aspiring to good leads to sinking into the mire of evil, an evil that is everywhere in the highest and the lowest ranks of society.’

The Comte de Ruissec’s white face was a picture of hatred. As he put his hand to his forehead, Nicolas noticed his curved and scored fingernails. The elderly man pointed towards the door.

‘Enough, Monsieur. I note that as a true and worthy servant of Sartine’s you neither comply with the wishes of a father nor show the respect that my position should inspire in you. Get out. I know what there remains for me to do.’

He turned round to face the
trompe-l’oeil
, and for a moment Nicolas thought that he was going to fade into it and disappear into the grounds it depicted. This impression was enhanced by the comte leaning against the wall and placing his hands flat against one of the marble banisters.

There was nothing to keep Nicolas any longer in the house, which was now just a place of mourning. His footsteps echoed along the stone floor of the entrance hall, then he felt the cool air of the courtyard, with its smell of dust and decaying plants. A light wind was blowing, sending the leaves swirling across the cobbles. He went over to the cab, which had presumably been sent by Monsieur de Sartine. Bourdeau’s horse was tied to the back of the vehicle by its halter. In the lantern light he could see the outline of Inspector Bourdeau, lying back with his mouth open, fast asleep. As he went to take his seat, Nicolas turned, as if
something were holding him back, and looked up. On the first floor of the mansion the silhouette of a woman holding a candlestick appeared at one of the windows. He sensed that she was staring at him. At the very same moment a discreet cough called his attention. Without a word, Picard slipped a small square envelope into his hand. When Nicolas looked back up at the window he thought he must have been dreaming: the figure had disappeared. Unsettled by this, he climbed into the cab, which creaked under his weight. The coachman cracked his whip and the horse and carriage clattered out of the courtyard of the Hôtel de Ruissec.

Nicolas held the envelope in his hand, resisting the temptation to open it immediately. Beside him the sleeping figure of Bourdeau was jolted around with every bump of the cab. The road, which had only recently been marked out and laid, went through a
half-wrecked
countryside of waste ground, building sites and gardens. Nicolas wondered what could have persuaded the Comte de Ruissec to acquire this new mansion in such an isolated spot. Had it been a cheap purchase, a compulsory sale to pay off the debts of a bankrupt farmer of taxes, or was there some other reason? Perhaps the simplest explanation was its closeness to the Versailles road. It suited a courtier whose functions were divided between the town and the Court, requiring him to be not too far away from either place. And, as Picard had suggested, it also enabled the elderly nobleman to enjoy the comfort of a home after the rigours of life in military camps. We need to look into this whole family, he thought to himself.

His conversation with the Comte de Ruissec had given him a glimpse of the comte’s bitterness, a strange reaction that did not seem appropriate for someone grieving over a dead child. He needed to take the Comte de Ruissec’s interrogation a stage further, but this would have to be done skilfully if he were to get round the wily old creature’s defences. His forthright character seemed resistant to charm of any kind. Nicolas had not been convinced by his ostentatious show of almost Puritan piety or his outburst about honour. The conversation had left the
commissioner
with an almost tangible impression of a cruel and dissembling character.

He was holding the small square of paper so tightly that it hurt his hand like burning coals: the sensation roused him from his thoughts. He lowered the carriage window and the chilly, damp air hit him straight in the face. He leant out to make use of the lantern light and broke the wax seal. The light revealed a few lines of large, shaky handwriting – probably a woman’s – with curved, overlapping letters. The text was short and to the point:

Instinctively, he put the message to his nose and breathed in the scent. He had already smelt this perfume on elderly ladies, the dowagers of the upper echelons of Guérande society who
frequented
his guardian, the canon, or whom he met in the Marquis de Ranreuil’s chateau. He recognised the lingering scent of face powder and
eau de la Reine de Hongrie
. He examined the paper: it was an almond-green colour, laid paper with no engraved monogram or watermark, which observations led him to make a connection between the writer of these lines and the face at the window of the Hôtel de Ruissec. The message, handed on by the faithful family major-domo, came most probably from the Comtesse de Ruissec and was clear evidence of her wish to tell him some secret in confidence. One detail, however, intrigued him: the purpose of the meeting was less a desire to enlighten him concerning the vicomte’s death than a supposed request for advice. He reassured himself with the thought that these two things were perhaps not totally unconnected.

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.