The Saint-Florentin Murders: Nicolas Le Floch Investigation #5. Jean-Francois Parot

want me. And they all warmed his bed, her like all the rest. I could weep, I’m that besotted, but she doesn’t want to know anything about me.’

      ‘Who are you talking about?’

      ‘I’m talking about Eugénie burning the midnight oil with Missery, but now that he’s abandoned her, she still won’t look at me.’

      Good Lord! thought Nicolas. But he asked only, ‘And where were you last night?’

      ‘In my room.’

      Nicolas went back to his study on the mezzanine. He wondered if he should respond immediately to the minister’s wish to be informed of the initial results of the investigation. Nothing that he could tell him seemed likely to arouse his interest. Should he bother him with a host of bizarre details and vague, contradictory testimonies? Unlike Monsieur de Sartine, the Duc de La Vrillière had little taste for the nitty-gritty of police work: he needed something to get his teeth into. It would be better to hold off for the moment.

      Nicolas sat staring at the fire. His mind flew back to the limbo of his childhood, and he saw himself at Guérande, watching rapt as the logs collapsed in a cloud of sparks. Night was falling by the time he returned to reality. This mansion oozed dissimulation and hatred: it was an impression that gripped him like a feeling of suffocation. All the elements had been in place for a tragedy. All the witnesses might have had reasons to hate the victim, but all of them were equally falling over each other to disparage the major-domo. It still remained to be established that the solution did indeed lie within the walls of the Saint-Florentin mansion. What was the role of that mysterious stranger whose bloody footprints had guided him as far as the balcony? Of course, that could have been an attempt to divert suspicion from the inhabitants of the house and to lead the investigators along a false path. He reflected for a long time. When Bourdeau entered the room, now dimly lit by the last gleams of the dying fire, he found him with his chin in his hand and his eyes staring into space.

      ‘Good hunting, Pierre?’

      ‘The caretaker, Jacques Blain, twenty-eight years old, well built, a bit of a lady killer, was mad about the chambermaid,’ declared Bourdeau. ‘Didn’t see a thing. Just went to fetch the doctor from Rue Saint-Honoré. He hates Missery, in fact he hates the whole household. This mansion is a real cesspool of wickedness!’

      ‘What else?’

      ‘What else? A stew made with three rabbits, for one man. I saw the skins hanging in his window. He did me the honour of letting me try it.’

      ‘Did you like the seasoning?’

      ‘The sauce was a little thin. It didn’t even cover the meat.’

      ‘And what conclusion do you draw from that?’

      ‘Where I come from, we mix the blood with vinegar to thicken the stew at the last moment and give the sauce more taste. The fact remains, three rabbits are a lot for one man. He even wanted to give me a second helping.’

      ‘Does the mansion have a rabbit hutch?’

      ‘Yes, in the inner courtyard.’

      ‘We’ll have a look. Any other discoveries?’

      ‘You saw me taking some objects from the major-domo’s chest of drawers. Here they are.’

      The inspector had placed two boxes on a pedestal table. Nicolas leaned over them.

      ‘Well, well! Some Sultana’s Aphrodisiac and some pastilles of cantharides. Does Monsieur Missery have a few problems performing?’

      ‘And that’s not all,’ said Bourdeau. ‘In Marguerite’s room, I found, hidden at the back of a cupboard, whole sacks full of pieces of candle. There has indeed been trafficking, but she was the culprit!’

      ‘Three rabbits for a single man, a Don Juan who needs chemical help, and as much wax as you could wish! The plot thickens, and so does our investigation.’

       IV

       CONFUSION

       Ab hoc cadavere quidquam mihi opis expetebam?

      From this corpse left without burial, what resources could I draw?

      CICERO

      Sitting at a small pedestal table in Monsieur de Noblecourt’s bedroom, Nicolas was just making a start on his third slice of Mainz ham. He poured himself another glass of light red wine. On his return, late in the evening, Catherine had put together this robust midnight supper and brought everything up to the bedroom. The master of the house, who had been about to go to bed and was alerted by his dog, Cyrus, of Nicolas’s arrival, had rung down to make sure the commissioner was informed that he wished to speak to him. At his age you didn’t need much sleep, either because your aches and pains kept you awake or because your happy or bitter memories of a long life led you into a half-dozing state of reverie. He took particular pleasure in these evening meetings in the course of which Nicolas would confide in him, taking careful note of his ever-sensible remarks. The magistrate’s existence was now confined to his house, apart from a few ceremonial visits, his daily walk as prescribed by Tronchin, his doctor from Geneva, and the few special evenings when the splendours of his table were lavished on those close to him. Having devoured the ham, Nicolas next tackled a dish of orange and almond pastries all shiny with icing sugar. Two lustful pairs of eyes converged on this marvel: one belonged to the host, his mouth greedily half open, and the other to Mouchette, the cat sitting on his lap. From her difficult early days, the poor animal had retained an insatiable appetite which nothing could discourage and which extended to dishes not usually much appreciated by the feline species. Cyrus, ever the teacher, would watch over his young friend, always ready to instruct her, firmly but gently, in good manners. The old dog was indebted to her: his new responsibilities as the elder partner, wise in the ways of the house, had rejuvenated him. Monsieur de Noblecourt shook himself and adjusted his nightcap, as if wanting to break the spell the food and wine had cast on him. He delicately served himself a drop of amber-coloured herb tea from a small but thick Chinese porcelain teapot filled with hot water and maintained at the ideal temperature.

      ‘Alas,’ he sighed, tasting the beverage, ‘here I am, reduced to the great King’s diet! A compote of prunes and a sage tea. Fagon himself would not object.’1

      ‘I assume your lunch and dinner are more abundant,’ remarked Nicolas.

      ‘Of course, but farewell the wonderful excesses I once enjoyed! One day, you’ll see what it costs to restrain oneself.’

      ‘Go on, complain! The world passes over you, leaving few traces. If you don’t yield to temptations, you’ll remain a young man.’

      ‘That’s enough, you flatterer. You’d do better to tell me about your day. But before that, let me tell you the latest news. A friend of mine, who came to lunch …’