The Man with the Lead Stomach

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  Nicolas had a sudden inspiration. As they needed to delve into the suspects’ pasts he ordered his coachman to drive him to the Hôtel de Noailles, on Rue Saint-Honoré, opposite the monastery of the Jacobins, the home of Monsieur de Noailles, the most senior of the marshals of France. This was the location of the offices of the Court of Honour, which had been had set up by the marshals to judge contentious cases. Under the presidency of their most senior member, their jurisdiction applied to all noblemen, civilian or military, and dealt with insults, threats, assault and battery, gambling debts or challenges to duels. Their knowledge of military staff was extensive. The secretary of this institution, Monsieur de La Vergne, liked Nicolas. When the young man had still been working for Commissioner Lardin, by making full use of his spies and network of informers in the world of receivers of stolen property, he had managed to recover a snuffbox stolen from the Maréchal de Belle-Isle, the Secretary of State for War, who had died in January of that year. Monsieur de La Vergne had put his services at Nicolas’s disposal and had promised to reciprocate if the opportunity arose.

  The man had a vast knowledge of senior officers’ careers; there was no one better placed to give Nicolas information about the Comte de Ruissec. He found his office without difficulty. Luckily Monsieur de La Vergne was there and received him straight away. He was a small, slim man with a smooth, pale face and smiling eyes, but his blond wig failed to make him look any younger. He welcomed Nicolas warmly.

  ‘Monsieur Le Floch. What a surprise! Or rather congratulations, Commissioner Le Floch. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?’

  ‘Monsieur, I need the benefit of your knowledge with reference to a most awkward matter.’

  ‘Nothing is awkward between us, and as a friend of mine and as a protégé of Monsieur de Sartine you may count on my help.’

  Nicolas sometimes wondered if the day would ever come when his own qualities would suffice to warrant the help he was offered. When would he stop being the prisoner of his relationship to Sartine? He was annoyed with himself for this puerile reaction. Monsieur de La Vergne meant no harm; it was a compliment of sorts. Everyone asserted their status in this society by their birth and by their talents but also by their connections and their protectors. Monsieur de La Vergne belonged to this society in which it was impossible to disregard such considerations. Well then, he would give proof of his own impressive contacts.

  ‘The minister, Monsieur de Saint-Florentin …’

  The secretary of the marshals bowed.

  ‘… has given me the task of resolving a most confidential matter concerning a former senior officer, the Comte de Ruissec, who has just …’

  ‘Lost his son and wife. Rumour spreads quickly, my dear fellow. It has to be said, the man was not well liked.’

  ‘Precisely. Would you be kind enough to enlighten me on his career? I have been given to believe that he left the army in somewhat unusual circumstances.’

  Monsieur de La Vergne waved towards the boxes lining the walls of his office. ‘There’s no need for me to consult my archives. I’ve heard this story. As you know we receive a large amount of information. It sometimes helps us in the matters we deal with. This Ruissec of yours was a brigadier general and a former colonel in the dragoons, was he not?’

  ‘Exactly so.’

  ‘Well, my dear fellow, in 1757, a dreadful year, our troops invaded Hanover under the command of the Prince de Soubise. There were an ever-increasing number of complaints about your man. He was said to be in league with commissaries and traffickers. That was nothing new and he was not the only one. They scrimped on food and meat, and added dirt to the flour to make up the weight. The result was that the hospitals were the worst affected and the soldiers left to rot there in inhuman conditions. Vile broth, rotten meat and vermin-infested carrion, and all for the sake of making savings if not profits. What was even more serious was that for months the paymaster made cash payments to Monsieur de Ruissec for both men and horses that existed only on paper. Unfortunately that also is common. He would in normal circumstance have survived this.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘I’m coming to that. A lieutenant complained about these breaches of the regulations and even attempted to expose them. Straight away Ruissec convened a court martial. We were up against it with the enemy at the time. The lieutenant was found guilty of cowardice and hanged immediately. But he had friends and this time the rumour spread. Further corroboration of these reports reached Versailles. His Majesty was informed but made no pronouncement. Everyone understood that other influences were at work and that the King would do nothing more. However, the comte left the army. I have always found it surprising that he should have insinuated his way into a position at Court with the Dauphin, who is such a virtuous prince, and with Madame, thanks to his wife!’

  ‘Do you remember the name of this lieutenant?’

  ‘No, but I shall look it up and let you know. But I have not yet finished. They say that damning evidence has been assembled against the Comte de Ruissec. From time to time new documents reach the Minister of War or are sent here to the Court of Marshals. But it’s all so disjointed and fragmentary that it would be impossible to use. It would appear that some unknown correspondent is trying to keep this business alive in people’s minds. But why? We do not know. It is said that the Comte de Ruissec has in his possession compromising evidence against the Prince de Soubise himself. What do you think of that? And when people say Soubise …’ he lowered his voice, ‘they mean Paris-Duverney, the financier. And when they say Paris-Duverney they mean Bertin, the Secretary of State for Finance, Choiseul’s rival and the friend of … of …’

  ‘Of a certain good lady.’

  ‘You said it, not me. The father of that same person, Monsieur Poisson, was a clerk to the Paris-Duverneys.’

  ‘That makes things both clearer and more obscure at the same time.’

  The little man waved his hands about. ‘It is a matter that must be handled with care, my dear fellow. With the greatest care. The Ruissec is a many-sided coin.’

  He looked pleased with himself and chuckled with satisfaction at his joke. Nicolas felt puzzled as he left the secretariat of the Court of Marshals. The conversation with Monsieur de La Vergne opened up many new lines of inquiry. All the signs were that the mystery was considerably deeper and more complicated than anything that Nicolas might have imagined. Nicolas took comfort from the fact that the secretary of the marshals of France had proved to be friendly and helpful, and he realised once more how important it was for his job to have acquaintances in different circles, a list of people he could call on to help him.

  He decided to call in at Rue Montmartre before going on to Vaugirard. He was eagerly looking forward to the supper, which had been arranged some time ago. At the Noblecourt mansion Catherine asked him to take a pear and marzipan tart that she had made for Awa, Semacgus’s cook. She inundated him with advice and made him promise to remind her counterpart to warm it up in the front part of the oven just before serving it but not to leave it in for too long or it would get dry, and lastly not to forget to serve a jug of whipped cream that should be liberally poured over the tart. She finally remembered that the master of the house wished to see Nicolas, if only very briefly. Cyrus was already showing him the way, going back and forth like a tireless dispatch rider between his master’s command post and the outbuildings of the mansion.

  When he entered the bedroom Monsieur de Noblecourt was playing chess, looking fresh-faced and ruddy-cheeked and sitting snugly in his large armchair, from where he could keep a watchful eye on the busy street. He was staring hard at one of the pieces.

  ‘Ah! Nicolas … I’m playing against myself, my left hand is playing my right hand. I won’t last out. I know myself only too well. There’s no surprise about the outcome, it’s skilfulness against laziness! What would you try with this knight here?’

  Nicolas was careful not to indulge in one of those swift moves that were more intuiti
ve than calculated, even if sometimes appropriate, because they annoyed the elderly magistrate, who favoured a more thoughtful and slower game.

  ‘I would attack. It’s threatening both a bishop and another knight. These two opposing pieces are caught in a pincer movement but the knight is protected on either side.’

  Monsieur de Noblecourt blinked and bit the side of his lip. ‘Hm … I still have my queen. That’s precisely why I asked you. The queen with the queen, on both sides.

  ‘You are being very enigmatic. What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking a good deal about all that has happened to you. The Court … dissembling and distrust … the scourge of all virtuous enthusiasm … The great are polite but hard; that does not preclude, moreover, a brutal frankness that can conceal duplicity. Sophistry allied to natural wickedness, sheer horror.’

  ‘I am becoming increasingly worried about you. You sound like the Pythia prophesying on her tripod. This black mood … this bitterness, it’s really not like you. You have an attack of gout coming on, no doubt. I was wrong to tire you with my investigation. It’s my own fault.’

  The elderly procurator smiled. ‘Certainly not, certainly not. I feel as fit as a fiddle, as right as rain. But I am worried, Nicolas. In the words of my old friend Voltaire, the most prickly of men when people try to humour him, “It’s not you who are giving me a headache but the concern I feel for you at this difficult juncture.” As for the gout, that she-devil has well and truly forgotten about me.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, Mister Always in a Hurry, I’ve spent a good part of the night thinking.’

  ‘You really shouldn’t have!’

  ‘No, a night without pain is a good night for an old man. It’s an opportunity for his mind to be fresh and alert.’

  Nicolas suddenly thought that every man really was an island unto himself, and that his elderly friend disguised the ravages of time more often than he should, apparently out of vanity but in reality from a sense of dignity and as an expression of that exquisite politeness that required such things to be concealed from one’s friends. Only the gout could not be hidden.

  ‘And well-tempered insomnia put to good use is not time wasted but time regained. I thought about the Queen, the one in Choisy and the one in Versailles. And then I thought about your Truche. A very self-assured fellow, that one! I could see your good lady pulling the strings from a distance but not lifting her little finger if it meant becoming involved herself. As for this charade with the Jesuits, there are no two ways about it: either they were behind it and for once it proves their panic but not necessarily their guilt; or they are not behind it, which would be even more serious and the mystery deeper and the danger more acute. I’m surprised you got out of it safe and sound.’

  ‘Pardon? What do you mean?’

  ‘Make no mistake. No one can have been taken in by your forced and unconvincing compliance with the demands of your elderly master. But it’s quite clear that the mysterious power that held you in its grip did not wish to crush you. To put things a little more bluntly, the pressure put on you seems somewhat feeble. In any case you have presumably not changed your line of investigation, have you?’

  ‘I have continued along the same route. This morning I arrested the Vidame de Ruissec. The evidence against him and his refusal to explain his actions seemed sufficient grounds for having him temporarily imprisoned in the Bastille.’

  ‘My, my!’ said Noblecourt, shaking his head doubtfully.

  ‘Is that meant to imply that my actions were dictated by someone else?’

  ‘I’m not implying anything. Only later will you be able to tell whether this last judicial decision suits or works against your mysterious assailants. Are we to have the pleasure of your company at supper this evening?’

  ‘Unfortunately not. I am invited to Semacgus’s. I simply called in to tell you the situation. I shall sleep in Vaugirard and first thing tomorrow morning I will return to Versailles, where I have to meet someone from Madame Adélaïde’s household.’

  ‘I repeat, Nicolas: take care. The world of the Court is a dangerous one. I shall certainly play this bishop.’

  Nicolas left his elderly friend and rushed off to put what he needed into a portmanteau. As he went back downstairs he carefully placed inside it what Catherine had taken so much effort to prepare. Early that morning he had asked for a carriage to be waiting for him on Impasse Saint-Eustache. All seemed quiet but as an extra precaution Rabouine had been sent to the area and told to keep a close watch, with explicit instructions to foil any attempt to shadow him.

  For the first time since the beginning of the inquiry, Nicolas let his mind wander. Even Monsieur de Noblecourt’s disjointed and unsettling words had not been able to affect his mood. Without daring to put them down to age, he did not take them too seriously, even though some of them would doubtless give him food for thought. He soon gave in and, lulled by the movement of the carriage, fell asleep.

  When he awoke he had passed the toll-gates, and the pink and gold of the western sky signalled the end of the day across a horizon broken occasionally by the tall, dark outlines of windmills. In the meantime it had rained and from his seat he could see the earth and sand pockmarked by the drops. The ground was riddled with gullies and tiny channels. Soon the massive bulk of Semacgus’s residence loomed up, with its large wall on the street side, its carriage entrance and its symmetrical wings around the main dwelling. It gave an impression of solidity, further emphasised by the fact that it was a single-storey building. The central rooms were brightly lit. Through the pantry windows he recognised the stocky silhouette of Bourdeau and the taller one of the doctor; they were in shirtsleeves around a table. In the entrance hall he came upon Awa, Semacgus’s black servant. She greeted him with kisses and peals of laughter, asking in her warm, guttural voice for news of her friend Catherine. The offering of the tart enabled him to get away and join his friends. He went towards the kitchen. The two companions were talking and laughing.

  ‘Doctor,’ shouted Bourdeau, ‘make sure not to squash the chestnuts. You need to find large pieces that break easily when you eat them. Be careful!’

  ‘Here we go. It’s the police showing off in front of the medical profession. Chop up your bacon and sweat it gently. Make the little devils sing! And one piece of advice: take care not to brown the garlic. As for the cabbage—’

  Nicolas interrupted, imitating Catherine and her Alsace accent: ‘Above all be careful to blanch it well and to throw away the first water. Then let it simmer so that the whole thing stays a little crisp.’

  The two companions turned.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t Nicolas joining in!’

  ‘I hope,’ Bourdeau added, ‘he’s not hungry. We’d never have enough in that case!’

  They burst into laughter. Semacgus poured some wine. Nicolas enquired about the menu.

  ‘We’re having braised partridges, spit-roasted loin of pork and fricasséed cabbage with diced bacon and chestnuts: a combination that I’ve devised and that will have you licking your lips. The sweetness of the chestnuts marries with the slight bitterness of the cabbage, spiced with pepper and cloves, then wrapped in the bacon fat. It’s softness and tenderness combined. And Bourdeau has brought us a basket of bottles of Chinon.’

  ‘Well, well!’ Nicolas exclaimed. ‘You can add to the menu a pear and marzipan tart from good old Catherine.’

  Supper was soon ready and served by Awa, who was wearing a dazzling damask boubou from her native St-Louis for the occasion. The table set up in Semacgus’s study was a haven of light and cheerfulness amidst the books, the skeletons, the fossils, the specimen jars and the myriad curiosities that the master of the house had brought back from his distant expeditions. Nicolas had rarely seen Bourdeau so jolly, ruddy and tipsy. He had a repertoire of bawdy tales that was second to none, to the delight of the surgeon, who was a great lover of saucy stories. The climax came with the gargantuan fit of laughter that greeted Semacgus’s te
lling the story of the stuffed kumpala.

  ‘Imagine,’ he said, ‘the bishop inviting us to dinner, the governor and myself, and so impatient to have us appreciate the talents of his cook, a very attractive mulatto, far too young to be working for a cleric. She had planned to make kumpala.’

  ‘What sort of creature is that?’

  ‘Imagine a crab that can climb trees.’

  ‘I think it’s the Chinon that’s going to your head.’

  ‘Not at all. The kumpala climbs up coconut trees during the night. That’s where people catch it. Then you have to starve it like you do snails, to purge it of the nasty plants it may have eaten. Then you plunge it into boiling water and add local herbs and the hottest type of pepper you can find. The whole thing is then put in the oven and it’s a dish that …’

  ‘… gets men going!’ shouted Awa, showing her beautiful white teeth.

  ‘She knows the story,’ said Semacgus.

  ‘So what?’ said Nicolas, failing to understand.

  ‘So then,’ said Semacgus, ‘well, the following morning the bishop was discovered in bed with his servant; it’s a dish that would have given Monsieur de Gesvres an erection!’

  The evening ended very late, around the traditional decanter of vintage rum. Bourdeau was carried to bed by his two friends but just as he was falling unconscious he tried to speak to Nicolas. With a glazed look in his eyes and raising a finger, he attempted to explain himself.