The Man with the Lead Stomach

By Jean-Francois Parot

October 1761 finds the newly-promoted Commisioner Le Floch on duty at a royal performance of Rameau's latest work.Events take a dramatic turn and Nicolas is soon embarked on his second major investigation when the body of a prominent courtier's son is found.The initial evidence points to suicide, but Le Floch's instincts tell him he is dealing with murder of the most gruesome kind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gallic Books
• Release date: Jan 1, 2009
• ISBN: 9781906040499

Book preview

I

SUICIDE

‘The laws in Europe are ferocious towards those who kill themselves: they are made to die twice, as it were; they are dragged in ignominy through the streets; they are branded with dishonour; their property is confiscated.’

M

ONTESQUIEU

Tuesday 23 October 1761

Carriages were streaming on to Rue Saint-Honoré as Nicolas Le Floch advanced cautiously over the slippery cobbles. Amidst the din of the vehicles, the shouting coachmen and the whinnying horses, a coach arrived at great speed and almost overturned in front of him, one of its metal wheels sending up a shower of sparks. Nicolas negotiated his way with some difficulty through the forest of blazing torches, which a host of manservants was waving aloft in the darkness to provide their masters with as much light as possible.

How much longer, he thought, would such ostentatious and dangerous displays be tolerated? Candlewax ran down clothes and hairstyles; wigs and hair were in danger of being set alight – there had already been numerous fatal incidents. The same scene would be repeated on the steps of the Opéra at the end of the performance, but then there would be even greater chaos with the wealthy spectators trying to hurry home.

Nicolas had made his thoughts on the matter known to Monsieur de Sartine, who had merely rejected his remarks in a way that was both evasive and ironic. However committed he was to the common good and to public order in the capital, the Lieutenant General of Police had no desire to antagonise the Court and the Town by regulating a practice that he occasionally found convenient himself.

The young man pushed his way through the crowd blocking the steps of the great staircase. There was an even greater crush in the confined space of the foyer of this grand edifice, which had been built for Cardinal Richelieu and in which Molière himself had performed.

Nicolas always experienced a thrill on entering this temple of music. The audience recognised and greeted one another. They spoke of the forthcoming performance, as well as of the latest news or rumours, which in a time of war and uncertainty were the subjects of animated debate. On this particular evening, talk was divided between several topics: the recommendation that the bishops of France were due to submit to the King concerning the Society of Jesus,¹ Madame de Pompadour’s fragile state of health, and the generals’ recent military successes – in particular those of the Prince de Caraman, whose dragoons had pushed the Prussians back beyond the Weser that September. There was also mention of a victory by the Prince de Condé, but the news had not been confirmed.

All these people, shimmering in silk, waded through dirt. There was a disconcerting contrast between their luxurious clothes, and the foul-smelling remnants of wax, earth and horse droppings with which they were soiled.

Trapped in the middle of this throng, Nicolas felt his usual disgust at the mixture of odours filling his nostrils. The stench wafting up mingled with the smell of face powder and poor-quality candles but still did nothing to cover up the sourer and more obtrusive smell of unwashed bodies.

Some women looked on the point of passing out and were frantically waving their fans or sniffing perfume bottles to revive themselves.

Nicolas managed to extricate himself by slipping behind the French Guards on duty on the staircase. He was not attending the Opéra for pleasure but had been sent on official business. Monsieur de Sartine’s orders were to watch the audience. It was no ordinary performance that evening. Madame Adélaïde, the King’s daughter, together with her retinue, was due to attend.

Since Damiens’s attempt on the King’s life, a general sense of anxiety had haunted the royal family. In addition to the spies positioned in the theatre stalls and the wings, the Lieutenant General of Police wanted to have his own man on the spot who was totally dedicated and enjoyed his complete trust. It was Nicolas’s role to hear and observe everything whilst remaining visible to his superior in his box. As a commissioner from the Châtelet he was entitled to call in the forces of law and order, and to take immediate action if necessary.

To carry out his duties Nicolas had chosen to stand near the stage and orchestra where he could be sure of a full view of the auditorium without losing sight of the stage, another possible source of danger. This location had the incidental advantage of putting him in the best possible position to judge the quality of the orchestra, the performance of the actors and the tessitura of the singers, whilst avoiding the vermin that infested the woodwork and the velvet seats.

How often on returning home had he needed to shake out his clothes over a bowl of water to rid himself of those wretched jumping and biting insects …

No sooner had the young commissioner taken up his place than the match-cord began to rise up slowly, like a spider swallowing its thread. Once it was high enough, it moved across the candle wicks of the great chandelier, lighting them one after another. Nicolas loved this magical moment when the auditorium, still dark and buzzing with conversation, emerged from the gloom. At the same time a stagehand lit the footlights. From the boards to the flies shades of gold and crimson appeared in all their splendour, along with the blue of the French coat of arms decorated with fleurs-de-lis, which dominated the stage. Coils of dust, now made visible, filtered the light that spread softly across the clothes, the dresses and the jewellery, in a silent prologue to the magic of the performance.

Nicolas berated himself. When would he grow out of his habit of daydreaming? He shook his shoulders. He needed to keep an eye on the auditorium, which was filling up now, the volume of noise rising.

*

One of Nicolas’s main concerns on duty at the Opéra was to establish exactly who was present or absent, as well as to spot any strangers and foreigners. This particular evening he noticed that, unusually, given the generally blasé nature of the public, the boxes were nearly all taken. Even the Prince de Conti, who often made a point of arriving, with the majestic indifference of a prince of the blood, when the performance was already under way, with the majestic indifference of a prince of the blood, was already seated and talking with his guests. The royal box was still empty but servants were busy making it ready.

Nicolas only fulfilled this duty when members of the royal family attended a performance. On other evenings his colleagues were assigned to this task. The police’s priority was to seek out and keep a watch on agents suspected of trading with or spying for countries currently at war with France. England in particular was flooding Paris with hired emissaries.

Feeling a light tap on the shoulder, Nicolas turned and was pleased to see the friendly face of the Comte de La Borde, First Groom of the King’s Bedchamber, dressed magnificently in a pearl-grey coat embroidered with silver thread.

‘What a doubly happy day! Nicolas, my friend, I am so pleased to you again!’

‘And may I ask what other agreeable event is implied by your greeting?’

‘Aha! You devil … What about the pleasure of an opera by Rameau? Does that mean nothing to you?’

‘It certainly does, but you’re rather a long way from your box,’ said Nicolas, with a smile.

‘I like the smell of the stage and enjoy being near to it.’

‘Near to it, or near to someone?’

‘All right, I’ll confess. I’ve come for a closer view of a most gentle and graceful creature I admire. But, Nicolas, I must say we feel you’re being very elusive at the moment.’

‘We?’

‘Don’t you try to beat me at my own game. His Majesty enquires about you often, in particular during the last hunt in Compiègne. I do hope you have not forgotten his invitation to join the royal hunt. Because he never forgets anything. Show your face soon, for goodness’ sake! He remembers you well and frequently mentions the account you gave of your investigation. At his side you have a most powerful advocate: the Good Lady thinks of you as her guardian angel. Believe me, you should make use of such rare influence and not cut yourself off from your friends. Such elusiveness harms nobody but you, as your friends will not easily tolerate it.’

He pulled a small gold watch from his coat pocket, looked at it and went on: ‘Madame Adélaïde should be here very shortly.’

‘I thought our princess and her sister Victoire were inseparable,’² said Nicolas. ‘However, if my information is correct she is attending tonight’s performance alone.’

‘How very astute of you. But there has been a row between the King and his second daughter. He refused her a set of jewels and out of annoyance Madame Victoire retorted with some biting remark about how the King would have treated a similar request from Madame de Pompadour. There’s a Court secret for you, my dear fellow, but as you are the soul of discretion … That said, Madame Adélaïde will not be alone; she will be chaperoned by the Comte and Comtesse de Ruissec. Members of the old military nobility, as stern, pious and doddering as you could wish. They are part of both the Queen and the Dauphin’s entourages, which says it all. Though the comte—’

‘What a sharp tongue you have today!’

‘The Opéra inspires me, Nicolas. I assume our friend Sartine will be coming?’

‘He will indeed.’

‘Madame will be well protected. But nothing ever happens when our lieutenants of police are present. Our performances are so uneventful. Only the cabals and the claques liven them up a little, and Les Paladins by the esteemed Rameau should not cause a storm. Both the Queen and the King’s corners will be content.³ Le Mercure’s account says that it combines Italian and French tastes very skilfully, even if the daring mixture of comic and tragic may go beyond propriety.’

‘It won’t go too far; the passions in it are quite innocent.’

‘My dear friend, have you ever been to London?’

‘Never. And with things as they are, I fear that I may not have that opportunity for some time.’

‘Don’t be too sure. But what I was going to say is that a visitor from France is always astonished when he enters a London theatre to find there is no police presence. Of course, the price of this freedom is uproar and fighting.’

‘It must be the sort of country our friends the philosophers dream of; they say our theatres have the foul smell of despotism about them.’

‘I know who said that and the King did not appreciate the remark,’ said La Borde. ‘Discreet as ever, Nicolas, you did not name him. But please excuse me: I am off to pay court to Madame Adélaïde. And quickly, because the object of my attentions appears in the prologue.’

He sauntered across the stalls, bowing this way and that to the beauties of his acquaintance. Nicolas was always pleased to see the Comte de La Borde. He recalled their first meeting, and the dinner when La Borde had kindly rescued him from an awkward situation. Monsieur de Noblecourt, the elderly procurator with whom he lodged and for whom Nicolas was like a son, had often emphasised that such heartfelt affection was a privilege and could be useful. The young man went back over the rapid succession of events since the beginning of the year. The First Groom of the King’s Bedchamber would always be associated in his mind with his extraordinary meeting with the King. He knew the secret of his noble birth; he knew that he was not only Nicolas Le Floch but also the Marquis de Ranreuil’s natural son. However, he remained convinced that this fact had played no part in La Borde’s spontaneous friendship for him.

A loud roar brought him back to reality. The whole house had risen to its feet and was clapping. Madame Adélaïde had just appeared in the royal box. Fair-haired and shapely, she had an air of grandeur. Everyone agreed that she was far more beautiful than her sisters. Her profile and eyes resembled the King’s. She smiled and gave a courtly bow, to even louder cheers. The princess was very popular: her affability and friendliness were well known. She seemed to be enjoying the prospect of an evening on her own and, after bowing, continued to nod graciously. Nicolas saw Monsieur de Sartine enter his box after accompanying the King’s daughter to her own.

The curtain rose for the prologue, and La Borde hurriedly rejoined Nicolas. To the accompaniment of a triumphant chorus, the goddess of Monarchy appeared on the steps of a classical temple. Young children held her train, which was decorated with fleurs-de-lis. Suddenly the figure of Victory, in breastplate and helmet, emerged on a chariot pulled by the spirits of war; she stepped down from it to crown the goddess with laurels. The chorus rose to a climax and repeated its refrain:

We pay this homage

Worthy of our King,

To crown his glory

And proclaim his might.

Deities waved palm branches. Monsieur de La Borde squeezed Nicolas’s arm.

‘Look, the fair-haired girl on the right … the second one wearing a tunic. That’s her.’

Nicolas sighed. He knew as well as anyone the sad fate awaiting these young girls from the Opéra. They began their careers in the chorus or as dancers, but then, still barely more than children, fell prey to a world in which loose morals and the power of money prevailed. Unless they managed to navigate the dangerous waters of libertinism, which required skill and caution, and reached the privileged status of kept women, inevitably once the charms of their youth had faded they were condemned to lives of squalor and degradation. At least this pretty little thing might fare rather better with a decent sort like La Borde. Perhaps.

The splendid strains of the prologue continued to ring out. This style of composition had gone out of fashion years ago: Rameau himself had ended it, replacing this standard device with an overture linked to the entertainment. Nicolas had been surprised by this spectacular opening, which lauded the monarchy and glorified its military successes, when the reality was a series of short-lived victories and uncertain setbacks, hardly a reason for bombastic celebration. But carried away by force of habit, everyone continued to pretend. It was not a bad policy in the view of those in authority who looked on from the shadows for any hint of public disaffection. The curtain fell and Monsieur de La Borde sighed; his goddess had disappeared.

‘She will be on once again in the third act,’ he said with a sparkle in his eye, ‘in the dance of the Chinese pagodas.’⁴

The performance resumed and the plot of Les Paladins followed its tortuous and conventional path. Ever attentive to the music, Nicolas noted the overlap with vocal elements already used in Zoroastre,⁵ the importance given to accompanied recitatives and the clear reference to Italian opera in the extensive use of ariettas. Carried away by the orchestration, he paid little attention to the plot: the depraved love of the elderly Anselme for his ward, Argie, herself in love with the paladin Atis.

In the first act Nicolas delighted in the dance tunes, whose gaiety was enlivened by the virtuoso horn accompaniment.

At the end of the second act, during the singing of the aria ‘I Die of Fear’, Nicolas, keeping a watchful eye on the auditorium, noticed that something was happening in the royal box. A man had just entered it and was whispering to a military-looking old man sitting to the right behind the princess and who must have been the Comte de Ruissec. Then the elderly gentleman himself leant towards an old lady with white hair and a black lace mantilla. She became agitated and Nicolas saw her shake her head in disbelief. Although from a distance this whole scene appeared to be taking place in silence, the King’s daughter became concerned and turned round to learn the cause of the disturbance.

At that moment the curtain fell for the end of the act. Nicolas then saw the same man enter Monsieur de Sartine’s box and speak to him. The magistrate rose to his feet, leant towards the auditorium to peer into the stalls and, after finally spotting Nicolas, summarily signalled him to come up. The commotion was growing in the royal box and Madame Adélaïde was dabbing Madame de Ruissec’s temples with a handkerchief.

Later, going back over these moments, Nicolas would remember that this was when the whole monstrous mechanism was set in motion, to end only once destiny had been sated with death and destruction. He bade farewell to Monsieur de La Borde, then hurried to join the Lieutenant General of Police as quickly as the public, now on its feet and talking in tightly knit groups, would allow.

Monsieur de Sartine was not in his box. He must have gone to the princess’s. After parleying with the officials of her Household, Nicolas managed to gain admittance. Madame Adélaïde was speaking to the Lieutenant General in a low voice. Her beautiful, full face was scarlet with emotion. Monsieur de Ruissec was kneeling at his wife’s feet, fanning her as she sat semi-conscious in her seat. A man in black, whom Nicolas recognised as a police officer from the Châtelet, was standing stock-still against the partition wall, looking terrified. Nicolas drew near and gave a deep bow. The princess, taken by surprise, replied with a slight nod of the head. He was moved to see in her youthful face a close resemblance to the King.

Monsieur de Sartine resumed: ‘Your Royal Highness may rest assured that we shall do everything necessary to accompany the comte and comtesse back to their mansion and attempt to settle this matter discreetly. However, some observations do need to be made. Commissioner Le Floch here will accompany me. The King knows him and holds him in high esteem.’

A royal look fell upon Nicolas without seeming to notice him.

‘We rely on you to do your utmost to allay the distress of our dear friends,’ said Madame Adélaïde. ‘And above all, sir, have no concern for my person but deal with what is urgent. The officials of our Household will watch over our person and besides the Parisians love us, both my sisters and myself.’

Monsieur de Sartine bowed as the elderly couple – the comtesse trembling uncontrollably – took their leave of the princess. They all left to return to their carriages. It took some time to gather up the coachmen, who had gone off for a drink or two. A court carriage set off with the Ruissecs, since they had come in procession from Versailles with the princess. It was soon followed by Monsieur de Sartine’s coach. The flames from the sputtering torches cast flickering shadows over the houses in Rue Saint-Honoré.

The Lieutenant General remained silent for some considerable time, lost in thought. A disorderly jam of carriages brought the vehicle to a standstill and the young man took advantage of the moment to venture an observation.

‘One day, sir, it would be useful to introduce regulations with respect to vehicles waiting outside theatres and opera houses. It might even be appropriate to force them to go one way only, in order to make our streets less congested and easier to negotiate.⁶ If the roads were also better lit, safety would definitely improve.’⁷

The observation elicited no reply. Instead the Lieutenant General drummed on the windows of the carriage in apparent irritation. He turned towards his subordinate.

‘Commissioner Le Floch …’

Nicolas stiffened. He had learnt from experience that when the Lieutenant General of Police addressed him by his title instead of calling him by his first name, as he normally did, it meant that he was not in a good mood and that trouble was brewing. He listened carefully.

‘We have before us, so I believe, a case that requires particular tact and lightness of touch,’ Sartine continued. ‘I am, moreover, hostage to the promises I gave to Madame Adélaïde. Does she think this kind of procedure is simple? She knows nothing of the world or of life. She gives herself over to her instinct for kindness. But what relevance have feelings of sorrow and pity for me? Have you nothing to say?’

‘First, sir, I would need to have a little more information on the situation.’

‘Not so fast, Nicolas. It suits me far better to let you know as little as possible. Otherwise I am only too well aware what the result will be. Your lively imagination will immediately start to run wild. We’ve seen what happens when I loosen your reins. You take the bit between your teeth and bolt. Suddenly we’re off in all directions, picking up bodies on every street corner. You are shrewd and throw yourself into your work, but if I am not there to put you back on the right track … I want you to retain a completely open mind so that I can benefit from your initial impression. We must not put the hounds off the scent!’

After two years of working for him, Nicolas was accustomed to Sartine, who could at times be monumentally unfair. Only Monsieur de Saujac, the president of the Parlement of Paris, whose reputation for unfairness was legendary, could have taught him anything on that front. So Nicolas was not taken aback by his comments, which another might have found hurtful. He was well acquainted with the sudden mischievous twinkle in his superior’s eye and the involuntary twitching to the right of his mouth. Monsieur de Sartine did not believe what he was saying: it was just an affectation, his particular way of imposing his will on people. Only the less perspicacious let themselves be taken in, but he treated everyone in the same manner. Inspector Bourdeau, Nicolas’s deputy, claimed that it was his way of manipulating his puppets to check they remained loyal to him and agreed with what he said, however outrageous it might be. What was more surprising was his tendency to prove cantankerous and irascible to those close to him when he had a reputation for being a gentle, secretive and extremely courteous man.

Monsieur de Sartine’s apparent mood was a cover for his distress and anxiety. What would they find at the end of their night ride through Paris? What drama lay ahead of them? The Comtesse de Ruissec had looked so distressed …

Whatever spectacle fate had reserved for them that evening, the young man vowed not to disappoint his superior and to take careful note of everything. Monsieur de Sartine was once more locked away in a gloomy silence. The effort at concentration that showed on his face further emphasised the lines in his angular features, which had lost all their youthfulness.

They stopped outside the half-moon gateway of a small mansion. A large stone staircase opened on to a cobbled courtyard. Monsieur de Ruissec entrusted his distraught wife to a chambermaid. The comtesse protested and tried to hang on to her husband’s arm but he freed himself firmly from her grasp. This scene was played out by the light of a candelabrum held by an elderly retainer, but Nicolas was unable to work out the layout of the broader premises, which were still cloaked in darkness. He could barely even make out the wings of the main building.

They climbed the steps leading into a flagstoned entrance hall with a staircase at the far end. The Comte de Ruissec staggered and had to lean against an upholstered armchair. Nicolas studied him. He was a tall, wiry man, somewhat stooped, despite his concerted efforts to stand straight. A broad scar, now red from emotion, ran across his left temple, probably the mark of a sabre. He was biting his inner lip, his mouth pursed. The austerity of his severe dark coat further emphasised by the cross of the Order of St Michael hanging from a black ribbon, contrasted with a single note of colour, the insignia of the Order of St Louis fastened to a bright red sash, which hung over his left hip. The sword he wore to the side was no ceremonial weapon but a sturdy blade of tempered steel. Nicolas, well versed in such matters, remembered that the comte had been escorting Madame Adélaïde and might in certain circumstances have had to protect her. Monsieur de Ruissec straightened up and took a few steps. Whether it was the result of an old wound or the effect of age, he walked with a limp and sought to conceal this infirmity by raising and thrusting forward his whole body with every stride. He gave his old retainer an impatient look.

‘We do not have a moment to lose. Take us to my son’s bedroom and give me your account of events on the way.’ The authoritative voice was still young, its tone almost aggressive. He led the small group, leaning heavily on the bronze handrail.

Wheezing, the major-domo began his story of the evening’s events.

‘Your lordship, around nine o’clock in the evening I had just taken some logs to your rooms and had gone back downstairs. I was reading my Book of Hours.’

Nicolas caught the wry look on Monsieur de Sartine’s face.

‘His lordship the vicomte arrived. He seemed in a great hurry and his cloak was wet. I went to take it from him but he brushed me aside. I asked him if he needed me. He shook his head. I heard his bedroom door slam, then nothing more.’

He stopped for a moment, short of breath.

‘That wretched bullet again. Sorry, General. As I was saying, then nothing more until suddenly a shot was fired.’

The Lieutenant General intervened. ‘A shot fired? Are you quite sure?’

‘My major-domo is a former soldier,’ said the comte. ‘He served in my regiment. He knows what he’s talking about. Carry on, Picard.’

‘I rushed up but found the door shut. It was locked from the inside. There was not a sound or cry to be heard. I called out but there was no answer.’

Having gone down a corridor at the end of the landing, the procession was by now in front of a heavy oak door. Monsieur de Ruissec had suddenly become stooped.

‘I was unable to force it open,’ Picard went on, ‘and even if I’d had an axe I would not have had sufficient strength. I went back downstairs and sent her ladyship’s chambermaid off to the nearest guard post. An officer came running but despite my pleas he refused to do anything unless someone with greater authority was present. So I immediately sent for you at the Opéra.’

‘Commissioner,’ said Sartine, ‘please find us something with which to open or knock down this door.’

Nicolas seemed in no hurry to obey. Eyes closed, he was carefully going through his coat pockets.

‘We are waiting, Nicolas,’ said his superior impatiently.

‘To hear is to obey, sir, and I have the solution to hand. There is no need to go in search of tools to force an entry. This will do the job.’

He was holding a small, metallic object similar to a penknife, which, when opened, revealed a series of hooks of various sizes and designs. It had been a gift from Inspector Bourdeau, who already possessed one himself and had confiscated another from a bandit and given it to Nicolas.

Sartine raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘The thieves’ picklock comes to the rescue of the police! The designs of the Great Architect often follow crooked paths,’ he murmured.

Nicolas smiled inwardly at this Masonic parlance, knelt down and, after carefully deciding on the most suitable hook, inserted it into the lock. Immediately a key was heard to drop on to the