The Châtelet Apprentice: Nicolas Le Floch Investigation #1. Jean-Francois Parot
Читать онлайн книгу.
provincial markets, here Nicolas had to force his way through total chaos. All the goods were piled higgledy-piggledy on the ground, except for the meat, which was on special slabs. In the warm autumn air the smells were strong, foul even, around the fish stalls. He found it hard to believe that there could be markets bigger or busier than this one. The space for the stallholders was very cramped and it was almost impossible to move around, but this did not prevent horse-drawn vehicles from driving through, threatening to crush anything in their path. People were haggling and arguing and from the accents and the clothes he realised that many peasants from the nearby countryside came here to sell their produce.
Carried first one way then the other by the crowd, Nicolas went around the market three or four times before finding Rue Sainte-Croix-de-la-Bretonnerie. This street led him without mishap to Rue des Blancs-Manteaux where, between Rue du Puits and Rue du Singe, he found Commissioner Lardin’s residence.
He hesitated and gazed at the three-storey house, bordered on either side by gardens protected by high walls. He raised the knocker, which produced a dull echo inside as it struck the door. The door half opened to reveal the face of a woman wearing a white mob cap, a face so wide and chubby that it seemed to be the continuation of a huge body, the top half of which was squeezed into a red jacket. This was framed by two arms, similarly proportioned to the rest, which dripped with washing suds.
‘What do you want?’ asked the woman, with a strange accent that Nicolas had never heard before.
‘I’ve come to deliver a letter from Monsieur de Sartine to Commissioner Lardin,’ said Nicolas, who immediately bit his lip, realising he had played his trump card rather too soon.
‘Give me.’
‘I must give it in person.’
‘No one at home. Wait.’
She slammed the door shut. All that remained for Nicolas was to show the patience that, as his own experience had confirmed, was the main virtue needed in Paris. Without daring to move away from the house he walked up and down, examining the surroundings. On the opposite side of the road, where there was an occasional passer-by, he glimpsed buildings, a monastery or a church, hidden amidst tall, bare trees.
He sat down on the front steps of the house, tired out by his morning’s expedition. His arm was numb from carrying his bag and he was hungry, since all he had eaten that morning in the refectory of the Carmelites was some bread dipped in soup. A nearby bell was chiming three o’clock when a sturdily built man, wearing a grey wig and leaning on a cane very like a cudgel, curtly asked him to make way. Guessing who this was, Nicolas stepped aside, bowed and began to speak:
‘I beg your pardon, Monsieur, but I’m waiting for Commissioner Lardin.’
Two blue eyes stared at him intently.
‘You’re waiting for Commissioner Lardin? Well, I’ve been waiting for a certain Nicolas Le Floch since yesterday. Would you know him by any chance?’
‘That’s me, Monsieur. As you can see …’
‘No explanations …’
‘But …’ stammered Nicolas, holding out Sartine’s letter.
‘I know better than you do what orders the Lieutenant General of Police gave you. I have no use for this letter. You may keep it as a souvenir. It will tell me nothing I don’t already know and merely confirms that you did not comply with the instructions given.’
Lardin knocked and the woman reappeared in the doorway.
‘Monsieur, I did not want …’
‘I know, Catherine.’
He motioned impatiently, as much to interrupt his servant as to invite Nicolas inside. He took off his coat to reveal a sleeveless, thick-leather doublet and, removing his wig, uncovered a closely shaven head. They entered a library, and Nicolas was stunned by its beauty and tranquillity: the dying embers in the carved marble fireplace, a black and gold desk, the bergères upholstered in Utrecht velvet, the light-coloured panelling on the walls, the framed prints and the richly bound books lining the shelves all helped to create an atmosphere that someone more worldly than Nicolas would have described as voluptuous. He vaguely sensed that these refined surroundings were somewhat at odds with the boorish appearance of his host. The main drawing room at Château de Ranreuil, though still half medieval, had been until then his only point of reference in such matters.
Lardin remained standing.
‘Monsieur, this is a very odd way to begin a career in which exact-ness is of the essence. Monsieur de Sartine entrusts you to my charge and I don’t know to what I owe this honour.’
With a wry smile Lardin made his finger joints crack.
‘But I obey and you must do the same,’ he continued. ‘Catherine will take you to the third floor. I can only offer you a meagre attic room. You will take your meals with the servants or out of the house, as you wish. Each morning you will appear before me at seven o’clock. You must, I am told, learn the law. For that you will go for two hours each day to Monsieur de Noblecourt, a former magistrate, who will assess your abilities. I expect you to be perfectly assiduous and unfailingly obedient. Tonight, to celebrate your arrival, we shall dine together as a family. You may go.’
Nicolas bowed and left. He followed Catherine, who settled him into a small attic room. To reach it he had to cross a cluttered loft. He was pleasantly surprised by the size of the room and by the presence of a window which overlooked the garden. It was sparsely furnished with a small bed, a table, a chair and a chest of drawers cum washstand with its basin and ewer and a mirror above it. The wooden floor was covered with a threadbare rug. He put his few possessions away in the drawers, removed his shoes and went to sleep.
When he woke it was already dark. After quickly washing his face and combing his hair, he went downstairs. The door to the library where he had been received by Lardin was now shut, but those to other rooms along the corridor were still open. This enabled him to cautiously satisfy his curiosity. First he saw a drawing room decorated in pastel colours, compared to which the library suddenly seemed positively austere. In another room a table had been laid for three. At the end of the corridor another door led to what had to be the kitchen, judging by the smells coming from it. He went closer. The heat in the room was intense and Catherine kept having to wipe her brow with a cloth. When Nicolas entered she was opening oysters and, to the surprise of the young Breton who was used to swallowing them live, she was removing the contents of the shells and placing them on an earthenware plate.
‘May I ask what you are preparing, Madame?’
She turned around in surprise.
‘Don’t call me Madame. Call me Catherine.’
‘Very well,’ he said, ‘and my name’s Nicolas.’
She looked at him, her unprepossessing face lighting up and becoming more attractive. She showed him two capons she had boned.
‘I’m making capon and oyster soup.’
As a child Nicolas had enjoyed watching Fine prepare delicacies, the canon’s one weakness. Gradually he had even learnt how to make certain Breton specialities, such as far, kuign aman or lobster in cider. Nor was his godfather, the marquis, averse to turning his hand to this noble activity which, to the canon’s great disgust, he described as one of the seven ‘lively’ sins.
‘Cooked oysters!’ exclaimed Nicolas. ‘Where I come from we eat them raw.’
‘What! Living creatures?’
‘And how exactly do you make this soup?’
Going on his experience with Fine, whom he had needed to spy on for a long time in order to discover her recipes, Nicolas was expecting to be thrown out of the kitchen.
‘You so good that I tell you. I take two nice capons and bone them. I stuff one with flesh of other and add bacon, egg yolks, salt, pepper, nutmeg, bouquet