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.’
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 …’
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