Free The Man with the Lead Stomach by Jean-François Parot

campaign, he finished his toilet by brushing his hair vigorously and tying it with a velvet ribbon. He wore a wig only on very rare occasions, as he disliked the constriction of his head and the clouds of powder required.
    The distant strains of a flute could be heard in the house. If at such an early hour Monsieur de Noblecourt was already eagerly ‘playing the penny whistle’, as he often put it, this spoke positively of his state of health: his gout could not be troubling him too much. Nicolas decided to bid him good day. These morning conversations with the former procurator were always very instructive, full of the wisdom that comes from experience and an understanding of the human soul. He went downstairs to the first floor and into a handsome room with pale green panelling set off with gold, which Monsieur de Noblecourt used as his bedroom and to receive guests.
    As he entered he saw the magistrate firmly ensconced in his armchair, his back stiff, almost arched, his head leaning to the left, his eyes concentrating and half-closed. His purple skullcap was askew, his left leg resting on a damask pouf, while his slippered right foot beat time. His nimble fingers fluttered along the holes of a flute. Cyrus, standing upright on his back paws, the tip of hispink tongue sticking out, was listening to his master in fascination. Nicolas stopped to savour this delicious moment of domestic bliss. But the dog was already leaping towards him and Monsieur de Noblecourt abruptly stopped playing on seeing the young man. Nicolas, tricorn in hand, greeted him by bowing slightly.
    ‘How pleased I am to see you looking and sounding in such good spirits so early in the morning!’
    ‘Good morning, Nicolas. I am indeed better. The pains in my left leg have almost gone and I shall be on my feet for supper if I manage to master this tricky sonata.’
    ‘I’ll wager you composed it.’
    ‘Oh, you rascal, you flatterer,’ the procurator spluttered. ‘Alas, I did not. It’s a piece by Blavet, first flute of the Royal Academy of Music. Unless you have heard this virtuoso perform you can have no idea of how best to position the lips, to hold a note or move the fingers: his is a truly prodigious talent.’
    He put down his instrument on a small card table in front of him.
    ‘Enough of all this. I was indeed hoping to see you at breakfast.’
    He rang and Marion, the housekeeper, suddenly appeared as if out of the shadows. It had been agreed that the elderly servant would retain the privilege of serving her master his first meal of the day. Catherine brought the heavy tray as far as the bedroom door and then handed it to Marion, who was grateful for this kindness.
    ‘Marion, my morning feast. You have yet to see what it is, Nicolas, as I tasted it for the first time only two days ago. The same for Nicolas, please.’
    His triple chin wobbled with laughter and his eyes were screwed in wicked delight.
    ‘Monsieur, what a thing it would be if for the sake of your tendons and muscles you sentenced this strapping young man to your measly breakfast!’
    ‘What do you mean, “measly breakfast”? Show a little more respect for a diet that Fagon drew up for the great king who was our sovereign’s grandfather.’
    Marion went out, only to reappear immediately with a large tray tinkling with silverware and china. She set down in front of her master a dish of cooked prunes and a cup of amber-coloured liquid. Nicolas was allowed his customary whipped chocolate, soft bread rolls from the bakery on the ground floor and a jampot brimming with a bright red jelly. Monsieur de Noblecourt stirred in his armchair and carefully placed his left foot on the floor, letting out a few groans as he did so. His large, ruddy nose seemed to quiver as the pleasant aroma of the exotic beverage wafted towards him.
    ‘Might it not be right … given the improved state of my legs – to allow me, my dear Marion, some respite from sage and fruit compote?’
    Marion