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

grumbled loudly.
    ‘All right, very well,’ sighed Monsieur de Noblecourt. ‘There’s no point in making a scene about it. My arguments are of little weight in this domestic court of law. I see that I am straying from the regulations and that no one will agree with me. I submit, I give in, I surrender my weapons.’
    The servant also sighed and, with a mischievous smile to Nicolas, disappeared as fast as her elderly legs would allow.Monsieur de Noblecourt composed himself once more and contemplated the young man.
    ‘Either I am very much mistaken, Nicolas, or there’s something new afoot. You look as pleased with yourself as a pointer about to go off with the hunt. First, Monsieur, you came home very late. Not that I am spying on you but with my insomnia I heard the carriage entrance slam.’
    Nicolas looked mortified.
    ‘Secondly, as performances at the Opéra do not end so late I assume that one of those pretty creatures who display their charms at the very back of the stage set became an object of detailed study or that you were detained by some unexpected police matter.’
    ‘You know how great my respect is for you,’ said Nicolas. ‘I have always admired in you, Monsieur, a wisdom matched by your sensitivity …’
    ‘Do get to the point. I am burning with curiosity and desperate to know all your news.’
     
    Nicolas launched into a detailed account of the events of that night, which his host listened to, eyes closed, arms folded across his paunch, with a blissful smile on his lips. He remained silent after the account was finished and Nicolas thought he was dozing. But that was to underestimate Monsieur de Noblecourt. Neither the sage nor the story had sent him to sleep; he was meditating. Nicolas had had many opportunities to observe how the former procurator’s conclusions were always unusual and revealed an unexpected and sometimes surprising way of seeing the world. He opened his eyes.
    ‘At this point being honoured does not mean a great deal, as it is not the same as being honourable.’
    This cryptic comment was followed by the lengthy tasting of a few prunes.
    ‘My dear boy, you are confronted with the worst sort of courtier, a breed that shamelessly combines false piety and ambition, apparently proud figures who grovel before the powerful . Remove their masks and they disintegrate.’
    As he spoke these weighty words, Monsieur de Noblecourt was slyly moving his spoon towards the jam pot. Cyrus leapt on to his master’s lap, bringing the manoeuvre to a sudden end.
    ‘The Comte de Ruissec is not the figure you describe, an elderly nobleman steadfast in his convictions and his obsession with honour. I have often heard him talked about in society. He comes from a Huguenot family but he renounced that faith at a young age and is careful never to mention his origins. In the army he showed great bravery. But who does not? That sort of man knows no fear.’
    ‘One can know fear and overcome it,’ the young man interjected. ‘For my part I have often been afraid.’
    ‘How touching, Nicolas. Long may God preserve this frankness of yours – such an endearing quality! As I was saying, Monsieur de Ruissec had the reputation of being a fine soldier, but hard and cruel to his men. His career was blighted by rumours of looting and he never reached the high rank for which he seemed destined. He was said to be in league with army commissaries and tax collectors. The profits supposedly supplemented his income. He left the army, sold his estate in the Languedoc and the family chateau. “The walls of towns are built from the ruinsof country homes.” He settled in Paris, first in the Place Royale, then quite recently in Grenelle, where he bought the mansion of a bankrupt farmer of taxes in rather murky circumstances. Today people say he is immersed in the world of finance and speculation , where his insignia impress people. Alongside these secret activities he leads what is on the surface a perfectly