The Phantom of Rue Royale by Jean-François Parot Page B

about the room were chairs and console tables in a harmonious arrangement. The alcoves were furnished with charming little settees on bases carved with the shapes of pearls and ribbons. Some unity was given to the whole by the repetition of a flowered pattern on a number of small, moulded armchairs with oval backs. Nicolas, who had once been a notary’s clerk, had done enough inventories after people’s deaths to be able to estimate the cost of these furnishings at several million livres . Had he come to the wrong house, or did the place have a new owner? And yet the black girl was still here. He was still puzzling over these things when a familiar voice, at once throaty and hoarse, reached his ears.
    ‘Damnation, girl, don’t just stand there gaping. Pay attention. I’ll go over it again. First you get a cask of Spanish wine at Tronquay’s. Then take the burgundy back to Jobert et Chertemps– it tastes like vinegar. If the scoundrels complain, tell them they’ll lose my custom. These merchants will be the death of me!’
    This was followed by several sighs.
    ‘That’s the wine dealt with! What a bother – it’ll kill me, I tell you! Next, go to the perfume seller. First of all, I need some beef marrow pomade with orange blossom for my poor hair. For the girls, a dozen bars of scented Naples soap, and some of those small marble bars as well. Don’t forget the virgin milk. My, that’s well named! Are you laughing, you little devil? How dare you?’
    He heard a fan strike flesh.
    ‘You asked for that! We also need a bottle of kidney vetch in liquid form for La Mouchet who collapsed into the bed twice last week and, what’s worse, she was with a bishop at the time! Admittedly, he did ask her to … Oh, you’ll learn about these things in good time. Anyway, we still need some of those little sponges for … Well, I know what I mean. Now get on with you – I hear someone.’
    The maid – a small girl – withdrew. Nicolas had approached. There indeed was La Paulet, that monster of flesh, sprawling across a chaise longue, and buried in a grey silk dress from which her huge arms emerged. Her face, which seemed to have shrunk, was covered as usual with ceruse and rouge applied like plaster. What was new was the blonde wig, with its serried ranks of curls.
    ‘Well, well, it’s our commissioner! That rascal Nicolas, who kept his old friend waiting all night! I’m joking, I know that when duty calls, you policemen have better things to do than amuse an emaciated old thing like me.’
    ‘You underestimate yourself,’ Nicolas said. ‘There’s still plenty of flesh on your bones and, what’s more, I find you in apalace of such splendour as to leave me breathless.’
    If it had not been for the thick plaster covering her face, Nicolas would have seen her blush.
    ‘So,’ she simpered, ‘you’ve noticed the change? I’ve been in a whirl for the past month. The devil take these guilds and artisans! Twenty times I thought I was going to die, and the money I had to spend to feed them all! But I’m no fool: I’d never let anything be done in my house without having my say. Nobody’s going to swindle La Paulet. But what has to be done has to be done! All the same,’ she went on with a learned air, ‘what do I know? Sometimes , our own opinions aren’t the best. Ah, I see your eyes light up at the thought of cornering your old friend and finding dishonest reasons for this prosperity. You’re so good at wheedling things out of me. You don’t believe for a moment that I’ve discovered treasure.’
    Nicolas smiled. ‘Certainly not, but I must admit I’m surprised by such magnificence.’
    ‘Ah, my good sir, there is a God, and he looks on those with pure hands, not full ones. You know how sweet and innocent I am. Well, he filled them for me.’
    ‘Filled what?’
    ‘My hands, my hands! Do you remember I once treated you to a ratafia from the West Indies given to me by an old acquaintance? My taste buds are