The Saint-Florentin Murders: Nicolas Le Floch Investigation #5. Jean-Francois Parot

was drawn from his reverie by Bourdeau’s return, accompanied by a woman in an apron and cap. His first reaction was to wonder why she was trying to appear older and uglier than she was. No doubt it was to avoid any comparison with the duchesse. Her hair was drawn back under her cap, making her face more angular, but her features were regular and her complexion splendidly milky. She seemed to be deliberately sucking in her lips, which made her cheeks taut and gave the impression of a strong will. He asked her to sit down, but she shook her head and remained standing, leaning on the back of an armchair. It was late afternoon by now, and the light was gradually fading. The reflection of the flames played over her face, alternately lighting it and plunging it into wavering shadow. Nicolas waited, saying nothing, aware of the effect this silence usually had on witnesses. But no emotion showed on this woman’s face, if indeed she felt any. Only the whiteness of her fingers on the upholstery of the armchair attested to the tension in her hands.

      ‘Are you Eugénie, head chambermaid of the Duchesse de La Vrillière?’

      ‘Yes, Commissioner. Eugénie Gouet.’

      ‘How old are you? Are you married?’

      ‘I was thirty last Saint Michel’s day. I’m single.’

      ‘How long have you worked here?’

      ‘In the service of Madame, since 1762. The mansion hadn’t even been built then. I was still a child …’

      ‘Are you one of the oldest servants?’

      ‘Of course. With Provence, Monseigneur’s valet.’

      ‘Tell me what happened this morning.’

      ‘I was getting ready in my room on the second floor, when I heard cries. I rushed out to find the kitchen boy, Provence, the caretaker and the Swiss Guard. They all went to the servants’ pantry. Jacques, the boy, had discovered two bodies, that of Marguerite, who was apparently dead, and that of Monsieur Missery, who was still breathing. Thinking that all this noise had woken Madame, I went up to inform her.’

      ‘Where are your mistress’s apartments?’

      ‘On the first floor, in the left wing of the mansion. Monseigneur lodges in the right wing.’

      ‘Good. Let’s take everything in order. What time was it when you went down?’

      ‘About seven,’ she said, without any hesitation.

      ‘Was it dark?’

      ‘Completely.’

      That was a point on which everyone agreed, thought Nicolas.

      ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘Provence had a dark lantern with him.’

      It was a crude trap, and he wasn’t sure she would fall into it. It was obvious the blow had struck home, but she recovered immediately.

      ‘I don’t know … I think … The sight of blood bothered me. It was all lit up. How? I couldn’t say.’

      Nicolas did not insist: that would have revealed that he was trying to trick her. The mention of the blood intrigued him. Did she mean the blood at the scene of the crime or the blood on Missery’s body?

      ‘Was your mistress asleep?’

      ‘No, she was standing in the space between her bed and the wall, very angry, waiting to find out the reason for all the chaos – that was her word.’

      ‘Hadn’t she taken her sleeping draught the previous evening?’

      She stared at him again with her grey eyes. There was something beautiful in her mixture of sadness and severity.

      ‘Sometimes she takes it, sometimes she doesn’t,’ she said, slightly too curtly. ‘Sometimes she remembers, sometimes she forgets, sometimes she takes more than she should.’

      ‘But if she did take the medication, as she herself states, the noise should not have awoken her. And besides, you’re the one who prepares it for her. Did you give it to her last night?’

      He had thrown out this assertion at random, and had no evidence to back it up, but he had clearly hit the target, to judge by her agitation.

      ‘No … Yes … At least what there was of it.’

      ‘What does that mean?’

      ‘The bottles had got broken and I was only able to collect a few drops. I was planning to get some more today from the apothecary.’

      ‘A few drops of the potion?’

      ‘No, of the ether and alcohol.’

      ‘Can you show me what’s left of those bottles?’

      The question was a specific one, and there was no way of evading it. Nicolas was pressing home his advantage, convinced that he had put his finger on something – something that might be unconnected to the case but certainly seemed to be disturbing the duchesse’s head chambermaid.

      ‘I threw them into the cesspool, for fear that someone might get hurt,’ she replied. ‘If Madame had found them, it would have disturbed her peace of mind, for which I am responsible.’

      These skilful excuses did not need any further commentary. She was a strong sparring partner, thought Nicolas, used to living by her wits and even able to use her own unease as a strength, presenting herself as an honest person who has been thrown into a state of shock.

      He changed the subject. ‘What can you tell us about Jean Missery?’ he asked.

      Eugénie’s face turned slightly red. ‘I am a chambermaid,’ she replied, ‘and he is a major-domo. Our tasks are different and keep us apart. It’s Madame who deals with the women. However, he does sometimes reprimand us …’

      ‘What about?’

      ‘I don’t know. Something about candles. It’s one thing for our masters to exert their authority over us, but to obey those to whom they delegate part of their power, to be the servant of a servant, now that’s something I can’t stand!’

      It was such a vehement assertion that Bourdeau, who was standing behind Eugénie, underlined it with an eloquent wink.

      ‘I see,’ said Nicolas. ‘I suppose that kind of acrimony is perfectly common in large houses. What about the victim? What was your opinion of her? Like you, she worked for Madame, you knew her well. She must have been a friend of yours, with similar interests.’

      This time, Eugénie made a contemptuous grimace. ‘You can think that if you like! How could I have anything in common with that creature from the gutter, whose work consisted of emptying the buckets and cleaning the floors? She was introduced here by poor Missery. God knows where he’d met her! Everything about her suggested a dissolute origin. She led him by the nose, believe me. Her engagement here was a trap, and our major-domo fell into it. He lost his head and took advantage of Monseigneur’s trust to impose a girl like that on Madame. If she’d at least been honest with him! But just think, Commissioner, she used to receive a suitor – a young one this time – here, in this very house. She would go out at night, even though Madame demands that we lead a good, regular life. She didn’t suspect a thing! Just think, she’d got her claws into a widower, such a fine man, a major-domo to boot! She didn’t respect him, even though he was so good, and so trusting.’

      ‘In a word, you’re saying that Marguerite Pindron was Jean Missery’s mistress?’

      ‘That’s very definitely what I’m saying. Ask anyone. He’d become the laughing stock of the household. He didn’t deserve it, he could have …’

      She had been on the point of blurting something out.

      ‘Could have what?’

      ‘I know what I mean.’

      ‘Do you think him capable of punishing himself?’

      ‘He