empty. Then I got down on my hands and knees to look under the bed. The wooden frame was quite low and the bed so wide that I couldnât see anything beyond a few inches.
âGentlemen!â I called, getting up. âI need your help to move this bed. Ready? Heave ho!â
We pulled the bed towards the centre of the room. In the middle of a mound of dust was an octavo volume.
âIt must have fallen on the floor. Then someone rushing over to the Marquisâs body must have accidentally kicked it under the bed.â
I picked it up and wiped the brown leather cover with my hand.
â Le Comte de Gabalis ,â I read out loud, opening the book. â Discourses on the Secret Sciences , by Montfaucon de Villars. Published by Ãditions La Connaissance, Paris, 1921.â
I was bursting with excitement. The examining magistrate raised his eyes to heaven.
V
AN UNEXPECTED ENTRANCE
‘Madame,’ said the examining magistrate, ‘I know that Second Lieutenant Rouzé has already spoken to you at length over the last few days but we’d like to ask you some more questions.’
‘We’re grateful to the justice system for taking my husband’s death so seriously. However, I’m sure you’ll understand that the disruption has gone on long enough for me and my daughter. The sooner it is over, the better.’
Apart from Dupuytren, who was standing by the window with his arms folded, we were sitting in comfortable armchairs around a low table in the sitting room. A young servant was serving coffee and lemon tea in white china cups.
Opposite me sat the Marquise, a fine-looking woman of about sixty with touches of grey in her hair. She was wearing a long black dress which came down to her ankles. She spoke with a very slight Dutch accent.
On her left was her charming thirty-year-old daughter, Amélie. Her chestnut hair, artistically pulled back and arranged, set off her extraordinarily lively hazel eyes. She was wearing black flannel trousers and a velvet jacket which gave her a tomboyish air.
‘Madame,’ Judge Breteuil went on, ‘you must be aware that the investigation has been reopened because of a possible link between your husband’s death and the death of a poet in strangely similar circumstances in Paris this summer.’
‘How could I fail to be aware of it? Reporters have been stationedoutside the gates of the château since yesterday morning, asking to speak to us. Please assure us that it will soon be over.’
‘It is just a matter of a few hours, Madame.’
‘Have you read the article that mentions the death of the young man?’ asked Superintendent Fourier.
‘Yes. Well, my daughter read it to me.’
‘Had you already heard of Pierre Ducros?’
‘Never.’
‘And what do you think of the circumstances in which these two deaths occurred?’
‘I don’t know, Superintendent,’ said the Marquise wearily. ‘My husband had got certain unhealthy ideas into his head and it is never good when the imagination takes over from the intellect.’
As she spoke she glanced tearfully at a portrait hanging over the fireplace. It was a fine picture of a man in the prime of life, who had an enormous, badly trimmed beard and a bald pate with a few locks of grey, slighty frizzy hair visible at the temples and the back of his head. He was looking to one side, stiff in evening dress, his chest covered in decorations of all kinds. Nonetheless, his small laughing eyes and restrained smile betrayed a lively, mischievous temperament. Despite the formal pose for the occasion, he looked as if all he wanted to do was throw his tails on the floor and start dancing.
‘That portrait of my husband was done when he was elected to the Académie des Sciences in 1924. The artist has captured the different aspects of his personality perfectly. He was sensitive, passionate, a devotee of opera and music. He adored literature and baroque poetry above all else.’
‘I’ve been told that he was particularly curious
âGentlemen!â I called, getting up. âI need your help to move this bed. Ready? Heave ho!â
We pulled the bed towards the centre of the room. In the middle of a mound of dust was an octavo volume.
âIt must have fallen on the floor. Then someone rushing over to the Marquisâs body must have accidentally kicked it under the bed.â
I picked it up and wiped the brown leather cover with my hand.
â Le Comte de Gabalis ,â I read out loud, opening the book. â Discourses on the Secret Sciences , by Montfaucon de Villars. Published by Ãditions La Connaissance, Paris, 1921.â
I was bursting with excitement. The examining magistrate raised his eyes to heaven.
V
AN UNEXPECTED ENTRANCE
‘Madame,’ said the examining magistrate, ‘I know that Second Lieutenant Rouzé has already spoken to you at length over the last few days but we’d like to ask you some more questions.’
‘We’re grateful to the justice system for taking my husband’s death so seriously. However, I’m sure you’ll understand that the disruption has gone on long enough for me and my daughter. The sooner it is over, the better.’
Apart from Dupuytren, who was standing by the window with his arms folded, we were sitting in comfortable armchairs around a low table in the sitting room. A young servant was serving coffee and lemon tea in white china cups.
Opposite me sat the Marquise, a fine-looking woman of about sixty with touches of grey in her hair. She was wearing a long black dress which came down to her ankles. She spoke with a very slight Dutch accent.
On her left was her charming thirty-year-old daughter, Amélie. Her chestnut hair, artistically pulled back and arranged, set off her extraordinarily lively hazel eyes. She was wearing black flannel trousers and a velvet jacket which gave her a tomboyish air.
‘Madame,’ Judge Breteuil went on, ‘you must be aware that the investigation has been reopened because of a possible link between your husband’s death and the death of a poet in strangely similar circumstances in Paris this summer.’
‘How could I fail to be aware of it? Reporters have been stationedoutside the gates of the château since yesterday morning, asking to speak to us. Please assure us that it will soon be over.’
‘It is just a matter of a few hours, Madame.’
‘Have you read the article that mentions the death of the young man?’ asked Superintendent Fourier.
‘Yes. Well, my daughter read it to me.’
‘Had you already heard of Pierre Ducros?’
‘Never.’
‘And what do you think of the circumstances in which these two deaths occurred?’
‘I don’t know, Superintendent,’ said the Marquise wearily. ‘My husband had got certain unhealthy ideas into his head and it is never good when the imagination takes over from the intellect.’
As she spoke she glanced tearfully at a portrait hanging over the fireplace. It was a fine picture of a man in the prime of life, who had an enormous, badly trimmed beard and a bald pate with a few locks of grey, slighty frizzy hair visible at the temples and the back of his head. He was looking to one side, stiff in evening dress, his chest covered in decorations of all kinds. Nonetheless, his small laughing eyes and restrained smile betrayed a lively, mischievous temperament. Despite the formal pose for the occasion, he looked as if all he wanted to do was throw his tails on the floor and start dancing.
‘That portrait of my husband was done when he was elected to the Académie des Sciences in 1924. The artist has captured the different aspects of his personality perfectly. He was sensitive, passionate, a devotee of opera and music. He adored literature and baroque poetry above all else.’
‘I’ve been told that he was particularly curious
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