Adamsberg realised, as they spoke of the cathedral, that the menagerie had melted away from its apertures. The spire, windows and doors were all open and unencumbered. The beasts had returned to their usual haunts. Nessie was back in her loch, the dragons in their fairy tales, the labradors in fantasy land, the fish in its pink lake, the general of the Canada geese in the Ottawa River, the one-third of the
‘A hundred and forty-two metres,’ said Trabelmann, picking up a glass of champagne from a passing tray. ‘None of us is that big, not you or me.’
And he burst out laughing.
‘Except in fairy tales,’ said Adamsberg.
‘How right you are,
Once the speeches were over and Danglard had had his medal pinned on his chest, the Council Chamber was full of chatter, discussion and cries, all made louder by the champagne. Adamsberg went to greet the twenty-six agents of the squad who, during his absence, had been waiting with bated breath for twenty days, without one of them believing the charges against him. He heard the voice of Clementine, around whom a little group had gathered, consisting of Gardon, Josette, Retancourt, who was followed everywhere by Estalere, and Danglard, who was watching the level of champagne in the glasses and topping them up relentlessly.
‘When I said the phantom was a real devil, I was right, wasn’t I?’ she was saying. ‘And it was you, my little one,’ she went on, turning to Retancourt, ‘who hid him in your skirts, under the noses of the Mounties. How many of them were there?’
‘Three, in a room six metres square.’
‘Well, there you are. He was as light as a feather, easy to lift, before I fattened him up. I always say the simplest ideas are the best.’
Adamsberg smiled, as Sanscartier moved over to him.
‘Gee, it’s great to see them all in this full dress stuff. You look a treat in your ceremonial gear. What are those leaves on the epaulette?’
‘Not maple leaves: oak and olive.’
‘They meant to mean something?’
‘Wisdom and peace.’
‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d say that’s not quite your style, Jean-Baptiste. Inspiration is more like it, and I’m not saying that to make you big-headed. Only there aren’t any leaves that mean that.’
Sanscartier’s kind face contorted into a thoughtful frown as he tried to think of a symbol for Inspiration.
‘What about grass, just ordinary meadow grass?’ suggested Adamsberg.
‘Sunflowers perhaps? But they’d look silly on your shoulders.’
‘My intuitions, or inspirations as you call them, are sometimes a damned nuisance. Get me into big trouble. More like couch-grass.’
‘That so?’
“Yes, and sometimes I put my foot right in it. Sanscartier, listen to this, I have a son who’s five months old, and I only realised it three days ago.’
‘Christ, you missed out on that?’
‘Completely.’
‘Had she given you your marching orders?’
‘No, it was my fault.’
‘You didn’t love her any more?’
‘Yes. No. I don’t know.’
‘But you played the field.’
‘Yes.’
‘So you gave her the runaround and she was unhappy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then one fine day you broke all your promises and walked out, just like that.’
‘You couldn’t put it better.’
‘Was that why you got drunk that night at
‘Among other things.’
Sanscartier gulped down his champagne.
‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but if it’s hurting you now, it could mean you made a mistake. You follow me?’
‘Only too well.’
‘I’m not a clairvoyant, but I’d say take your logic in both hands and switch on your lights.’
Adamsberg shook his head.
‘She looks at me from a long way off, as if I’m a huge threat.’
‘Well, if you want to get her to trust you again, you can always try.’
‘How?’
‘Like on the timber site. They pull up old tree trunks and plant maples.’
‘How?’
‘Like I said. They pull up old trunks and plant new maples.’
Sanscartier drew a circle on his temples, indicating that the operation required a little reflection.
‘Should I put that in my pipe and smoke it? Or as Clementine would say, put my thinking cap on?’ asked Adamsberg with a smile.
‘That’s it, chum.’
Raphael and his brother went back home on foot at two in the morning walking in step at the same speed.
‘I’m going home to the village, Jean-Baptiste.’
‘I’ll come on down after you. Brezillon’s put me on a week’s leave. It seems I’m in a state of shock.’
‘Do you think the kids are still making toads explode with cigarettes up by the washhouse?’
‘No doubt about it, Raphael.’
LXV
THE EIGHT FORMER MEMBERS OF THE QUEBEC MISSION HAD GONE TO see Laliberte and Sanscartier off from the airport on their 16.50 flight for Montreal. In seven weeks, this was the sixth time Adamsberg had been to the airport, and in six different states of mind. As they stood together in front of the departures noticeboard, he was almost surprised not to find Jean-Pierre Emile Roger Feuillet there; a good sort, old Jean-Pierre, whose hand he would have liked to shake.
He walked a little way off from the group with Sanscartier, who wanted him to have his special all-weather padded jacket with twelve pockets.
‘Now look, it’s special, because it’s reversible. The black side’s waterproof, snow and rain just run off it, you won’t feel a thing. The blue side makes it easy to spot you in the snow, but it’s not waterproof. It’ll get wet. So depending on your mood you can wear it one way or the other. Don’t take this the wrong way, but it’s like life.’
Adamsberg ran his hand through his short hair.
‘I understand,’ he said.
‘C’mon, take it,’ said Sanscartier, pushing it into Adamsberg’s arms. ‘That way, you won’t forget me.’
‘No chance of that,’ murmured Adamsberg.
Sanscartier gave him a warm pat on the shoulder. ‘Switch on your lights, put on your skis and follow your nose, pal. All the best.’
