Over a month later, on a Wednesday, Danglard took delivery at the squad headquarters of a solid wooden case with two handles, carefully packaged and brought by special carrier. He put it through the X-ray machine, which revealed it as a rectangular object packed between wooden slats and surrounded by shavings. He carefully lifted it up and put it on Adamsberg’s desk. Danglard had not forgotten. He looked avidly at the object, stroked the rough outer surface of the case, but hesitated to open it. The idea that a canvas from the School of Clouet was lying a few inches away from him plunged him into a state of high excitement.
He intercepted Adamsberg.
‘Parcel for you in your office.’
‘Right, Danglard.’
‘I think it’s the Clouet.’
‘The what?’
‘The Valleray’s painting. School of Clouet, the jewel, the gem, the consolation.’
‘Right, Danglard,’ repeated Adamsberg, noticing that sweat had broken out strangely on the commandant’s suddenly blushing face. Danglard had no doubt been anxiously awaiting this for some time. He himself had completely forgotten about it since the scene in the library.
‘When did it get here?’
‘Two hours ago.’
‘I was visiting Tuilot, Julien. He’s got them doing level 2 crossword competitions now.’
* * *
Adamsberg opened the case, a bit roughly, then started to take out the wood shavings in fistfuls, to Danglard’s anguish.
‘Don’t for god’s sake damage it. You don’t realise.’
Yes, it was the promised picture. Adamsberg placed it in Danglard’s hands, which had stretched out instinctively, and smiled in imitation of the real happiness which illuminated the commandant’s features. For the first time since he had taken him off to fight the army of Ghost Riders.
‘I’m going to entrust it to you, Danglard.’
‘No!’ cried Danglard in panic.
‘Yes. I’m a peasant, a mountain dweller and cloud shoveller, an ignoramus, as Émeri always said. And it’s true. Keep it for me, it’ll be much happier and much better cared for with you. It ought to be with you, and look, it jumped into your arms.’
Danglard looked down at the canvas, unable to speak, and Adamsberg presumed he was on the verge of tears. It was Danglard’s capacity for emotion that took him up to heights Adamsberg never reached, as well as to the shame of the station platform of Cérenay.
* * *
Besides the picture – and Adamsberg was aware that this was a priceless gift – the Comte de Valleray sent him an invitation to his wedding to Léone Marie Pommereau, five weeks later in Ordebec Church. On his wall calendar, Adamsberg ringed the date with blue felt pen, sending a kiss to his old Léo. He would not forget to inform the doctor in his ‘place at Fleury’, but it was unthinkable that even with the powers of the Comte de Valleray he should be allowed to be present at the festivities for the woman he had resuscitated. Such powers are only to be found in fortresses like that of the Clermonts, where the rathole the commissaire had opened was being blocked up again, irreversibly, with the help of thousands of devoted hands, wiping out acts of infamy, complicities and trails of gunpowder.
* * *
Another three weeks and five days went past before Hellebaud the pigeon reappeared one morning on Adamsberg’s kitchen windowsill. He was warmly welcomed and it was a lively visit. The bird pecked up some seed from the hands of Zerk and Adamsberg, flew round the table a few times and told them the story of his life in many cooings. An hour later, he flew off again, followed by the blank and thoughtful eyes of Adamsberg and his son.