The way you’ve fashioned the p in pigs’ trotters à la Sainte-Menehould! They look good enough to eat off the page! As for the spelling, I’ll take your word for it.’ The plump woman’s double chin quivered as she examined the finished menu based on a rough draft. She tried to pay the artist, but he refused with a smile. ‘A glass of beer will do, Madame Milent. Just carry on being my eyes and ears.’ ‘That goes without saying, Monsieur Daglan. The more I see of your upstrokes and downstrokes the more I’m convinced you’ll make the ministry one day. I’m ashamed of my spidery scrawl.’ ‘Come, Madame Milent, you’re the queen of cordon bleu. It’s the quality of your cooking that matters, not your handwriting.’ Frédéric Daglan finished off his beer and put away his things. By mid-morning, the main room at Madame Milent’s establishment in Rue de la Chapelle became the exclusive domain of carters transporting heavy loads, and cab drivers from a nearby rank. The back room, which was screened off by a thin partition and had a secret connecting door to the courtyard of the adjoining police station, would shortly be occupied by assistant chief of police Raoul Pérot, his colleagues, and a few literary friends.
