It hesitated, worried, at the edge of the dark water, and then scurried as far as a row of trees. Its long tail, illuminated in the trembling flame of a street lamp, narrowly missed the trajectory of a stone. The rat fled. ‘Dirty rodent,’ muttered Basile Popêche, continuing on his way towards a clock tower, ‘any minute now, Paris will be overrun with rats!’ A lion in the Botanical Gardens roared as if in agreement. ‘Ah, that must be Tiberius; he’s sleeping badly at the moment. I think his teeth are bothering him.’ Basile Popêche turned off into one of the five roads leading down to the river, all bearing the names of wine-growing regions – Burgundy, Champagne, Bordeaux, Languedoc, Touraine – whose low buildings divided into wine cellars marked the edge of the wine market. Gripped by fear and cold at the sight of the deserted market, shrouded in darkness, he stamped his feet as he passed a warehouse where a storm lantern burned, giving off a light that was almost friendly.
What do You think about The Montmartre Investigation?
