Читать книгу The Poisoners - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 17

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He turned and followed the page who was waiting to guide him to the door by which he had entered the Louvre; the vast palace, so sombre, magnificent and silent, oppressed him; he had, too, been saddened by the death of Jacquetta and the painful, childish distress of her mistress; himself upright and temperate he was disgusted by this society, on the surface so gay and brilliant, where such horrors were possible—yes, horrors, for whatever truth there might be in the tale of Doctor Rabel it was clear that one of these girls had been destroyed and that the other was in grave fear because of secret intrigues instigated by ambition, greed and lust.

The page led Desgrez across a large salon, which was full of shadow; the fire under the high hooded chimney had burnt to a bed of red ashes, the heavy curtains of dark-crimson Venetian cut velvet were still drawn back from the tall windows that showed the grey, gloomy prospect of Paris beneath a dark sky.

Crossing this room, and directly in the way of Desgrez, was a young man of singularly pleasant aspect; his clothes were of almost clerical sobriety, his smooth dark hair hung on his crisp linen collar, and his long fingers were between the pages of a book. Glancing with aversion at Desgrez this gentleman exclaimed:

"A police agent in the Louvre!"

"Yes, Monsieur, I have been sent to investigate a very unfortunate affair."

"That of Mademoiselle Jacquetta?" asked the other sadly. "Does she live?"

"No. I have just seen her die."

The young man made the sign of the cross on his breast, a faint tremor of disgust passed over his serene features.

"The Court of France," he said serenely, "is one of the ante-chambers of Hell. I do not envy the Chief of Police."

"You are very bold, Monsieur."

"Perhaps because I have nothing to fear," sighed the other, as with a courteous bow he turned towards the dying fire.

"You are fortunate," replied Desgrez as he followed the page out of the gloomy salon. "Who is that gentleman?" he asked the boy in the corridor.

"That is the Marchese Innocenzo Pignata, nephew to His Holiness the Pope."

"He is here on a diplomatic mission?"

"No, Monsieur—he has been sent from the Pope to the King on private business. Everyone respects him—people say that he could be a Cardinal if he wanted."

"He allows himself very free speech."

"Yes, Monsieur, the King permits him every freedom—as he permits any liberty to M. Bossuet. It is believed that His Majesty thinks M. Pignata a saint."

"I think he may be," replied Desgrez; he had been much impressed by the personality, austere and serene, of the young Italian, who seemed to disdain so coldly the vicious atmosphere in which he moved. "Probably," the young police agent thought, "the King respects him because he tells him the truth; it is as well that there is someone to do so."

He had reached the postern door by which he had entered and the page, opening this, left him on the wet step.

Twilight had fallen, the sparse river-side lamps glimmered dully through a rising mist; the rain fell in a cold drizzle, now and then driven by gusts of wind.

Desgrez felt baffled, dissatisfied and oppressed by a sense of failure; he was haunted too, by last night's adventure—the Negro coachman, the frightened girl...

He had memorized the last words of the unfortunate Jacquetta, but he could make no sense of them and feared they were but the babblings of a broken, dying mind. What could she have meant by her references to "the Master", to a cock, to "carnation", to an Englishman, to an Italian?

Perhaps, indeed, it was just a sordid tragedy, common enough in a licentious Court, and the unhappy girl had died, as Doctor Babel said she had died, from the results of a secret love intrigue; perhaps her lover was a foreigner, an Englishman or an Italian, perhaps the crowing of a cock had been the signal agreed on between them for their secret meetings, at first so charming and tender, afterwards so full of terror and anxiety. Perhaps her first pledge-offering to him had been a knot of pinks or carnations.

But—what Desgrez had seen last night? As the door of the Louvre closed behind him the young man lifted his shoulders with a shrug of resignation; he had a poor story to tell M. de La Reynie and no story at all to tell Solange. The wind blew in icy gusts into his face and flapped his hat about his eyes.