Dragonfly In Amber - Gabaldon Diana (читать книги бесплатно полностью без регистрации сокращений txt) 📗

“Proved? About what? And what’s all this about Raymond the Heretic?”

“You did not know?” Thin brows lifted over the brown eyes. “Ah. Then you are not associated with Master Raymond’s… activities.” He relaxed noticeably.

“Activity” seemed like a poor description for the way in which Raymond had healed me, so I shook my head.

“No, but I wish you’d tell me. Oh, but I shouldn’t be standing here talking; I should go and send Berta with food.”

He waved a hand, with some dignity.

“It is of no urgency, Madame. The appetites of the body are of no importance when weighed against the appetites of the soul. And Catholic or not, you have been kind to me. If you are not now associated with Master Raymond’s occult activities, then it is right that you should be warned in time.”

And ignoring the dirt and the splintered boards of the floor, he folded his legs and sat down against the wall of the shed, gracefully motioning me also to sit. Intrigued, I collapsed opposite him, tucking up the folds of my skirt to keep them from dragging in the manure.

“Have you heard of a man named du Carrefours, Madame?” the Pastor said. “No? Well, his name is well known in Paris, I assure you, but you would do well not to speak it. This man was the organizer and the leader of a ring of unspeakable vice and depravity, in association with the most debased occult practices. I cannot bring myself to mention to you some of the ceremonies that were performed in secret among the nobility. And they call me a witch!” he muttered, almost under his breath.

He raised one bony forefinger, as though to forestall my unspoken objection.

“I am aware, Madame, of the sort of gossip that is commonly spread, without reference to fact – who should know it better than we? But the activities of du Carrefours and his followers – these are a matter of common knowledge, for he was tried for them, imprisoned, and eventually burned in the Place de la Bastille as punishment for his crimes.”

I remembered Raymond’s light remark, “No one’s been burned in Paris in – oh, twenty years at least,” and shuddered, in spite of the warm weather.

“And you say that Master Raymond was associated with this du Carrefours?”

The Pastor frowned, scratching absently at his matted beard. He likely had both lice and fleas, I thought, and tried to move back imperceptibly.

“Well, it is difficult to say. No one knows where Master Raymond came from; he speaks several tongues, all without noticeable accent. A very mysterious man, Master Raymond, but – I would swear by the name of my God – a good one.”

I smiled at him. “I think so, too.”

He nodded, smiling, but then grew serious as he resumed his story. “Just so, Madame. Still, he corresponded with du Carrefours from Geneva; I know this, for he told me so himself – he supplied various substances to order: plants, elixirs, the dried skins of animals. Even a sort of fish – a most peculiar and frightening thing, which he told me was brought up from the darkest depths of the sea; a horrible thing, all teeth, with almost no flesh – but with the most horrifying small… lights… like tiny lanterns, beneath its eyes.”

“Really,” I said, fascinated.

Pastor Laurent shrugged. “All this may be quite innocent, of course, a mere matter of business. But he disappeared from Geneva at the same time that du Carrefours came at first under suspicion – and within weeks of du Carrefours’s execution, I had begun to hear stories that Master Raymond had established his business in Paris, and that he had taken over a number of du Carre-fours’s clandestine activities as well.”

“Hmm,” I said. I was thinking of Raymond’s inner room, and the cabinet painted with Cabbalistic signs. To keep out those who believed in them. “Anything else?”

The Reverend Laurent’s eyebrows arched skyward.

“No, Madame,” he said, rather weakly. “Nothing else, to my knowledge.”

“Well, I’m really not given to that sort of thing myself,” I assured him.

“Oh? Good,” he said, hesitantly. He sat silently for a moment, as though making up his mind about something, then inclined his head courteously toward me.

“You will pardon me if I intrude, Madame? Berta and Maurice have told me something of your loss. I am sorry, Madame.”

“Thank you,” I said, staring at the stripes of sunlight on the floor.

There was another silence, then Pastor Laurent said delicately, “Your husband, Madame? He is not here with you?”

“No,” I said, still keeping my eyes on the floor. Flies lighted momentarily, then zoomed off, finding no nourishment. “I don’t know where he is.”

I didn’t mean to say any more, but something made me look up at the ragged little preacher.

“He cared more for his honor than he did for me or his child or an innocent man,” I said bitterly. “I don’t care where he is; I never want to see him again!”

I stopped abruptly, shaken. I had not put it into words before, even to myself. But it was true. There had been a great trust between us, and Jamie had broken it, for the sake of revenge. I understood; I had seen the power of the thing that drove him, and knew it couldn’t be denied forever. But I had asked for a few months’ grace, which he had promised me. And then, unable to wait, he had broken his word, and by so doing, sacrificed everything that lay between him and me. Not only that: He had jeopardized the undertaking in which we were engaged. I could understand, but I would not forgive.

Pastor Laurent laid a hand on mine. It was grimy with crusted dirt, and his nails were broken and black-edged, but I didn’t draw away. I expected platitudes or a homily, but he didn’t speak, either; just held my hand, very gently, for a long time, as the sun moved across the floor and the flies buzzed slow and heavy past our heads.

“You had better go,” he said at last, releasing my hand. “You will be missed.”

“I suppose so.” I drew a deep breath, feeling at least steadier, if not better. I felt in the pocket of my gown; I had a small purse with me.

I hesitated, not wanting to offend him. After all, by his lights I was a heretic, even if not a witch.

“Will you let me give you some money?” I asked carefully.

He thought for a moment, then smiled, the light-brown eyes glowing.

“On one condition, Madame. If you will allow me to pray for you?”

“A bargain,” I said, and gave him the purse.

27 AN AUDIENCE WITH HIS MAJESTY

As the days passed at Fontainebleau, I gradually regained my bodily strength, though my mind continued to drift, my thoughts shying away from any sort of memory or action.

There were few visitors; the country house was a refuge, where the frenetic social life of Paris seemed like one more of the uneasy dreams that haunted me. I was surprised, then, to have a maid summon me to the drawing room to meet a visitor. The thought crossed my mind that it might be Jamie, and I felt a surge of dizzy sickness. But then reason reasserted itself; Jamie must have left for Spain by now; he could not possibly return before late August. And when he did?

I couldn’t think of it. I pushed the idea into the back of my mind, but my hands shook as I fastened my laces to go downstairs.

Much to my surprise, the “visitor” was Magnus, the butler from Jared’s Paris house.

“Your pardon, Madame,” he said, bowing deeply when he saw me. “I did not wish to presume… but I could not tell whether perhaps the matter was of importance… and with the master gone…” Lordly in his own sphere of influence, the old man was badly discomposed by being so far afield. It took some time to extract a coherent story from him, but at length a note was produced, folded and sealed, addressed to me.

“The hand is that of Monsieur Murtagh,” Magnus said, in a tone of half-repugnant awe. That explained his hesitance, I thought. The servants in the Paris house all regarded Murtagh with a sort of respectful horror, which had been exaggerated by reports of the events in the Rue du Faubourg St.-Honore.