The Greatest Murder Mysteries of Mary Elizabeth Braddon. Mary Elizabeth BraddonЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Chapter VII

       The Last Act of Lucretia Borgia

       Table of Contents

      Two hours after this interview in the pavilion Raymond Marolles is seated in his old place in the front row of the stalls. Several times during the prologue and the first act of the opera his glass seeks the box next to that of the King, always to find it empty. But after the curtain has fallen on the finale to the first act, the quiet watcher raises his glass once more, and sees Valerie enter, leaning on her uncle’s arm. Her dark beauty loses nothing by its unusual pallor, and her eyes to-night have a brilliancy which, to the admiring crowd, who know so little and so little care to know the secrets of her proud soul, is very beautiful. She wears a high dress of dark green velvet, fastened at the throat with one small diamond ornament, which trembles and emits bright scintillations of rainbow light. This sombre dress, her deadly pallor, and the strange fire in her eyes, give to her beauty of to-night a certain peculiarity which renders her more than usually the observed of all observers.

      She seats herself directly facing the stage, laying down her costly bouquet, which is of one pure white, being composed entirely of orange-flowers, snowdrops, and jasmine, a mixture of winter, summer, and hot-house blossoms for which her florist knows how to charge her. She veils the intensity which is the distinctive character of her face with a weary listless glance to-night. She does not once look round the house. She has no need to look, for it seems as if without looking she can see the pale face of Monsieur Marolles, who lounges with his back to the orchestra, and his opera-glass in his hand.

      The Marquis de Cevennes glances at the programme of the opera, and throws it away from him with a dissatisfied air.

      “That abominable poisoning woman!” he says; “when will the Parisians be tired of horrors?”

      His niece raises her eyebrows slightly, but does not lift her eyelids as she says—“Ah, when, indeed!”

      “I don’t like these subjects,” continued the marquis. “Even the handling of a Victor Hugo cannot make them otherwise than repulsive: and then again, there is something to be said on the score of their evil tendency. They set a dangerous example. Lucretia Borgia, in black velvet, avenging an insult according to the rules of high art and to the music of Donizetti is very charming, no doubt; but we don’t want our wives and daughters to learn how they may poison us without fear of detection. What do you say, Rinval?” he asked, turning to a young officer who had just entered the box. “Do you think I am right?”

      “Entirely, my dear marquis. The representation of such a hideous subject is a sin against beauty and innocence,” he said, bowing to Valerie. “And, though the music is very exquisite——”

      “Yes,” said Valerie, “my uncle cannot help admiring the music. How have they been singing to-night?”

      “Why, strange to say, for once De Lancy has disappointed his admirers. His Gennaro is a very weak performance.”

      “Indeed!” She takes her bouquet in her hand and plays with the drooping blossom of a snowdrop. “A weak performance? You surprise me really!” She might be speaking of the flowers she holds, from the perfect indifference of her tone.

      “They say he is ill,” continues Monsieur Rinval. “He almost broke down in the ‘Pescator ignobile.’ But the curtain has risen—we shall have the poison scene soon, and you can judge for yourself.”

      She laughs. “Nay,” she says, “I have never been so enthusiastic an admirer of this young man as you are, Monsieur Rinval. I should not think the world had come to an end if he happened to sing a false note.”

      The young Parisian bent over her chair, admiring her grace and beauty—admiring, perhaps, more than all, the haughty indifference with which she spoke of the opera-singer, as if he were something too far removed from her sphere for her to be in earnest about him even for one moment. Might he not have wondered even more, if he had admired her less, could he have known that as she looked up at him with a radiant face, she could not even see him standing close beside her; that to her clouded sight the opera-house was only a confusion of waving lights and burning eyes; and that, in the midst of a chaos of blood and fire, she saw the vision of her lover and her husband dying by the hand that had caressed him?

      “Now for the banquet scene,” exclaimed Monsieur Rinval. “Ah! there is Gennaro. Is he not gloriously handsome in ruby velvet and gold? That clubbed Venetian wig becomes him. It is a wig, I suppose.”

      “Oh, no doubt. That sort of people owe half their beauty to wigs, and white and red paint, do they not?” she asked, contemptuously; and even as she spoke she was thinking of the dark hair which her white fingers had smoothed away from the broad brow so often, in that time which, gone by a few short days, seemed centuries ago to her. She had suffered the anguish of a lifetime in losing the bright dream of her life.

      “See,” said Monsieur Rinval, “Gennaro has the poisoned goblet in his hand. He is acting very badly. He is supporting himself with one hand on the back of that chair, though he has not yet drunk the fatal draught.”

      De Lancy was indeed leaning on an antique stage-chair for support. Once he passed his hand across his forehead, as if to collect his scattered senses, but he drank the wine, and went on with the music. Presently, however, every performer in the orchestra looked up as if thunderstruck. He had left off singing in the middle of a concerted piece; but the Maffeo Orsini took up the passage, and the opera proceeded.

      “He is either ill, or he does not know the music,” said Monsieur Rinval. “If the last, it is really shameful; and he presumes on the indulgence of the public.”

      “It is always the case with these favourites, is it not?” asked Valerie.

      At this moment the centre of the stage was thrown open. There entered first a procession of black and shrouded monks singing a dirge. Next, pale, haughty, and vengeful, the terrible Lucretia burst upon the scene.

      Scornful and triumphant she told the companions of Gennaro that their doom was sealed, pointing to where, in the ghastly background, were ranged five coffins, waiting for their destined occupants. The audience, riveted by the scene, awaited that thrilling question of Gennaro, “Then, madame, where is the sixth?” and as De Lancy emerged from behind his comrades every eye was fixed upon him.

      He advanced towards Lucretia, tried to sing, but his voice broke on the first note; he caught with his hand convulsively at his throat, staggered a pace or two forward, and then fell heavily to the floor. There was immediate consternation and confusion on the stage; chorus and singers crowded round him; one of the singers knelt down by his side, and raised his head. As he did so, the curtain fell suddenly.

      “I was certain he was ill,” said Monsieur Rinval, “I fear it must be apoplexy.”

      “It is rather an uncharitable suggestion,” said the marquis; “but do you not think it just possible that the young man may be tipsy?”

      There was a great buzz of surprise amongst the audience, and in about three minutes one of the performers came before the curtain, and announced that in consequence of the sudden and alarming illness of Monsieur de Lancy it was impossible to conclude the opera. He requested the indulgence of the audience for a favourite ballet which would commence immediately.

      The orchestra began the overture of the ballet,