"Andre Norton & Rosemary Edghill - Carolus Rex 2 - Leopard in Exile" - читать интересную книгу автора (Norton Andre)

that bore him to those official functions he deigned to attend, but the coach only took him as far as the
Rive Gauche before it was met by another, far inferior, vehicle. Beneath the soft April rain, de Sade
transferred to the second coach.

It was driven by the trustedтАФand onlyтАФservant to attend de Sade at his house in the Rue Morte, one
Grisalle.

Another hour's jolting travel brought the shabby anonymous vehicle to its destination. Grisalle did not
stop before the house, but proceeded directly to the mews behind it. Rather than be seen upon the street,
the Due preferred to enter the house through the servant's entrance, completely unobserved. In the coach
itself, he had exchanged his own soberly-elegant cloak and glossy bicorne for a shabby and
much-patched cape of dull fustian and a villainous low-crowned hat of battered flea-colored felt pulled
low. Only his hands betrayed the disguiseтАФwhite and plump like a pair of corpse-fed spiders,
ornamented with a dozen costly jewels like the glistening bodies of dead insects. Despite the well-tended
softness of the skin, the nails were black and ragged, as if eaten away by unspeakable vices.

Thus shrouded from view, the Due made his way from the stables to the house, his only light a shuttered
lantern that Grisalle had provided. His feet plashed through deep puddles, for the garden space was left
untended and undrained. Weeds of every sort grew up over piles of decomposing waste, and the bright
eyes of feral cats watched him from the darkness. Grisalle had gone before him, and the door to the
kitchen was unlocked.

The house smelled strongly of damp and neglect. The kitchen was dark and empty, the fire in its great
iron stove shedding the only light. No one had used this kitchen for its intended use for a very long time.
On the table stood a large hamper of provisions, but that was for later. On this April night, the Due went
fasting to his work.

Grisalle ignited a spill from the coals and used it to light a branch of candles which he presented to his
master. De Sade flung his hat and cloak to the floor and took the light silently, striding off into the depths
of the house while his servant stayed behind.

The rooms on the floor above were as dark and cold as the kitchen and loggia, for though he was
notoriously a libertine, de Sade was no sensualist. The passions he gratified had little to do with pleasure,
and he passed onward to those rooms which saw extensive use.

The third floor of the old house contained a series of rooms whose doors could be flung back to open the
space for dancing or card parties, and the floor had once displayed a fine inlay of exotic woods, but
years of neglect had nearly obliterated its splendor. What was not destroyed by spills, burns, and the
battering of heavy booted feet had been hidden beneath painted sigils of the Art Magickal.

The Due moved into the foremost room, lighting the standing candles that stood on the tables. Here it did
not matter whether it was midnight or noon: the windows were covered with draperies of heavy canvas,
and painted black as well, lest the outside world intrude upon what was done here. Several censers were
scattered about the room, to be lit at need, and a small fire burned in the grate, as it did nine months out
of the year, for whatever his inclinations toward his own comfort, de Sade's precious books and papers
could not be allowed to suffer the pervasive damp. Besides the ornate writing desk and several locked
cabinets of curious and ancient books, the room's only furniture was a series of stout tables. One held an
alembic and other apparatus for the distillation of drags. Scattered across its marble surface were various
boxes and bottles, each labeled in de Sade's own spidery hand.