It was here, perhaps, that I thought it not a little extraordinary, and it may be somewhat less than prudent, that I, who should have been already at the gates of the palace, had turned aside at the mere nod of this dandy to enter a house of whose people I knew nothing. Nevertheless, it was the case, and I reflected that if one of my own countrymen were indeed in distress, then was the delay not ill-timed.
We were at the foot of a cold stone staircase by this time, and I observed that the lackey began to mount it with some caution. There was no sound in the house, and when presently we emerged in the gallery of a vast hall the place had all the air of a church which has been long closed.
Here for the first time I discovered the purpose for which I had been brought to the place. A man lay dead upon the flags of the gallery, and it was clear that he had died by a bullet from the pistol which was flung down at his side.
Thousands of men had I seen die since we crossed the River Niemen, yet the sight of this mere youth lying dead upon the flags afflicted me strangely. Perchance it was the great cold hall, or the dim light which filtered through its heavy windows, or the silence of that immense house and all the suggestions of mystery which attended it. Be it as it may, I had less than my usual resource when I knelt by the young man's side and made that brief examination which quickly convinced me that he was dead. The dandy, meanwhile, stood near by taking prodigious pinches of snuff from a box edged with diamonds. His unconcern was remarkable. I could make nothing of such a picture.
"Who is this youth?" I asked him.
He shrugged his shoulders and took another pinch of the snuff.
"One of your own countrymen, as I say—an artist from Fréjus who is in the service of my lord, the prince."
"How did he die, then?"
The dandy averted his eyes. Then he said:
"I returned from the great square ten minutes ago and found him here. You can see as well as I that he shot himself."