The Burning Shore - Smith Wilbur (читаем бесплатно книги полностью .txt) 📗
Centaine placed Michael in charge of the His Master's Voice gramophone, her most prized possession, and made it his duty to keep it fully wound up and change each of the wax discs as they ended. From the huge brass trumpet of the machine blared the recording of Toscanini conducting the La Scala orchestra in Verdi's Afda, filling the kitchen with glorious sound. When Centaine brought his plate laden with pigeon pie to where he sat opposite the comte, she touched the nape of Michael's neck, those dark silky curls, and she purred in his ear as she leaned over him, I love Afda, don't you, Captain? When the comte questioned him closely on the production of his family estates, Michael found it difficult to concentrate on his replies.
We were growing a great deal of black wattle, but my father and uncle are convinced that after the war the motor car will completely supersede the horse, and therefore there will be a drastic reduction in the need for leather harness, and consequently the demand for wattle tanningWhat a great shame that the horse should have to give way to those noisy, stinking contraptions of the devil, the comte sighed, but they are right, of course. The petrol engine is the future. We are replanting with pines and Australian blue gums. Pit props for the gold mines and raw material for paper. I Quite right. Then, of course, we have the sugar plantations and the I cattle ranches. My uncle believes that soon there will be ships fitted with cold rooms that will carry our beef to the worldThe more the comte listened, the more pleased he became.
Drink up, my boy, he urged Michael, as an earnest of his approval. You have had hardly a drop. Is it not to your taste? Excellent, truly, however, le fbie, my liver. Michael clasped himself under the ribs and the comte made sounds of sympathy and concern. As a Frenchman he understood that most of the ills and woes of the world could be attributed to the malfunctions of that organ.
Not serious. But please don't let my little indisposition prevent you. Michael made a self-depracating gesture, and obediently the comte recharged his own glass.
Having served the men, the two women brought their own plates to the table to join them. Centaine sat beside her father, and spoke little. Her head turned between the two men as though in dutiful attention, until Michael felt a light pressure on his ankle and with a leap of his nerves realized that she had reached out with her foot beneath the table. He shifted guiltily under the comte's scrutiny, not daring to look across at Centaine. Instead, he made that nervous gesture of blowing on his fingertips as though he had burned them on the stove, and he blinked his eyes rapidly.
Centaine's foot withdrew as secretly as it had advanced, and Michael waited two or three minutes before reaching out his own. Then he found her foot and took it between both of his; from the corner of his eye he saw her start and a flush of dark blood spread up her throat to her cheeks and ears. He turned to stare at her, so enchanted that he could not pull his eyes away from her face, until the comte raised his voice.
How many? the comte repeated with mild asperity, and guiltily Michael jerked his foot back. I am sorry. I did not hearThe captain is not well, Centaine cut in quickly and a little breathlessly. His burns are not healed, and he has worked too hard today. We should not keep him unnecessarily, Anna agreed with alacrity, if he has finished his dinner. Yes. Yes. Centaine stood up. We must let him go home to rest. The comte looked truly distressed to be deprived of a drinking companion, until Centaine reassured him. Don't disturb yourself, Papa, you sit here and finish up your wine. Anna accompanied the couple out into the darkness of the kitchen yard and stood close by, eagle-eyed and arms akimbo, while they said their shy goodbyes. She had taken just enough of the claret to dull the razor-edge of her instincts, or she might have wondered why Centaine was so eager to see Michael on to his motor-cycle.
May I call upon you again, Mademoiselle de Thiry? If you wish, Captain.
Anna's heart, softened by wine, went out to them. It took an effort to harden her resolve.
Goodbye, Mijnheer, she said firmly. This child will catch a chill. Come inside now, Centaine.
The comte had found it imperative to wash down the claret with a fine de champagne or two. it cut the acidity of the wine, he explained seriously to Centaine. It was, therefore, necessary for the two women to help him to bed. He made this rather perilous ascent singing the march from Aida with more gusto than talent. When he reached his bed, he went down like a felled oak, flat upon his back. Centaine took each of his legs in turn, straddled it and pulled off the boot with her knees.
Bless you, my little one, your Papa loves you. Between them they sat him up and dropped his nightshirt over his head, then let him collapse back on to the bolster. His decency preserved by the nightshirt, they removed his breeches and rolled him into the bed.
May angels guard your sleep, my pretty, the comte mumbled, as they spread an eiderdown over him and Anna blew out the candle.
Under cover of darkness, Anna reached out and caressed the tousled wiry brush of the comte's head. She was rewarded by a reverberating snore and followed Centaine from the room, softly closing the door behind her.
Centaine lay and listened to the old house groan and creak around her in the night.
Wisely, she had resisted the temptation to climb fully clothed beneath her bedclothes, for Anna made one of her unannounced visits just as Centaine was about to extinguish her candle. She sat on the edge of the bed, garrulous with wine, but not so befuddled that she would not have known if Centaine had not been in her nightclothes. By yawning and sighing Centaine tried telepathically to make her feel sleepy, but when that didn't work, and she heard the distant chimes of the church clock at Mort Homme strike ten o'clock, she herself feigned sleep.
It was agony to lie still and regulate her breathing, for she burned and itched with excitement.
At last Anna realized that she was talking to herself, and she moved around the tiny chamber, picking up and folding Centaine's discarded clothing, and finally stooping over her to kiss her cheek and then pinch out the wick of the lamp.
As soon as she was alone, Centaine sat up and hugged herself in a ferment of anticipation and trepidation.
Although it was very clear in her mind what the final outcome of this meeting with Michael must be, the precise mechanics were at this stage still tantalizingly obscure. A process of logic had suggested to her that the broad concept could not differ too widely from what she had witnessed countless times in field and barnyard.
She had received confirmation of this one drowsy summer afternoon, when a mild commotion in one of the disused stables had attracted her attention. She had climbed into the loft and through a chink watched Elsa, the kitchenmaid, and Jacques the undergroom with amazement, until gradually it had dawned upon her that they were playing rooster and hen, stallion and mare.
She had thought about it for days afterwards, and then eavesdropped with more attention upon the gossip of the female servants. Finally, she had taken her courage in both hands and gone to Anna with her questions.
All these researches had left her confused and puzzled by the contradictions. According to Anna, the procedure was extremely painful, accompanied by profuse bleeding and dire danger of pregnancy and disease. This conflicted with the unrestrained glee with which the other female servants discussed the subject, and with the giggles and muffled cries of delight that she had heard coming from Elsa as she lay beneath Jacques on the straw of the stable floor.
Centaine knew that she had a high threshold of pain, even the good doctor Le Brun had remarked upon it after he had reset her broken forearm without benefit of chloroform. Not a cheep out of her, he had marvelled. No, Centaine knew she could bear pain as well as any of the peasant girls on the estate, and apart from her monthly courses she had bled before. Often, when she was certain that she was unobserved, she would take the cumbersome side-saddle from Nuage's back, tuck up her skirts and ride him astride. The previous spring, riding bareback, she had put the stallion to the stone wall that bordered North Field, jumping him from the low side and dropping down seven feet to the deep side of the wall. As they landed, she had come down hard on Nuage's withers, and a pain like a knife blade had shot up through her body. She had bled so that Nuage's white shoulders were stained pink and she was so ashamed that despite the pain she had washed him off in the pond at the end of the field before limping home, leading Nuage behind her.
