"Tad Williams - Monsieur Vergalant's Canard" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williams Tad)

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html




TAD WILLIAMS MONSIEUR VERGALANT'S CANARD He placed the burnished rosewood
box on the table, then went to all the windows in turn, pulling the drapes
together, tugging at the edges to make sure no gap remained. After he had
started a fire and set the kettle on the blackened stove, he returned to the
table. He opened the box and paused, a smile flickering across his face. The
contents of the box gleamed in the candlelight. "It was a triumph, Henri," he
said loudly. "All Paris will be talking about it tomorrow. The best yet. I
wish you could have seen their faces -- they were amazed!" "You are quite a
showman," his brother called back, his voice muffled by the intervening wall.
"And the pretty Comtesse? The one I saw the painting of?" Gerard laughed, a
deliberately casual sound. "Ah, yes, the Comtesse de Buise. Her eyes were as
wide as a little girl's. She loved it so much, she wanted to take it home with
her and keep it as a pet." He laughed again. "So beautiful, that one, and so
likely to be disappointed -- at least in this." He reached into the box and
teased free the velvet ties. "No one will ever make a pet of my wonderful
canard." With the care of a priest handling the sacrament, Gerard Vergalant
lifted out the gilded metal duck and set it upright on the table. Eyes
narrowed, he took his kerchief from the pocket of his well-cut but ever so
slightly threadbare coat and dusted the duck's feathers and buffed its
gleaming bill. He paid particular attention to polishing the glass eyes, which
seemed almost more real than those of a living bird. The duck was indeed a
magnificent thing, a little smaller than life-size, shaped with an intricacy
of detail that made every golden feather a sculpture unto itself. The teapot
chuffed faintly. Vergalant repocketed his kerchief and went to it. "Indeed,
you should have seen them, Henri," he called. "Old Guineau, the Marquis, he
was most dismissive at first -- the doddering fool. 'In my youth, I saw the
bronze nightingales of Constantinople,' he says, and waves his hand in that
if-you-must-bore-me way he has. Hah! In his youth he saw them build
the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, I'll wager." He poured the water into a
teacup with a small chip in the handle, then a little more in a bowl which he
set on the table. "The old bastard went on and on, telling everyone about
clockwork movement, how the Emperor's nightingales would lift their wings up
and down, and swivel their heads. But when my duck walked, they all sat up."
He grinned at the memory of triumph. "None of them expected it to look so
real! When it swam, one of the ladies became faint and had to be taken out
into the garden. And when it devoured the pile of oats I set on the table
before it, even Guineau could not keep the astonishment from his face!" "I am
always sorry I cannot see your performances, Gerard," his brother
called, straining slightly to make himself heard. "I am sure that you were
very elegant and clever. You always are." "It's true that no matter how
splendid the object is," Vergalant said thoughtfully, "it is always more
respected when presented in an attractive manner. Especially by the ladies.
They do not like their entertainment rough." He paused. "The Comtesse de
Buise, for instance. There is a woman of beauty and pretty sentiment . .
." The duck's head rotated slightly and the bill opened. There was a