JК
The Real Life of Sebastian Knight :: Набоков Владимир Владимирович
Страница: 101 из 124The blond gentleman carefully folded his napkin, inserted it into a ring, got up, bowed slightly to our hostess and withdrew.
'We shall take our coffee in the green room,' said Madame Lecerf to the maid.
'I am furious with you,' she said as we settled down. 'I think you have spoiled it all.'
'Why, what have I done?' I asked.
She looked away. Her small hard bosom heaved (Sebastian once wrote that it happened only in books but here was proof that he was mistaken). The blue vein on her pale girlish neck seemed to throb (but of that I am not sure). Her lashes fluttered. Yes, she was decidedly a pretty woman. Did she come from the Midi, I wondered. From Arles perhaps. But no, her accent was Parisian.
'Were you born in Paris?' I asked.
'Thank you,' she said without looking, 'that's the first question you've asked about me. But that does not atone for your blunder. It was the silliest thing you could have done. Perhaps, if I tried…. Excuse me, I'll be back in a minute.'
I sat back and smoked. Dust was swarming in a slanting sunbeam; volutes of tobacco smoke joined it and rotated softly, insinuatingly, as if they might form a live picture at any moment. Let me repeat here that I am loath to trouble these pages with any kind of matter relating personally to me; but I think it may amuse the reader (and who knows, Sebastian's ghost too) if I say that for a moment I thought of making love to that woman. It was really very odd – at the same time she got rather on my nerves – I mean the things she said. I was losing my grip somehow. I shook myself mentally as she returned.
'Now you've done it,' she said. 'Helene is not at home.'
'Tant mieux,' I replied, 'she's probably on her way here, and really you ought to understand how terribly impatient I am to see her.'
'But why on earth did you have to write to her I' Madame Lecerf cried. 'You don't even know her. And I had promised you she would be here today. What more could you wish? And if you didn't believe me, if you wanted to control me – alors vous кtes ridicule, cher Monsieur.'
'Oh, look here,' I said quite sincerely, 'that never entered my head. I only thought, well… butter can't spoil the porridge, as we Russians say.'
'I think I don't much care for butter… or Russians,' she said. What could I do? I glanced at her hand lying near mine. It was trembling slightly, her frock was flimsy – and a queer little shiver not exactly of cold passed down my spine. Ought I to kiss that hand? Could I manage to achieve courteousness without feeling rather a fool?
She sighed and stood up.
'Well, there's nothing to be done about it.
'We shall take our coffee in the green room,' said Madame Lecerf to the maid.
'I am furious with you,' she said as we settled down. 'I think you have spoiled it all.'
'Why, what have I done?' I asked.
She looked away. Her small hard bosom heaved (Sebastian once wrote that it happened only in books but here was proof that he was mistaken). The blue vein on her pale girlish neck seemed to throb (but of that I am not sure). Her lashes fluttered. Yes, she was decidedly a pretty woman. Did she come from the Midi, I wondered. From Arles perhaps. But no, her accent was Parisian.
'Were you born in Paris?' I asked.
'Thank you,' she said without looking, 'that's the first question you've asked about me. But that does not atone for your blunder. It was the silliest thing you could have done. Perhaps, if I tried…. Excuse me, I'll be back in a minute.'
I sat back and smoked. Dust was swarming in a slanting sunbeam; volutes of tobacco smoke joined it and rotated softly, insinuatingly, as if they might form a live picture at any moment. Let me repeat here that I am loath to trouble these pages with any kind of matter relating personally to me; but I think it may amuse the reader (and who knows, Sebastian's ghost too) if I say that for a moment I thought of making love to that woman. It was really very odd – at the same time she got rather on my nerves – I mean the things she said. I was losing my grip somehow. I shook myself mentally as she returned.
'Now you've done it,' she said. 'Helene is not at home.'
'Tant mieux,' I replied, 'she's probably on her way here, and really you ought to understand how terribly impatient I am to see her.'
'But why on earth did you have to write to her I' Madame Lecerf cried. 'You don't even know her. And I had promised you she would be here today. What more could you wish? And if you didn't believe me, if you wanted to control me – alors vous кtes ridicule, cher Monsieur.'
'Oh, look here,' I said quite sincerely, 'that never entered my head. I only thought, well… butter can't spoil the porridge, as we Russians say.'
'I think I don't much care for butter… or Russians,' she said. What could I do? I glanced at her hand lying near mine. It was trembling slightly, her frock was flimsy – and a queer little shiver not exactly of cold passed down my spine. Ought I to kiss that hand? Could I manage to achieve courteousness without feeling rather a fool?
She sighed and stood up.
'Well, there's nothing to be done about it.