JК
The Real Life of Sebastian Knight :: Набоков Владимир Владимирович
Страница: 91 из 124'And that lady's letters which he kept…. Well, you see – he wished them destroyed after his death.'
'That's right,' she said cheerfully, 'I quite understand him. By all means, burn love-letters. The past makes noble fuel. Would you like a cup of tea?'
'No,' I said. 'What I would like is to know when I can see Madame Graun.'
'Soon,' said Madame Lecerf. 'She is not in Paris for the moment, but I think you might call again tomorrow. Yes, that'll be all right, I suppose. She may even return tonight.'
'Might I ask you,' I said, 'to tell me more about her?'
'Well, that's easy,' said Madame Lecerf. 'She is quite a good singer, tzigan songs, you know, that kind. She is extraordinarily beautiful. Elle fait des passions. I like her awfully and I have a room at this flat whenever I say in Paris. Here is her picture, by the way.'
Slowly and noiselessly she moved across the thick carpeted drawing-room, and took a large framed photograph which was standing on the piano. I stared for a moment at an exquisite face half turned away from me. The soft curve of the cheek and the upward dart of the ghostly eyebrow were very Russian, I thought. There was a gleam on the lower eye-lid, and a gleam on the full dark lips. The expression seemed to me a strange mixture of dreaminess and cunning.
'Yes,' I said 'yes….'
'Why, is it she?' asked Madame Lecerf inquisitively.
'It might be,' I replied, 'and I am much looking forward to meeting her.'
'I'll try to find out myself,' said Madame Lecerf with a charming air of conspiracy. 'Because, you see, I think writing a book about people you know is so much more honest than making a hash of them and then presenting it as your own invention!'
I thanked her and made my adieux as the French have it. Her hand was remarkably small, and as I inadvertently pressed it too hard, she winced, for there was a big sharp ring on the middle finger. It hurt me too a little.
'Tomorrow at the same time,' she said and laughed gently. A nice quiet, quietly moving person.
I had learnt nothing as yet, but I felt I was proceeding successfully. Now it remained to set my mind at ease in regard to Lydia Bohemsky. When I called at the address I had, I was told by the concierge that the lady had moved some months ago. He said he thought she lived at a small hotel across the street. There I was told that she had gone three weeks ago and was living at the other end of the town. I asked my informant whether he thought she was Russian. He said she was. 'A handsome dark woman?' I suggested, using an old Sherlock Holmes stratagem.
'That's right,' she said cheerfully, 'I quite understand him. By all means, burn love-letters. The past makes noble fuel. Would you like a cup of tea?'
'No,' I said. 'What I would like is to know when I can see Madame Graun.'
'Soon,' said Madame Lecerf. 'She is not in Paris for the moment, but I think you might call again tomorrow. Yes, that'll be all right, I suppose. She may even return tonight.'
'Might I ask you,' I said, 'to tell me more about her?'
'Well, that's easy,' said Madame Lecerf. 'She is quite a good singer, tzigan songs, you know, that kind. She is extraordinarily beautiful. Elle fait des passions. I like her awfully and I have a room at this flat whenever I say in Paris. Here is her picture, by the way.'
Slowly and noiselessly she moved across the thick carpeted drawing-room, and took a large framed photograph which was standing on the piano. I stared for a moment at an exquisite face half turned away from me. The soft curve of the cheek and the upward dart of the ghostly eyebrow were very Russian, I thought. There was a gleam on the lower eye-lid, and a gleam on the full dark lips. The expression seemed to me a strange mixture of dreaminess and cunning.
'Yes,' I said 'yes….'
'Why, is it she?' asked Madame Lecerf inquisitively.
'It might be,' I replied, 'and I am much looking forward to meeting her.'
'I'll try to find out myself,' said Madame Lecerf with a charming air of conspiracy. 'Because, you see, I think writing a book about people you know is so much more honest than making a hash of them and then presenting it as your own invention!'
I thanked her and made my adieux as the French have it. Her hand was remarkably small, and as I inadvertently pressed it too hard, she winced, for there was a big sharp ring on the middle finger. It hurt me too a little.
'Tomorrow at the same time,' she said and laughed gently. A nice quiet, quietly moving person.
I had learnt nothing as yet, but I felt I was proceeding successfully. Now it remained to set my mind at ease in regard to Lydia Bohemsky. When I called at the address I had, I was told by the concierge that the lady had moved some months ago. He said he thought she lived at a small hotel across the street. There I was told that she had gone three weeks ago and was living at the other end of the town. I asked my informant whether he thought she was Russian. He said she was. 'A handsome dark woman?' I suggested, using an old Sherlock Holmes stratagem.