"R. A. MacAvoy - Damiano's Lute" - читать интересную книгу автора (MacAvoy R A)

delicacy.
But he was touchy as a condottiere, where slights to his small self were
concerned. And jealous. Though he never let Damiano forget die young man's
inexperience widi women, Gaspare's attitude was as possessive as it was
mocking, and his green eyes watched Damiano's every move. Let the lute player
offer one gallant word to a female of any description, whether it be a girl
with die figure of a poker or a mother widi a dozen children, and Gaspare
purely trembled widi agitation.
You'd think he was a gir! himself.
And hey! Gaspare was even jealous of die horse. That was what lay behind his
silly resentment of die animal. He was jealous.
Heat lay a dry hand against Damiano's face. The clouds had dissolved in die
sky. The black gelding trotted now easily, ears a-prick, long head bowing left
and right to
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Damiano's Lute
an invisible audience. It was as though this trip to Provence were
Festilligambe's idea, not Damiano's. Or rather not Gaspare's, Damiano
corrected himself. Damiano had no pressing desire to meet Evienne and her
thieving clerk nf a lover in Avignon on Palm Sunday. It was Gaspare who had
arranged the rendezvous and set the time. (And what a timel How they had
gotten through the snows of the pass at that season was a story in itself, and
not a pleasant one. It had almost done for the lute, not to mention the three
living members of the party.)
Gaspare babbled endlessly about his sister, calling her harlot, slut and whore
with every breath and always in tones of great pride. He had badgered Damiano
into crossing the Alps two months too early, just to keep faith with this
sister with whom he was sure to squabble again in the first hour.
There was nothing wrong with Evienne, really. She had a warm, ripe body dusted
with freckles, a wealth of copper hair and a strong desire to please.
But when Damiano compared her to another woman of his acquaintance—a lady
whose tint was not so rare or figure quite so generous—all Evienne's color and
charm faded into insignificance.
Next to Saara of the Saami, all of female humanity came out second best,
Damiano reflected ruefully.
And when Gaspare met Evienne again, along with her lover and pimp, Jan Karl,
the boy was sure to learn more pickpocket's tricks. He was certain to wind up
hanged as a thief, if he didn't die brawling.
Damiano shut off this silent arraignment of his musical partner, without even
touching on Gaspare's salient vices of gluttony and greed. It was an
arraignment too easy to draw up, and rather more pathetic than damning. The
upset of spirits it was causing in the lutenist was making his arm throb
harder.
So what if Gaspare was nothing but trash, and doily becoming worse. Who had
ever said otherwise—Gaspare himself?
No. Especially not Gaspare.
And there was the truth that disarmed Damiano's argument. Gaspare expected
nothing but failure from himself—failure, acrimony, wounded pride. He knew he
Damiano's Lute
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