"Smith, Clark Ashton - Tales of Averoigne" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Clark Ashton)

carven gold, and setting before us a meal of spicy meats, of unknown
savorous fruits and potent wines. But I could eat little, and while I
drank, I thirsted for the sweeter wine of Nycea's mouth.
I do not know when we fell asleep; but the evening had flown like an
enchanted moment. Heavy with felicity, I drifted off on a silken tide of
drowsiness, and the golden lamps and the face of Nycea blurred in a
blissful mist and were seen no more.
Suddenly, from the depths of a slumber beyond all dreams, I found
myself compelled into full wakefulness. For an instant, I did not even._
realize where I was, still less what had aroused me. Then I heard a
footfall in the open doorway of the room, and peering across the
sleeping head of Nycea, saw in the lamplight the abbot Hilaire, who
had paused on the threshold, A look of absolute horror was imprinted
upon his face, and as he caught sight of me, he began to gibber in
Latin, in tones where something of fear was blended with fanatical
abhorrence and hatred. I saw that he carried in his hands a large bottle
and an aspergillus. I felt sure that the bottle was full of holy water, and
of course divined the use for which it was intended.
Looking at Nycea, I saw that she too was awake, and knew that she
was aware of the abbot's presence. She gave me a strange smile, in
which I read an affectionate pity, mingled with the reassurance that a
woman offers a frightened child.
'Do not fear for me,' she whispered.
'Foul vampire! accursed lamia! she-serpent of hell!' thundered the
abbot suddenly, as he crossed the threshold of the room, raising the
aspergillus aloft. At the same moment, Nycea glided from the couch,
with an unbelievable swiftness of motion, and vanished through an
outer door that gave upon the forest of laurels. Her voice hovered in
my ear, seeming to come from an immense distance:
'Farewell for awhile, Christophe. But have no fear. You shall find
me again if you are brave and patient.'
As the words ended, the holy water from the aspergillus fell on the
floor of the chamber and on the couch where Nycea had lain beside
me. There was a crash as of many thunders, and the golden lamps went
out in a darkness that seemed full of falling dust, of raining fragments. I
lost all consciousness, and when I recovered, I found myself lying on a
heap of rubble in one of the vaults I had traversed earlier in the day.
With a taper in his hand, and an expression of great solicitude, of
infinite pity upon his face, Hilaire was stooping over me. Beside him
lay the bottle and the dripping aspergillus.
'I thank God, my son, that I found you in good time,' he said. 'When
I returned to the abbey this evening and learned that you were gone, I
surmised all that had happened. I knew you had read the accursed
manuscript in my absence, and had fallen under its baleful spell, as
have so many others, even to a certain reverend abbot, one of my
predecessors. All of them, alas! beginning hundreds of years ago with
Gerard de Venteillon, have fallen victims to the lamia who dwells in
these vaults.'
'The lamia?' I questioned, hardly comprehending his words.
'Yes, my son, the beautiful Nycea who lay in your arms this night is