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

few minutes I descried a glimmering light through the forest-boughs,
and came suddenly to an open glade, where, on a gentle eminence, a
large building loomed, with several litten windows in the lower story,
and a top that was well-nigh indistinguishable against the bulks of
driven cloud.
'Doubtless a monastery,' I thought, as I drew rein, and descending
from my exhausted mount, lifted the heavy brazen knocker in the form
of a dog's head and let it fall on the oaken door. The sound was.
unexpectedly loud and sonorous, with a reverberation almost
sepulchral, and I shivered involuntarily, with a sense of startlement, of
unwonted dismay. This, a moment later, was wholly dissipated when
the door was thrown open and a tall, ruddyfeatured monk stood before
me in the cheerful glow of the cressets that illumed a capacious
hallway.
'I bid you welcome to the abbey of Perigon,' he said, in a suave
rumble, and even as he spoke, another robed and hooded figure
appeared and took my horse in charge. As I murmured my thanks and
acknowledgments, the storm broke and tremendous gusts of rain,
accompanied by evernearing peals of thunder, drove with demoniac
fury on the door that had closed behind me.
'It is fortunate that you found us when you did,' observed my host.
"Twere ill for man and beast to be abroad in such a hell-brew.'
Divining without question that I was hungry as well as tired, he led
me to the refectory and set before me a bountiful meal of mutton,
brown bread, lentils aad a strong excellent red wine.
He sat opposite me at the refectory table while I ate, and, with my
hunger a little mollifed, I took occasion to scan him more attentively.
He was both tall and stoutly built, and his features, where the brow was
no less broad than the powerful jaw, betokened intellect as well as a
love for good living. A certain delicacy and refinement, an air of
scholarship, of good taste and good breeding, emanated from him, and
I thought to myself: 'This monk is probably a connoisseur of books as
well as of wines.' Doubtless my expression betrayed the quickening of
my curiosity, for he said, as if in answer:
'I am Hilaire, the abbot of Perigon. We are a Benedictine order, who
live in amity with God and with all men, and we do not hold that the
spirit is to be enriched by the mortification or impoverishment of the
body. We have in our butteries an abundance of wholesome fare, in our
cellars the best and oldest vintages of the district of Averoigne. And, if
such thiags interest you, as mayhap they do, we have a library that is
stocked with rare tomes, with precious manuscripts, with the finest
works of heathendom and Christendom, even to certain unique
writings that survived the holocaust of Alexandria.'
'I appreciate your hospitality,' I said, bowing. 'I am Christophe
Morand, a law-student, on my way home from Tours to my father's
estate near Moulins. I, too, am a lover of books, and nothing would
delight me more than the privilege of inspecting a library so rich and
curious as the one whereof you speak.'
Forthwith, while I finished my meal, we fell to discussing the
classics, and to quoting and capping passages from Latin, Greek or. _