Читать «Cup of Gold (Золотая чаша)» онлайн - страница 96

He thought of the last scene with her. Now that he was calm, his wild action seemed the showing off of a thick-legged little boy. But how could any man have done otherwise?

She had beaten assault with laughter-sharp, cruel laughter which took his motives out and made sport of them. He might have killed her; but what man could kill a woman who wanted to be killed, who begged to be killed? The thing was impossible. He rammed a bullet into the muzzle of his pistol.

A draggled, unkempt figure came through the doorway. It was Coeur de Gris, a red-eyed, mud-spattered Coeur de Gris with the blood of the battle still on his face. He looked at the heap of treasure.

"We are rich," he said without enthusiasm.

"Where have you been, Coeur de Gris?"

"Been? 'Why, I have been drunk. It is good to be drunk after fighting." He smiled wryly and licked his lips "It is not so good to stop being drunk. That is like childbirth-necessary, but unpleasant and unornamental."

"I wanted you by my side," said Henry Morgan.

"You wanted me? I was informed that you wanted no one-that you were quite complete and happy in yourself-and so I got a little drunker. You see, sir, I did not want to remember your reason for being alone." He paused. "It was told me, sir, that the Red Saint is here." Coeur de Gris laughed at his own ill-concealed emotion. He changed his manner with an effort of will. His tone became jocular.

"Tell me the truth, sir. It is a small gift to a man to know what he has missed. Many people have no other gift during their whole lives. Tell me, sir, has the sweet enemy fallen? Has the castle of flesh capitulated?

Does the standard of Morgan float over the pink tower?"

Henry's face had flushed. The pistol in his hand rose quietly, steadied by an inexorable madness. There was a sharp crash and a white billow of smoke.

Coeur de Otis stood as he was. He seemed to be intently listening to some distant, throbbing sound.

Then a grimace of terror spread on his face. His fingers frantically explored his breast and followed a trickle of blood to its source, a small hole in his lung. The little finger edged into the hole. Coeur de Gris smiled again. He was not afraid of certain things. Now that he knew, he was not frightened any more.

Captain Morgan stared stupidly at the pistol in his hand.

He seemed surprised to discover it there, startled at its presence.

Coeur de Gris laughed hysterically.

"My mother will hate you," he cried ruefully. "She will practice all her ancient curses upon you. My mother-" he choked over his breath. "Do not tell her. Make some gleaming lie. Build my poor life up to a golden minaret. Do not let it stop like a half-finished tower. But, no-you need build only a foundation.

If you give her that, she will continue the structure of heroic memory. She will make for me a tomb of white, inaccurate thoughts." His throat filled with blood. "Why did you do it, sir?"

The captain looked up from his pistol.

"Do it?" He saw the bloody lips, the torn breast; he started up from his chair and then fell back again.