Post by Sylvestre de Valmont(D) on Apr 4, 2006 7:17:42 GMT -5
I was sitting by the window, staring without any particular emotion at the tedious uniformity of the Siovale countryside. It was green. There was a lot of it. I’m not a poet, I have no interest in pastorals. It was barely noon and I’d already finished with the various papers and bulletins I can just about afford to have brought by courier from the capital. They were tedious today, too. Sometimes I think they’re the only thing that’s standing between me and surrender to insanity. Well, those and some of the other … items … I occasionally contrive to have sent from civilised places.
I turned upon the windowseat. “Betta,” I shouted.
There were heavy footsteps upon the stairs – clump, clump, clump like an army of wild beasts, all in sturdy peasant boots. The door burst open. “Yes, Master Sly?”
“How many times,” I began, irritated, “do I have to tell you not to call me Master Sly.”
“But I’ve called you Master Sly since you was fifteen, Master Sly,” she said, pulling that face she always pulls when she’s going to be muleish. It makes her look even uglier than usual.
I decided the graceful thing to do, at this point, was to withdraw. I gave a languid shrug. “Old dog, new trick, I suppose,” I said. “But you’ve distracted me from what I was going to say.”
“And what’s that, Master Sly?”
“I’m thinking of hanging myself,” I announced, eagerly anticipating gasps and tears and impassioned pleading.
There was a silence.
“You don’t want to go and do a thing like that, Master Sly,” she said, finally.
“Oh why ever not,” I sighed. “I have nothing to live for. I’m getting old. I’m living in little more than a cottage in the most singularly monotonous part of the country it is possible to find, with barely enough money to support even the basic necessaries of existence.”
“We’d have more than enough money,” she retorted, “’cept you keep spendin’ it all.”
I pressed a hand to my forehead. “I’m a man of refined tastes and sensibilities. I can’t live on … vegetables. And wholesome things. It isn’t fitting.”
“The Duchamp girl down at the village is fillin’ out nicely, Master Sly. Why don’t you go pay her a visit?”
“I’m so bored of naive villagers. I’ve had my way with just about anything within walking distance. The farmer over the hill has quite a nice looking cart horse. You’ll be suggesting I baisse that next.”
She giggled. “You and your dirty tongue.”
“Oh stop that, you repugnant wench. I’m being serious. I might as well accept the fact that I have nothing to live for, except fifty more years of soul-shattering boredom and your unspeakably ugly face.”
“All the same, Master Sly, you don’t want to go and hang yourself.”
“And why not, pray tell?”
“Because I seen what happens to them what get hanged. Their faces go black as pitch and their eyes pop out like grapes.”
I shuddered. “Do they really? I rather like my eyes…”
She nodded. “And I know what else,” she said, avidly. “They say that hanging men … spend.”
“That’s more action than I’m getting at the moment,” I muttered.
Then there came the rattle of horse’s hooves upon the road outside. I turned, surprised. This is truly the most accursedly sleepy place. The flocks of geese fly through occasionally are considered noteworthy. The foam-flecked horse came to a halt at my front door so abruptly it almost crashed to its knees. A messenger flung himself from its back.
“Namaah’s tits – a visitor! A visitor! I’m not even dressed for it. Betta, get my dressing gown. The vermillion brocade. No … no … the jade silk. No the vermillion. Or the blue.”
“Have the red ‘un,” she said, flinging it at me.
I pulled it on, too flurried to even insist that it was vermillion, and headed downstairs with unseemly (and unusual) haste. As soon as I opened the door, the messenger thrust something at me. Black edging.
“What’s this about?” I asked, feeling my heart gripped by urgency and excitement. Was my interminable exile at an end?
The man was in Siovale colours. There were tears standing in his eyes.
I tore into the paperwork, my eyes skimming rapidly over the formal language. By the time I had finished, my hands were trembling so much that I dropped it into the road.
“Oh Betta …” I gasped.
She was standing beside me, a hand upon my arm. I don’t normally permit her touch me but I felt giddy enough to swoon.
The messenger was gazing at me with large, shimmering sympathetic eyes.
That changed quickly when I started to laugh.
“Hysterical grief,” I explained, when I had regained enough breath to speak. “Now I must go inside … and … and…” laughter bubbled inside me again “ … grieve,” I finished. “There’s an inn somewhere about. You can rest there.”
I turned and staggered back into the house. Betta, always quick to sense my moods and needs, shut the door in the messenger’s face.
I sank onto the floor, still giggling a little, and rested my back against the wall. “Well, Betta,” I said, to her enquiring look. “Our stars are finally in the ascendant. Well, mine is anyway. Yours is still a mere firefly. My up-his-own-col of a cousin – Clovis – the one who sentenced me to this life of privation and despair is dead.”
“It’s not right to celebrate death, Master Sly,” said Betta, sternly, “even if you are wronged.”
“I’m not wronged, I’m righted! I’ve just inherited an enormous estate and an incalculably enormous pile of cash.”
Betta was thinking. I could see it was an effort for her. “That’s not right, Master Sly. You’re a nobody.”
I rolled my eyes. “If I could bring myself to touch you, I’d slap you for your insolence. What do you know about succession? But, to enlighten your ignorance, I’m the last surviving scion of the mighty Siovale bloodline. All the rest of them are dead.”
She gasped.
“Oh don’t pretend to have feelings,” I snapped. “You didn’t know them, you can’t care for them. Now, bring me that bottle of absinthe I was saving for a rainy day. I feel like celebrating.”
I turned upon the windowseat. “Betta,” I shouted.
There were heavy footsteps upon the stairs – clump, clump, clump like an army of wild beasts, all in sturdy peasant boots. The door burst open. “Yes, Master Sly?”
“How many times,” I began, irritated, “do I have to tell you not to call me Master Sly.”
“But I’ve called you Master Sly since you was fifteen, Master Sly,” she said, pulling that face she always pulls when she’s going to be muleish. It makes her look even uglier than usual.
I decided the graceful thing to do, at this point, was to withdraw. I gave a languid shrug. “Old dog, new trick, I suppose,” I said. “But you’ve distracted me from what I was going to say.”
“And what’s that, Master Sly?”
“I’m thinking of hanging myself,” I announced, eagerly anticipating gasps and tears and impassioned pleading.
There was a silence.
“You don’t want to go and do a thing like that, Master Sly,” she said, finally.
“Oh why ever not,” I sighed. “I have nothing to live for. I’m getting old. I’m living in little more than a cottage in the most singularly monotonous part of the country it is possible to find, with barely enough money to support even the basic necessaries of existence.”
“We’d have more than enough money,” she retorted, “’cept you keep spendin’ it all.”
I pressed a hand to my forehead. “I’m a man of refined tastes and sensibilities. I can’t live on … vegetables. And wholesome things. It isn’t fitting.”
“The Duchamp girl down at the village is fillin’ out nicely, Master Sly. Why don’t you go pay her a visit?”
“I’m so bored of naive villagers. I’ve had my way with just about anything within walking distance. The farmer over the hill has quite a nice looking cart horse. You’ll be suggesting I baisse that next.”
She giggled. “You and your dirty tongue.”
“Oh stop that, you repugnant wench. I’m being serious. I might as well accept the fact that I have nothing to live for, except fifty more years of soul-shattering boredom and your unspeakably ugly face.”
“All the same, Master Sly, you don’t want to go and hang yourself.”
“And why not, pray tell?”
“Because I seen what happens to them what get hanged. Their faces go black as pitch and their eyes pop out like grapes.”
I shuddered. “Do they really? I rather like my eyes…”
She nodded. “And I know what else,” she said, avidly. “They say that hanging men … spend.”
“That’s more action than I’m getting at the moment,” I muttered.
Then there came the rattle of horse’s hooves upon the road outside. I turned, surprised. This is truly the most accursedly sleepy place. The flocks of geese fly through occasionally are considered noteworthy. The foam-flecked horse came to a halt at my front door so abruptly it almost crashed to its knees. A messenger flung himself from its back.
“Namaah’s tits – a visitor! A visitor! I’m not even dressed for it. Betta, get my dressing gown. The vermillion brocade. No … no … the jade silk. No the vermillion. Or the blue.”
“Have the red ‘un,” she said, flinging it at me.
I pulled it on, too flurried to even insist that it was vermillion, and headed downstairs with unseemly (and unusual) haste. As soon as I opened the door, the messenger thrust something at me. Black edging.
“What’s this about?” I asked, feeling my heart gripped by urgency and excitement. Was my interminable exile at an end?
The man was in Siovale colours. There were tears standing in his eyes.
I tore into the paperwork, my eyes skimming rapidly over the formal language. By the time I had finished, my hands were trembling so much that I dropped it into the road.
“Oh Betta …” I gasped.
She was standing beside me, a hand upon my arm. I don’t normally permit her touch me but I felt giddy enough to swoon.
The messenger was gazing at me with large, shimmering sympathetic eyes.
That changed quickly when I started to laugh.
“Hysterical grief,” I explained, when I had regained enough breath to speak. “Now I must go inside … and … and…” laughter bubbled inside me again “ … grieve,” I finished. “There’s an inn somewhere about. You can rest there.”
I turned and staggered back into the house. Betta, always quick to sense my moods and needs, shut the door in the messenger’s face.
I sank onto the floor, still giggling a little, and rested my back against the wall. “Well, Betta,” I said, to her enquiring look. “Our stars are finally in the ascendant. Well, mine is anyway. Yours is still a mere firefly. My up-his-own-col of a cousin – Clovis – the one who sentenced me to this life of privation and despair is dead.”
“It’s not right to celebrate death, Master Sly,” said Betta, sternly, “even if you are wronged.”
“I’m not wronged, I’m righted! I’ve just inherited an enormous estate and an incalculably enormous pile of cash.”
Betta was thinking. I could see it was an effort for her. “That’s not right, Master Sly. You’re a nobody.”
I rolled my eyes. “If I could bring myself to touch you, I’d slap you for your insolence. What do you know about succession? But, to enlighten your ignorance, I’m the last surviving scion of the mighty Siovale bloodline. All the rest of them are dead.”
She gasped.
“Oh don’t pretend to have feelings,” I snapped. “You didn’t know them, you can’t care for them. Now, bring me that bottle of absinthe I was saving for a rainy day. I feel like celebrating.”