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Guy maupassant - moonlight. Read Moonlight Online

Guy maupassant - moonlight. Read Moonlight Online

21.09.2019

Guy de Maupassant

Moonlight

Abbé Marignan was well suited to his militant surname - this tall, thin priest had the soul of a fanatic, passionate, but stern. All his beliefs were distinguished by strict certainty and were alien to fluctuations. He sincerely believed that he comprehended the Lord God, penetrated into his craft, intentions and predestinations.

Walking with long strides in the garden of a village church house, he sometimes asked himself the question: “Why did God create this or that?” Mentally taking the place of God, he stubbornly tried to find an answer and almost always found it. Yes, he was not one of those who whisper in a fit of pious humility: "Your ways are inscrutable, Lord." He reasoned simply: "I am a servant of God and should know or at least guess his will."

Everything in nature seemed to him created with wonderful, immutable wisdom. "Why" and "because" have always been in an unshakable balance. Morning dawns are created in order to wake up joyfully, summer days - so that the fields ripen, rains - to irrigate the fields, evenings - in order to prepare for sleep, and dark nights - for a peaceful sleep.

The four seasons perfectly corresponded to all the needs of agriculture, and this priest never even had the thought that there are no conscious goals in nature, that, on the contrary, all living things are subject to severe necessity, depending on the era, climate and matter.

But he hated the woman, unconsciously hated, instinctively despised. Often he repeated the words of Christ: “Wife, what is in common between you and me?” Indeed, the creator himself seemed to be dissatisfied with this creation of his. For the Abbé Marignan, the woman was truly "twelve times an unclean child," of which the poet speaks.

She was the temptress who seduced the first person, and still did her dirty work, remaining the same weak and mysteriously exciting creature. But even more than her destructive body, he hated her loving soul.

Often he felt a woman's tenderness rushing towards him, and although he was firmly convinced of his invulnerability, he was indignant at this need for love, which forever tormented the soul of a woman.

He was convinced that God created woman only to tempt, to test a man. It was necessary to approach it carefully and cautiously, as if to a trap. Indeed, she is like a trap, for her arms are outstretched for an embrace, and her lips are open for a kiss.

He treated only the nuns condescendingly, since the vow of chastity disarmed them, but he treated them harshly too: he guessed that in the depths of the shackled, subdued heart of the nuns, eternal tenderness lives and still pours out even on him - on their shepherd.

He felt this tenderness in their reverent, moist gaze, unlike the gaze of devout monks, in prayerful ecstasy, to which something of their sex was mixed, in outbursts of love for Christ, which revolted him, for it was woman's love, carnal love; he felt this accursed tenderness even in their humility, in their meek voice, in their downcast eyes, in the humble tears that they shed in response to his angry admonitions. And, leaving the monastery gates, he shook off his cassock and walked with a quick step, as if he was running away from danger.

He had a niece who lived with her mother in a neighboring house. He tried to persuade her to become a sister of mercy.

She was a pretty and windy mocker. When the abbe lectured her, she laughed; when he was angry, she passionately kissed him, pressed him to her heart, and he unconsciously tried to free himself from her embrace, but still felt sweet joy because at that time a vague feeling of fatherhood awakened in him, dormant in the soul of every man.

Walking with her along the roads, among the fields, he often spoke to her about God, about his God. She did not listen to him at all, looked at the sky, at the grass, at the flowers, and the joy of life shone in her eyes. Sometimes she would run after a flying butterfly and, catching it, would say:

- Look, uncle, how pretty! I just want to kiss her.

And this need to kiss some bug or lilac star disturbed, annoyed, indignant the abbot - he again saw in this the indestructible tenderness inherent in a woman's heart.

And then one morning the sexton's wife - the housekeeper of the abbot Marignan - carefully informed him that his niece had a respirator. The abbot's throat was seized with excitement, he froze in place, forgetting that his whole face was covered in soapy foam - he was just shaving at that time.

When the gift of speech returned to him, he shouted:

- It can not be! You are lying, Melanie!

But the peasant woman pressed her hand to her heart:

- The true truth, God kill me, monsieur curé. Every evening, as soon as your sister is in bed, she runs away from home. And he is waiting for her by the river, on the shore. Why don't you go there sometime between ten and twelve. You will see for yourself.

He stopped scratching his chin and strode swiftly across the room, as he usually did during hours of deep thought. Then he began to shave again and cut himself three times, from nose to ear.

All day he was silent, seething with indignation and anger. The furious indignation of the priest against the invincible power of love was mixed with the offended feeling of the spiritual father, guardian, guardian of the soul, whom the cunning girl had deceived, deceived, cheated; bitter resentment flared up in him, which torments parents when a daughter announces to them that she, without their knowledge and consent, has chosen a spouse for herself.

After dinner, he tried to distract himself from his thoughts by reading, but to no avail, and his irritation grew. As soon as it struck ten, he took his stick, a heavy club, which he always took on the road when he went to visit the sick at night. Looking at this heavy club with a smile, he twirled it menacingly with his strong peasant hand. Then he gritted his teeth and suddenly, with all his might, hit the chair so hard that the back split and collapsed to the floor.

He opened the door, but froze on the threshold, amazed by the fabulous, unprecedentedly bright moonlight.

And since the Abbé Marignan was endowed with an enthusiastic soul, the same, probably, as those of the Church Fathers, these poets-dreamers, he suddenly forgot about everything, excited by the majestic beauty of a quiet and bright night.

In his garden, bathed in gentle radiance, the trellises of fruit-trees cast on the path the thin, patterned shadows of their branches, barely pubescent with leaves; a huge bush of honeysuckle, wrapping around the wall of the house, streamed such a gentle, sweet aroma that it seemed that someone's fragrant soul was hovering in the transparent warm twilight.

The abbot drank the air in long greedy sips, enjoying it as drunkards enjoy wine, and slowly walked forward, delighted, touched, almost forgetting about his niece.

Stepping outside the fence, he stopped and looked around the whole plain, illuminated by a gentle, soft light, drowning in the silver haze of a serene night. Every minute the frogs threw short metallic sounds into space, and at a distance the nightingales sang, scattering the melodious trills of their song, that song that drives thought, awakens dreams and seems to be created for kisses, for all the temptations of moonlight.

The abbe set off again, and for some reason his heart softened. He felt some kind of weakness, sudden fatigue, he wanted to sit down and admire the moonlight for a long, long time, silently worshiping God in his creations.

In the distance, along the bank of the river, a winding line of poplars stretched. A light haze, penetrated by the rays of the moon, like a silvery white steam, swirled over the water and enveloped all the bends of the channel with an airy veil of transparent flakes.

The abbot stopped once more; his soul was filled with an irresistible, ever-increasing emotion.

And vague anxiety, doubt seized him, he felt that one of those questions that he sometimes asked himself arose in him again.

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Guy de Maupassant
Moonlight

He had a niece who lived with her mother in a neighboring house. He tried to persuade her to become a sister of mercy.

- Look, uncle, how pretty! I just want to kiss her.

And this need to kiss some bug or lilac star disturbed, annoyed, indignant the abbot - he again saw in this the indestructible tenderness inherent in a woman's heart.

When the gift of speech returned to him, he shouted:

- It can not be! You are lying, Melanie!

But the peasant woman pressed her hand to her heart:

He stopped scratching his chin and strode swiftly across the room, as he usually did during hours of deep thought. Then he began to shave again and cut himself three times, from nose to ear.

He opened the door, but froze on the threshold, amazed by the fabulous, unprecedentedly bright moonlight.

The abbot drank the air in long greedy sips, enjoying it as drunkards enjoy wine, and slowly walked forward, delighted, touched, almost forgetting about his niece.

The abbot stopped once more; his soul was filled with an irresistible, ever-increasing emotion.

And vague anxiety, doubt seized him, he felt that one of those questions that he sometimes asked himself arose in him again.

Why did God create all this? If the night is intended for sleep, for serene peace, relaxation and oblivion, why is it more beautiful than the day, more tender than the morning dawns and evening twilight? And why does this captivating luminary shine in its unhurried procession, more poetic than the sun, so quiet, mysterious, as if it was ordered to illuminate that which is too secret and subtle for the sharp daylight; why does it make the darkness of the night transparent?

Why does the most skillful of songbirds not rest at night, like the others, but sing in the quivering darkness?

Why is this radiant veil thrown over the world? Why this anxiety in the heart, this excitement in the soul, this languid bliss in the body?

Why is there so much magical beauty scattered around that people can't see because they sleep in their beds? For whom was this majestic spectacle created, this poetry descending in such abundance from heaven to earth?

And the abbot did not find an answer.

But now, on the far side of the meadow, under the arches of trees moistened with iridescent mist, two human shadows appeared side by side.

The man was taller, he walked, hugging his girlfriend by the shoulders, and, from time to time, leaning towards her, kissed her on the forehead. They suddenly revived the motionless landscape that framed them like a backdrop created for them. They seemed to be a single being, the being for whom this clear and silent night was intended, and they walked towards the priest like a living answer, the answer sent by the Lord to his question.

The abbot could hardly stand on his feet, he was so shocked, his heart was beating so; it seemed to him that before him was a biblical vision, something like the love of Ruth and Boaz, the embodiment of the will of the Lord in the bosom of beautiful nature, about which the sacred books speak. And in his head the verses from the Song of Songs rang out, the cry of passion, the calls of the body, all the fiery poetry of this poem, burning with love.

And the abbot thought: “Perhaps God created such nights in order to clothe human love with a veil of unearthly purity.”

And he retreated before this embraced couple. But he recognized his niece, but now he asked himself if he had dared to oppose the will of God. It means that the Lord allowed people to love each other if he surrounds their love with such splendor.

And he rushed away, embarrassed, almost ashamed, as if stealthily entered the temple, where he was forbidden to enter.

"I burst into literature like a meteor - I will disappear from it with a clap of thunder."

Guy de Maupassant

In December 1891, the forty-year-old writer Guy de Maupassant, a favorite of the public and women, writes: “It seems to me that this is the beginning of agony ... My head hurts so badly that I squeeze it with my palms and it seems to me that this is the skull of a dead man […] I thought and finally decided not to write any more stories or short stories; it’s all beaten up, it’s over, it’s ridiculous ”... Few people from his acquaintances and friends could have imagined that such lines would come out from the pen of Maupassant, who called himself a “gourmet of life”, this lover of practical jokes, a cheerful society and physical exertion, with tireless energy for ten years producing one work for others. Only a few paid attention to Maupassant's penchant for melancholy ("a sad bull" critic Hippolyte Taine called Maupassant); probably also noticed that the writer sometimes complained about his health and often fled from secular noise, whether it was the society of Paris or Nice. But these observations were drowned in the glory of the conqueror of women's hearts, the reputation of a sober skeptic, anecdotes about his tricks, and most importantly, in an incredible stream of entertaining stories and novels that seemed to never dry up.

But Maupassant's acquaintances were mistaken about him not for the first time: ten years earlier, Parisian writers could not discern even a shadow of talent in him. The young Maupassant was well known due to his constant presence at Flaubert's Sunday dinners, which were attended by Alphonse Daudet, Edmond de Goncourt, Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev, Emile Zola. The eminent guests of Gustave Flaubert so far saw in Maupassant only a healthy and cheerful young man from Normandy, a modest ministerial official, whose only serious experience in his life was the recently ended Franco-Prussian war. Nothing distinguished Maupassant, except for the special, almost paternal affection of the great writer. For a long time, ignorant people considered Guy de Maupassant to be Flaubert's nephew (there were rumors about secret paternity), but no one thought that Maupassant could become his student and successor.

In fact, Guy de Maupassant was not Gustave Flaubert's nephew, but there was a closer connection between the families of Maupassant and Flaubert than between many relatives. Laura de Maupassant, nee Le Poitevin, knew Gustave Flaubert since childhood: he was the closest friend of her brother, Alfred. In fact, the friendship of the two families began a generation earlier, and the children grew up together: a special world existed in the billiard room of the Flaubert house, on the veranda of the Le Poitevin house in Rouen. Alfred, who was five years older than Gustave Flaubert and sister Laura, became interested in literature early, mastering Latin and English; the younger ones followed him. Young Alfred and Gustave wrote plays, while Laura, with the help of little Caroline Flaubert, cut and sewed costumes for home performances. Growing up Gustave Flaubert and Le Poitevins read a lot, had a thirst for creativity, believed in Art and Beauty. The years of friendship with Alfred Le Poitevin remained in Flaubert's memory as bright, filled with a special inner meaning. But then followed the departure of Alfred to study in Paris, his marriage to Louise de Maupassant, illness and early death. Laura de Poitevin and Gustave Flaubert remained forever bound by memories of an early deceased brother and friend.

Laura Le Poitevin, who grew up in a society of gifted and thinking young people, was known as an eccentric girl: she rode horseback, read Shakespeare in the original, smoked. For the daughter of a Norman bourgeois, she had an unusually broad outlook, a rich imagination and a nervous nature; her independence of character was often mistaken for arrogance. Laura Le Poitvin refused several applicants before agreeing to marry the handsome Gustave de Maupassant (her brother, Alfred, had married Maupassant's sister, Louise, shortly before). Laura's chosen one, namesake and peer of Flaubert, wanted to become an artist (it was this profession that was listed in his passport in 1840), but after three years of study in Paris, Gustave de Maupassant was struck by an eye disease. Flaubert, who believed that the illness was not due to immoderate zeal for painting, wrote to his sister with a mixture of pity and irony: “He, like all great artists:“ died young, leaving unfinished paintings that inspired great hopes. However, Gustave de Maupassant died only for art. Flaubert bantered a little on his best friend's son-in-law, whom he nicknamed "the yellow-mouthed fledgling" for being somewhat frivolous and foppish. So, the failed artist, and now a rentier, was clearly not indifferent to the attributes of aristocratic origin: the noble particle “de” disappeared from his last name after the revolution, but Gustave de Maupassant defended the right to return it in court. One way or another, it was he who became the chosen one of Laura Le Poitevin. The young traveled to Italy and settled in the Miromesnil castle, near Dieppe. As for the rumors about Flaubert's paternity, they are unfounded: long before Laura de Maupassant began expecting her first child, the great writer left for a long journey to the East.

So, Henri Rene Albert Guy de Maupassant, the firstborn of Gustave and Laura de Maupassant, was really born in Normandy, in a special region where the smells of the earth - pastures and apple orchards - mix with the brackish sea wind. It was said that the doctor who took delivery, with the gestures of the sculptor, hugged the baby's head and gave it a special round shape, saying that this would certainly give him a quick mind. The ocean coast, with its beaches and picturesque sheer cliffs, was only a dozen kilometers from Chateau Blanc, the first dwelling preserved in Guy de Maupassant's childhood memories. It was "one of those tall and spacious Norman buildings, reminiscent of both a farm and a castle, built of grayed white stone and capable of sheltering a whole family ...". Soon the second son, Herve, was born to the Maupassants, but the happiness in the family was shaky: Gustave de Maupassant missed his wife and children and was still too interested in women's society ...

The family often traveled to coastal towns - to Etretat and Granville, to Fécamp, where Guy's grandmother lived. Flaubert's little niece, Caroline, was also brought to visit Madame Le Poitevin. According to her memoirs, the look of the little Maupassant was "desperate and disheveled." Despite the fact that Karolina was four years older, in the games she always obeyed the boy's instructions: he decided that the bench on the lawn was a ship, and commanded in a firm voice: "Left rudder, right rudder, lower the sails." A real future sailor. The children together searched for all kinds of animals, birds and insects, and Guy frightened the grandmother and invited ladies with caught spiders. Caroline writes: “He, however, was not an evil child, but was spoiled and unbridled, with strange whims, such as, for example, not wanting to eat. If stories were told to him, he made up his mind, or I was around and chatted to amuse him; and then he ate without hesitation ... ”Sometimes Guy's whims were less ordinary and betrayed the boy's extraordinary insight. So, once Guy demanded from his father that he shod him, otherwise he refused to go to a children's party. And the boy achieved his goal: he probably guessed that his father secretly did not mind being at this matinee, in the company of young women ...

The move of the Maupassant family to Paris finally destroyed the marital relationship. Guy, with the same diabolical cunning, commented on his father's behavior: “I was the first in the composition: as a reward, Madame de X. took me and dad to the circus. It seems that she rewards dad too, but I don’t know why.” The pride of Laura de Maupassant did not allow her to live under the same roof with a man who had completely lost her respect and trust. Guy was ten years old when his mother took both sons back to the Norman coast, to the town of Etretat. Two years later, the divorce was finalized. The father had the right to see the children and to come to his wife's house at any time. A small family tragedy undoubtedly left its mark on Guy's ideas about marriage and relations between a man and a woman, but returning to his native land turned out to be happiness for the boy: a house with a spacious garden, the sea, chalk cliffs and beaches exposed by the ebb ... At that time, Etretat stopped be an ordinary fishing town. The famous arch-shaped rock and other picturesque views attracted the attention of artists, and then rich vacationers: Parisians began to buy villas and cottages in Etretat, rent houses for the summer. Landscapes, among which Maupassant spent his childhood, will become a favorite place for the work of impressionist artists - and the background of many works of the future writer.

Abstract

The love victories of the Earl of Heathmont, the most brilliant of London's society lions, numbered not even in the tens, but in the hundreds!

But the proud, impregnable Aubrey Burford, who, by the will of fate, became his wife, does not want to be another toy of an irresistible womanizer.

And Lord Heathmont, accustomed to conquering women with ease, suddenly realized that the most difficult thing is to win the heart of ... his own wife! But the more he tries to seduce Aubrey, the more he gets entangled in his own networks...

Patricia Rice

Chapter first

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter twenty one

Chapter twenty two

Chapter twenty three

Chapter twenty four

chapter twenty five

Chapter twenty six

chapter twenty seven

Chapter twenty eight

chapter twenty nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter thirty one

chapter thirty two

chapter thirty three

chapter thirty four

chapter thirty-five

chapter thirty six

chapter thirty seven

Patricia Rice

Chapter first

The appearance at Holland House of Austin Atwood, Earl of Heathmont, caused a lot of gossip.

“Since when have women murderers been accepted here?” the aged viscount mumbled indignantly after him. His companion, the same shaking old man, nodded his head in agreement.

Austin Atwood calmly crossed the living room without looking around.

“…the scandal with his wife,” came the whisper.

“…weird, but he seems to be injured?” Look, he's tanned like a pirate.

- Bessie, turn around. What would Mr. Evans say if he knew you were paying attention to people like him?

- But everyone says that he is a hero: awarded for the battle of A Coruña ...

- And I say, just a bandit. All his medals testify to a craving for violence. If you are interested in my opinion.

Grinning to himself, the Count continued to ignore the whispers behind him. He came here for one single purpose, and, if not for her, he would have gladly left the hostile society that he had shunned all these years. Despite his limp, he held himself upright with pride, and his imposing figure continued to attract glances as he made his way between groups of pale girls, first taken out into the world, child-loving mothers and boring fathers.

Having reached the ballroom, the count paused at the door. Crystal chandeliers shone over a multifaceted crowd, consisting mostly of ladies in pompous dresses, hung with jewels, here and there diluted with more formal gentlemen's suits. But even the men in black silk knickers and long frock coats sported diamond pins and gold watches gleaming in the candlelight. Such an impressive company can hardly be ignored as easily as a whisper behind your back.

The count looked around, noticing that there were few friends and acquaintances of the past days, and they kept to themselves. Most of them prospered due to an advantageous marriage, which allowed them to enter into select circles. The debutantes and their attendants already belonged to a new generation - even a simple acquaintance with them was impossible under the watchful eye of mothers, whose older daughters he had once introduced into the same hall. If it were not for the political intrigues that were woven in the back rooms of this house, he would never have crossed the threshold of Holland House.

At the entrance to the hall, next to a gilded statue, almost hidden by a palm tree growing in a tub, stood a girl in a white and pink dress with frills, slightly larger than the usual fashion sizes. Blondes rarely attracted the attention of the count, but the grace of the girl and the unusual color palette of her outfit caused him a fleeting admiration. Among the pale faces the color of the petals of a withered greenhouse gardenia, the blush of young cheeks looked like dawn after a moonless night.

Taking a step back and leaning against the wall to get a better look at the girl, the count noticed with slight annoyance that she was too young. Indeed, it is a pity that such extravagant beauty went to an empty-headed child.

In an iridescent gauze dress, which must have cost as much as if it had been sewn from gold thread, the girl did not notice at all the young people crowding around her. Flaxen curls were fashionably collected on top and swayed around the face - a sign of lovers of flirting and intrigues, but she did not seem to be aware of the provocative meaning of such a hairstyle. The charming features of her face were frozen in tension, her fingers tightly gripped the fan, and she, forgetting to fan herself with it, peered into the crowd of dancers with short-sighted persistence. At that moment, the count was called: “Hitmont!” There you are! I already despaired of finding you in this crowd.

A lean man of the same age as the count pushed his way towards him, absently rubbing the bridge of his nose, as if adjusting nonexistent glasses.

“If you want to achieve something, you have to work hard, Averill,” the earl remarked, turning to the only friend who did not turn away from him. - Have you figured something out yet?

The duke's grandson from his younger son, Averill Burford, nicknamed Alvan for some reason, did not have lands, but occupied a strong and indisputable position in society. Extremely beloved by all his acquaintances, he was never interested in the company he kept at his own expense, but showed an unusual concern for a childhood friend.

“It's a matter of time, Heath. Averill shrugged his shoulders in embarrassment. “The duke, a Tory to the marrow of his bones, is prospering under the present regency and therefore constantly in political concerns. Today, unfortunately, is no exception.

The Count darkened. Learning that the duke and his friends would not be at the reception, he lost interest by the evening. Trying to dispel the surging melancholy, the count turned his gaze to the girl in the golden dress and began to examine her.

The girl's face suddenly lit up, and Heathmont, feeling an unexpected stab of envy, turned to look for the lucky one who deserved such attention.

A young gentleman entered the ballroom with a self-confident gait in a brilliant suit perfectly tailored to his slim figure, with a carefully tied cambric tie and a monocle hanging from a silver chain. He seemed vaguely familiar to the earl, although the dandy had clearly been a green youth when Heathmont had last visited London society. An exceptionally respectable young gentleman, and the perfect candidate for the aspiring young misses.

The count turned to leave, but then he noticed a treacherous glint in the widened eyes of the girl. Long lashes fell hastily, but too late to hide the eloquent sheen of tears.

The Count looked again for the young man and found him bowing before a plump miss in a pink dress and deliberately ignoring the girl. It was then that Heathmont realized whom the young rake reminded him of.

Nodding to Averill, he pushed his way up to the girl and, smiling gallantly, bowed.

– I hope this dance is finally mine? he asked quietly. Aubrey looked into the blue eyes of the wise man, and from their slightly mocking, condescending squint, she experienced an unexpected relief that seized her at such a favorable intervention. Quickly extending her gloved hand to the stranger, she gave him a beaming smile.

"I thought you'd never come," she announced with mock glee, ignoring the gazes of those around her, listening to every word.

Heathmont approved of her determination, but cursed his stupidity as the waltz began to play. With a grimace frozen on his lips, he hugged the chiseled waist and, dragging his leg, began the painful movements that he once performed flawlessly.

Immersed in sad thoughts, Aubrey did not notice the lameness of her partner - she fought with herself, trying to hold back her tears.

“Smile,” Heathmont commanded, gritting his teeth. “You don’t fool anyone with a face like that.

Accustomed to thoughtlessly dancing, exchanging meaningless pleasantries with young people whose faces merged into one for her, Aubrey forgot about her partner. The harsh tone brought her back to reality, and she felt her partner's arms holding her tighter than decency would allow.

The Count smiled with satisfaction, appreciating the impression he had made on the girl.

“No man is worth your tears,” he answered dryly to the dumb question that was read in her eyes, which had darkened and seemed to sparkle with grains of gold.

“We were going to get married,” she said simply.

If you frown, you will get ugly wrinkles above your eyebrows. What did you mean by "We were going to get married"? Would a man in his right mind break off his engagement to the fairest bride of the season?

Aubrey ignored the flattery.

“My father didn’t even talk to him—they just exchanged letters. Geoffrey hadn't explained anything to me yet, but I was hoping... I was hoping...

“Did you really think that a fledgling would go against your father’s wishes?” You are naive, my dear.

She glared at him irritably, but the Count did not look away.

My dad promised! He said that I could make my own choice if only I made it before my next birthday. I chose Geoffrey and my dad didn't even look at him! He broke his word!

The frankness and arrogance with which the girl believed that she could get any man...

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I would like to become a butterfly
To fly in your skies.
And sadness, consume me
And tear the pain apart -
I will become a demon
I will take away all your sorrows!

My unearthly wind
Through the stream of time.

These feelings are mine
You turn into the color of spring
fleeting dream,
The soul will turn.
Into a thin cocoon of sleep, waiting for the end.
Just a tear in the mist.
The moon is melting in the sky.

Prologue.

Dark night.

What could be more amazing and mysterious in this world?

The moon and burning stars in the sky.

What could be more beautiful and mysterious in our world?

Everyone asks this question. What is best for him and for all his loved ones. Someone will say that this is the unity of the flesh and soul, and someone that the most valuable thing in his life is a calm and quiet evening with his family. Someone, yes everyone believes in something of their own. He believes that someday, he will achieve his goal, even if it is the Blue Bird of Happiness, fleetingly caught in his hand.

But what should you do, wandering this world for a thousand years?

Of course, to live and look for meaning in this life for yourself. Then continue to search for yourself, and when you are ready to find the very thing and treasured, to lose everything again. But stubbornly continue inexorably to catch every bright and good moment in your life. And of course, to believe in the good and not deviate from the goal.

Chapter 1 "Night sortie"

The city at night is always beautiful. The dark expanse of the sky, the stars and the moon turning yellow against a dark background, like a beacon for ships, a guide for those going. I like to walk in the evening, despite the fear and risk inherent in ordinary people. But right now I'm not in the mood for walking. Turning around the corner, and walking a little forward along the narrow street sidewalk, I found the very place I was looking for. Without drawing attention to herself, she entered the house and looked for what she came for.

A few minutes passed, and I was already standing in the shadows and listening to the conversation, hoping to hear what I would someday need. In a dark room, lit only by a table lamp, two men were talking. From the occasional raised tones in the conversation, one could understand that these two were very worried about something. And right now, in the dispute, they were engaged in solving this problem. I was curious, even if it does not concern me, did they solve their problems and in what way?

Two figures could be seen in the darkness. One of them imposingly settled down in a chair, the other stood nearby and listened attentively and dutifully answered all the questions posed. From this, the conclusion is simple, even obvious, a servant waiting for an order and a master thinking about solving the problem.

Master, what are you going to do with him next? - I did not immediately understand that someone, and not something, became the cause of the problems. But when she got used to the dim lighting of the room, without resorting to night vision, so as not to give herself away, she was able to see the one who caused the problems, these two. Not far from them, on the floor near the window, lay a third person, not counting me.

His arms were spread out to the side, his head was on his side, because of which one could see the man's closed eyes, pale lips, bitten from the pain inflicted in torture and torment, abrasions and bruises from beatings. And that's just the face, I couldn't see everything else because of my location, but I think all the other parts of the body are not in the best condition, judging by what I see on the face. But the host did not care much about the appearance and injuries of the prisoner, he only smiled and answered with an indifferent attitude towards the person present on his estate, counting the last hours of his life:

But this is already more interesting. It turns out that this subject is not the main figure in this game, someone else is behind him. If you stand here for a while, you can meet their master. But I don’t care about this, although there was a desire to find out what happened here, and what a simple boy did, that the owner of the house, without the intervention of law and order, decides his future fate, and this mysterious ruler, as a gift to whom they want bring a guy. Everything here is saturated with a mystery, for which, unfortunately, I do not have time.

Master, what if he doesn't live to see the master's arrival? - The servant asked, - after all, you seriously injured him, I don’t think he will last long, - he was perplexed, so he asked his question to the master. If everything is as he says and the guy is really wounded, then he will not last long, and what kind of gift can we talk about if the prisoner is dying. Only now, the master, the fate of the one who is about to give his soul to God, did not bother him much, so he answered: