Так как у нас теперь пропадают не только комментарии, но и записи, - мой второй дубль. Имитация стиля Орци, мало смысла, много медицины, чистой воды эксперимент.
***
...Chauvelin was still sitting on the sofa, his right leg stretched, his small, lean fingers caressing the knee which may be badly bruised or otherwise hurt for better or for worse. Scarcely did anyone in the lodging take heed of his troubles while he himself was absorbed into the sulkiest anticipation. His cheek had hardly had any color in it, wan with anxiety, or should it be, with pain which he took every effort to conceal and which was yet as clear as the movement of his thin lips uttering inaudible words, mayhap the sheer groans. Presently a shadow moved across the floor and reached the citizen who heaved his head with sudden, jerky movement
"La!" Percy was saying, his urbane smile being something of a torture. "Poor little Chauvelin, methinks good fortune has betrayed you! Did you hurt yourself in that feverish jump? How unwise of you to think I'd not have let you choose the door! Nay, the window was too high, I myself shattered when you did it... There you are, make a good slit of it and for heaven's sake don't hurt yourself with that demned knife!"
A quiver, soft but visible, was in possession of Chauvelin's hands when he took the pen-knife from the Englishman and made a lame attempt to slit his trousers, just where the fabric had a blood stain on it. His efforts being futile and his hands trembling now for the best, Percy seized the knife, somewhat carelessly, to ensure his good will, and did it for him in no time, first, cutting the fabric, next, tearing it down with his bare hands. The easier it was to perform, the harder for Chauvelin to bear the menacing presence of his enemy at his feet inasmuch as it was him who'd incited the little Frenchman into desperate actions. He was in pain, clenching his teeth at the slightest movement caused by sir Percy's actions; his forehead was all sweat, his eyes widely open, his hand sliding up and down the arm of the sofa, not coming to a rest until it was all over and done with. Blakeney clicked his tongue staring blankly at his injured knee. There was blood, a good deal of it, and a nasty cut, as if the knee had been hit against a dislocated paving stone. Percy felt it with his fingers giving way to a momentary frown.
"My good old Chauvelin, pray tell me if it hurts you when I do this", he asked slightly bending the knee.
An involuntary oath forced its way between the citizen's teeth, only to cause another query.
"Is that the thing you do with women, my good friend?"
Chauvelin was wise enough to consider the question rhetorical.
"Not a bad one", sir Percy was saying, with a slight slap just above the wound. "Still, bad enough to keep you off-duty for a couple days, my poor little Chauvelin! Rest assured, monsieur, I won't be long in France to cause you trouble, so give that knee of yours a care and pray have something good to eat, or else my heart will break to see you starve like that - by Jove, you're as exhausted as your patience!"
To little Frenchman, all foresaid, disregarding its primary message, was rather a slap in the eye. He bit his lip, avoiding looking at his foe as thoroughly as he would stifle the bitter wish to examine his leg, now that the Englishman had left it resting on the sofa.
"Lud!" Blakeney went on with a dazzling smile, "the time is pressing but before we go I'd better put my humble treatment to an end - no, no, for better than for worse, my dear Chauvelin!"
Seizing the tricolour scarf, still tied around the citizen's gaunt frame, Blakeney made the best of it to fix his knee and slid a pillow under it. Insult, added to injury, was all too much for the poor victim of sir Percy's mercifulness. Chauvelin did not move; neither could he force himself up, confined so comfortably and miserably to the improvised hospital bed. That - and overwhelming desire to bite the hand that cures made him hiss between his teeth.
"Curse... you... Blakeney!.."
"Nah, don't be like that!" sir Percy smiled. "So long, my dear fellow, and may the goddess of your justice do a good one to you, too!"
The small house witnessed the departure of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. Chauvelin, indulging in every sort of blasphemy, was left behind without another word.
***
...Chauvelin was still sitting on the sofa, his right leg stretched, his small, lean fingers caressing the knee which may be badly bruised or otherwise hurt for better or for worse. Scarcely did anyone in the lodging take heed of his troubles while he himself was absorbed into the sulkiest anticipation. His cheek had hardly had any color in it, wan with anxiety, or should it be, with pain which he took every effort to conceal and which was yet as clear as the movement of his thin lips uttering inaudible words, mayhap the sheer groans. Presently a shadow moved across the floor and reached the citizen who heaved his head with sudden, jerky movement
"La!" Percy was saying, his urbane smile being something of a torture. "Poor little Chauvelin, methinks good fortune has betrayed you! Did you hurt yourself in that feverish jump? How unwise of you to think I'd not have let you choose the door! Nay, the window was too high, I myself shattered when you did it... There you are, make a good slit of it and for heaven's sake don't hurt yourself with that demned knife!"
A quiver, soft but visible, was in possession of Chauvelin's hands when he took the pen-knife from the Englishman and made a lame attempt to slit his trousers, just where the fabric had a blood stain on it. His efforts being futile and his hands trembling now for the best, Percy seized the knife, somewhat carelessly, to ensure his good will, and did it for him in no time, first, cutting the fabric, next, tearing it down with his bare hands. The easier it was to perform, the harder for Chauvelin to bear the menacing presence of his enemy at his feet inasmuch as it was him who'd incited the little Frenchman into desperate actions. He was in pain, clenching his teeth at the slightest movement caused by sir Percy's actions; his forehead was all sweat, his eyes widely open, his hand sliding up and down the arm of the sofa, not coming to a rest until it was all over and done with. Blakeney clicked his tongue staring blankly at his injured knee. There was blood, a good deal of it, and a nasty cut, as if the knee had been hit against a dislocated paving stone. Percy felt it with his fingers giving way to a momentary frown.
"My good old Chauvelin, pray tell me if it hurts you when I do this", he asked slightly bending the knee.
An involuntary oath forced its way between the citizen's teeth, only to cause another query.
"Is that the thing you do with women, my good friend?"
Chauvelin was wise enough to consider the question rhetorical.
"Not a bad one", sir Percy was saying, with a slight slap just above the wound. "Still, bad enough to keep you off-duty for a couple days, my poor little Chauvelin! Rest assured, monsieur, I won't be long in France to cause you trouble, so give that knee of yours a care and pray have something good to eat, or else my heart will break to see you starve like that - by Jove, you're as exhausted as your patience!"
To little Frenchman, all foresaid, disregarding its primary message, was rather a slap in the eye. He bit his lip, avoiding looking at his foe as thoroughly as he would stifle the bitter wish to examine his leg, now that the Englishman had left it resting on the sofa.
"Lud!" Blakeney went on with a dazzling smile, "the time is pressing but before we go I'd better put my humble treatment to an end - no, no, for better than for worse, my dear Chauvelin!"
Seizing the tricolour scarf, still tied around the citizen's gaunt frame, Blakeney made the best of it to fix his knee and slid a pillow under it. Insult, added to injury, was all too much for the poor victim of sir Percy's mercifulness. Chauvelin did not move; neither could he force himself up, confined so comfortably and miserably to the improvised hospital bed. That - and overwhelming desire to bite the hand that cures made him hiss between his teeth.
"Curse... you... Blakeney!.."
"Nah, don't be like that!" sir Percy smiled. "So long, my dear fellow, and may the goddess of your justice do a good one to you, too!"
The small house witnessed the departure of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. Chauvelin, indulging in every sort of blasphemy, was left behind without another word.