Sister Pelagia and the Red Cockerel Read Online Free Page A

angelic vibration in the air. The young lady’s expression was pensive, her little pink lips sometimes opened wide, sometimes pursed up and stretched out forward.
    Muffin admired this heavenly vision. He would never, ever filch anything from such lovely people.
    The little son said something and stood up. He kissed his papa—and so very tenderly, full on the lips. He took his peaked cap and went out into the corridor. No doubt he had decided to go for a walk and get a breath of air. His dear papa blew a kiss after him.
    Muffin was very touched. After all, Papa was such a very fearsome-looking man. No doubt in his office at the bank or the ministry he set all his subordinates trembling, but in his family, in domestic surroundings, he was a perfect lamb.
    And Muffin sighed, of course, at his own lonely life. Where could a razin ever get himself a family?
    The very next window turned out to be the right one, Manuila’s. Muffin was lucky again.
    There was no need to stand on a chair this time, the curtains weren’t closed tightly. Through the gap Muffin saw a gaunt peasant with a light-brown beard, lying on a velvet divan. And he thought: There’s a fine prophet, he’s driven his flock out on deck and he’s living it up in first class. And how sweetly he’s sleeping, with that slobber dangling out of his mouth .
    What was that glittering there under the pillow? A lacquered casket, for sure. Well, then, sleep, and make sure you sleep soundly!
    Muffin started squirming in his impatience, but he told himself not to start getting agitated. This was a serious job that had turned up, he didn’t want to botch it.
    Should he go in from the corridor, pick the lock? No, what if someone saw him? It was simpler from where he was. His friendly protector, the fog, would help him out.
    The closed window was a cinch. Every razin had a special tool for dealing with that—a “hack.” You used it to catch hold of the screws keeping the window frame in (only first you mustn’t forget a few drops of oil from the oilcan, so it wouldn’t squeak), a jerk to the left, a jerk to the right, and it was almost done. Now a more generous dose of the same oil on the sides, in the slots. And lift it out nice and easy.
    The window slid upward without the slightest sound, just as it ought to.
    After that it was simple. Climb inside and tiptoe across to the bed. Pull the casket out from under the pillow and put a rolled-up towel there instead. To make sure the sleeper didn’t wake up, you had to listen to his breathing—that would always warn you. But you mustn’t look at his face—everybody can feel somebody staring at him when he’s sleeping.
    Muffin gathered himself up to climb in the window and he had already stuck his head through, but suddenly, right there beside him, a window frame squeaked and a loud woman’s voice said testily: “You just stop that!”
    Muffin’s heart fell: disaster, he’d been spotted! He pulled his head back out, turned around—and the sense of alarm passed. They’d opened the window in the next cabin. It must have been too stuffy for them.
    The same voice went on angrily, “There, take a breath of fresh air, Your Eminence! God only knows what you’re saying now! At least leave me my sins!”
    A rich bass voice, also angry, replied: “It’s my sin, mine! I condoned, I set you the work of penance, I should answer for it! But not to the Procurator in St. Petersburg—to the Lord God!”
    Ai-ai, this is bad. They’ll wake the prophet with all their shouting . Muffin went down on all fours and crawled across to the open window. He peeped in cautiously, with just one eye.
    At first he thought there were two people in the cabin—a gray-haired bishop with a fancy cross on his chest, and a nun. Then he spotted a third person in the corner, a monk. But he was sitting there mute, with nothing to say for himself.
    What’s all this yelling about, people of God? Why don’t you act like Christians, meek and mild?