The Princess Bride by William Goldman Read Free Book Online Page B

Count asked then.
    “No, sir,” the mother answered.
    “Then let me see her,” the Count went on—”perhaps she will be quicker with her answers than her parents.”
    “Buttercup,” the father called, turning. “Come out please.”
    “How did you know we had a daughter?” Buttercup’s mother wondered.
    “A guess. I assumed it had to be one or the other. Some days I’m luckier than—” He simply stopped talking then.
    Because Buttercup moved into view, hurrying from the house to her parents.
    The Count left the carriage. Gracefully, he moved to the ground and stood very still. He was a big man, with black hair and black eyes and great shoulders and a black cape and gloves.
    “Curtsy, dear,” Buttercup’s mother whispered.
    Buttercup did her best.
    And the Count could not stop looking at her.
    Understand now, she was barely rated in the top twenty; her hair was uncombed, unclean; her age was just seventeen, so there was still, in occasional places, the remains of baby fat. Nothing had been done to the child. Nothing was really there but potential.
    But the Count still could not rip his eyes away.
    “The Count would like to know the secrets behind our cows’ greatness, is that not correct, sir?” Buttercup’s father said.
    The Count only nodded, staring.
    Even Buttercup’s mother noted a certain tension in the air.
    “Ask the farm boy; he tends them,” Buttercup said.
    “And is that the farm boy?” came a new voice from inside the carriage. Then the Countess’s face was framed in the carriage doorway.
    Her lips were painted a perfect red; her green eyes lined in black. All the colors of the world were muted in her gown. Buttercup wanted to shield her eyes from the brilliance.
    Buttercup’s father glanced back toward the lone figure peering around the corner of the house. “It is.”
    “Bring him to me.”
    “He is not dressed properly for such an occasion,” Buttercup’s mother said.
    “I have seen bare chests before,” the Countess replied. Then she called out: ”You!” and pointed at the farm boy. “Come here .” Her fingers snapped on “here.”
    The farm boy did as he was told.
    And when he was close, the Countess left the carriage.
    When he was a few paces behind Buttercup, he stopped, head properly bowed. He was ashamed of his attire, worn boots and torn blue jeans (blue jeans were invented considerably before most people suppose), and his hands were tight together in almost a gesture of supplication.
    “Have you a name, farm boy?”
    “Westley, Countess.”
    “Well, Westley, perhaps you can help us with our problem.” She crossed to him. The fabric of her gown grazed his skin. “We are all of us here passionately interested in the subject of cows. We are practically reaching the point of frenzy, such is our curiosity. Why, do you suppose, Westley, that the cows of this particular farm are the finest in all Florin. What do you do to them?”
    “I just feed them, Countess.”
    “Well then, there it is, the mystery is solved, the secret out; we can all rest. Clearly, the magic is in Westley’s feeding. Show me how you do it, would you, Westley?”
    “Feed the cows for you, Countess?”
    “Bright lad.”
    “When?”
    “Now will be soon enough,” and she held out her arm to him. “Lead me, Westley.”
    Westley had no choice but to take her arm. Gently. “It’s behind the house, madam; it’s terribly muddy back there. Your gown will be ruined.”
    “I wear them only once, Westley, and I burn to see you in action.”
    So off they went to the cowshed.
    Throughout all this, the Count kept watching Buttercup.
    “I’ll help you,” Buttercup called after Westley.
    “Perhaps I’d best see just how he does it,” the Count decided.
    “Strange things are happening,” Buttercup’s parents said, and off they went too, bringing up the rear of the cow-feeding trip, watching the Count, who was watching their daughter, who was watching the Countess.
    Who was watching