The Talleyrand, as its name implies, is a diplomatic club, but ambassadors and ministers enter not its portals. They send their juniors. Some of these latter are in the habit of stating that London is the hub of Europe and the Talleyrand smoking-room its grease-box. Certain is it that such men as Claude de Chauxville, as Karl Steinmetz, and a hundred others who are or have been political scene-shifters, are to be found in the Talleyrand rooms.
It is a quiet club, with many members and sparse2 accommodation. Its rooms are never crowded, because half of its members are afraid of meeting the other half. It has swinging glass doors to its every apartment, the lower portion of the glass being opaque3, while the upper moiety4 affords a peep-hole. Thus, if you are sitting in one of the deep, comfortable chairs to be found in all these small rooms, you will be aware from time to time of eyes and a bald head above the ground glass. If you are nobody, eyes and bald head will prove to be the property of a gentleman who does not know you, or knows you and pretends that he does not. If you are somebody, your solitude5 will depend upon your reputation.
There are quite a number of bald heads in the Talleyrand Club—bald heads surmounting6 youthful, innocent faces. The innocence7 of these gentlemen is quite remarkable8. Like a certain celestial9, they are “childlike and bland”; they ask guileless questions; they make blameless mistakes in respect to facts, and require correction, which they receive meekly10. They know absolutely nothing, and their thirst for information is as insatiable as it is unobtrusive.
The atmosphere is vivacious11 with the light sound of many foreign tongues; it bristles12 with the ephemeral importance of cheap titles. One never knows whether one’s neighbor is an ornament13 to the Almanac de Gotha, or a disgrace to a degenerate14 colony of refugees.
Some are plain Messieurs, Seqores, or Herren. Bluff15 foreigners with upright hair and melancholy16 eyes, who put up philosophically17 with a cheaper brand of cigar than their souls love. Among the latter may be classed Karl Steinmetz—the bluffest of the bluff—innocent even of his own innocence.
Karl Steinmetz in due course reached England, and in natural sequence the smoking-room—room B on the left as you go in—of the Talleyrand.
He was there one evening after an excellent dinner taken with humorous resignation, smoking the largest cigar the waiter could supply, when Claude de Chauxville happened to have nothing better or nothing worse to do.
De Chauxville looked through the glass door for some seconds. Then he twisted his waxed mustache and lounged in. Steinmetz was alone in the room, and De Chauxville was evidently—almost obviously—unaware of his presence. He went to the table and proceeded to search in vain for a newspaper that interested him. He raised his eyes casually18 and met the quiet gaze of Karl Steinmetz.
“Ah!” he exclaimed.
“Yes,” said Steinmetz.
“You—in London?”
Steinmetz nodded gravely.
“Yes,” he repeated.
“One never knows where one has you,” Claude de Chauxville went on, seating himself in a deep arm-chair, newspaper in hand. “You are a bird of passage.”
“A little heavy on the wing—now,” said Steinmetz.
He laid his newspaper down on his stout19 knees and looked at De Chauxville over his gold eye-glasses. He did not attempt to conceal20 the fact that he was wondering what this man wanted with him. The baron21 seemed to be wondering what object Steinmetz had in view in getting stout. He suspected some motive22 in the obesity23.
“Ah!” he said deprecatingly. “That is nothing. Time leaves its mark upon all of us. It was not yesterday that we were in Petersburg together.”
“No,” answered Steinmetz. “It was before the German Empire—many years ago.”
De Chauxville counted back with his slim fingers on the table—delightfully innocent.
“Yes,” he said, “the years seem to fly in coveys. Do you ever see any of our friends of that time—you who are in Russia?”
“Who were our friends of that time?” parried Steinmetz, polishing his glasses with a silk handkerchief. “My memory is a broken reed—you remember?”
For a moment Claude de Chauxville met the full, quiet, gray eyes.
“Yes,” he said significantly, “I remember. Well—for instance, Prince Dawoff?”
“Dead. I never see him—thank Heaven!”
“The princess?”
“And little Andrea?”
“En gros?”
“Et en ditail.”
“The Count Lanovitch,” pursued De Chauxville, “where is he?”
“Banished for his connection with the Charity League.”
“Catrina?”
“Catrina is living in the province of Tver—we are neighbors—she and her mother, the countess.”
De Chauxville nodded. None of the details really interested him. His indifference27 was obvious.
“Ah! the Countess Lanovitch,” he said reflectively, “she was a foolish woman.”
“And is.”
M. de Chauxville laughed. This clumsy German ex-diplomat amused him immensely. Many people amuse us who are themselves amused in their sleeve.
“And—er—the Sydney Bamboroughs,” said the Frenchman, as if the name had almost left his memory.
Karl Steinmetz lazily stretched out his arm and took up the Morning Post. He unfolded the sheet slowly, and having found what he sought, he read aloud:
“‘His Excellency the Roumanian Ambassador gave a select dinner-party at 4 Craven Gardens, yesterday. Among the guests were the Baron de Chauxville, Feneer Pasha, Lord and Lady Standover, Mrs. Sydney Bamborough, and others.’”
Steinmetz threw the paper down and leant back in his chair.
“So, my dear friend,” he said, “it is probable that you know more about the Sydney Bamboroughs than I do.”
If Claude de Chauxville was disconcerted he certainly did not show it. His was a face eminently28 calculated to conceal whatever thought or feeling might be passing through his mind. Of an even white complexion—verging on pastiness—he was handsome in a certain statuesque way. His features were always composed and dignified29; his hair, thin and straight, was never out of order, but ever smooth and sleek30 upon his high, narrow brow. His eyes had that dulness which is characteristic of many Frenchmen, and may perhaps be attributed to the habitual31 enjoyment32 of too rich a cuisine33 and too many cigarettes.
De Chauxville waved aside the small contretemps with easy nonchalance34.
“Not necessarily,” he said, in cold, even tones. “Mrs. Sydney Bamborough does not habitually35 take into her confidence all who happen to dine at the same table as herself. Your confidential36 woman is usually a liar37.”
Steinmetz was filling his pipe; this man had the evil habit of smoking a wooden pipe after a cigar.
“My very dear De Chauxville,” he said, without lookup, “your epigrams are lost on me. I know most of them. I have heard them before. If you have anything to tell me about Mrs. Sydney Bamborough, for Heaven’s sake tell it to me quite plainly. I like plain dishes and unvarnished stories. I am a German, you know; that is to say, a person with a dull palate and a thick head.”
De Chauxville laughed again in an unemotional way.
“You alter little,” he said. “Your plainness of speech takes me back to Petersburg. Yes, I admit that Mrs. Sydney Bamborough rather interested me. But I assume too much; that is no reason why she should interest you.”
“She does not, my good friend, but you do. I am all attention.”
“Do you know anything of her?” asked De Chauxville perfunctorily, not as a man who expects an answer or intends to believe that which he may be about to hear.
“Nothing.”
“You are likely to know more?”
“I am not a lady’s man,” he added gruffly; “the good God has not shaped me that way. I am too d—d fat. Has Mrs. Sydney Bamborough fallen in love with me? Has some imprudent person shown her my photograph? I hope not. Heaven forbid!”
“No,” answered the Frenchman quite gravely. Frenchmen, by the way, do not admit that one may be too middle-aged41, or too stout, for love. “But she is au mieux with the prince.”
“Which prince?”
“Pavlo.”
The Frenchman snapped out the word, watching the other’s benevolent42 countenance43. Steinmetz continued to smoke placidly44 and contentedly45.
“My master,” he said at length. “I suppose that some day he will marry.”
De Chauxville shrugged his shoulders. He touched the button of the electric bell, and when the servant appeared, ordered coffee. He selected a cigarette from a silver case with considerable care, and having lighted it smoked for some moments in silence. The servant brought the coffee, which he drank thoughtfully. Steinmetz was leaning back in his deep chair, with his legs crossed. He was gazing into the fire, which burnt brightly, although it was nearly May. The habits of the Talleyrand Club are almost continental46. The rooms are always too warm. The silence was that of two men knowing each other well.
“And why not Mrs. Sydney Bamborough?” asked Steinmetz suddenly.
“Why not, indeed?” replied De Chauxville. “It is no affair of mine. A wise man reduces his affairs to a minimum, and his interest in the affairs of his neighbor to less. But I thought it would interest you.”
“Thanks.”
The tone of the big man in the arm-chair was not dry. Karl Steinmetz knew better than to indulge in that pastime. Dryness is apt to parch47 the fount of expansiveness.
De Chauxville’s attention was apparently48 caught by an illustration in a weekly paper lying open on the table near to him. Your shifty man likes something to look at. He did not speak for some moments. Then he threw the paper aside.
“Who was Sydney Bamborough, at any rate?” he asked, with a careless assumption of a slanginess which is affected49 by society in its decadent50 periods.
“So far as I remember,” answered Steinmetz, “he was something in the Diplomatic Service.”
“Yes, but what?”
“My dear friend, you had better ask his widow when next you sit beside her at dinner.”
“How do you know that I sat beside her at dinner?”
“I did not know it,” replied Steinmetz, with a quiet smile which left De Chauxville in doubt as to whether he was very stupid or exceedingly clever.
“She seems to be very well off,” said the Frenchman.
“I am glad, as she is going to marry my master.”
De Chauxville laughed almost awkwardly, and for a fraction of a second he changed countenance under Steinmetz’s quiet eyes.
“One can never know whom a woman intends to marry,” said he carelessly, “even if they can themselves, which I doubt. But I do not understand how it is that she is so much better off, or appears to be, since the death of her husband.”
“Ah, she is much better off, or appears to be, since the death of her husband,” said the stout man, in his slow Germanic way.
“Yes.”
De Chauxville rose, stretched himself and yawned. Men are not always, be it understood, on their best behavior at their club.
“Good-night,” he said shortly.
“Good-night, my very dear friend.”
After the Frenchman had left, Karl Steinmetz remained quite motionless and expressionless in his chair, until such time as he concluded that De Chauxville was tired of watching him through the glass door. Then he slowly sat forward in his chair and looked back over his shoulder.
“Our friend,” he muttered, “is afraid that Paul is going to marry this woman. Now, I wonder why?”
These two had met before in a past which has little or nothing to do with the present narrative51. They had disliked each other with a completeness partly bred of racial hatred52, partly the outcome of diverse interests. But of late years they had drifted apart. There was no reason why the friendship, such as it was, should not have lapsed53 into a mere54 bowing acquaintance. For these men were foreigners, understanding fully24 the value of the bow as an interchange of masculine courtesy. Englishmen bow badly.
Steinmetz knew that the Frenchman had recognized him before entering the room. It was to be presumed that he had deliberately55 chosen to cross the threshold, knowing that a recognition was inevitable56. Karl Steinmetz went farther. He suspected that De Chauxville had come to the Talleyrand Club, having heard that he was in England, with the purpose in view of seeking him out and warning him against Mrs. Sydney Bamborough.
“It would appear,” murmured the stout philosopher, “that we are about to work together for the first time. But if there is one thing that I dislike more than the enmity of Claude de Chauxville it is his friendship.”
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1
glib
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| adj.圆滑的，油嘴滑舌的 | |
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sparse
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| adj.稀疏的，稀稀落落的，薄的 | |
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opaque
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| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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moiety
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| n.一半；部分 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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surmounting
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| 战胜( surmount的现在分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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bristles
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| 短而硬的毛发，刷子毛( bristle的名词复数 ) | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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philosophically
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| adv.哲学上；富有哲理性地；贤明地；冷静地 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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obesity
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| n.肥胖，肥大 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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cuisine
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| n.烹调，烹饪法 | |
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nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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42
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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43
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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parch
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| v.烤干，焦干 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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decadent
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| adj.颓废的，衰落的，堕落的 | |
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51
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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52
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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53
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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54
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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55
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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56
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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