"I do not care whether Paris is in the hands of the Communards or the other bunglers so long as the Bank of France holds good," said John Turner; and, indeed, I afterwards learnt that his whole fortune depended on this turn of the wheel.
We were travelling down to Hopton, and it was the last week of May. We bore to Madame de Clericy the news that at last the government troops had made their entry into Paris and were busy fighting in the streets there, hunting from pillar to post the remnant of the Communard rabble1. The reign2 of terror which had lasted two and a half months was ended, and Paris lay like a ship that having passed through a great storm lies at last in calm water, battered3 and beaten. Priceless treasures had perished by the incendiarism of the wild mob—the Tuileries were burnt, the Louvre had barely escaped a like fate. The matchless H?tel de Ville had vanished, and a thousand monuments[257] and relics4 were lost for ever. Paris would never be the same again. Anarchy5 had swept across it, razing6 many buildings and crushing out not a few of those qualities of good taste and feeling which had raised Frenchmen to the summit of civilisation7 before the Empire fell.
John Turner was in good humour, for he had just learnt that, owing to the wit and nerve of one man, the Bank of France had stood untouched. With it was saved the house of Turner & Co., of Paris and London. The moment my friend's affairs were on a safe footing he placed himself at my service to help with the Vicomtesse de Clericy's more complicated difficulties. I was glad to avail myself of the assistance of one whose name was a by-word for rectitude and stability. Here, at all events, I had a colleague whose word could not be doubted by Isabella, of whose father John Turner had been a friend as well as of my own.
"Heard any more of Miste?" inquired Turner, while the train stood at Ipswich station; for he was much too easy-going to shout conversation during the progress of our journey.
"Sander writes that he has nearly caught him twice, and singularly enough has done better since you gave Mr. Devar his congé."
"Nothing singular about that. Devar was in[258] the swindle and kept Miste advised of your movements. But there is some one else in it, too."
"A third person?"
"Yes," answered Turner. "A third person. I have been watching the thing, Dick, and am not such a fat old fool as you take me for. It was neither Miste nor Devar who cashed that draft. If you catch Miste you will probably catch some one else, too, some knight-errant of finance, or I am much mistaken."
At this moment the train moved on, and my friend composed his person for a sleep which lasted until we reached Saxmundham.
"I suppose," said my companion, waking up there, "that Mademoiselle of the beaux yeux is to marry Alphonse when the fortune is recovered?"
"I suppose so," answered I, and John Turner closed his eyes again with a queer look.
In the station enclosure at Lowestoft we found Alphonse Giraud enjoying himself immensely on the high seat of a dog-cart, controlling, with many French exclamations8, and a partial success, the movements of a cob which had taken a fancy to progress backwards9 round and round the yard.
"It is," he explained, with a jerky salutation of the whip, "the Sunday-school treat departing for Yarmouth. They marched in here with a brass10 band—too much—Whoa! le petit, whoa!—too[259] much for our feelings. There—bonjour, Monsieur Turner—how goes it? There—now we stand still.
"Not for long," said Turner, doubtfully; "and I never get in or out of anything when it is in motion."
With the assistance of sundry11 idle persons we held the horse still enough for my friend to take his seat beside Alphonse, while I and the luggage found place behind them. We dashed out of the gate at a speed and risk which gave obvious satisfaction to our driver, and our progress up the narrow High Street was a series of hairbreadth escapes.
"It is a pleasure," said Alphonse, airily, as we passed the lighthouse and the cob settled down into a steady trot12, "to drive such a horse as this."
"No doubt," said Turner; "but next time I take a cab."
We arrived at the Manor13 House in time for luncheon14, and were received by the ladies at the door. Lucille, I remember, looked grave, but it appeared that the Vicomtesse was in good spirits.
"Yes, Madame, for a wonder good news is true," answered Turner, and he stood bareheaded, after the manner of his adopted country, while he shook hands.
On this occasion we all frankly16 spoke17 French,[260] for to John Turner this language was second nature. We had plenty to talk of during luncheon, and learnt much from the Paris banker which had never appeared in the newspapers. He had, indeed, passed through a trying ordeal18, and that with an imperturbable19 nerve and coolness of head. He made, however, little of his own difficulties, and gave all his attention to Madame's affairs. Whenever he made mention of my name I saw Lucille frown.
After luncheon we went to the garden, which extends from the grim old house to the cliff-edge, and is protected on either side by a double rank of Scotch20 firs, all twisted and gnarled by the winter winds—all turning westward21, with a queer effect as of raised shoulders and shivering limbs.
Within the boundary we have always, however, succeeded in growing such simple flowers as are indigenous22 to British soil—making a gay appearance and filling the air with clean-smelling scents23.
"Your garden," said Madame, touching24 my arm as we passed out of the dining-room window, "always suggests to me the English character—not much flower, but a quantity of tough wood."
Alphonse joined us, and embarked25 at once on the description of an easterly gale26 such as are too common on this coast, but new to him and grand enough in its onslaught. For the wind hurls27 itself[261] unchecked against the cliff and house after its career across the North Sea.
Lucille and John Turner had walked slowly away together down the narrow path running from the house to the solid entrenchment28 of turf that stands on the cliff edge, covered with such sparse29 grass and herb as the sand and spray may nourish.
"It is pleasant," Lucille said, as they went from us, "to have some one to talk French with."
She was without her hat or gloves, and I saw the sunlight gleaming on her hair.
"You have Alphonse Giraud," said Turner, in his blunt way.
"And Howard, from time to time," added the banker, who, having received permission to smoke a cigar, was endeavouring to extract a penknife from his waistcoat pocket.
"Who talks French with the understanding of an Englishman," said Lucille, quickly.
"You do not like Englishmen?"
"I like honest ones, Monsieur," said Lucille, looking across the sea.
"Ah!"
"Oh, yes—I know," cried Lucille, impatiently. "You are one of Mr. Howard's partisans31. They are so numerous and so ready to speak for him—and he will never speak for himself."[262]
But Lucille had no such intention.
"Does Mr. Howard ask you—you and mother, and sometimes Alphonse—to fight his battles for him and to sing his praises to me?"
Turner did not answer at once.
"Well?" she inquired, impatiently.
"I was just thinking how long it is since Dick Howard mentioned your name to me—about three months, I believe."
"What have you against him?" asked Turner, after a short silence.
"It was from your house that Mr. Howard came to us. He came to my father assuring him that he was poor, which he told me afterwards was only a subterfuge34 and false pretence35. I then learnt from Mr. Gayerson that this was not the truth. I suppose Mr. Howard thought that a woman's affection is to be bought by gold."
"All that can be explained, Mademoiselle."
"Then explain it, Monsieur."
"Let Howard do it," said Turner, pausing to knock the ash from his cigar.
"I do not care for Mr. Howard's explanations," said Lucille, coldly. "One never knows what to believe. Is he rich or poor?"
"I WAS JUST THINKING HOW LONG IT IS SINCE DICK HOWARD
MENTIONED YOUR NAME TO ME—ABOUT THREE MONTHS, I BELIEVE." LUCILLE
WALKED ON WITH HER HEAD ERECT. "I WAS JUST THINKING HOW LONG IT IS SINCE DICK HOWARD MENTIONED YOUR NAME TO ME—ABOUT THREE MONTHS, I BELIEVE." LUCILLE WALKED ON WITH HER HEAD ERECT.
[263]
"He is which he likes."
Lucille gave a scornful laugh.
"What is that, Monsieur?"
"Marry money and a woman he does not love."
They walked on for some moments in silence, and came to the turf entrenchment raised against the wind, as against an assaulting army. They passed through a gangway, cut in the embankment, to one of the seats built against the outer side of it. Below them lay the clean sands, stretching away on either side in unbroken smoothness—the sands of Corton.
"And why will he not take your advice?" asked Lucille.
"Because he is a pig-headed fool—as his father was before him. It is all his father's fault, for placing him in such an impossible position."
"I do not understand," said Lucille.
"It is nevertheless simple, Mademoiselle," he said; "father and son quarrelled because old Howard, who was as obstinate39 as his son, made up his mind that Dick should marry Isabella Gayerson. Plenty of money, adjoining estates, the old story of[264] misery40 with many servants. Dick, being his father's son, at once determined41 that he would do no such thing, and there was a row royal. Dick went off to Paris, in debt and heedless of the old man's threat to cut him off with a shilling. He had never cared for Isabella, and was not going to sell his liberty for the sake of a ring fence. His own words, Mademoiselle. At Paris sundry things happened to him, of which you probably know more than I."
He glanced up at Lucille, who was picking blades of grass from the embankment against which he leant. Her eyelids42 flickered43, but she made no reply.
"Then," went on John Turner, "his father died suddenly, and it transpired44 that the hot-headed old fool had made one of those wills which hot-headed old fools make for the special delectation of novelists and lawyers. He had left Dick penniless, unless he consented to marry Isabella. When Dick told your father he was poor, he was well within the limits of the truth, although he did it, as I understand, to gain his own ends. When he told you a different story, he merely assumed that this quarrel, like others, would end in a reconciliation45. He felt remorseful46 that he had practised a mild deception47 on your father, and wished to clear his conscience. Death intervened at this moment,[265] and placed our young friend in the uncomfortable position of having told untruths all round. You probably know better than I do, Mademoiselle, why he got himself into this hobble."
But Lucille would make no such admission.
"But you ignore Isabella," she cried, impatiently, "you and Mr. Howard."
"She will not allow us to do that, my dear young lady."
"Is she to wait with folded hands until Mr. Howard decides whether he is inclined to marry her or not?"
"There is no waiting in the question," said John Turner. "Dick made up his mind long ago, in the lifetime of his father, and Isabella must be aware of his decision. Besides, Mademoiselle, you can judge for yourself. Is there any love lost between them, think you?"
"No."
"Isabella could not be more miserable than she is now, though she hides it well."
"Ah," said John Turner, thoughtfully. "Is that so? I wonder why."
Lucille shrugged her shoulders. She either could not or would not answer.
"Too much money," suggested Turner.[266]
"When women have plenty of money they usually want something that cannot be bought."
Lucille frowned.
"And now you are angry, Mademoiselle," said John Turner, placidly, "and I am not afraid. I will make you still more angry."
He rose heavily, and stood, cigar in hand, looking out to sea—his round face puckered49 with thought.
"Mademoiselle Lucille," he said, slowly, "I have known some men and quite a number of women who have sacrificed their happiness to their pride. I have known them late in life, when the result had to be lived through. They were not good company. If pride or love must go overboard, Mademoiselle, throw pride."
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收听单词发音
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1
rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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anarchy
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| n.无政府状态；社会秩序混乱，无秩序 | |
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razing
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| v.彻底摧毁，将…夷为平地( raze的现在分词 ) | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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8
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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9
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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13
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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indigenous
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| adj.土产的，土生土长的，本地的 | |
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scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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27
hurls
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的第三人称单数 )；大声叫骂 | |
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entrenchment
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| n.壕沟，防御设施 | |
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sparse
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| adj.稀疏的，稀稀落落的，薄的 | |
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30
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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partisans
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| 游击队员( partisan的名词复数 )； 党人； 党羽； 帮伙 | |
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placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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subterfuge
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| n.诡计；藉口 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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38
obesity
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| n.肥胖，肥大 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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42
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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43
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
transpired
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| （事实，秘密等）被人知道( transpire的过去式和过去分词 )； 泄露； 显露； 发生 | |
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reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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49
puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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