And then dream broad heaven
Is but the patch we see.”
It was almost dark when the abbé's carriage reached the valley, and the driver paused to light the two stable-lanterns tied with string to the dilapidated lamp-brackets. The abbé was impatient, and fidgeted in his seat. He was at heart an autocrat2, and hated to be defied even by one over whom he could not pretend to have control. He snapped his finger and thumb as he thought of Denise.
“She puzzles me,” he muttered. “What does she want? Bon Dieu, what does she want?”
“At all events my task is easier here,” he consoled himself by saying as the carriage approached the chateau4, “now that I am rid of these women.”
At last they reached the foot of the slope leading up to the half-ruined house, which loomed5 against the evening sky immediately above them; and the driver pulled up his restive6 horses with an air significant of arrival.
But the man made no movement, and sat on the box muttering to himself.
“What!” cried the abbé, who had caught some words. “Jean has the evil eye! What of Jean's evil eye? Here, I will give you my rosary to put round your coward's neck. No! Then down you get, my friend. You can wait here till we come back.”
As he spoke he leapt out, and, climbing into the box, pushed the driver unceremoniously from his seat, snatching the reins8 and whip from his hands.
“He!” he cried. “Allons, my little ones!”
And with whip and voice he urged the horses up the slope at a canter, while the carriage swayed across from one great tree to another. They reached the summit in safety, and the priest pulled the horses up at the great door—the first carriage to disturb the quiet of that spot for nearly a generation. He twisted the reins round the whip-socket, and clambering down rang the great bell. It answered to his imperious summons by the hollow clang that betrays an empty house. No one came. He stood without, drumming with his fist on the doorpost. Then he turned to listen. Some one was approaching from the darkness of the trees. But it was only the driver following sullenly9 on foot.
“Here!” said the priest, recognizing him. “Go to your horses!”
As he spoke he was already untying10 one of the stable-lanterns that swung at the lamp-bracket. His eyes gleamed beneath the brim of his broad hat. He was quick and anxious.
“Wait here till I come back,” he said; and, keeping close to the wall, he disappeared among the low bushes.
There was another way in by a door half hidden among the ivy11, which Jean used for his mysterious comings and goings, and of which the abbé had a key. He had brought it with him to-night by a lucky chance. He had to push aside the ivy which hung from the walls in great ropes, and only found the keyhole after a hurried search. But the lock was in good order. Jean, it appeared, was a careful man.
Susini hurried through a long passage to the little round room where the Count de Vasselot had lived so long. He stopped with his nose in the air, and sniffed12 aloud. The atmosphere was heavy with the smell of stale tobacco, and yet there could be detected the sweeter odour of smoke scarcely cold. The room must have been inhabited only a few hours ago. The abbé opened the window, and the smell of carnations13 swept in like the breath of another world. He returned to the room, and, opening his lantern, lighted a candle that stood on the mantelpiece. He looked round. Sundry14 small articles in daily use—the count's pipe, his old brass15 tobacco-box: a few such things that a man lives with, and puts in his pocket when he goes away—were missing.
“Buon Diou! Buon Diou! Buon Diou—gone!” muttered the priest, lapsing16 into his native dialect. He looked around him with keen eyes—at the blackened walls, at the carpet worn into holes. “That Jean must have known something that I do not know. All the same, I shall look through the house.”
He blew out the candle, and taking the lantern quitted the room. He searched the whole house—passing from empty room to empty room. The reception-rooms were huge and sparingly furnished with those thin-legged chairs and ancient card-tables which recall the days of Letitia Ramolino and that easy-going Charles Buonaparte, who brought into the world the greatest captain that armies have ever seen. The bedrooms were small: all alike smelt17 of mouldering18 age. In one room the abbé stopped and raised his inquiring nose; the room had been inhabited by a woman—years and years ago.
He searched the house from top to bottom, and there was no one in it. The abbé had failed in the two missions confided19 to him by Lory, and he was one to whom failure was peculiarly bitter. With respect to the two women, he had perhaps scarcely expected to succeed, for he had lived fifty years in the world, and his calling had brought him into daily contact with that salutary chastening of the spirit which must assuredly be the lot of a man who seeks to enforce his will upon women. But his failure to find the old Count de Vasselot was a more serious matter.
He returned slowly to the carriage, and told the driver to return to Olmeta.
“I have changed my plans,” he said, still mindful of the secret he had received with other pastoral charges from his predecessor20. “Jean is not in the chateau, so I shall not go to St. Florent to-night.”
He leant forward, and looked up at the old castle outlined against the sky. A breeze was springing up with the suddenness of all atmospheric21 changes in these latitudes22, and the old trees creaked and groaned23, while the leaves had already that rustling24 brittleness25 of sound that betokens26 the approach of autumn.
As they crossed the broad valley the wind increased, sweeping27 up the course of the Aliso in wild gusts28. It was blowing a gale29 before the horses fell to a quick walk up the hill; and Mademoiselle Brun's small figure, planted in the middle of the road, was the first indication that the driver had of the presence of the two women, though the widow Andrei, who accompanied them and carried their travelling-bags, had already called out more than once.
“You are alone?” said mademoiselle, in surprise.
The light of the lantern shone brightly on her, and on the dimmer form of Denise, silent and angry in the background; for Denise had allowed her inclination32 to triumph over her pride, which conquest usually leaves a sore heart behind it.
“But, yes!” answered the abbé; alighting quickly enough.
He guessed instantly that Denise had changed her mind, and was indiscreet enough to put his thoughts into words.
“So mademoiselle has thought better of it?” he said; and got no answer for his pains.
Both Mademoiselle Brun and Denise were looking curiously33 at the interior of the carriage from which the priest emerged, leaving it, as they noted34, empty.
“There is yet time to go to St. Florent?” inquired the elder woman.
The priest grabbed at his hat as a squall swept up the road, whirling the dust high above their heads.
“Whether we shall get on board is another matter,” he muttered by way of answer. “Come, get into the carriage; we have no time to lose. It will be a bad night at sea.”
“Then, for my sins I shall be sea-sick,” said Mademoiselle Brun, imperturbably36.
She took her bag from the hand of the widow Andrei, and would have it nowhere but on her lap, where she held it during the rapid drive, sitting bolt upright, staring straight in front of her into the face of the abbé.
No one spoke, for each had thoughts sufficient to occupy the moment. Susini perhaps had the narrowest vein37 of reflection upon which to draw, and therefore fidgeted in his seat and muttered to himself, for his mental range was limited to Olmeta and the Chateau de Vasselot. Mademoiselle Brun was thinking of France—of her great past and her dim, uncertain future. While Denise sat stiller and more silent than either, for her thoughts were at once as wide as the whole world, and as narrow as the human heart.
At a turn in the road she looked up, and saw the sharp outline of the Casa Perucca, black and sombre against a sky now lighted by a rising moon, necked and broken by heavy clouds, with deep lurking38 shadows and mountains of snowy whiteness. In the Casa Perucca she had learnt what life means, and no man or woman ever forgets the place where that lesson has been acquired.
“I shall come back,” she whispered, looking up at the great rock with its giant pines and the two square chimneys half hidden in the foliage39.
And the Abbé Susini, seeing a movement of her lips, glanced curiously at her. He was still wondering what she wanted. “Mon Dieu,” he was reflecting a second time, “what does she want?”
He stopped the carriage outside the town of St. Florent at the end of the long causeway built across the marsh40, where the wind swept now from the open bay with a salt flavour to it. He alighted, and took Denise's bag, rightly concluding that Mademoiselle Brun would prefer to carry her own.
“Follow me,” he said, taking a delight in being as curt as Mademoiselle Brun herself, and in denying them the explanations they were too proud to demand.
They walked abreast41 through the narrow street dimly lighted by a single lamp swinging on a gibbet at the corner, turned sharp to the left, and found themselves suddenly at the water's edge. A few boats bumped lazily at some steps where the water lapped. It was blowing hard out in the bay, but this corner was protected by a half-ruined house built on a projecting rock.
The priest looked round.
“Hé! là-bas!” he called out, in a guarded voice. But he received no answer.
“Wait here,” he said to the two women. “I will fetch him from the café.” And he disappeared.
Denise and mademoiselle stood in silence listening to the lapping of the water and the slow, muffled42 bumping of the boats until the abbé returned, followed by a man who slouched along on bare feet.
“Yes,” he was saying, “the yacht was there at sunset. I saw her myself lying just outside the point. But it is folly43 to try and reach her to-night; wait till the morning, Monsieur l'Abbé.”
“And find her gone,” answered the priest. “No, no; we embark44 to-night, my friend. If these ladies are willing, surely a St. Florent man will not hold back?”
“But you have not told these ladies of the danger. The wind is blowing right into the bay; we cannot tack45 out against it. It will take me two hours to row out single-handed with some one baling out the whole time.”
“But I will pull an oar35 with you,” answered Susini. “Come, show us which is your boat. Mademoiselle Brun will bale out, and the young lady will steer46. We shall be quite a family party.”
There was no denying a man who took matters into his own hands so energetically.
“You can pull an oar?” inquired the boatman, doubtfully.
“I was born at Bonifacio, my friend. Come, I will take the bow oar if you will find me an oilskin coat. It will not be too dry up in the bows to-night.”
And, like most masterful people—right or wrong—the abbé had his way, even to the humble47 office assigned to Mademoiselle Brun.
“You will need to remove your glove and bare your arm,” explained the boatman, handing her an old tin mug. “But you will not find the water cold. It is always warmer at night. Thus the good God remembers poor fishermen. The seas will come over the bows when we round this corner; they will rise up and hit the abbé in the back, which is his affair; then they will wash aft into this well, and from that you must bale it out all the time. When the seas come in, you need not be alarmed, nor will it be necessary to cry out.”
“Such instructions, my friend,” said the priest, scrambling48 into his oilskin coat, “are unnecessary to mademoiselle, who is a woman of discernment.”
“But I try not to be,” snapped Mademoiselle Brun. She knew which women are most popular with men.
“As for you, mademoiselle,” said the boatman to Denise, “keep the boat pointed at the waves, and as each one comes to you, cut it as you would cut a cream cheese. She will jerk and pull at you, but you must not be afraid of her; and remember that the highest wave may be cut.”
“That young lady is not afraid of much,” muttered the abbé, settling to his oar.
They pulled slowly out to the end of the rocky promontory49, upon which a ruined house still stands, and shot suddenly out into a howling wind. The first wave climbed leisurely50 over the weather-bow, and slopped aft to the ladies' feet; the second rose up, and smote51 the abbé in the back.
“Cut them, mademoiselle; cut them!” shouted the boatman.
And at intervals52 during that wild journey he repeated the words, unceremoniously spitting the salt water from his lips. The abbé, bending his back to the work and the waves, gave a short laugh from time to time, that had a ring in it to make Mademoiselle Brun suddenly like the man—the fighting ring of exaltation which adapts itself to any voice and any tongue. For nearly an hour they rowed in silence, while mademoiselle baled the water out, and Denise steered53 with steady eyes piercing the darkness.
“We are quite close to it,” she said at length; for she had long been steering54 towards a light that flickered55 feebly across the broken water.
In a few moments they were alongside, and, amidst confused shouting of orders, the two ladies were half lifted, half dragged on board. The abbé followed them.
“A word with you,” he said, taking Mademoiselle Brun unceremoniously by the arm, and leading her apart. “You will be met by friends on your arrival at St. Raphael to-morrow. And when you are free to do so, will you do me a favour?”
“Yes.”
“Find Lory de Vasselot, wherever he may be.”
“Yes,” answered Mademoiselle Brun.
“And tell him that I went to the Chateau de Vasselot and found it empty.”
Mademoiselle reflected for some moments.
“Yes; I will do that,” she said at length.
“Thank you.”
The abbé stared hard at her beneath his dripping hat for a moment, and then, turning abruptly56, moved towards the gangway, where his boat lay in comparatively smooth water at the lee-side of the yacht. Denise was speaking to a man who seemed to be the captain.
Mademoiselle Brun followed the abbé.
“By the way—” she said.
Susini stopped, and looked into her face, dimly lighted by the moon, which peeped at times through riven clouds.
“Whom should you have found in the chateau?” she asked.
“Ah! that I will not tell you.”
Mademoiselle Brun gave a short laugh.
“Then I shall find out. Trust a woman to find out a secret.”
The abbé was already over the bulwark57, so that only his dark face appeared above, with the water running off it. His eyes gleamed in the moonlight.
“And a priest to keep one,” he answered. And he leapt down into the boat.
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收听单词发音
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1
squint
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| v. 使变斜视眼, 斜视, 眯眼看, 偏移, 窥视; n. 斜视, 斜孔小窗; adj. 斜视的, 斜的 | |
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2
autocrat
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| n.独裁者；专横的人 | |
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3
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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4
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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5
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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6
restive
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| adj.不安宁的，不安静的 | |
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7
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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8
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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9
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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10
untying
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| untie的现在分词 | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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12
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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13
carnations
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| n.麝香石竹，康乃馨( carnation的名词复数 ) | |
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14
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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15
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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16
lapsing
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| v.退步( lapse的现在分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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17
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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18
mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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19
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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20
predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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21
atmospheric
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| adj.大气的，空气的；大气层的；大气所引起的 | |
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22
latitudes
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| 纬度 | |
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23
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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24
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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25
brittleness
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| n.脆性，脆度，脆弱性 | |
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26
betokens
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的第三人称单数 ) | |
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27
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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28
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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29
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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30
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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31
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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32
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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33
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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34
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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35
oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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36
imperturbably
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| adv.泰然地，镇静地，平静地 | |
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37
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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38
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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39
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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40
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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41
abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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42
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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43
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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44
embark
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| vi.乘船，着手，从事，上飞机 | |
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45
tack
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| n.大头钉；假缝，粗缝 | |
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46
steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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47
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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48
scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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49
promontory
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| n.海角；岬 | |
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50
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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51
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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52
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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53
steered
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| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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54
steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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55
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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56
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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57
bulwark
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| n.堡垒，保障，防御 | |
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