The driver had been instructed to drive into the roomy court-yard of the house of which Turner's office occupied the first floor. Carriages frequently waited there, by the side of a little fountain which splashed all day and all night into a circular basin.
Colville descended3 from the carriage and turned to speak to Loo, who was left sitting within it. Since the unfortunate night at the Hotel Gemosac, when they had been on the verge4 of a quarrel, a certain restraint had characterised their intercourse5. Colville was shy of approaching the subject upon which they had differed. His easy laugh had not laughed away the grim fact that he had deceived Loo in such a manner that complicity was practically forced upon an innocent man.
Loo had not given his decision yet. He had waited a week, during which time Colville had not dared to ask him whether his mind was made up. There was a sort of recklessness in Loo's manner which at once puzzled and alarmed his mentor6. At times he was gay, as he always had been, and in the midst of his gaiety he would turn away with a gloomy face and go to his own room.
To press the question would be to precipitate7 a catastrophe8. Dormer Colville decided9 to go on as if nothing had happened. It is a compromise with the inconveniences of untruth to which we must all resort at some crisis or another in life.
“I will not be long,” he assured Barebone, with a gay laugh. The prospect10 of handling one hundred thousand francs in notes was perhaps exhilarating; though the actual possession of great wealth would seem to be of the contrary tendency. There is a profound melancholy11 peculiar12 to the face of the millionaire. “I shall not be long; for he is a man of his word, and the money will be ready.”
John Turner was awaiting his visitor, and gave a large soft hand inertly13 into Colville's warm grasp.
“I always wish I saw more of you,” said the new-comer.
“Is there not enough of me already?” inquired the banker, pointing to the vacant chair, upon which fell the full light of the double window. A smaller window opposite to it afforded a view of the court-yard. And it was at this smaller window that Colville glanced as he sat down, with a pause indicative of reluctance14.
Turner saw the glance and noted15 the reluctance. He concluded, perhaps, in the slow, sure mind that worked behind his little peeping eyes, that Loo Barebone was in the carriage in the court-yard, and that Colville was anxious to return to him as soon as possible.
“It is very kind of you to say that, I am sure,” pursued Turner, rousing himself to be pleasant and conversational16. “But, although the loss is mine, my dear Colville, the fault is mostly yours. You always know where to find me when you want my society. I am anchored in this chair, whereas one never knows where one has a butterfly like yourself.”
“A butterfly that is getting a bit heavy on the wing,” answered Colville, with his wan17 and sympathetic smile. He sat forward in the chair in an attitude antipathetic to digression from the subject in hand.
“I do not see any evidence of that. One hears of you here and there in France. I suppose, for instance, you know more than any man in Paris at the present moment of the—” he paused and suppressed a yawn, “the—er—vintage. Anything in it—eh?”
“So far as I could judge, the rains came too late; but I shall be glad to tell you all about it another time. This morning—”
“Yes; I know. You want your money. I have it all ready for you. But I must make out some sort of receipt, you know.”
Turner felt vaguely18 in his pocket, and at last found a letter, from which he tore the blank sheet, while his companion, glancing from time to time at the window, watched him impatiently.
“Seems to me,” said Turner, opening his inkstand, “that the vintage of 1850 will not be drunk by a Republic.”
“Ah! indeed.”
“What do you think?”
“Well, to tell you the truth, my mind was more occupied in the quality of the vintage than in its ultimate fate. If you make out a receipt on behalf of Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, I will sign it,” answered Colville, fingering the blotting-paper.
“Received on behalf of, and for, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, the sum of one hundred thousand francs,” muttered the banker, as he wrote.
“She is only a client, you understand, my dear Colville,” he went on, holding out his hand for the blotting-paper, “or I would not part with the money so easily. It is against my advice that Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence realises this sum.”
“If a woman sets her heart on a thing, my dear fellow—” began Colville, carelessly.
“Yes, I know—reason goes to the wall. Sign there, will you?”
Turner handed him pen and receipt, but Colville was looking toward the window sunk deep in the wall on the inner side of the room. This was not a double window, and the sound of carriage wheels rose above the gentle, continuous plash of the little fountain in the court-yard.
Colville rose from his seat, but to reach the window he had to pass behind Turner's chair. Turner rose at the same moment, and pushed his chair back against the wall in doing so. This passage toward the window being completely closed by the bulk of John Turner, Colville hurried round the writing-table. But Turner was again in front of him, and, without appearing to notice that his companion was literally20 at his heels, he opened a large cupboard sunk in the panelling of the wall. The door of it folded back over the little window, completely hiding it.
Turning on his heel, with an agility21 which was quite startling in one so stout22, he found Colville's colourless face two feet from his own. In fact, Colville almost stumbled against him. For a moment they looked each other in the eyes in silence. With his right hand, John Turner held the cupboard-door over the window.
“I have the money here,” he said, “in this cupboard.” And as he spoke23, a hollow rumble24, echoing in the court-yard, marked the exit of a carriage under the archway into the Rue Lafayette. There had been only one carriage in attendance in the court-yard—that in which Colville had left Barebone.
“Here, in this cupboard,” repeated Turner to unheeding ears. For Dormer Colville was already hurrying across the room toward the other window that looked out into the Rue Lafayette. The house was a lofty one, with a high entresol, and from the windows of the first floor it was not possible to see the street immediately below without opening the sashes.
Turner closed the cupboard and locked it, without ceasing to watch Colville, who was struggling with the stiff fastening of the outer sash.
But Colville had at length wrenched26 open the window and was leaning out. The roar of the traffic drowned any answer he may have made. It was manifest that the loss of three precious minutes had made him too late. After a glance down into the street, he came back into the centre of the room and snatched up his hat from Turner's bare writing-table.
He hurried to the door, but turned again, with his back against it, to face his companion, with the eyes usually so affable and sympathetic, ablaze27 for once with rage.
“Damn you!” he cried. “Damn you!”
And the door banged on his heels as he hurried through the outer office.
Turner was left standing28, a massive incarnation of bewilderment, in the middle of the room. He heard the outer door close with considerable emphasis. Then he sat down again, his eyebrows29 raised high on his round forehead, and gazed sadly at the date-card.
* * *
Colville had left Loo Barebone seated in the hired carriage in a frame of mind far from satisfactory. A sea-faring life, more than any other, teaches a man quickness in action. A hundred times a day the sailor needs to execute, with a rapidity impossible to the landsman, that which knowledge tells him to be the imminent30 necessity of the moment. At sea, life is so far simpler than in towns that there are only two ways: the right and the wrong. In the devious31 paths of a pavement-ridden man there are a hundred byways: there is the long, long lane of many turnings called Compromise.
Loo Barebone had turned into this lane one night at the Hotel Gemosac, in the Ruelle St. Jacob, and had wandered there ever since. Captain Clubbe had taught him the two ways of seamanship effectively enough. But the education fell short of the necessities of this crisis. Moreover, Barebone had in his veins32 blood of a race which had fallen to low estate through Compromise and Delay.
Let those throw the first stone at him who have seen the right way gaping33 before their feet with a hundred pitfalls34 and barriers, apparently35 insurmountable, and have resolutely36 taken that road. For the devious path of Compromise has this merit—that the obstacles are round the corner.
Barebone, absorbed in thought, hardly noticed that the driver of his carriage descended from the box and lounged toward the archway, where the hum of traffic and the passage of many people would serve to beguile37 a long wait. After a minute's delay, a driver returned and climbed to the seat—but it was not the same driver. He wore the same coat and hat, but a different face looked out from the sheepskin collar turned up to the ears. There was no one in the court-yard to notice this trifling38 change. Barebone was not even looking out of the window. He had never glanced at the cabman's face, whose vehicle had happened to be lingering at the corner of the Ruelle St. Jacob when Colville and his companion had emerged from the high doorway39 of the Hotel Gemosac.
Barebone was so far obeying instructions that he was leaning back in the carriage, his face half hidden by the collar of his coat. For it was a cold morning in mid-winter. He hardly looked up when the handle of the door was turned. Colville had shut this door five minutes earlier, promising40 to return immediately. It was undoubtedly41 his hand that opened the door. But suddenly Barebone sat up. Both doors were open.
Before he could make another movement, two men stepped quietly into the carriage, each closing the door by which he had entered quickly and noiselessly. One seated himself beside Barebone, the other opposite to him, and each drew down a blind. They seemed to have rehearsed the actions over and over again, so that there was no hitch42 or noise or bungling43. The whole was executed as if by clock-work, and the carriage moved away the instant the doors were closed.
In the twilight44, within the carriage, the two men grasped Loo Barebone, each by one arm, and held him firmly against the back of the carriage.
“Quietly, mon bon monsieur; quietly, and you will come to no harm.”
Barebone made no resistance, and only laughed.
“You have come too soon,” he said, without attempting to free his arms, which were held, as if by a vice19, at the elbow and shoulder. “You have come too soon, gentlemen! There is no money in the carriage. Not so much as a sou.”
“It is not for money that we have come,” replied the man who had first spoken—and the absolute silence of his companion was obviously the silence of a subordinate. “Though, for a larger sum than monsieur is likely to offer, one might make a mistake, and allow of escape—who knows?”
The remark was made with the cynical45 honesty of dishonesty which had so lately been introduced into France by him who was now Dictator of that facile people.
“Oh! I offer nothing,” replied Barebone. “For a good reason. I have nothing to offer. If you are not thieves, what are you?”
The carriage was rattling46 along the Rue Lafayette, over the cobble-stones, and the inmates47, though their faces were close together, had to shout in order to be heard.
“Of the police,” was the reply. “Of the high police. I fancy that monsieur's affair is political?”
“Why should you fancy that?”
“Because my comrade and I are not engaged on other cases. The criminal receives very different treatment. Permit me to assure you of that. And no consideration whatever. The common police is so unmannerly. There!—one may well release the arms—since we understand each other.”
“I shall not try to escape—if that is what you mean,” replied Barebone, with a laugh.
“Nothing else—nothing else,” his affable captor assured him.
And for the remainder of a long drive through the noisy streets the three men sat upright in the dim and musty cab in silence.
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1
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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6
mentor
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| n.指导者，良师益友；v.指导 | |
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7
precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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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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12
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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inertly
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| adv.不活泼地，无生气地 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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15
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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17
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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18
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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19
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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21
agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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23
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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24
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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25
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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26
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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28
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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29
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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30
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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31
devious
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| adj.不坦率的，狡猾的；迂回的，曲折的 | |
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32
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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33
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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34
pitfalls
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| （捕猎野兽用的）陷阱( pitfall的名词复数 )； 意想不到的困难，易犯的错误 | |
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35
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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36
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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39
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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40
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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41
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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42
hitch
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| v.免费搭(车旅行)；系住；急提；n.故障；急拉 | |
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43
bungling
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| adj.笨拙的，粗劣的v.搞糟，完不成( bungle的现在分词 )；笨手笨脚地做；失败；完不成 | |
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44
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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45
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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46
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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47
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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