Huckaby, whose financial affairs were in the saddest condition and who had called with the vague hope of a trifle on account of services to be rendered, pricked17 up his ears at the announcement. Even though the main heart-breaking quest was deferred18 to August, why should they not seek a minor19 adventure during Quixtus’s visit to Paris? It would be a kind of trial trip. At the suggestion Quixtus shook his head. The Congress would occupy all his time and attention.
“Quite so,” said Huckaby. “While you’re busy with prehistoric20 man, I’ll be hunting down modern woman. By the time I’ve found her, you’ll have finished. Having done with the bones, you can devote a few extra days to the flesh.”
“To the spirit then—the Evil Spirit,” said Huckaby, unabashed. “That is, if we discover a subject. We’re bound to try various experiments before we finally succeed.”
Here was something happening which Huckaby dreaded23. Quixtus was beginning to lose interest in the adventure. In another month he might regard it with repugnance24. He must start it now with Mrs. Fontaine in Paris, or the whole conspiracy25 must collapse26. The thought urged Huckaby to fresh efforts of persuasion27.
“Revenge is sweet and worth the trouble,” he said at last.
“Yes,” replied Quixtus, in a low voice. “Revenge would be sweet.”
Huckaby glanced at him swiftly. Beyond the iniquity28 of Marrable, he was ignorant of the precise nature of the injuries which Quixtus had sustained at the hands of fortune. Was it possible that a woman had played him false? But what had this fossil of a man to do with women?
“I, too,” said he, with malicious29 intent; “would like to pay off old scores against a faithless sex. You have found them faithless, haven’t you?”
Quixtus’s brow darkened. “As false as hell,” said he.
“I knew a woman had treated you shamefully,” said Huckaby, after a pause during which Quixtus had fallen into a dull reverie.
“Infamously,” replied Quixtus, below his breath. He looked away into the distance, madness gathering30 in his eyes. For the moment he seemed to forget the other’s presence. Huckaby took his opportunity. He said in a whisper:
“She betrayed you?”
Quixtus nodded. Huckaby watched him narrowly, an absurd suspicion beginning to form itself in his mind. By his chance phrase about revenge he had put his friend’s unsound mind on the track of a haunting tragedy. Who was the woman? His wife? But she had died beloved of him, and for years, until this madness overtook him, he had spoken of her with the reverence32 due to a departed saint. It was a puzzle; the solution peculiarly interesting. How should he obtain it? Quixtus was not the man to blab his intimate secrets into the ear of his hired bravo—for as such he knew that Quixtus regarded him. It behoved him not to change the minor key of this conversation.
Quixtus nodded again three or four times, with parted lips.
“His own household. Those dearest to him. The woman he loved and his best friend.”
In spite of his suspicion, Huckaby was astounded34 at the inadvertent confession35. In his last days of grace he had known Mrs. Quixtus and the best friend. Swiftly his mind went back. He remembered vaguely36 their familiar intercourse37. What was the man’s name? He groped and found it.
“Hammersley,” he said, aloud.
At the word, Quixtus started to his feet and swept his hand over his face.
“What are you talking about? What do you know against Hammersley?”
A lurid38 ray shot athwart his darkened mind. He realised the betrayal of his most jealously guarded secret to Huckaby. He shrank back, growing hot and cold through shame.
“Hammersley played me false over some money affairs,” he said, cunningly. “It’s a black business which I will tell you about one of these days.”
“And the woman?” asked Huckaby.
“The woman—she—she married. I am glad to say she’s giving her husband a devil of a time.”
He laughed nervously39. Huckaby, with surprising tact40, followed on the wrong scent41 like a puppy.
“You can avenge42 the poor fellow and yourself at the same time,” said he. “Women are all alike. It’s right that one of them should be made to suffer. You have it in your power to make one of them suffer the tortures of hell.”
“Yes, yes, I’ll do it,” cried Quixtus.
“No time like the present.”
“You’re right,” said Quixtus. “We’ll go to Paris together.”
For the first few days in Paris Quixtus had little time to devote to the secondary object of his visit. The meetings and excursions of the Congress absorbed his attention. His Parisian confrères took him to their homes and exhibited their collections of flint instruments, their wives and their daughters. He attended intimate dinners, the words sans cérémonie being underlined in the invitation, where all the men, who had worn evening dress in the morning at a formal function of the Congress, assembled in the salon43 gravely attired44 in tightly-buttoned frock-coats and wearing dogskin gloves which they only took off when they sat down to table. His good provincial45 colleagues, who thought they might just as well hear the chimes at midnight while they were in Paris as not, insisted on his accompanying them in their mild dissipation: This generally consisted in drinking beer at a brasserie filled with parti-coloured ladies and talking pal?olithic gossip amid the bewildering uproar46 of a Tzigane band. Now and again Huckaby, who assured him that he was prosecuting47 his researches in the fauna48 of the H?tel Continental49, where, on Huckaby’s advice, they were staying, would accompany him on such adventures.
Curiously50 enough, Quixtus had begun to like the man again. Admitted on a social equality and dressed in reputable garments, Huckaby began to lose the assertiveness51 of manner mingled52 with furtive53 flattery which of late had characterised him. He began to assume an air of self-respect, even of good-breeding. Quixtus noticed with interest the change wrought54 in him by clothes and environment, and contrasted him favourably55 with Billiter, whom new and gorgeous raiment had rendered peculiarly offensive. There were times when he could forget the sorry mission which Huckaby had undertaken, and find pleasure in his conversation. Scrupulous56 sobriety aided the temporary metamorphosis. As he spoke31 French passably and had retained a considerable amount of scholarship, Quixtus (to his astonishment) found that he could introduce him with a certain pride to his brother anthropologists, as one who would cast no discredit58 on his country. Huckaby was quick to perceive his patron’s change of attitude, and took pains to maintain it. The novelty, too, of mingling59 again with clean-living, intellectual and kindly60 men afforded him a keen pleasure which was worth a week’s abstinence from whisky. Whether it was worth a whole life of respectability and endeavour was another matter. The present sufficed him.
He played the scholarly gentleman so well that Quixtus was not surprised, one afternoon, when passing through the great lounge of the Continental, to see a lady rise from a tea-table and greet his companion in the friendliest manner.
“Eustace Huckaby, can that possibly be you—or is it your ghost?”
“It’s years and years since we met. How many?”
“I daren’t count them, for both our sakes,” said Huckaby.
“Why have you dropped out of my horizon for all this time?” asked the lady.
“Mea maxima culpa.” He smiled, bowed in the best-bred way in the world, and half turned, so as to bring Quixtus into the group. “May I introduce my friend Dr. Quixtus? Mrs. Fontaine.”
The lady smiled sweetly. “You are Dr. Quixtus, the anthropologist57?”
“I am interested in the subject,” said Quixtus.
“An indiscretion of youth,” said Quixtus.
“Oh, please don’t tell me it’s all wrong,” cried Mrs. Fontaine, in alarm. “I’m always quoting it. It forms part of my little stock-in-trade of learning.”
“Oh, no. It’s not exactly incorrect,” said Quixtus, with a smile, pleased that so pretty a lady should count among his disciples63, “but it’s superficial. So much has been discovered since I wrote it.”
“But it’s a standard work, all the same. I happened to see an account of the Anthropological Congress in the paper this morning, in which you are referred to as the éminent anthropologue anglais and the author of my book. I was so pleased. I should have been more so had I known I was to meet you this afternoon. Have you turned anthropologist too, Mr. Huckaby?”
Huckaby explained that he was taking advantage of the Congress to make holiday in the company of his distinguished65 friend. That was the first afternoon the Congress had allowed him leisure, and they had devoted66 it to contemplation of the acres of fresh paint in the Grand Palais. They had come home exhausted67.
“Home? Then you’re staying in the hotel?”
“Yes,” said Huckaby. “And you?”
“I too. And in its vastness I feel the most lonesome widow woman that ever was. I’m waiting here for Lady Louisa Mailing, who promised to join me; but I think something must have happened, for there is no sign of her.”
A waiter brought the tray with tea which she had ordered before the men’s entrance, and set it on the basket table. Mrs. Fontaine motioned to it.
“With pleasure,” said Huckaby.
Quixtus accepted the invitation, and with his grave courtesy withdrew a chair to make a passage for Mrs. Fontaine, who gave the additional order to the waiter. The lounge and the courtyard were thronged69 with a well-dressed cosmopolitan70 crowd, tea-drinking, smoking, and chattering71. A band discoursed72 discreet73 music at a convenient distance. The scene was cool to eyes tired by the vivid colours of the salon and the hot streets. Quixtus sat down restfully by the side of his hostess and let her minister to his wants. He was surprised to find how pleasant a change was the company of a soft-voiced and attractive woman after that of his somewhat ponderous74 and none too picturesque75 confrères. She was good to look upon; an English blonde in a pale lilac dress and hat—the incarnation of early summer; not beautiful, but pleasing; at the same time simple and exquisite76. The arrangement of her blonde hair, the fine oval contour of her face, the thin delicate lips, gave her an air of chastity which was curiously belied77 by dark grey eyes dreaming behind long lashes78. All her movements, supple79 and natural, spoke of breeding; unmistakably a lady. Evidently a friend of Huckaby’s before his fall. Quixtus wondered cynically80 whether she would have greeted with such frank gladness the bloodshot-eyed scarecrow of a fortnight before. From their talk, he concluded that she had no idea of the man’s degradation82.
“Mr. Huckaby and I knew each other when the world was young,” she said. “Centuries ago—in the pal?olithic age—before my marriage.”
“Alas!” said Huckaby, sipping83 the unaccustomed tea. “You threw aside the injunction: arma cedant tog?. In our case it was the gown that had to yield to the arms. You married a soldier.”
She sighed and looked down pensively84 at her wedding-ring. Then she glanced up with a laugh, and handed Quixtus the bread and butter.
“Believe me, Dr. Quixtus, this is the first time I ever heard of the rivalry85. He only invented it for the sake of the epigram. Isn’t that true?”
“In one way,” replied Huckaby. “I was so insignificant87 that you never even noticed it.”
She laughed again and turned to Quixtus.
“How long are you going to stay in Paris?”
“Just a day or two longer—till the end of my Congress.”
“Oh! How can you leave Paris when she’s looking her best without devoting a few days to admiring her? It’s unkind.”
“I’m afraid Paris must get over the slight.”
“But don’t you love Paris? I do. It is so fascinating; dangerous, treacherous88. Plunge89 into it for a moment or two and it is the Fountain of Youth. Remain in the water a little longer than is prudent90, and you come out shrivelled and wrinkled, with all your youth and beauty gone from you.”
“Perhaps I have already had my prudent plunge,” said Quixtus; with a smile.
“I’m sure you haven’t. You’ve been on dry land all the time. Worse than that—in a quaternary formation. Have you dined at Armenonville?”
“In my time I have; but not this time.”
“Voilà,” said Mrs. Fontaine. “The warm June nights, the Bois in the moonlight with all its mysteries of shadow, the fairy palace in the midst of it where you eat fairy things surrounded by the gaiety and sparkle and laughter of the world—essential and symbolical91 Paris—you disregard it all. And that is only one little instance. There are a thousand others. You’ve not even wetted your feet.”
She embroidered92 her thesis very gracefully93, clothing the woman of the world in a diaphanous94 robe of pretty fancy, revealing a mind ever so little baffling, here material, there imaginative—a mind as contradictory95 as her face, with its chaste96 contours and its alluring97 eyes. Quixtus listened to her with amused interest. She represented a type with which he, accustomed to the less vivid womenfolk of the learned, was unfamiliar98. Without leaving Huckaby, her girlhood’s friend, out in the cold, she made it delicately evident that, of the two, Quixtus was the more worthy99 of attention on account of his attainments100 and the more attractive in his personality. Quixtus, flattered, thought her a woman of great discernment.
“But you,” said he, at last. “Have you made your plunge—not that you need it—into the Fountain of Youth? Have you fed on the honeydew of the Bois de Boulogne and drunk the milk of Armenonville?”
“I only arrived last night,” she explained. “And I must remain more or less in quarantine, being an unprotected woman, till my friend Lady Louisa Mailing comes, or till my friends in Paris get to know I am here. But I always like a day or two of freedom before announcing myself—so that I can do the foolish things that Parisians would jeer102 at. I always go to the Louvre and look at the little laughing Faun and the Giaconda; and I always go down the Seine in a steamboat, and from the Madeleine to the Bastille on the top of an omnibus. Then I’m ready for my plunge.”
“I should have thought that bath of innocence103 was in itself the Fountain of Youth,” said Huckaby.
The least suspicion of a frown passed over Mrs. Fontaine’s candid104 brow. But she replied with a smile:
“On the contrary, my friend. That is a penitential dipping in the waters of the past.”
“Why penitential?” asked Quixtus.
“Isn’t it wholesome105 discipline to give oneself pain sometimes?” Her face grew wistful. “To re-visit scenes where one has been happy—and sharpen the knife of memory?”
“It is the instinct of the ascetic,” smiled Quixtus.
“I suppose I have a bit of it,” she replied, demurely106. Then her face brightened. “I don’t wear a hair shirt—I’ve got to appear in an evening gown sometimes—but I find an odd little satisfaction in doing penance107. If I were a Roman Catholic I would embarrass my confessor.”
Huckaby’s lips twitched108 in a smile beneath his moustache. If all the tales that Billiter told of Lena Fontaine were true, a confessor would be exceedingly embarrassed. He regarded her with admiration109. She was an entirely110 different woman from the hard and contemptuous partner in iniquity to whom Billiter had introduced him before he left London. It had not been a pleasant interview—just the details of their Paris meeting arranged, the story of their past acquaintance rehearsed, and nothing more. Huckaby, descending111 her stairs with Billiter, had felt as if he had been whipped, and prophesied113 failure. She was not the woman for Quixtus. But Billiter grinned and bade him wait. He had waited, and now had the satisfaction of seeing Quixtus caught immediately in the gossamer114 web of her charm. He wondered, too, how she could have maintained her relations with so undesirable115 a person as Billiter, for whom he himself entertained a profound contempt. Billiter was unusually silent on the matter, letting it be vaguely understood that he had been in the Dragoon Guardsman’s set before running through his money, and that he had accidentally done her a service in later years. What that service was he declined to mention. Huckaby sniffed116 blackmail117. That was the more likely influence keeping together a well-received woman of hidden life and a shabby and unpresentable sot like Billiter. He remembered that Billiter had confessed to a mysterious source of income. What more natural an explanation thereof than the fact that, having once surprised a woman’s secret and holding her reputation in his hands, he should have been accepted by her, in desperation, as her paid doer of unavowable offices? He knew that a woman of Lena Fontaine’s type, with an assured social position in the great world, does not descend112 into the half-world without a desperate struggle. Her back is against the wall, and she uses any weapon to hand. Hence her use of Billiter. At all events, in the present case there had been no pretence118 of friendship. To her it had obviously been a hateful matter of business, which she had been anxious to conclude as soon as possible. One condition she rigorously exacted; that her acquaintance with Billiter should not be revealed to Quixtus. She was not proud of Billiter. Huckaby took what comfort he could from the thought.
Mrs. Fontaine sat talking to the two men until the tea-drinking and chattering crowd had melted away. Then she rose, thanked them prettily119 for wasting their science-filled time on an irresponsible woman’s loneliness, and expressed to Huckaby the hope that she would see him again before he left Paris.
“I trust I, too, may have the pleasure,” said Quixtus.
“You might lead us to the Fountain of Youth one of these evenings,” said Huckaby.
“It would be delightful,” said the lady, with a questioning glance at Quixtus.
“I could dream of nothing more pleasant,” he replied, bowing in his old-fashioned way.
When she had gone, the men resumed their seats. Quixtus lit a cigarette.
“A very charming woman.”
Huckaby agreed. “It has been one of my great regrets of the past few years that I have not been able to keep up our old friendship. We moved in different worlds.” He paused, as if thinking sorrowfully of his misspent life. “I hope you don’t mind my suggesting the little dinner-party,” he said, after a while. “My position was a delicate one.”
“It was a very good idea,” said Quixtus.
Huckaby said little more, preferring to leave well alone. The plot, up to this point, had succeeded. Quixtus gave complete credence120 to the story, unsuspecting that Mrs. Fontaine was the woman selected for his heart-breaking experiment, and already considerably121 attracted by her personality. Diabolical122 possibilities could be insinuated123 later. In the meanwhile; Huckaby had played his part. Future success now lay in Mrs. Fontaine’s hands.
Quixtus dined that evening with one of his colleagues, and Huckaby, after a meal at a restaurant, went to the Comédie Fran?aise and sat through Phèdre from beginning to end, with great enjoyment124. The re-awakening of his ?sthetic sense, dulled for so many years, surprised and gratified him.
“If I had a chance of getting back again, I’d take it.”
“Getting back where?” asked Quixtus. “To London?”
Huckaby explained. “I’m tired of running crooked,” he added. “If I could only get regular work to bring me in a few pounds a week, I’d run straight and sober for the rest of my life.”
“I don’t think I can help you to attain101 your wishes, my dear Huckaby,” replied Quixtus, reflectively. “If I did; I should be committing a good action, which, as you know, is entirely against my principles.”
“I don’t yearn126 so much after goodness,” said Huckaby, “as after decency127 and cleanliness. I’ve no ambition to die a white-haired saint.”
“All white-haired saints are whited sepulchres,” said Quixtus.
In spite of regenerative impulses, Huckaby persuaded his patron to lunch at the hotel where he knew that Mrs. Fontaine and the newly arrived Lady Louisa Mailing had planned to lunch also. The establishment of informal relations was important. They entered the table d’h?te room, and, preceded by the ma?tre d’h?tel, marched to the table reserved for them. About six tables away sat Mrs. Fontaine and her friend. She smiled a pleasant greeting.
“Women can sometimes be exceedingly decorative,” remarked Quixtus, helping128 himself to sardines129.
“If they are not, they leave unfulfilled one of the main functions of their existence.”
“Did you ever know a good woman?”
“Mrs. Fontaine is one of the best I’ve ever known,” replied Huckaby, at a venture.
The heart-breaking could be practised on a sweet and virtuous130 flower of a woman with much more villainous success than on a hardened coquette.
Quixtus said nothing. His natural delicacy131 forbade the discussion of a specific woman’s moral attributes.
The occupants of the two tables met after lunch in the lounge, and had coffee and cigarettes together. The men were presented to Lady Louisa Mailing, an aimless, dowdy132 woman of forty, running to fat. As far as could be gathered from her conversation, her two interests in life were Lena Fontaine and food in restaurants. In Mrs. Fontaine’s presence she spoke chiefly of the latter. When Mrs. Fontaine went up to her room for a forgotten powder-puff, leaving her with the men, she plunged133 with animation134 into eulogy135 of Mrs. Fontaine’s virtues136. In this she was sincere. She believed in Mrs. Fontaine’s virtues, which, like the costermonger’s giant strawberries, lay ostentatiously at the top of her basket of qualities; and she was so stupid that her friend could always dissimulate138 from her incurious eyes the crushed and festering fruit below.
“I always think it so sad for a sweet, beautiful woman like Lena to be alone in the world,” said Lady Louisa, in a soft, even voice. “But she’s so brave, so cheerful, so gentle.”
“It’s a wonder she hasn’t married again,” said Huckaby.
“I don’t think she ever will,” replied Lady Louisa; “unless she gets a man to understand her. And where is he to be found?”
“Ah where?” said Huckaby, to whom as Mrs. Fontaine’s childhood friend this talk had been mainly addressed.
Lady Louisa sighed sentimentally139. She was an old maid, the seventh of eleven daughters of an impecunious140 Irish earl now defunct141. Her face, such as it was, had been her fortune, and it had attracted no suitors.
“Not that she isn’t very much admired. She knows hundreds of nice men, and I’m sure heaps of them want to marry her; but, no. She likes them as friends. As a husband she wants something more. The modern man is so material and unintellectual, don’t you think so?”
This Diana (with a touch of Minerva) among widows came up, swinging the little bag of which she had gone in search.
“I’m sure Lady Louisa has been talking about me,” she laughed.
“She has not been taking away your character. I assure you,” said Quixtus.
“I know. She has been giving me one. And the worst of it is, I have to live up to it—or at least try. I suppose it’s always worth while having an ideal before one, though it may be somebody else’s.”
“You believe in an ideal of goodness?” asked Quixtus.
“Why, yes, don’t you?”
“No,” he replied, with a darkening brow. “There is only one force in nature, which is wickedness. Man sometimes resists it for fear of the consequences, and the measure of his cowardly resistance is by a curious inversion143 taken by him to be the measure of his striving towards an ideal.”
“There is only one remedy.”
“And that?”
“The same as will cure the disease of life.”
“You mean death?”
“Yes,” said Quixtus.
“It’s a remedy; but not the only one.” Her pale cheeks flushed adorably. “In fact, it’s only by a twist of language you can call it a remedy. The only remedy against the malady145 of life is life itself. The bane is its own antidote146. The only cure for loss of illusions is fresh illusions, more illusions, and always illusions.”
“Supposing for argument’s sake you are right—where are they to come from?”
“Only in healthy flesh,” said Quixtus, with his tired smile. “So in a gangrened soul there can be built up no fresh tissue of illusions.”
Womanlike, she begged the question, maintaining that there was no such thing as a gangrened soul. She shuddered148 prettily. Belief therein was a horrible superstition149. She proclaimed her faith in the ultimate good of things. Quixtus said ironically:
“The ultimate good takes a long time coming. In the ages in which I, as a student, am interested, men slew150 each other with honest hatchets151. Now they slay152 by the poisoned word and the treacherous deed. The development of mind has for its history the development of craft and cunning, of which the supreme153 results are a religion as to whose essential tenets scarcely two persons can agree, a rule of thumb arrangement of purely154 mechanical appliances, which is the so-called wonder of wireless155 telegraphy, and an infinite capacity for cruelty which has rendered Hell a mild and futile156 shadow in human speculation157. Whatever hellishness human imagination could invent as the work of devils, calm history, the daily newspaper, your own experience of life tells you has already been surpassed by the work of man. Sometimes one is tempted158 to cry, like Ferdinand in The Tempest, ‘Hell is empty, and all the devils are here!’ But if it was, and the devils were here, they would be hard put to it to find a society in which they should not be compelled to hold up their tails before their snouts in shame and horror. You would find them meeker159 than the meekest160 of the Young Men’s Christian161 Association.”
He spoke with a certain crazy earnestness which arrested Lena Fontaine. Heartless, desperate, cynical81 though she was, intelligent too and swift of brain, she had never formulated162 to herself so disastrous163 a philosophy. She leaned forward, an elbow on the wickerwork table.
“Such a faith is dreadful,” she said, seriously. “It reduces living among one’s fellow creatures to walking through a horde164 of savages—never knowing whether some one may not club you on the head or stab you in the back.”
“Can you ever tell whether your dearest friend isn’t going to stab you in the back?” asked Quixtus.
His pale blue eyes held her with a curious insistence165. Her eyelids166 flickered168 with something like shame, as though she had divined a personal application of the question. She shivered; this time naturally.
“Oh, I love to believe in goodness,” she exclaimed, “although I may not practise every virtue137 myself. There would be no sunshine in a purely wicked world.” She plucked up courage and looked him in the face.
“Do you think I, for instance, am just one mass of badness?”
“My dear Mrs. Fontaine,” replied the pessimist169, with his courtly smile, “you must not crush me by using the privilege of your sex—arguing from general to particular.”
“But do you?” she insisted.
“I believe,” said he, with a little inclination170 of his head, “all that Lady Louisa has been telling me.”
The talk ran for awhile in lighter channels. Lady Louisa and Huckaby who had been discussing cookery—he had held her in watery-mouthed attention while he gave her from memory Izaac Walton’s recipe for roasting a jack—joined in the conversation.
“You two have been having a very deep argument,” said Lady Louisa.
“I have been trying to convert him to optimism,” laughed Mrs. Fontaine. “It seems to be difficult. But I’ll do so in time. I’m a determined171 woman. I’ve a good mind to forbid you to leave Paris before your conversion172.”
“The process would be pleasant, though the result would be problematical.”
“I’m not going to argue with you. I just want to make you see things for yourself.”
“I will submit gladly to your guidance,” said Quixtus.
She looked at the little watch on her bracelet173, and her rising brought the little party to their feet.
Quixtus also consulted his watch. “I shall be honoured if you will let me walk up the Rue de la Paix with you. But then I must reluctantly leave you. I must meet my confrères of the Congress at the railway-station to go to Sèvres to see Monsieur Sardanel’s collection.”
“What has Sèvres china to do with anthropology174?”
He smiled at her ignorance. Monsieur Sardanel had the famous collection of Mexican antiquities—terra-cotta rattles175 and masks and obsidian-edged swords.
Her long lashes swept shyly upwards176. “I’m sure I could show you much more interesting things than those.”
It was a long time since a pretty and fascinating woman had evinced a desire for his company. He was a man, as well as a diabolically177 minded anthropologist. Yet there was a green avanturine quartz178 axe-head in the collection which he particularly lusted179 to behold. He stood irresolute180, while Mrs. Fontaine turned with a laugh and took Lady Louisa aside. He caught Huckaby’s glance, in which he surprised a flicker167 of anxiety. Huckaby was wondering whether this was the right moment to speak. It seemed so. Yet the more he thought over the matter, the less was he inclined to cut the disgraceful figure in Quixtus’s eyes of the base betrayer of his supposed childhood’s flower-like friend. Here, however, was the wished-for opportunity, when Quixtus was evidently hesitating between primitive181 clay masks and a living woman’s face. He resolved to throw all the onus182 of the decision on Quixtus’s shoulders.
“I’m afraid these dear ladies rather interfere183 with the prospects184 of our little adventure,” he said, drawing him a step or two from the table where they had been sitting.
“I never thought of it,” said Quixtus, truthfully.
Then an idea of malignant cunning took possession of his brain. Mrs. Fontaine should be the woman; and Huckaby should not know. Her heart he would break and, when it was broken, he would confound Huckaby with the piteous shards185 and enjoy a doubly diabolical triumph. In the meantime he must dissemble; for Huckaby would not deliberately186 allow his old friend’s happiness to be wrecked187. To hide a smile he crossed the passage of the lounge and lit a cigarette from matches on one of the tables. Then he turned.
“My dear fellow,” said he, “let us talk no more about the adventure, as you call it. It never really pleased me.”
“But surely——” Huckaby began.
“It’s distasteful,” he interrupted, “and there’s an end of it.”
“As you will,” said Huckaby, for the moment uncertain.
Mrs. Fontaine approached them smiling, provocative188 in the dainty candour of her white dress and hat.
Quixtus paused for the fraction of a second. The lady swept him with her dreamy glance. A modern Merlin, he yielded. This delicious wickedness at last on foot, Sardanel and all his spoils of Mexico could go hang.
They went forth191 together, outwardly as gay a company as ever issued through the great gates of the H?tel Continental into the fairyland of Paris; inwardly, save one of their number, psychological complexities192 as dark as any that have emerged into its mocking and inscrutable spirit. Of the three, Quixtus, the tender-hearted scholar of darkened mind, who could no more have broken a woman’s heart than have trampled193 on a baby, pathetically bent on his intellectually conceived career of Evil and entirely unconscious of being himself the dupe and victim—of the three, Quixtus was certainly the happiest. Huckaby, touched with shame, avoided meeting his accomplice’s eye. He walked in front with Lady Louisa, finding refuge in her placid194 dulness.
Once during the afternoon, when Lena Fontaine found herself for a moment by his side, she laughed cynically.
“Do you know what you two remind me of? Martha and Mephistopheles.”
“And you are Gretchen to the life.”
The retort was obvious; but apparently195 it was not anticipated. Mrs. Fontaine flushed scarlet196 at the sneer197. She looked at him hard-eyed, and said, with set teeth:
“I wish to God I were.”
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anthropological
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villains
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| n.恶棍( villain的名词复数 )；罪犯；（小说、戏剧等中的）反面人物；淘气鬼 | |
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3
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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4
saturnine
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| adj.忧郁的，沉默寡言的，阴沉的，感染铅毒的 | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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7
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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8
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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10
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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11
mammoth
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| n.长毛象；adj.长毛象似的，巨大的 | |
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12
reindeer
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| n.驯鹿 | |
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13
hatchet
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| n.短柄小斧；v.扼杀 | |
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14
pal
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| n.朋友，伙伴，同志；vi.结为友 | |
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15
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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16
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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17
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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18
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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19
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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20
prehistoric
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| adj.（有记载的）历史以前的，史前的，古老的 | |
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21
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22
musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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23
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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24
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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25
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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26
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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27
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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28
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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29
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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30
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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31
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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32
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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33
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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34
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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35
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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36
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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37
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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38
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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39
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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40
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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41
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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42
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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43
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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44
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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46
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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47
prosecuting
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| 检举、告发某人( prosecute的现在分词 )； 对某人提起公诉； 继续从事（某事物）； 担任控方律师 | |
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48
fauna
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| n.(一个地区或时代的)所有动物，动物区系 | |
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49
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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50
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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51
assertiveness
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| n.过分自信 | |
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52
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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53
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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54
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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55
favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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56
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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57
anthropologist
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| n.人类学家，人类学者 | |
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58
discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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59
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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60
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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61
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
neolithic
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| adj.新石器时代的 | |
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63
disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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64
disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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65
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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66
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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67
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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68
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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69
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
cosmopolitan
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| adj.世界性的，全世界的，四海为家的，全球的 | |
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71
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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72
discoursed
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| 演说（discourse的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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73
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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74
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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75
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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76
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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77
belied
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| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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78
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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79
supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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80
cynically
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| adv.爱嘲笑地，冷笑地 | |
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81
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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82
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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83
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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84
pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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85
rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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86
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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87
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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88
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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89
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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90
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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91
symbolical
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| a.象征性的 | |
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92
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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93
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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94
diaphanous
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| adj.(布)精致的，半透明的 | |
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95
contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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96
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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97
alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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98
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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99
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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100
attainments
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| 成就，造诣； 获得( attainment的名词复数 )； 达到； 造诣； 成就 | |
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101
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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102
jeer
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| vi.嘲弄，揶揄；vt.奚落；n.嘲笑，讥评 | |
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103
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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104
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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105
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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106
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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107
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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108
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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109
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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110
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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111
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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112
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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113
prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
gossamer
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| n.薄纱，游丝 | |
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115
undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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116
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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117
blackmail
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| n.讹诈，敲诈，勒索，胁迫，恫吓 | |
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118
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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119
prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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120
credence
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| n.信用，祭器台，供桌，凭证 | |
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121
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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122
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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123
insinuated
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| v.暗示( insinuate的过去式和过去分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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124
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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125
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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126
yearn
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| v.想念；怀念；渴望 | |
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127
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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128
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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129
sardines
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| n. 沙丁鱼 | |
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130
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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131
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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dowdy
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| adj.不整洁的；过旧的 | |
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133
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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134
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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135
eulogy
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| n.颂词；颂扬 | |
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136
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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137
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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138
dissimulate
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| v.掩饰，隐藏 | |
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139
sentimentally
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| adv.富情感地 | |
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140
impecunious
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| adj.不名一文的，贫穷的 | |
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141
defunct
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| adj.死亡的；已倒闭的 | |
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142
candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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143
inversion
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| n.反向，倒转，倒置 | |
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144
pessimism
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| n.悲观者，悲观主义者，厌世者 | |
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145
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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146
antidote
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| n.解毒药，解毒剂 | |
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147
volition
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| n.意志；决意 | |
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148
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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149
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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150
slew
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| v.（使）旋转；n.大量，许多 | |
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151
hatchets
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| n.短柄小斧( hatchet的名词复数 )；恶毒攻击；诽谤；休战 | |
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152
slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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153
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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154
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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155
wireless
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| adj.无线的；n.无线电 | |
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156
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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158
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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meeker
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| adj.温顺的，驯服的( meek的比较级 ) | |
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meekest
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| adj.温顺的，驯服的( meek的最高级 ) | |
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161
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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formulated
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| v.构想出( formulate的过去式和过去分词 )；规划；确切地阐述；用公式表示 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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horde
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| n.群众，一大群 | |
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insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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166
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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flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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168
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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169
pessimist
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| n.悲观者；悲观主义者；厌世 | |
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170
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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172
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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173
bracelet
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| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
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174
anthropology
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| n.人类学 | |
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175
rattles
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| （使）发出格格的响声， （使）作嘎嘎声( rattle的第三人称单数 )； 喋喋不休地说话； 迅速而嘎嘎作响地移动，堕下或走动； 使紧张，使恐惧 | |
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176
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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177
diabolically
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178
quartz
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| n.石英 | |
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179
lusted
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| 贪求（lust的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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180
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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181
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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182
onus
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| n.负担；责任 | |
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183
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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184
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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185
shards
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| n.（玻璃、金属或其他硬物的）尖利的碎片( shard的名词复数 ) | |
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186
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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187
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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188
provocative
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| adj.挑衅的，煽动的，刺激的，挑逗的 | |
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189
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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190
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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191
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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192
complexities
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| 复杂性(complexity的名词复数)； 复杂的事物 | |
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193
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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194
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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195
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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196
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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197
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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