He was really a fine-looking man still, although quite gray. Tall, slight, elegant, with no sign of a paunch, with a small mustache of doubtful shade, which might be called fair, he had a walk, a nobility, a “chic,” in short, that indescribable something which establishes a greater difference between two men than would millions of money. He murmured:
“Lormerin is still alive!”
And he went into the drawing-room where his correspondence awaited him.
On his table, where everything had its place, the work table of the gentleman who never works, there were a dozen letters lying beside three newspapers of different opinions. With a single touch he spread out all these letters, like a gambler giving the choice of a card; and he scanned the handwriting, a thing he did each morning before opening the envelopes.
It was for him a moment of delightful2 expectancy3, of inquiry4 and vague anxiety. What did these sealed mysterious letters bring him? What did they contain of pleasure, of happiness, or of grief? He surveyed them with a rapid sweep of the eye, recognizing the writing, selecting them, making two or three lots, according to what he expected from them. Here, friends; there, persons to whom he was indifferent; further on, strangers. The last kind always gave him a little uneasiness. What did they want from him? What hand had traced those curious characters full of thoughts, promises, or threats?
This day one letter in particular caught his eye. It was simple, nevertheless, without seeming to reveal anything; but he looked at it uneasily, with a sort of chill at his heart. He thought: “From whom can it be? I certainly know this writing, and yet I can't identify it.”
He raised it to a level with his face, holding it delicately between two fingers, striving to read through the envelope, without making up his mind to open it.
Then he smelled it, and snatched up from the table a little magnifying glass which he used in studying all the niceties of handwriting. He suddenly felt unnerved. “Whom is it from? This hand is familiar to me, very familiar. I must have often read its tracings, yes, very often. But this must have been a long, long time ago. Whom the deuce can it be from? Pooh! it's only somebody asking for money.”
And he tore open the letter. Then he read:
MY DEAR FRIEND: You have, without doubt, forgotten me, for it is now
twenty-five years since we saw each other. I was young; I am old.
When I bade you farewell, I left Paris in order to follow into the
provinces my husband, my old husband, whom you used to call “my
hospital.” Do you remember him? He died five years ago, and now I
am returning to Paris to get my daughter married, for I have a
daughter, a beautiful girl of eighteen, whom you have never seen.
I informed you of her birth, but you certainly did not pay much
You are still the handsome Lormerin; so I have been told. Well, if
and dine with her this evening, with the elderly Baronne de Vance
your ever faithful friend, who, with some emotion, although happy,
longer kiss, my poor Jaquelet.
LISE DE VANCE.
Lormerin's heart began to throb9. He remained sunk in his armchair with the letter on his knees, staring straight before him, overcome by a poignant10 emotion that made the tears mount up to his eyes!
If he had ever loved a woman in his life it was this one, little Lise, Lise de Vance, whom he called “Ashflower,” on account of the strange color of her hair and the pale gray of her eyes. Oh! what a dainty, pretty, charming creature she was, this frail11 baronne, the wife of that gouty, pimply12 baron7, who had abruptly13 carried her off to the provinces, shut her up, kept her in seclusion14 through jealousy15, jealousy of the handsome Lormerin.
Yes, he had loved her, and he believed that he too, had been truly loved. She familiarly gave him, the name of Jaquelet, and would pronounce that word in a delicious fashion.
A thousand forgotten memories came back to him, far, off and sweet and melancholy16 now. One evening she had called on him on her way home from a ball, and they went for a stroll in the Bois de Boulogne, she in evening dress, he in his dressing-jacket. It was springtime; the weather was beautiful. The fragrance17 from her bodice embalmed18 the warm air-the odor of her bodice, and perhaps, too, the fragrance of her skin. What a divine night! When they reached the lake, as the moon's rays fell across the branches into the water, she began to weep. A little surprised, he asked her why.
“I don't know. The moon and the water have affected19 me. Every time I see poetic20 things I have a tightening21 at the heart, and I have to cry.”
He smiled, affected himself, considering her feminine emotion charming —the unaffected emotion of a poor little woman, whom every sensation overwhelms. And he embraced her passionately22, stammering23:
What a charming love affair, short-lived and dainty, it had been and over all too quickly, cut short in the midst of its ardor25 by this old brute26 of a baron, who had carried off his wife, and never let any one see her afterward27.
Lormerin had forgotten, in fact, at the end of two or three months. One woman drives out another so quickly in Paris, when one is a bachelor! No matter; he had kept a little altar for her in his heart, for he had loved her alone! He assured himself now that this was so.
He rose, and said aloud: “Certainly, I will go and dine with her this evening!”
And instinctively28 he turned toward the mirror to inspect himself from head to foot. He reflected: “She must look very old, older than I look.” And he felt gratified at the thought of showing himself to her still handsome, still fresh, of astonishing her, perhaps of filling her with emotion, and making her regret those bygone days so far, far distant!
He turned his attention to the other letters. They were of no importance.
The whole day he kept thinking of this ghost of other days. What was she like now? How strange it was to meet in this way after twenty-five years! But would he recognize her?
He made his toilet with feminine coquetry, put on a white waistcoat, which suited him better with the coat than a black one, sent for the hairdresser to give him a finishing touch with the curling iron, for he had preserved his hair, and started very early in order to show his eagerness to see her.
The first thing he saw on entering a pretty drawing-room newly furnished was his own portrait, an old faded photograph, dating from the days when he was a beau, hanging on the wall in an antique silk frame.
He sat down and waited. A door opened behind him. He rose up abruptly, and, turning round, beheld29 an old woman with white hair who extended both hands toward him.
He seized them, kissed them one after the other several times; then, lifting up his head, he gazed at the woman he had loved.
Yes, it was an old lady, an old lady whom he did not recognize, and who, while she smiled, seemed ready to weep.
“Is it you, Lise?”
She replied:
“Yes, it is I; it is I, indeed. You would not have known me, would you? I have had so much sorrow—so much sorrow. Sorrow has consumed my life. Look at me now—or, rather, don't look at me! But how handsome you have kept—and young! If I had by chance met you in the street I would have exclaimed: 'Jaquelet!'. Now, sit down and let us, first of all, have a chat. And then I will call my daughter, my grown-up daughter. You'll see how she resembles me—or, rather, how I resembled her—no, it is not quite that; she is just like the 'me' of former days—you shall see! But I wanted to be alone with you first. I feared that there would be some emotion on my side, at the first moment. Now it is all over; it is past. Pray be seated, my friend.”
He sat down beside her, holding her hand; but he did not know what to say; he did not know this woman—it seemed to him that he had never seen her before. Why had he come to this house? What could he talk about? Of the long ago? What was there in common between him and her? He could no longer recall anything in presence of this grandmotherly face. He could no longer recall all the nice, tender things, so sweet, so bitter, that had come to his mind that morning when he thought of the other, of little Lise, of the dainty Ashflower. What, then, had become of her, the former one, the one he had loved? That woman of far-off dreams, the blonde with gray eyes, the young girl who used to call him “Jaquelet” so prettily31?
They remained side by side, motionless, both constrained32, troubled, profoundly ill at ease.
As they talked only commonplaces, awkwardly and spasmodically and slowly, she rose and pressed the button of the bell.
“I am going to call Renee,” she said.
“Here I am, mamma!”
Lormerin remained bewildered as at the sight of an apparition34.
“Good-day, mademoiselle.”
Then, turning toward the mother:
“Oh! it is you!”
In fact, it was she, she whom he had known in bygone days, the Lise who had vanished and come back! In her he found the woman he had won twenty-five years before. This one was even younger, fresher, more childlike.
He felt a wild desire to open his arms, to clasp her to his heart again, murmuring in her ear:
“Good-morning, Lison!”
A man-servant announced:
“Dinner is ready, madame.”
And they proceeded toward the dining-room.
What passed at this dinner? What did they say to him, and what could he say in reply? He found himself plunged36 in one of those strange dreams which border on insanity37. He gazed at the two women with a fixed38 idea in his mind, a morbid39, self-contradictory idea:
“Which is the real one?”
The mother smiled again repeating over and over:
“Do you remember?” And it was in the bright eyes of the young girl that he found again his memories of the past. Twenty times he opened his mouth to say to her: “Do you remember, Lison?” forgetting this white-haired lady who was looking at him tenderly.
And yet, there were moments when, he no longer felt sure, when he lost his head. He could see that the woman of to-day was not exactly the woman of long ago. The other one, the former one, had in her voice, in her glances, in her entire being, something which he did not find again. And he made prodigious40 efforts of mind to recall his lady love, to seize again what had escaped from her, what this resuscitated41 one did not possess.
The baronne said:
He murmured:
“There are many other things that I have lost!”
But in his heart, touched with emotion, he felt his old love springing to life once more, like an awakened43 wild beast ready to bite him.
The young girl went on chattering44, and every now and then some familiar intonation45, some expression of her mother's, a certain style of speaking and thinking, that resemblance of mind and manner which people acquire by living together, shook Lormerin from head to foot. All these things penetrated46 him, making the reopened wound of his passion bleed anew.
He got away early, and took a turn along the boulevard. But the image of this young girl pursued him, haunted him, quickened his heart, inflamed47 his blood. Apart from the two women, he now saw only one, a young one, the old one come back out of the past, and he loved her as he had loved her in bygone years. He loved her with greater ardor, after an interval48 of twenty-five years.
He went home to reflect on this strange and terrible thing, and to think what he should do.
But, as he was passing, with a wax candle in his hand, before the glass, the large glass in which he had contemplated49 himself and admired himself before he started, he saw reflected there an elderly, gray-haired man; and suddenly he recollected50 what he had been in olden days, in the days of little Lise. He saw himself charming and handsome, as he had been when he was loved! Then, drawing the light nearer, he looked at himself more closely, as one inspects a strange thing with a magnifying glass, tracing the wrinkles, discovering those frightful51 ravages52, which he had not perceived till now.
And he sat down, crushed at the sight of himself, at the sight of his lamentable53 image, murmuring:
“All over, Lormerin!”
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收听单词发音
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1
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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2
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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3
expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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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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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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10
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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pimply
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| adj.肿泡的；有疙瘩的；多粉刺的；有丘疹的 | |
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13
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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14
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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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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17
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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18
embalmed
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| adj.用防腐药物保存（尸体）的v.保存（尸体）不腐( embalm的过去式和过去分词 )；使不被遗忘；使充满香气 | |
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19
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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20
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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21
tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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22
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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23
stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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24
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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25
ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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26
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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27
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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28
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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29
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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30
abstain
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| v.自制，戒绝，弃权，避免 | |
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31
prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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32
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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33
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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34
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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35
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
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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37
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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38
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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39
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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40
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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41
resuscitated
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| v.使（某人或某物）恢复知觉，苏醒( resuscitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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43
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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44
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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45
intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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46
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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47
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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49
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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50
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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52
ravages
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| 劫掠后的残迹，破坏的结果，毁坏后的残迹 | |
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53
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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