In the coupe, which followed the quays8 in the luminous10 dust of the setting sun, she listened without impatience11 to her husband confiding12 to her his successes as an orator13, the intentions of his parliamentary groups, his projects, his hopes, and the necessity to give two or three political dinners. She closed her eyes in order to think better. She said to herself: “I shall have a letter to-morrow, and shall see him again within eight days.” When the coupe passed on the bridge, she looked at the water, which seemed to roll flames; at the smoky arches; at the rows of trees; at the heads of the chestnut-trees in bloom on the Cours-la-Reine; all these familiar aspects seemed to be clothed for her in novel magnificence. It seemed to her that her love had given a new color to the universe. And she asked herself whether the trees and the stones recognized her. She was thinking; “How is it that my silence, my eyes, and heaven and earth do not tell my dear secret?”
M. Martin-Belleme, thinking she was a little tired, advised her to rest. And at night, closeted in her room, in the silence wherein she heard the palpitations of her heart, she wrote to the absent one a letter full of these words, which are similar to flowers in their perpetual novelty: “I love you. I am waiting for you. I am happy. I feel you are near me. There is nobody except you and me in the world. I see from my window a blue star which trembles, and I look at it, thinking that you see it in Florence. I have put on my table the little red lily spoon. Come! Come!” And she found thus, fresh in her mind, the eternal sensations and images.
For a week she lived an inward life, feeling within her the soft warmth which remained of the days passed in the Via Alfieri, breathing the kisses which she had received, and loving herself for being loved. She took delicate care and displayed attentive14 taste in new gowns. It was to herself, too, that she was pleasing. Madly anxious when there was nothing for her at the postoffice, trembling and joyful when she received through the small window a letter wherein she recognized the large handwriting of her beloved, she devoured15 her reminiscences, her desires, and her hopes. Thus the hours passed quickly.
The morning of the day when he was to arrive seemed to her to be odiously16 long. She was at the station before the train arrived. A delay had been signalled. It weighed heavily upon her. Optimist17 in her projects, and placing by force, like her father, faith on the side of her will, that delay which she had not foreseen seemed to her to be treason. The gray light, which the three-quarters of an hour filtered through the window-panes of the station, fell on her like the rays of an immense hour-glass which measured for her the minutes of happiness lost. She was lamenting18 her fate, when, in the red light of the sun, she saw the locomotive of the express stop, monstrous19 and docile20, on the quay9, and, in the crowd of travellers coming out of the carriages, Jacques approached her. He was looking at her with that sort of sombre and violent joy which she had often observed in him. He said:
“At last, here you are. I feared to die before seeing you again. You do not know, I did not know myself, what torture it is to live a week away from you. I have returned to the little pavilion of the Via Alfieri. In the room you know, in front of the old pastel, I have wept for love and rage.”
She looked at him tenderly.
“And I, do you not think that I called you, that I wanted you, that when alone I extended my arms toward you? I had hidden your letters in the chiffonier where my jewels are. I read them at night: it was delicious, but it was imprudent. Your letters were yourself — too much and not enough.”
They traversed the court where fiacres rolled away loaded with boxes. She asked whether they were to take a carriage.
He made no answer. He seemed not to hear. She said:
“I went to see your house; I did not dare go in. I looked through the grille and saw windows hidden in rose-bushes in the rear of a yard, behind a tree, and I said: ‘It is there!’ I never have been so moved.”
He was not listening to her nor looking at her. He walked quickly with her along the paved street, and through a narrow stairway reached a deserted21 street near the station. There, between wood and coal yards, was a hotel with a restaurant on the first floor and tables on the sidewalk. Under the painted sign were white curtains at the windows. Dechartre stopped before the small door and pushed Therese into the obscure alley22. She asked:
“Where are you leading me? What is the time? I must be home at half-past seven. We are mad.”
When they left the house, she said:
“Jacques, my darling, we are too happy; we are robbing life.”
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1
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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2
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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4
bouquets
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| n.花束( bouquet的名词复数 )；（酒的）芳香 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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6
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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7
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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8
quays
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| 码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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10
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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11
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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12
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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13
orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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14
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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15
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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16
odiously
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| Odiously | |
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optimist
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| n.乐观的人，乐观主义者 | |
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18
lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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19
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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21
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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