He had reached the conclusion that by consenting to go to her rescue at such a time he stood committed to a piece of purely10 sentimental11 quixotry. The quittances which the Mayor of Meudon had exacted from him before he would issue the necessary safe-conducts placed the whole of his future, perhaps his very life, in jeopardy12. And he had consented to do this not for the sake of a reality, but out of regard for an idea — he who all his life had avoided the false lure13 of worthless and hollow sentimentality.
Thus thought Andre–Louis as he considered her now so searchingly, finding it, naturally enough, a matter of extraordinary interest to look consciously upon his mother for the first time at the age of eight-and-twenty.
From her he looked at last at Jacques, who remained at attention, waiting by the open door.
“Could we be alone, madame?” he asked her.
She waved the footman away, and the door closed. In agitated14 silence, unquestioning, she waited for him to account for his presence there at so extraordinary a time.
“Rougane could not return,” he informed her shortly. “At M. de Kercadiou’s request, I come instead.”
“You! You are sent to rescue us!” The note of amazement15 in her voice was stronger than that of her relief.
“That, and to make your acquaintance, madame.”
“To make my acquaintance? But what do you mean, Andre–Louis?”
“This letter from M. de Kercadiou will tell you.” Intrigued16 by his odd words and odder manner, she took the folded sheet. She broke the seal with shaking hands, and with shaking hands approached the written page to the light. Her eyes grew troubled as she read; the shaking of her hands increased, and midway through that reading a moan escaped her. One glance that was almost terror she darted17 at the slim, straight man standing18 so incredibly impassive upon the edge of the light, and then she endeavoured to read on. But the crabbed19 characters of M. de Kercadiou swam distortedly under her eyes. She could not read. Besides, what could it matter what else he said. She had read enough. The sheet fluttered from her hands to the table, and out of a face that was like a face of wax, she looked now with a wistfulness, a sadness indescribable, at Andre–Louis.
“And so you know, my child?” Her voice was stifled20 to a whisper.
“I know, madame my mother.”
The grimness, the subtle blend of merciless derision and reproach in which it was uttered completely escaped her. She cried out at the new name. For her in that moment time and the world stood still. Her peril21 there in Paris as the wife of an intriguer22 at Coblenz was blotted23 out, together with every other consideration — thrust out of a consciousness that could find room for nothing else beside the fact that she stood acknowledged by her only son, this child begotten24 in adultery, borne furtively25 and in shame in a remote Brittany village eight-and-twenty years ago. Not even a thought for the betrayal of that inviolable secret, or the consequences that might follow, could she spare in this supreme26 moment.
She took one or two faltering27 steps towards him, hesitating. Then she opened her arms. Sobs28 suffocated29 her voice.
“Won’t you come to me, Andre–Louis?”
A moment yet he stood hesitating, startled by that appeal, angered almost by his heart’s response to it, reason and sentiment at grips in his soul. This was not real, his reason postulated30; this poignant31 emotion that she displayed and that he experienced was fantastic. Yet he went. Her arms enfolded him; her wet cheek was pressed hard against his own; her frame, which the years had not yet succeeded in robbing of its grace, was shaken by the passionate32 storm within her.
“Oh, Andre–Louis, my child, if you knew how I have hungered to hold you so! If you knew how in denying myself this I have atoned33 and suffered! Kercadiou should not have told you — not even now. It was wrong — most wrong, perhaps, to you. It would have been better that he should have left me here to my fate, whatever that may be. And yet — come what may of this — to be able to hold you so, to be able to acknowledge you, to hear you call me mother — oh! Andre–Louis, I cannot now regret it. I cannot . . . I cannot wish it otherwise.”
“Is there any need, madame?” he asked her, his stoicism deeply shaken. “There is no occasion to take others into our confidence. This is for to-night alone. To-night we are mother and son. To-morrow we resume our former places, and, outwardly at least, forget.”
“Forget? Have you no heart, Andre–Louis?”
The question recalled him curiously34 to his attitude towards life — that histrionic attitude of his that he accounted true philosophy. Also he remembered what lay before them; and he realized that he must master not only himself but her; that to yield too far to sentiment at such a time might be the ruin of them all.
“It is a question propounded35 to me so often that it must contain the truth,” said he. “My rearing is to blame for that.”
She tightened36 her clutch about his neck even as he would have attempted to disengage himself from her embrace.
“You do not blame me for your rearing? Knowing all, as you do, Andre–Louis, you cannot altogether blame. You must be merciful to me. You must forgive me. You must! I had no choice.”
“When we know all of whatever it may be, we can never do anything but forgive, madame. That is the profoundest religious truth that was ever written. It contains, in fact, a whole religion — the noblest religion any man could have to guide him. I say this for your comfort, madame my mother.”
She sprang away from him with a startled cry. Beyond him in the shadows by the door a pale figure shimmered37 ghostly. It advanced into the light, and resolved itself into Aline. She had come in answer to that forgotten summons madame had sent her by Jacques. Entering unperceived she had seen Andre–Louis in the embrace of the woman whom he addressed as “mother.” She had recognized him instantly by his voice, and she could not have said what bewildered her more: his presence there or the thing she overheard.
“You heard, Aline?” madame exclaimed.
“I could not help it, madame. You sent for me. I am sorry if . . . ” She broke off, and looked at Andre–Louis long and curiously. She was pale, but quite composed. She held out her hand to him. “And so you have come at last, Andre,” said she. “You might have come before.”
“I come when I am wanted,” was his answer. “Which is the only time in which one can be sure of being received.” He said it without bitterness, and having said it stooped to kiss her hand.
“You can forgive me what is past, I hope, since I failed of my purpose,” he said gently, half-pleading. “I could not have come to you pretending that the failure was intentional38 — a compromise between the necessities of the case and your own wishes. For it was not that. And yet, you do not seem to have profited by my failure. You are still a maid.”
She turned her shoulder to him.
“There are things,” she said, “that you will never understand.”
“Life, for one,” he acknowledged. “I confess that I am finding it bewildering. The very explanations calculated to simplify it seem but to complicate39 it further.” And he looked at Mme. de Plougastel.
“You mean something, I suppose,” said mademoiselle.
“Aline!” It was the Countess who spoke40. She knew the danger of half-discoveries. “I can trust you, child, I know, and Andre–Louis, I am sure, will offer no objection.” She had taken up the letter to show it to Aline. Yet first her eyes questioned him.
“Oh, none, madame,” he assured her. “It is entirely a matter for yourself.”
Aline looked from one to the other with troubled eyes, hesitating to take the letter that was now proffered41. When she had read it through, she very thoughtfully replaced it on the table. A moment she stood there with bowed head, the other two watching her. Then impulsively43 she ran to madame and put her arms about her.
“Aline!” It was a cry of wonder, almost of joy. “You do not utterly abhor44 me!”
“My dear,” said Aline, and kissed the tear-stained face that seemed to have grown years older in these last few hours.
In the background Andre–Louis, steeling himself against emotionalism, spoke with the voice of Scaramouche.
“It would be well, mesdames, to postpone45 all transports until they can be indulged at greater leisure and in more security. It is growing late. If we are to get out of this shambles46 we should be wise to take the road without more delay.”
It was a tonic47 as effective as it was necessary. It startled them into remembrance of their circumstances, and under the spur of it they went at once to make their preparations.
They left him for perhaps a quarter of an hour, to pace that long room alone, saved only from impatience48 by the turmoil49 of his mind. When at length they returned, they were accompanied by a tall man in a full-skirted shaggy greatcoat and a broad hat the brim of which was turned down all around. He remained respectfully by the door in the shadows.
Between them the two women had concerted it thus, or rather the Countess had so concerted it when Aline had warned her that Andre–Louis’ bitter hostility50 towards the Marquis made it unthinkable that he should move a finger consciously to save him.
Now despite the close friendship uniting M. de Kercadiou and his niece with Mme. de Plougastel, there were several matters concerning them of which the Countess was in ignorance. One of these was the project at one time existing of a marriage between Aline and M. de La Tour d’Azyr. It was a matter that Aline — naturally enough in the state of her feelings — had never mentioned, nor had M. de Kercadiou ever alluded51 to it since his coming to Meudon, by when he had perceived how unlikely it was ever to be realized.
M. de La Tour d’Azyr’s concern for Aline on that morning of the duel52 when he had found her half-swooning in Mme. de Plougastel’s carriage had been of a circumspection53 that betrayed nothing of his real interest in her, and therefore had appeared no more than natural in one who must account himself the cause of her distress54. Similarly Mme. de Plougastel had never realized nor did she realize now — for Aline did not trouble fully42 to enlighten her — that the hostility between the two men was other than political, the quarrel other than that which already had taken Andre–Louis to the Bois on every day of the preceding week. But, at least, she realized that even if Andre–Louis’ rancour should have no other source, yet that inconclusive duel was cause enough for Aline’s fears.
And so she had proposed this obvious deception55; and Aline had consented to be a passive party to it. They had made the mistake of not fully forewarning and persuading M. de La Tour d’Azyr. They had trusted entirely to his anxiety to escape from Paris to keep him rigidly56 within the part imposed upon him. They had reckoned without the queer sense of honour that moved such men as M. le Marquis, nurtured57 upon a code of shams.
Andre–Louis, turning to scan that muffled58 figure, advanced from the dark depths of the salon59. As the light beat on his white, lean face the pseudo-footman started. The next moment he too stepped forward into the light, and swept his broad-brimmed hat from his brow. As he did so Andre–Louis observed that his hand was fine and white and that a jewel flashed from one of the fingers. Then he caught his breath, and stiffened60 in every line as he recognized the face revealed to him.
“Monsieur,” that stern, proud man was saying, “I cannot take advantage of your ignorance. If these ladies can persuade you to save me, at least it is due to you that you shall know whom you are saving.”
He stood there by the table very erect61 and dignified62, ready to perish as he had lived — if perish he must — without fear and without deception.
Andre–Louis came slowly forward until he reached the table on the other side, and then at last the muscles of his set face relaxed, and he laughed.
“You laugh?” said M. de La Tour d’Azyr, frowning, offended.
“It is so damnably amusing,” said Andre–Louis.
“You’ve an odd sense of humour, M. Moreau.”
“Oh, admitted. The unexpected always moves me so. I have found you many things in the course of our acquaintance. To-night you are the one thing I never expected to find you: an honest man.”
M. de La Tour d’Azyr quivered. But he attempted no reply.
“Because of that, monsieur, I am disposed to be clement63. It is probably a foolishness. But you have surprised me into it. I give you three minutes, monsieur, in which to leave this house, and to take your own measures for your safety. What afterwards happens to you shall be no concern of mine.”
“Ah, no, Andre! Listen . . . ” Madame began in anguish64.
“Pardon, madame. It is the utmost that I will do, and already I am violating what I conceive to be my duty. If M. de La Tour d’Azyr remains65 he not only ruins himself, but he imperils you. For unless he departs at once, he goes with me to the headquarters of the section, and the section will have his head on a pike inside the hour. He is a notorious counter-revolutionary, a knight66 of the dagger67, one of those whom an exasperated68 populace is determined69 to exterminate70. Now, monsieur, you know what awaits you. Resolve yourself and at once, for these ladies’ sake.”
“But you don’t know, Andre–Louis!” Mme. de Plougastel’s condition was one of anguish indescribable. She came to him and clutched his arm. “For the love of Heaven, Andre–Louis, be merciful with him! You must!”
“But that is what I am being, madame — merciful; more merciful than he deserves. And he knows it. Fate has meddled71 most oddly in our concerns to bring us together to-night. Almost it is as if Fate were forcing retribution at last upon him. Yet, for your sakes, I take no advantage of it, provided that he does at once as I have desired him.”
And now from beyond the table the Marquis spoke icily, and as he spoke his right hand stirred under the ample folds of his greatcoat.
“I am glad, M. Moreau, that you take that tone with me. You relieve me of the last scruple72. You spoke of Fate just now, and I must agree with you that Fate has meddled oddly, though perhaps not to the end that you discern. For years now you have chosen to stand in my path and thwart73 me at every turn, holding over me a perpetual menace. Persistently74 you have sought my life in various ways, first indirectly75 and at last directly. Your intervention76 in my affairs has ruined my highest hopes — more effectively, perhaps, than you suppose. Throughout you have been my evil genius. And you are even one of the agents of this climax77 of despair that has been reached by me to-night.”
“Wait! Listen!” Madame was panting. She flung away from Andre–Louis, as if moved by some premonition of what was coming. “Gervais! This is horrible!”
“Horrible, perhaps, but inevitable78. Himself he has invited it. I am a man in despair, the fugitive79 of a lost cause. That man holds the keys of escape. And, besides, between him and me there is a reckoning to be paid.”
His hand came from beneath the coat at last, and it came armed with a pistol.
Mme. de Plougastel screamed, and flung herself upon him. On her knees now, she clung to his arm with all her strength and might.
Vainly he sought to shake himself free of that desperate clutch.
“Therese!” he cried. “Are you mad? Will you destroy me and yourself? This creature has the safe-conducts that mean our salvation80. Himself, he is nothing.”
From the background Aline, a breathless, horror-stricken spectator of that scene, spoke sharply, her quick mind pointing out the line of checkmate.
“Burn the safe-conducts, Andre–Louis. Burn them at once — in the candles there.”
But Andre–Louis had taken advantage of that moment of M. de La Tour d’Azyr’s impotence to draw a pistol in his turn. “I think it will be better to burn his brains instead,” he said. “Stand away from him, madame.”
Far from obeying that imperious command, Mme. de Plougastel rose to her feet to cover the Marquis with her body. But she still clung to his arm, clung to it with unsuspected strength that continued to prevent him from attempting to use the pistol.
“Andre! For God’s sake, Andre!” she panted hoarsely81 over her shoulder.
“Stand away, madame,” he commanded her again, more sternly, “and let this murderer take his due. He is jeopardizing82 all our lives, and his own has been forfeit83 these years. Stand away!” He sprang forward with intent now to fire at his enemy over her shoulder, and Aline moved too late to hinder him.
“Andre! Andre!”
Panting, gasping84, haggard of face, on the verge85 almost of hysteria, the distracted Countess flung at last an effective, a terrible barrier between the hatred86 of those men, each intent upon taking the other’s life.
“He is your father, Andre! Gervais, he is your son — our son! The letter there . . . on the table . . . O my God!” And she slipped nervelessly to the ground, and crouched87 there sobbing88 at the feet of M. de La Tour d’Azyr.
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1
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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shams
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| 假象( sham的名词复数 )； 假货； 虚假的行为（或感情、言语等）； 假装…的人 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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grotesqueness
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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forsakes
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| 放弃( forsake的第三人称单数 )； 弃绝； 抛弃； 摒弃 | |
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seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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jeopardy
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| n.危险；危难 | |
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lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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intrigued
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| adj.好奇的，被迷住了的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的过去式)；激起…的兴趣或好奇心；“intrigue”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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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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crabbed
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| adj.脾气坏的；易怒的；（指字迹）难辨认的；（字迹等）难辨认的v.捕蟹( crab的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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intriguer
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| 密谋者 | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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begotten
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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suffocated
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| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
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postulated
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| v.假定，假设( postulate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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atoned
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的过去式和过去分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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propounded
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| v.提出（问题、计划等）供考虑[讨论]，提议( propound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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shimmered
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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intentional
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| adj.故意的，有意（识）的 | |
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complicate
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| vt.使复杂化，使混乱，使难懂 | |
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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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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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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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abhor
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| v.憎恶；痛恨 | |
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postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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shambles
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| n.混乱之处；废墟 | |
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tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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circumspection
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| n.细心，慎重 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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55
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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56
rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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nurtured
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| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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58
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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60
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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clement
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| adj.仁慈的；温和的 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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65
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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70
exterminate
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| v.扑灭，消灭，根绝 | |
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71
meddled
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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73
thwart
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| v.阻挠，妨碍，反对；adj.横(断的) | |
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persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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jeopardizing
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| 危及，损害( jeopardize的现在分词 ) | |
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83
forfeit
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| vt.丧失；n.罚金，罚款，没收物 | |
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84
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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86
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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