The letter, addressed 'Personal for M', had got to the following stage:
Sir,
I have the honour to request that you will accept my resignation from the Service, effective forthwith.
My reasons for this submission4, which I put forward with much regret, are the following:
(1) My duties in the Service, until some twelve months ago, have been connected with the Double-O Section and you, Sir, have been kind enough, from time to time, to express your satisfaction with my performance of those duties, which I, for my part, have enjoyed. To my chagrin5, [Bond had been pleased with this fine word] however, on the successful completion of Operation 'Thunderball', I received personal instructions from you to concentrate all my efforts, without a terminal date, [another felicitous7 phrase!] on the pursuit of Ernst Stavro Blofeld and on his apprehension8, together with any members of SPECTRE -otherwise 'The Special Executive for Counter-Intelligence, Revenge and Extortion' - if that organization had been re-created since its destruction at the climax10 of Operation "Thunderball'.
(2) I accepted the assignment with, if you will recall, reluctance11. It seemed to me, and I so expressed myself at the time, that this was purely12 an investigatory matter which could well have been handled, using straightforward13 police methods, by other sections of the Service - local Stations, allied14 foreign secret services and Interpol. My objections were overruled, and for close on twelve months I have been engaged all over the world in routine detective work which, in the case of every scrap15 of rumour16, every lead, has proved abortive17. I have found no trace of this man nor of a revived SPECTRE, if such exists.
(3) My many appeals to be relieved of this wearisome and fruitless assignment, even when addressed to you personally, Sir, have been ignored or, on occasion, curtly18 dismissed, and my frequent animadversions [another good one!] to the effect that Blofeld is dead have been treated with a courtesy that I can only describe as scant19. [Neat, that! Perhaps a bit too neat!]
(4) The above unhappy circumstances have recently achieved their climax in my undercover mission (Ref. Station R'S PX 437/007) to Palermo, in pursuit of a hare of quite outrageous20 falsity. This animal took the shape of one 'Blauenfelder', a perfectly21 respectable German citizen engaged in viniculture - specifically the grafting22 of Moselle grapes on to the Sicilian strains to enhance the sugar content of the latter which, for your passing information, [Steady on, old chap! Better redraft all this!] are inclined to sourness. My investigations23 into this individual brought me to the attention of the Mafia and my departure from Sicily was, to say the least, ignominious24.
(5) Having regard, Sir, to the above and, specifically, to the continued misuse25 of the qualities, modest though they may be, that have previously26 fitted me for the more arduous27, and, to me, more rewarding, duties associated with the work of the Double-O Section, I beg leave to submit my resignation from the Service.
I am, Sir,
Your Obedient Servant,
007
Of course, reflected Bond, as he nursed the long bonnet28 of his car through a built-up S-bend, he would have to rewrite a lot of it. Some of it was a bit pompous29 and there were one or two cracks that would have to be ironed out or toned down. But that was the gist30 of what he would dictate31 to his secretary when he got back to the office the day after tomorrow. And if she burst into tears, to hell with her! He meant it. By God he did. He was fed to the teeth with chasing the ghost of Blofeld. And the same went for SPECTRE. The thing had been smashed. Even a man of Blofeld's genius, in the impossible event that he still existed, could never get a machine of that calibre running again.
It was then, on a ten-mile straight cut through a forest, that it happened. Triple wind-horns screamed their banshee discord32 in his ear, and a low, white two-seater, a Lancia Flaminia Zagato Spyder with its hood33 down, tore past him, cut in cheekily across his bonnet and pulled away, the sexy boom of its twin exhausts echoing back from the border of trees. And it was a girl driving, a girl with a shocking pink scarf tied round her hair, leaving a brief pink tail that the wind blew horizontal behind her.
If there was one thing that set James Bond really moving in life, with the exception of gun-play, it was being passed at speed by a pretty girl; and it was his experience that girls who drove competitively like that were always pretty - and exciting. The shock of the wind-horn's scream had automatically cut out 'George', emptied Bond's head of all other thought, and brought his car back under manual control. Now, with a tight-lipped smile, he stamped his foot into the floorboard, held the wheel firmly at a quarter to three, and went after her.
100, 110, 115, and he still wasn't gaining. Bond reached forward to the dashboard and flicked34 up a red switch. The thin high whine35 of machinery36 on the brink37 of torment38 tore at his eardrums and the Bentley gave an almost perceptible kick forward. 120, 125. He was definitely gaining. 50 yards, 40, 30! Now he could just see her eyes in her rear mirror. But the good road was running out. One of those exclamation39 marks that the French use to denote danger flashed by on his right. And now, over a rise, there was a church spire40, the clustered houses of a small village at the bottom of a steepish hill, the snake sign of another S-bend. Both cars slowed down - 90,80,70. Bond watched her tail-lights briefly41 blaze, saw her right hand reach down to the floor stick, almost simultaneously42 with his own, and change down. Then they were in the S-bend, on cobbles, and he had to brake as he enviously43 watched the way her de Dion axle married her rear wheels to the rough going, while his own live axle hopped44 and skittered as he wrenched45 at the wheel. And then it was the end of the village, and, with a brief wag of her tail as she came out of the S, she was off like a bat out of hell up the long straight rise and he had lost fifty yards.
And so the race went on, Bond gaining a little on the straights but losing it all to the famous Lancia road-holding through the villages - and, he had to admit, to her wonderful, nerveless driving. And now a big Michelin sign said 'Mon-treuil 5, Royale-les-Eaux 10, Le Touquet-Paris-Plage 15', and he wondered about her destination and debated with himself whether he shouldn't forget about Royale and the night he had promised himself at its famous casino and just follow where she went, wherever it was, and find out who this devil of a girl was.
The decision was taken out of his hands. Montreuil is a dangerous town with cobbled, twisting streets and much farm traffic. Bond was fifty yards behind her at the outskirts46, but, with his big car, he couldn't follow her fast slalom through the hazards and, by the time he was out of the town and over the Staples47-Paris level-crossing, she had vanished. The left-hand turn for Royale came up. Was there a little dust hanging in the bend? Bond took the turn, somehow knowing that he was going to see her again.
He leaned forward and flicked down the red switch. The moan of the blower died away and there was silence in the car as he motored along, easing his tense muscles. He wondered if the supercharger had damaged the engine. Against the solemn warnings of Rolls-Royce, he had had fitted, by his pet expert at the Headquarters' motor pool, an Arnott supercharger controlled by a magnetic clutch. Rolls-Royce had said the crankshaft bearings wouldn't take the extra load and, when he confessed to them what he had done, they regretfully but firmly withdrew their guarantees and washed their hands of their bastardized child. This was the first time he had notched49 125 and the rev9. counter had hovered50 dangerously over the red area at 4500. But the temperature and oil were OK and there were no expensive noises. And, by God, it had been fun!
James Bond idled through the pretty approaches to Royale, through the young beeches51 and the heavy-scented pines, looking forward to the evening and remembering his other annual pilgrimages to this place and, particularly, the great battle across the baize he had had with Le Chiffre so many years ago. He had come a long way since then, dodged52 many bullets and much death and loved many girls, but there had been a drama and a poignancy53 about that particular adventure that every year drew him back to Royale and its casino and to the small granite54 cross in the little churchyard that simply said 'Vesper Lynd. RIP.'
And now what was the place holding for him on this beautiful September evening? A big win? A painful loss? A beautiful girl - that beautiful girl?
To think first of the game. This was the week-end of the 'clфture annuelle'. Tonight, this very Saturday night, the Casino Royale was holding its last night of the season. It was always a big event and there would be pilgrims even from Belgium and Holland, as well as the rich regulars from Paris and Lille. In addition, the ' Syndicat d'lnitiative et des Bains de Mer de Royale' traditionally threw open its doors to all its local contractors55 and suppliers, and there was free champagne56 and a great groaning57 buffet58 to reward the town people for their work during the season. It was a tremendous carouse59 that rarely finished before breakfast time. The tables would be packed and there would be a very high game indeed.
Bond had one million francs of private capital - Old Francs, of course - about seven hundred pounds' worth. He always reckoned his private funds in Old Francs. It made him feel so rich. On the other hand, he made out his official expenses in New Francs because that made them look smaller - but probably not to the Chief Accountant at Headquarters! One million francs! For that evening he was a millionaire! Alight he so remain by tomorrow morning!
And now he was coming into the Promenade60 des Anglais and there was the bastard48 Empire frontage of the Hotel Splendide. And there, by God, on the gravel61 sweep alongside its steps, stood the little white Lancia and, at this moment a bagagiste, in a striped waistcoat and green apron62, was carrying two Vuitton suitcases up the steps to the entrance!
So!
James Bond slid his car into the million-pound line of cars in the car park, told the same bagagiste, who was now taking rich, small stuff out of the Lancia, to bring up his bags, and went in to the reception-desk. The manager impressively took over from the clerk and greeted Bond with golden-toothed effusion, while making a mental note to earn a good mark with the Chef de Police by reporting Bond's arrival, so that the Chef could, in his turn, make a good mark with the Deuxieme and the SDT by putting the news on the teleprinter to Paris.
Bond said, 'By the way, Monsieur Maurice. Who is the lady who has just driven up in the white Lancia? She is staying here?'
'Yes, indeed, Mon Commandant.' Bond received an extra two teeth in the enthusiastic smile.' The lady is a good friend of the house. The father is a very big industrial from the South. She is La Comtesse Teresa di Vicenzo. Monsieur must surely have read of her in the papers. Madame la Comtesse is a lady - how shall I put it?' - the smile became secret, between men - 'a lady, shall we say, who lives life to the full.'
'Ah, yes. Thank you. And how has the season been?'
The small talk continued as the manager personally took Bond up in the lift and showed him into one of the handsome grey and white Directoire rooms with the deep rose coverlet on the bed that Bond remembered so well. Then, with a final exchange of courtesies, James Bond was alone.
Bond was faintly disappointed. She sounded a bit grand for him, and he didn't happen to like girls, film stars for instance, who were in any way public property. He liked private girls, girls he could discover himself and make his own. Perhaps, he admitted, there was inverted63 snobbery64 in this. Perhaps, even less worthily65, it was that the famous ones were less easy to get.
His two battered66 suitcases came and he unpacked67 leisurely68 and then ordered from Room Service a bottle of the Taittin-ger Blanc de Blancs that he had made his traditional drink at Royale. When the bottle, in its frosted silver bucket, came, he drank a quarter of it rather fast and then went into the bathroom and had an ice-cold shower and washed his hair with Pinaud Elixir69, that prince among shampoos, to get the dust of the roads out of it. Then he slipped on his dark-blue tropical worsted trousers, white sea-island cotton shirt, socks and black casual shoes (he abhorred71 shoe-laces), and went and sat by the window and looked out across the promenade to the sea and wondered where he would have dinner and what he would choose to eat.
James Bond was not a gourmet72. In England he lived on grilled73 soles, oeufs cocotte and cold roast beef with potato salad. But when travelling abroad, generally by himself, meals were a welcome break in the day, something to look forward to, something to break the tension of fast driving, with its risks taken or avoided, the narrow squeaks74, the permanent background of concern for the fitness of his machine. In fact, at this moment, after covering the long stretch from the Italian frontier at Ventimiglia in a comfortable three days (God knew there was no reason to hurry back to Head quartets!), he was fed to the teeth with the sucker-traps for gourmandizing tourists. The 'Hostelleries', the 'Vieilles Auberges', the 'Relais Fleuris' - he had had the lot. He had had their 'Bonnes Tables', and their 'Fines Bouteilles'. He had had their 'Spйcialites du Chef - generally a rich sauce of cream and wine and a few button mushrooms concealing75 poor quality meat or fish. He had had the whole lip-smacking ritual of winemanship and foodmanship and, incidentally, he had had quite enough of the Bisodol that went with it!
The French belly-religion had delivered its final kick at him the night before. Wishing to avoid Orleans, he had stopped south of this uninspiring city and had chosen a mock-Breton Auberge on the south bank of the Loire, despite its profusion76 of window-boxes and sham70 beams, ignoring the china cat pursuing the china bird across its gabled roof, because it was right on the edge of the Loire - perhaps Bond's favourite river in the world. He had stoically accepted the hammered copper77 wanning78 pans, brass79 cooking utensils80 and other antique bogosities that cluttered81 the walls of the entrance hall, had left his bag in his room and had gone for an agreeable walk along the softly running, swallow-skimmed river. The dining-room, in which he was one of a small handful of tourists, had sounded the alarm. Above a fireplace of electric logs and over-polished fire-irons there had hung a coloured plaster escutcheon bearing the dread82 device: ICY DOULCE FRANCE. All the plates, of some hideous83 local ware84, bore the jingle85, irritatingly inscrutable, 'Jamais en Vain, Toujours en Via', and the surly waiter, stale with 'fin6 de saison', had served him with the fly-walk of the Pate86 Maison (sent back for a new slice) and a Poularde & la creme that was the only genuine antique in the place. Bond had moodily87 washed down this sleazy provender88 with a bottle of instant Pouilly-Fuisse and was finally insulted the next morning by a bill for the meal in excess of five pounds.
It was to efface89 all these dyspeptic memories that Bond now sat at his window, sipped90 his Taittinger and weighed up the pros91 and cons92 of the local eating places and wondered what dishes it would be best to gamble on. He finally chose one of his favourite restaurants in France, a modest establishment, unpromisingly placed exactly opposite the railway station of Staples, rang up his old friend Monsieur Becaud for a table and, two hours later, was motoring back to the Casino with Turbot poche, sauce mousseline, and half the best roast partridge he had eaten in his life, under his belt.
Greatly encouraged, and further stimulated93 by half a bottle of Mouton Rothschild '53 and a glass of ten-year-old Calvados with his three cups of coifee, he went cheerfully up the thronged94 steps of the Casino with the absolute certitude that this was going to be a night to remember.
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1
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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chassis
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| n.汽车等之底盘；（飞机的）起落架；炮底架 | |
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AIRWAYS
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| 航空公司 | |
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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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fin
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| n.鳍；(飞机的)安定翼 | |
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felicitous
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| adj.恰当的，巧妙的；n.恰当，贴切 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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curtly
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scant
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outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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grafting
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| 嫁接法，移植法 | |
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investigations
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| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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ignominious
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| adj.可鄙的，不光彩的，耻辱的 | |
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misuse
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previously
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arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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gist
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dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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discord
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hood
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flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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whine
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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enviously
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| adv.满怀嫉妒地 | |
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hopped
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| 跳上[下]( hop的过去式和过去分词 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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staples
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| n.（某国的）主要产品( staple的名词复数 )；钉书钉；U 形钉；主要部份v.用钉书钉钉住( staple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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notched
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| a.有凹口的，有缺口的 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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dodged
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| v.闪躲( dodge的过去式和过去分词 )；回避 | |
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poignancy
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| n.辛酸事，尖锐 | |
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54
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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contractors
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| n.（建筑、监造中的）承包人( contractor的名词复数 ) | |
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56
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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57
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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58
buffet
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| n.自助餐；饮食柜台；餐台 | |
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carouse
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| v.狂欢；痛饮；n.狂饮的宴会 | |
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promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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inverted
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| adj.反向的，倒转的v.使倒置，使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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snobbery
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| n. 充绅士气派, 俗不可耐的性格 | |
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worthily
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| 重要地，可敬地，正当地 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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unpacked
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| v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的过去式和过去分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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68
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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69
elixir
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| n.长生不老药，万能药 | |
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70
sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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71
abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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72
gourmet
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| n.食物品尝家；adj.出于美食家之手的 | |
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73
grilled
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| adj. 烤的, 炙过的, 有格子的 动词grill的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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74
squeaks
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| n.短促的尖叫声，吱吱声( squeak的名词复数 )v.短促地尖叫( squeak的第三人称单数 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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75
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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76
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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77
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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78
wanning
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| v.（使）变苍白，（使）呈病态( wan的现在分词 ) | |
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79
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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80
utensils
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| 器具，用具，器皿( utensil的名词复数 )； 器物 | |
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81
cluttered
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| v.杂物，零乱的东西零乱vt.( clutter的过去式和过去分词 )；乱糟糟地堆满，把…弄得很乱；（以…） 塞满… | |
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82
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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83
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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84
ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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85
jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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86
pate
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| n.头顶；光顶 | |
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87
moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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88
provender
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| n.刍草；秣料 | |
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89
efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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90
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pros
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| abbr.prosecuting 起诉；prosecutor 起诉人；professionals 自由职业者；proscenium （舞台）前部n.赞成的意见( pro的名词复数 )；赞成的理由；抵偿物；交换物 | |
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92
cons
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| n.欺骗，骗局( con的名词复数 )v.诈骗，哄骗( con的第三人称单数 ) | |
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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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