Thus spake Gaspard-Marie Bigourdin, landlord of the H?tel des Grottes, a vast man clad in a brown holland suit and a soft straw hat with a gigantic brim. So vast was he that his person overlapped1 in all directions the Austrian bent-wood rocking-chair in which he was taking the cool of the evening.
“They said they would come in time for dinner, mon oncle,” said Félise.
She was a graceful2 slip of a girl, dark-eyed, refined of feature. Fortinbras with paternal3 fondness, if you remember, had likened her to the wild flowers from which Alpine4 honey was made. And indeed, she suggested wild fragrance5. Her brown hair was done up on the top of her head and fastened by a comb like that of all the peasant girls of the district; but she wore the blouse and stuff skirt of the well-to-do bourgeoisie.
“Six o’clock is already time for dinner in Brant?me,” remarked Monsieur Bigourdin.
“They are accustomed to the hours of London and Paris, where I’ve heard they dine at eight or nine or any time that pleases them.”
“In London and Paris they get up at midday and go to bed at dawn. They are coming here purposely to dis-habilitate themselves from the ways of London and Paris. At least so your father gives me to understand. It is a bad beginning.”
“Don’t you see enough English? Ten years ago an Englishman at Brant?me was a curiosity. All the inhabitants, you among them, ma petite Félise, used to run two kilometres to look at him. But now, with the automobile7, they are as familiar in the eyes of the good Brant?mois as truffles.”
By this simile8 Monsieur Bigourdin did not mean to convey the idea that the twelve hundred inhabitants of Brant?me were all gastronomic9 voluptuaries. It is true that Brant?me battens on paté de foie gras; but it is the essence of its existence, seeing that Brant?me makes it and sells it and with pigs and dogs hunts the truffles without which paté de foie gras would be a comestible of fat absurdity11.
“But no English have been sent before by my father,” said Félise.
“That’s true,” replied Bigourdin, with a capacious smile, showing white strong teeth.
“They are the first people—French or English, I shall have met who know my father.”
“That’s true also,” said Bigourdin. “And they must be droll12 types like your excellent father himself. Tiens, let me see again what he says about them.” He searched his pockets, a process involving convulsions of his frame which made the rocking-chair creak. “It must be in my black jacket,” said he at last.
“I’ll get it,” said Félise, and went into the house.
Bigourdin rolled and lit a cigarette and gave himself up to comfortable reflection. The H?tel des Grottes was built on the slope of a rock and the loggia or verandah on which Bigourdin was taking his ease, hung over a miniature precipice13. At the bottom ran the River Dronne encircling most of the old-world town and crossed here and there by flashing little bridges. Away to the northeast loomed14 the mountains of the Limousin where the river has its source. The tiny place slumbered15 in the slanting16 sunshine. The sight of Brant?me stretched out below him was inseparable from Bigourdin’s earliest conception of the universe. In the H?tel des Grottes he had been born; there, save for a few years at Lyons whither he had been sent by his mother in order to widen his views on hotel keeping, he had spent all his life, and there he sincerely hoped to die full of honour and good nourishment17. Brant?me contented18 him. It belonged to him. It was so diminutive19 and compact that he could take the whole of it in at once. He was familiar with all the little tragedies and comedies that enacted20 themselves beneath those red-tiled roofs. Did he walk down the Rue10 de Périgueux his hand went to his hat as often as that of the President of the Republic on his way to a review at Longchamps. He was a man of substance and consideration, and he was just forty years of age. And Félise adored him, and anticipated his commands.
She returned with the letter. He glanced through it, reading portions aloud:
“I am sending you a young couple whom I have taken to my heart. They are not relations, they are not married and they are not lovers. They are Arcadians of the pavement, more innocent than doves, and of a ferocious21 English morality. She is a painter without patrons, he a professor without classes. They are also candidates for happiness performing their novitiate. Later they will take the vows22.”
“What does he mean? What vows?”
“Yet he and Monsieur le Curé are good friends.”
“That is because Monsieur le Curé has much wisdom and no fear. He would have tried to convert Voltaire himself. . . . Let us continue——”
“As they are poor and doing this out of obedience——”
“Saprelotte!” he laughed, “they seem to have taken the three vows already!”
He read on:“—— they do not desire the royal suite26 in your Excelsior Palace. Corinna Hastings has lived under the roofs in Paris, Martin Overshaw over a baker’s shop in a vague quarter of London. All the luxury they ask is to be allowed to wash themselves all over in cold water once a day.”
“I was sure you had not written to my father about the bathroom,” said Félise.
She was right. But the omission27 was odd. For Bigourdin took inordinate28 pride in the newly installed bathroom and all the touring clubs of Europe and Editors of Guide Books had heard of it and he had offered it to the admiring inspection29 of half Brant?me. Monsieur le Maire himself had visited it, and if he had only arrived girt with his tricolour sash, Bigourdin would have jumped in and demanded an inaugural30 ceremony.
“I must have forgotten,” said Bigourdin. “But no matter. They can have plenty of cold water. But if I am to feed them and lodge31 them and wash them for the derisory price your father stipulates32, they must learn that six o’clock is the hour of table d’h?te at the H?tel des Grottes. It is only people in automobiles33 who can turn the place upside down, and then they have to pay four francs for their dinner.”
He rose mountainously, and, standing34, displayed the figure of a vigorous, huge proportioned, upright man. On his face, large and ruddy, a small black moustache struck a startling note. His eyes were brown and kindly35, his mouth too small and his chin had a deep cleft36, which on a creature of lesser37 scale would have been a pleasing dimple.
“Allons d?ner,” said he.
In the patriarchal fashion, now unfortunately becoming obsolete38, Monsieur Bigourdin dined with his guests. The salle-à-manger—off the loggia—was furnished with the long central table sacred to commercial travellers, and with a few side tables for other visitors. At one of these, in the corner between the service door and the dining-room door, sat Monsieur Bigourdin and his niece. As they entered the room five bagmen, with anticipatory39 napkins stuck cornerwise in their collars, half rose from their chairs and bowed.
“Bon soir, messieurs,” said Bigourdin, and he passed with Félise to his table.
Euphémie, the cook, fat and damp, entered with the soup tureen, followed by a desperate-looking, crop-headed villain40 bearing plates. The latter, who viewed half a mile off through a telescope might have passed for an orthodox waiter, appeared, at close quarters, to be raimented in grease and grime. He served the soup; first to the five commercial travellers,—and then to Bigourdin and Félise. On Félise’s plate he left a great thumb-mark. She looked at it with an expression of disgust.
“Regarde, mon oncle.”
Bigourdin alluding41 to him as a sacred animal, asked what she could expect. He was from Bourdeilles, a place of rocks some five miles distant, condemned42 by Brant?me, chef-lieu du Canton. He summoned him.
“Polydore.”
“Oui, monsieur.”
“You have made a mistake. You are no longer in the hands of the police.”
“Monsieur veut dire——?”
“I am not the Commissaire who desires to photograph your finger-prints.”
“Sacré animal!” repeated Bigourdin, attacking his soup. “I wonder why I keep him.”
“I too,” said Félise.
“If his grandmother and my grandmother had not been foster-sisters——” said Bigourdin, waving an indignant spoon.
“You would have kept him just because he is ugly,” smiled Félise. “You would have found a reason.”
“One of these days I’ll throw him into the river,” Bigourdin declared. “I am patient. I am slow to anger. But when I am roused I am like a lion. Polydore,” said he serenely44, as the dilapidated menial removed the plates, “if you can’t keep your hands clean I’ll make you wear gloves.”
“People would laugh at me,” said Polydore.
“So much the better,” said Bigourdin.
The meal was nearly over when the expected guests were announced. Uncle and niece slipped from the dining room into the little vestibule to welcome them. An elderly man in a blouse, name Baptiste, was already busying himself with their luggage—the knapsacks fastened to the back of the bicycles.
“Mademoiselle, Monsieur,” said Bigourdin, “it is a great pleasure to me to meet friends of my excellent brother-in-law. Allow me to present Mademoiselle Félise Fortinbras” (he gave the French pronunciation), “my niece. As dinner is not yet over and as you must be hungry, will you give yourselves the trouble to enter the salle-à-manger.”
“I should like to have a wash first,” said Corinna.
Bigourdin glanced at Félise. They were beginning early.
“There is a bathroom upstairs fitted with every modern luxury.”
Corinna laughed. “I only want to tidy up a bit.”
“I will show you to your room,” said Félise, and conducted her up the staircase beside the bureau.
“And monsieur?”
Martin went over to the little lavabo against the wall beside which hung the usual damp towel.
“This will do quite well,” said he.
Bigourdin breathed again. The new arrivals were quite human; and they spoke45 French perfectly46. The men conversed47 a while until the two girls descended48. Bigourdin led his guests into the salle-à-manger and installed them at a table by one of the windows looking on the loggia.
“Like this,” said he, “you will be cool and also enjoy the view.”
“I think,” said Corinna, looking up at him, “you have the most delicious little town I have seen in France.”
Bigourdin’s eyes beamed with gratification. He bowed and went back to his unfinished meal.
“Behold over there,” said he to Félise, “a young girl of extraordinary good sense. She is also extremely pretty; a combination which is rare in women.”
The five commercial travellers rose, and, bowing as they passed their host, went out in search, after the manner of their kind, of coffee and backgammon at the Café de l’Univers in the Rue de Périgueux. It is only foreigners who linger over coffee, liqueurs and tobacco in the little inns of France. Presently Félise went off to the bureau to make up the day’s accounts, and Bigourdin, having smoked a thoughtful cigarette, crossed over to Martin and Corinna. After the good hotel-keeper’s enquiry as to their gastronomic satisfaction, he swept his hand through his inch-high standing stubble of black hair, and addressed Martin.
“Monsieur Over—Oversh—forgive me if I cannot pronounce your name——”
“Overshaw,” said Martin distinctly.
“Auvershaud—Auverchat—non—c’est bigrement difficile.”
“Then call me Monsieur Martin, à la fran?aise.”
“And me, Mademoiselle Corinne,” laughed Corinna.
“Voilà!” cried Bigourdin, delighted. “Those are names familiar to every Frenchman.” Then his brow clouded. “Well, Monsieur Martin, there is something I would say to you. What profession does my good brother-in-law exercise in Paris?”
Martin and Corinna exchanged glances.
“I scarcely know,” said Corinna.
“Nor I,” said Martin.
“It is on account of my niece, his daughter, that I ask. You permit me to sit down for a moment?” He drew a chair. “You must understand at once,” said he, “that I have nothing against Monsieur Fortinbras. I love him like myself. But, on the other hand, I also love my little niece. She is very simple, very innocent, and does not appreciate the subtleties50 of the great world. She adores her father.”
“I can quite understand that,” said Martin, “and I am sure that he adores her.”
“Precisely,” said Bigourdin. “That is why I would like you to have no doubt as to the profession of my brother-in-law. You have never, by any chance, Mademoiselle Corinne, heard him called ‘Le Marchand de Bonheur’?”
“Never,” said Corinna, meeting his eyes.
“Never,” echoed Martin.
“Not even when he advised you to come here? It is for Félise that I ask.”
“No,” said Corinna.
“Certainly not,” said Martin.
“But you have heard that he is an avoué?”
“A very clever solicitor,” said Corinna.
Bigourdin smote52 his chest with his great hand. “I thank you with all my heart for your understanding. You are the first persons she has met who know her father—it is somewhat embarrassing, what I say—and she, in her innocence53, will ask you questions, which he did not foresee——”
“There will be no difficulty in answering them,” replied Martin.
“Encore merci,” said Bigourdin. “You must know that Félise came to us at five years old, when my poor wife was living—she died ten years ago—I am a widower54. She is to me like my own daughter. Although,” he added, with a smile and a touch of vanity, “I am not quite so old as that. My sister, her mother, is older than I.”
“She is alive then?” asked Corinna.
“Certainly,” replied Bigourdin. “Did you not know that? But she has been an invalid55 for many years. That is why Félise lives here instead of with her parents. I hope, Mademoiselle, you and she will be good friends.”
“I am sure we shall,” replied Corinna.
A little while later the two wanderers sat over their coffee by the balustrade of the covered loggia and looked out on the velvet56 night, filled with contentment. They had reached their goal. Here they were to stay until it pleased Fortinbras to come and direct them afresh. Hitherto, their resting-places, mere57 stages on their journey, had lacked the atmosphere of permanence. The still nights when they had talked together, as now, beneath the stars, had throbbed58 with a certain fever, the anticipation59 of the morrow’s dawn, the morrow’s adventures in strange lands. But now they had come to their destined60 haven61. Here they would remain to-morrow, and the morrow after that, and for morrows indefinite. A phase of their life had ended with curious suddenness.
As the intensity62 of silence falls on ears accustomed to the whirr of machinery63, so did an intensity of peace encompass64 their souls. And the dim-lit valley itself brought solace65. Not here stretched infinite horizons such as those of the plains of La Beauce through which they had passed, horizons whence sprang a whole hemisphere of stars, horizons which embracing nothing set the heart aching for infinite things beyond, horizons in the centre of which they stood specks66 of despair overwhelmed by immensities. Here the comfortable land had taken them to its bosom67. Near enough to be felt, the vague bluish mass of the Limousin mountains sweeping68 from north to east assured them of the calm protection of eternal forces. Beyond them who need look or crave69 to look? To the fevered spirit they brought in their mothering shelter all that was needed by man for his happiness: fruitfulness of cornfields, mystery of beech-woods faintly revealed by the rays of a young moon, a quiet town for man’s untroubled habitation, guarded by its encircling river, rather guessed than seen and betrayed only here and there by a streak70 of quivering light. And as the distant glare of great cities—the lights of London reflected in the heavens—in the days of wandering youths seeking their fortunes, compelled them moth-like to the focus, so in its dreamy microcosm did the lights of the little town, a thousand flickering71 points from the outskirts72 and a line of long illumination marking the main street athwart the dark mass of roofs and dissipating itself hazily73 in midair, appeal to the imagination—set it wondering as to the myriad74 joyous75 affairs of men.
In low voices they talked of Fortinbras. His spirit seemed to have emerged from the welter of Paris into this pool of the world’s tranquillity76. In spite of his magnetic force his words had been but words. What they were to meet at Brant?me they knew not. They scarce had thought. What to them had been the landlord of a tiny provincial77 inn but a good-natured common fellow unworthy of speculation78? And what the daughter of the seedy Paris Bohemian, snapper up of unconsidered trifles, but a serving girl of no account, plain and redolent of the scullery? Bigourdin’s courteous79 bearing and delicacy80 of speech had come upon them as a surprise. So had the refinement81 of Félise. They had to readjust their conception of Fortinbras. They were amazed, simple souls, to find that he had ties in life so indubitably respectable. And he had a wife, too, a chronic82 invalid, with whom he lived in the jealous obscurity of Paris. It was pathetic. . . . They had obeyed him hardly knowing why. At the back of their minds he had been but a charlatan83 of peculiar84 originality—at the same time a being almost mythical85, so remote from them was his life. And now he became startlingly real. They heard his voice soft and persuasive86 whispering by their side with a touch of gentle mockery.
Then silence fell upon them; their minds drifted apart and they lost themselves in their separate dreams.
At last, Polydore coming to remove the coffee tray and to enquire87 as to their further wants, broke the spell. When he had gone, Corinna leaned her elbow on the little iron table and asked in her direct fashion:
“What have you been thinking of, Martin?”
He drew his hand across his eyes, and it was a moment or two before he answered.
“When I was in London,” said he, “I seem to have lived in a tiny provincial town. Now that I come to a tiny provincial town I have an odd feeling that the deep life of a great city is before me. That’s the best I can do by way of explanation. Thoughts like that are a bit formless and elusive88, you know.”
“What do you think you’re going to find here?”
“I don’t know. Why not happiness in some form or other?”
“You expect a lot for five francs,” she laughed.
“And you?”
“I——?”
“Yes, what have you been thinking of?”
“Do you see that little house on the quay90? The one with the lights and the loggia. You can just get a glimpse of the interior. See? There’s a picture and below a woman sitting at a piano. If you listen you can catch the sound. It’s Schubert’s ‘Moment Musical.’ Well, I’ve been wishing I were that woman with her life full of her home and husband and children. Sheltered—protected—love all around her—nothing more to ask of God. It was a beautiful dream.”
“You too,” said Martin, “feel about this place somewhat as I do.”
“I suppose it’s the night. It turns one into a sentimental91 lunatic. Fancy living here for the rest of one’s days and concentrating one’s soul on human stomachs.”
“What do you mean, Corinna?”
“Isn’t that what woman’s domestic life comes to? She must fill her husband’s stomach properly or he’ll beat her or run off with somebody else, and she must fill her babies’ stomachs properly or they’ll get cramps92 and convulsions and bilious93 attacks and die. It was a beautiful dream. But the reality would drive me stick, stark94, staring mad.”
“Of course!” she cried. “You’re one of the creatures with the stomach.”
“I’ve never been aware of it,” said Martin.
“It strikes me you’re too good for this world,” said Corinna.
Martin rolled a cigarette from a brown packet of Maryland tobacco—his supply of English ‘Woodbines’ had long since given out.
“I have my ideals as to love—and so forth,” said he.
“And so have I. ‘All for Love and the World Well Lost.’ That’s the title of an old play, isn’t it? I can understand it. I would give my soul for it. But it happens once in a blue moon. Meanwhile one has to live. And connubiality96 and maternity97 in a little lost hole in Nowhere like this aren’t life.”
“What the dickens is life?” asked Martin.
But her definition he did not hear, for the vast figure of Bigourdin loomed in the doorway98 of the salle-à-manger.
“I wish you good night,” said he.
Martin rose and looked at his watch. “I think it’s time to go to bed.”
“So do I,” yawned Corinna.
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1
overlapped
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| _adj.重叠的v.部分重叠( overlap的过去式和过去分词 )；（物体）部份重叠；交叠；（时间上）部份重叠 | |
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2
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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6
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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automobile
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| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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gastronomic
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| adj.美食（烹饪）法的，烹任学的 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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slumbered
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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omission
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| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
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inordinate
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| adj.无节制的；过度的 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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inaugural
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| adj.就职的；n.就职典礼 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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stipulates
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| n.（尤指在协议或建议中）规定，约定，讲明（条件等）( stipulate的名词复数 )；规定，明确要求v.（尤指在协议或建议中）规定，约定，讲明（条件等）( stipulate的第三人称单数 )；规定，明确要求 | |
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automobiles
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| n.汽车( automobile的名词复数 ) | |
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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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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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cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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obsolete
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| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
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anticipatory
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| adj.预想的，预期的 | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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41
alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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42
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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43
erased
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| v.擦掉( erase的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；清除 | |
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44
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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45
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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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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48
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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49
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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50
subtleties
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| 细微( subtlety的名词复数 )； 精细； 巧妙； 细微的差别等 | |
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51
solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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52
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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54
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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58
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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encompass
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| vt.围绕，包围；包含，包括；完成 | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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specks
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| n.眼镜；斑点，微粒，污点( speck的名词复数 ) | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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hazily
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| ad. vaguely, not clear | |
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myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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charlatan
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| n.骗子；江湖医生；假内行 | |
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84
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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85
mythical
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| adj.神话的；虚构的；想像的 | |
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persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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87
enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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92
cramps
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| n. 抽筋, 腹部绞痛, 铁箍 adj. 狭窄的, 难解的 v. 使...抽筋, 以铁箍扣紧, 束缚 | |
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93
bilious
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| adj.胆汁过多的；易怒的 | |
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94
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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95
sagely
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| adv. 贤能地，贤明地 | |
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96
connubiality
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| n.夫妇关系 | |
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97
maternity
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| n.母性，母道，妇产科病房；adj.孕妇的，母性的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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