“I take what you call my art,” she would say, “just as it suits me. I can command too many things in the world for me to sacrifice them to the mediocre8 result I can get out of a paint-brush and a bit of canvas. I shall never need paint for money, and if I did I’m sure I shouldn’t earn any. But I love painting for its own sake, and I have enough talent to make it worth while to have good instruction in technique, so that my pictures shall more or less satisfy myself and not set my friends’ teeth on edge. And that’s why I’m here.”
She was a wealthy vagabond of independent fortune inherited from her mother long since deceased, with no living ties save her father, a railway director in America, now married to a young wife, a school-mate of her own, whom, since her childhood, she had peculiarly abhorred10. But in the world, which lay wide open to her, videlicet the civilised nations of the two hemispheres, she had innumerable friends. No human will pretended to control her actions. She was as free to live in Rosario as in Buda-Pesth; in Nairobi as in Nijni Novgorod. For the last two or three years she had elected to establish her headquarters in Paris and study painting. But why the latter process should involve a hard bed in a shabby room and dreadful meals at the Petit Cornichon, she could never understand. Occasionally, on days of stress at the atélier, she did lunch at the Petit Cornichon. It was convenient, and, as she was young and thirsty for real draughts11 of life, the chatter12 and hubbub13 of insensate ambitions afforded her both interest and amusement; but she found the food execrable and the universal custom of cleaning knife, fork, spoon and plate before using them exceedingly disgusting. Yet, being a lady born and bred, she performed the objectionable rite9 in the most gracious way in the world; and when it came to comradeship, then her democratic traditions asserted themselves. Her student friends ranged the social gamut14. If the wearer were a living spirit, she regarded broken boots and threadbare garments merely as an immaterial accident of fortune, like a broken nose or an amputated limb. The flat on the Boulevard St. Germain was the haven16 of many a hungry girl and boy. And they found their way thither17 (as far as Lucilla was concerned) not because they were hungry, but because that which lay deep in their souls had won her accurate recognition.
By way of digression, an essential difference in point of view between English and Americans may here be noted18. If an Englishman has reason to admire a tinker and make friends with him, he will leave his own respectable sphere and enter that of the tinker, and, in some humble19 haunt of tinkerdom, where he can remain incognito20, will commune with his crony over pots of abominable21 and digestion-racking ale. The instinct of the American, in sworn brotherhood22 with a tinker, is, on the other hand, to lift the tinker to his own habitation of delight. He will desire to take him into a saloon which he himself frequents, fill him up with champagne23 and provide him with the best, biggest and strongest cigar that money can buy. In both cases appear the special defects of national qualities. The Englishman goes to the tinker’s boozing ken15 (thereby, incidentally, putting the tinker at his ease) because he would be ashamed of being seen by any of his own clan24 in a tinker’s company. The American does not care a hang for being seen with the tinker; he wants to give his friend a good time; but, incidentally, he has no intuitive regard for the tinker’s feelings, predilections25 and timidities.
From which disquisition it may be understood how Lucilla played Lady Bountiful without the slightest consciousness of doing so. She played it so well, with regard to Félise, as to make that young woman in the course of a day or two her slave and worshipper. She shewed her the sights of Paris, Versailles, the Galeries de Lafayette, the Tomb of Napoleon, Poiret’s, the Salon26 d’Hiver, the Panthéon and Cartier’s in the Rue de la Paix. With the aid of pins and scissors and Céleste, she also attired27 her in an evening frock and under the nominal28 protection of an agreeable young compatriot from the Embassy took her to dine at the Café de Paris and then to the Théatre du Gymnase. A great, soft-cushioned, smooth, noiseless car carried them luxuriously29 through the infinite streets; and when they were at home it seemed to await them night and day by the kerb of the Boulevard Saint Germain. Lucilla set the head of the little country mouse awhirl with sensations. Félise revered30 her as a goddess, and whispered in awe31 the Christian32 name which she was commanded to use.
A breathless damsel, with a jumble33 of conflicting scraps34 of terror and delight instead of a mind, her arms full of an adored Persian kitten and an adoring Pekinese spaniel, after a couple of days’ flashing course through France, was brought in the gathering35 dusk, with a triumphant36 sweep up the hill, to the familiar front door of the H?tel des Grottes. Baptiste, green-aproned, gaped37 as he saw her, and, scuttling38 indoors, shouted at the top of his voice:
“Monsieur, monsieur, c’est mademoiselle!”
In an instant, Bigourdin lumbered39 out at full speed. He almost lifted her from the car, scattering40 outraged41 kitten and offended dog, hid her in his vast embrace and hugged her and kissed her and held her out at arm’s length and laughed and hugged her again. There was no doubt of the prodigal’s welcome. She laughed and sobbed42 and hugged the great man in return. And then he recovered himself and became the bon h?telier and assisted Lucilla to alight, while Félise greeted a smiling Martin and suffered the embrace of Euphémie, panting from the kitchen.
“If mademoiselle will give herself the trouble of following me——” said Bigourdin, and led the way up the stairs, followed by Lucilla and Céleste, guardian43 of the jewel case. He threw open the door of the chambre d’honneur, a double-windowed room, above the terrace, overlooking the town and the distant mountains of the Limousin, and shewed her with pride a tiny salon adjoining, the only private sitting-room44 in the hotel, crossed the corridor and flung to view the famous bathroom, disclosed next door a room for the maid, and swept her back to the bedroom, where a pine-cone fire was blazing fragrantly45.
“I think it is absolutely charming,” cried Lucilla. She looked round. “Oh! what lovely things you have!”
Bigourdin beamed and made a little bow. He took inordinate48 pride in his chambre d’honneur in which he had stored the gems49 of the Empire furniture acquired by his great-grandfather, the luckless Général de Brigade. The instantaneous appreciation50 of a casual glance enchanted51 him.
“I hope, mademoiselle,” said he, in his courteous52 way, “you will do Félise and myself the honour of being our guest as long as you deign53 to stay at Brant?me.”
Lucilla met his bright eyes. “That’s delightful54 of you,” she laughed. “But I’m not one solitary55 person, I’m a caravan56. There’s me and the maid and the chauffeur57 and the car and the dog and the cat.”
“The hotel is very little, mademoiselle,” replied Bigourdin, “but our hearts are big enough to entertain them.”
Nothing more, or, at least, nothing more by way of protest, was to be said. Lucilla put out her hand in her free, generous gesture.
“Monsieur Bigourdin, I accept with pleasure your delightful hospitality.”
“Je vous remercie infiniment, mademoiselle,” said Bigourdin.
He went downstairs in a flutter of excitement. Not for four generations, so far as he was aware, had such an event occurred in the H?tel des Grottes. Members of the family, of course, had stayed there without charge. Once, towards the end of the Second Empire, a Minister of the Interior had occupied the chambre d’honneur, and had gone away without paying his bill; but that remained a bad black debt in the books of the hotel. Never had a stranger been an honoured guest. He had offered the position, it is true, to Corinna; but then he was in love with Corinna, which makes all the difference. The French are not instinctively58 hospitable59; when they are seized, however, by the impulse of hospitality, all that they have is yours, down to the last crust in the larder60; but they are fully61 conscious of their own generosity62, they feel the tremendousness of the spiritual wave. So Bigourdin, kindest-hearted of men, lumbered downstairs aglow63 with a sense of altruistic64 adventure. In the vestibule he met Félise who had lingered there in order to obtain from Martin a compte rendu of the household and the neighbourhood. Things had gone none too well—Monsieur Peyrian, one of their regular commercial travellers, having discovered a black-beetle in his bread, had gone to the H?tel du Cygne. The baker65 had indignantly repudiated66 the black-beetle, his own black-beetles being apparently67 of an entirely68 different species. Another baker had been appointed, whose only defect was his inability to bake bread. The brave Madame Thuillier, who had been called in to superintend the factory, had quarrelled, after two days, with everybody, and had gone off in dudgeon because she did not eat at the patron’s table. Then they had lost two of their best hands, one a young married woman who was reluctantly compelled to add to the population of France, and the other a girl who was discharged for laying false information against the very respectable and much married Baptiste, saying that he had pinched her. The old Mère Maquoise, marchande de quatre saisons, who was reputed to have known Général Bigourdin, was dead, and one of the hotel omnibus horses had come down on its knees.
Félise, forgetful of the Maison de Blanc and N?tre Dame69, wrung70 her hands. She had descended71 from fairyland into life’s dear and important realities.
“It’s desolating72, what you tell me,” she cried.
“And all because you went away and left us,” said Martin.
“It appears you have greatly suffered, my poor little Félise. But why didn’t you tell me from the first that you were unhappy with your Aunt Clothilde? I did not know she had turned into such a vieille pimbèche. She has written. And I have answered. Ah! I tell you, I have answered! You need never again have any fear of your Aunt Clothilde. I hope I am a Christian. But I hope too that I shall always differ from her in my ideas of Christianity. Mais tout ?a est fini—bel et bien fini. We have to talk of ourselves. I have been a miserable75 man since you have been away, ma petite Félise. I tell you that in all frankness. Everything has been at sixes and sevens. I can’t do without my little ménagère. And you shall never marry anybody, even the President of the Republic, unless you want to. Foi de Bigourdin! Voilà!”
Félise cried a little. “Tu es trop bon pour moi, mon oncle.”
“Allons donc! I seem to have been an old bear. Yet, in truth, I am harmless as a sheep. But have confidence in me, and in my very dear friend, your father—there are many things you cannot understand—and things will arrange themselves quite happily. You love me just a little bit, don’t you?”
She flung her arms round the huge man’s neck.
“Je t’adore, mon petit oncle,” she cried.
Ten minutes afterwards, with bunch of keys slung76 at her waist, she was busy restoring to order the chaos77 of the interregnum. Terrible things had happened during the absence of the feminine eye. Even Martin shared the universal reprimand. For Félise, manageress of hotel, and Félise, storm-tossed little human soul, were two entirely different entities78.
“My dear Martin, how could you and my uncle pass these napkins from that infamous79 old thief of a laundress. They are black!”
And ruthlessly she flicked80 a napkin folded mitre-wise from the centre table before the eyes of the folder81 and revealed its dingy82 turpitude83.
“It is well that I am back,” she declared.
“It is indeed, Mademoiselle Félise,” said Martin.
She gave him a swift little glance out of the tail of her eye, before she sped away, and the corners of her lips drooped84 as though in disappointment. Then perhaps reflecting that she had been addressing the waiter and not the man, her face cleared. At all events he had taken her rating in good part.
Dinner had already begun and the hungry commercials, napkins at neck, were finishing their soup lustily, when Lucilla entered the dining room. The open Medici collar to a grey velvet85 dress shewed the graceful86 setting of her neck and harmonised with the brown hair brushed up from the forehead. She advanced smiling and stately, giving the impression of the perfect product of a new civilisation87. Martin, who had but seen her for a few seconds in the dusk confusedly clad in furs, stood spell-bound, a pile of used soup-plates in his hands. Never had so radiant an apparition88 swum before his gaze. Bigourdin, dining as usual with Félise, rose immediately and conducted his guest to the little table by the terrace where once Martin and Corinna had sat. It was specially89 adorned90 with tawny91 chrysanthemums92.
“I fell dreaming before the fire in the midst of your wonderful, old-world things, and had to hurry into my clothes, and so I’m late,” she apologised.
“If only you found all you needed, mademoiselle——” said Bigourdin anxiously. “It is the provinces and not Paris.”
She assured him that Félise had seen to every conceivable want and he left her to her meal. Martin delivered his soup-plates into the arms of the chambermaid and hovered93 over Lucilla with the menu card.
“Will mademoiselle take the dinner?” he asked in French.
She regarded him calmly and humorously and nodded. He became aware that her eyes were of a deep, deep grey, full of light. He found it difficult not to keep on looking at them. Breaking away, however, he fetched her soup and went off to attend to the others. At every pause by her table he noted some new and incomparable attribute. When bending over the platter from which she helped herself, he saw that her hands were beautifully shaped, plump, with long thin fingers and with delicate markings of veins94 beneath the white skin. An upward glance caught more blue veins on the temples. Another time he was struck by the supple95 grace of her movements. There were infinite gleams in her splendid hair. The faintest suggestion of perfume arose from her garments. She declined the vegetable course and, declining, looked up at him and smiled. He thought he had never seen a brow so noble, a nose so exquisitely96 cut, lips so kind and mocking. Her face was that of a Romney duchess into which the thought and spiritual freedom of the twentieth century had entered. As he sped about the service, thrusting dishes beneath bearded or blue, ill-shaven chins, her face floated before his eyes; every now and then he stole a distant glance at it, and longed for the happy though transient moment when he should come close to it again.
While he was clearing her table for dessert she said:
“Why do you speak French to me, when you know I’m an American?”
“It is the custom of the house when a guest speaks such excellent French as mademoiselle.”
“That’s very kind of you,” she said in English; “but it seems rather ridiculous for an American and an Englishman to converse97 in a foreign language.”
“How do you know I am English, mademoiselle?” he asked, his heart a-flutter at the unexpected interchange of words.
She laughed. “I have eyes. Besides, I know all about you—first from our friend Corinna Hastings, and lately from my little hostess over the way.”
He flushed, charmed by the deep music of her voice and delighted at being recognised by her not only as an individual (for she radiated an attraction which had caused him to hate the conventional impersonality98 of waiterdom) but as a member more or less of her own social class. He paused, plate of crumbs99 in one hand and napkin in the other.
“Do you know Corinna Hastings?”
“Evidently. How else could she have told me of your romantic doings?” she replied laughingly, and Martin flushed deeper, conscious of an idiot question.
He set the apples and little white grapes before her. “I ought to have asked you,” said he, “how Miss Hastings came to talk to you about me?”
“She came on the train from Brant?me and rang my bell in Paris. She kept me up talking till four o’clock in the morning—not of you all the time. Don’t imagine it. You were just interestingly incidental.”
“Gar?on,” cried a voice from the centre table.
“Bien, m’sieur.”
Martin tucked his napkin under his arm and turned away, followed by Lucilla’s humorous glance.
“L’addition!”
“Bien, m’sieur.”
He became the perfect waiter again, and brought the bill to the commercial traveller who had merely come in for dinner. The latter paid in even money, rose noisily—he was a stout100, important, red-faced man—and, fumbling101 in several pockets rendered difficult of access by adiposity102 and good cheer, at last produced four coppers103 which he deposited with a base, metallic104 chink in Martin’s palm.
“Merci, m’sieur. Bon soir, m’sieur,” said the perfect waiter. But he would have given much to be able to dispose of the horrible coins otherwise than by thrusting them in his trouser pocket, to be able, for instance, to hurl105 them at the triple sausage neck of the departing donor106; for he knew the starry107, humorous eyes of the divinity were fixed108 on him. He felt hot and clammy and did not dare look round. And the hideous109 thought flashed through his mind: “Will she offer me a tip when she leaves?”
He busied himself furiously with his service, and, in a few moments, was relieved to see her ceremoniously conducted by Bigourdin and Félise from the salle-à-manger. On the threshold Bigourdin paused and called him.
“You will serve coffee and liqueurs in the petit salon, and if you go to the Café de l’Univers, you will kindly110 make my excuses to our friends.”
To enter the primly111 and plushily furnished salon, bearing the tray, and to set out the cups and glasses and bottles was an ordeal112 which he went through with the automatic rigidity113 of a highly trained London footman, looking neither to right nor left. He had a vague impression of a queenly figure reclining comfortably in an arm chair, haloed by a little cloud of cigarette smoke. He retired114, finished his work in the pantry, swallowed a little food, changed his things and went out.
Instinct led him along the quays115 and through the narrow, old-world streets to the patch of yellow light before the Café de l’Univers. But there he halted, suddenly disinclined to enter. Something new and amazing had come into his life—he could not yet tell what—discordant with the commonplace of the familiar company. He looked through the space left between the edge of the blind and the jamb of the window and saw Beuzot, the professor at the Ecole Normale, playing backgammon with Monsieur Callot, the postmaster; and a couple of places away from them was visible the square-headed old Monsieur Viriot, smiting116 his left palm with his right fist. The excellent old man always did that when he inveighed117 against the government. To-night Martin cared little about the Government of the French Republic; still less for backgammon. He had a nostalgia118 for unknown things and an absurd impulse to walk abroad to find them beneath the moon and stars. Obeying the impulse, he retraced119 his steps along the quays and struck the main-road past the habitations of the rock dwellers120. He walked for a couple of miles between rocks casting jagged shadows and a calm, misty121 plain without finding anything, until, following a laborious122, zig-zag course, a dissolute quarryman of his acquaintance in incapable123 charge of a girl child of five, lurched into him and laid the clutch of a drowning mariner124 upon his shoulder.
“Monsieur Martin,” said he. “It is the good God who has sent you.”
“Boucabeille,” said Martin—for that was the name of the miscreant—“you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“You need not tell me, Monsieur Martin,” replied Boucabeille.
As the child was crying bitterly and the father was self-reproachful—he had taken the mioche to see her aunt, and coming back had met some friends who had enticed125 him into the Café of the Mère Diridieu, where they had given him some poisoned, leg-dislocating alcohol—Martin took the child in his arms, and trudged126 back to the rock-dwellings127 where the drunkard lived. On the way Boucabeille, relieved of paternal128 responsibility, the tired child now snuggling sleepily and comfortably against Martin’s neck, grew confidential129 and confessed, with sly enjoyment130, that he had already well watered his throttle131 before he started. The man, he declared, with the luminousness132 of an apostle, who did not get drunk occasionally was an imbecile denying himself the pleasures of the Other Life. Martin recognised in Boucabeille a transcendentalist, no matter how muddle-headed. The sober clod did not know adventures. He did not know happiness. The path of the drunkard, Boucabeille explained, was strewn with joy.
The anxious wife who met them at the door called Martin a saint from heaven and her husband a stream of unmentionable things. He staggered under the outburst and laid his hand again on Martin’s shoulder.
“Monsieur Martin, I have committed a fault. I take you to witness”—his wife paused in her invective133 to hear the penitent—“if I was more drunk I wouldn’t pay attention to anything she says. I have committed a fault. I haven’t got drunk enough.”
“Sale cochon!” cried the lady, and Martin left them, meditating134 on the philosophy of drunkenness. Quo me rapis Bacche, plenum tui? To what godlike adventure? But the magic word was plenum—right full to the lips. No half-and-half measures for Bacchus. Apparently Boucabeille had failed in his adventure and had missed happiness by a gill. Browning’s lines about the little more and the little less came into his head, and he laughed. Both the poet and the muddle-headed quarryman were right. Adventures not brought through to the end must be dismal135 fiasco. . . . His mind wandered a little. His shoulder was ever such a trifle stiff from carrying the child; but he missed the warmth of her grateful little body, and the trusting clasp of her tiny arms. It had been an insignificant136 adventure, an adventure, so to speak, in miniature; but it had been complete, rounded off, perfect. The proof lay in the glow of satisfaction at the thing accomplished137. Materially, there was nothing to complain about. But from a philosophic138 standpoint the satisfaction was not absolute. For the absolute is finality, and there is no finality in mundane139 things. From a thing so finite as human joy eternal law decreed the evolution of the germs of fresh desires. There had been a strange sweetness in the clasp of those tiny arms. How much sweeter to a man would be the clasp, if the arms were his own flesh and blood? Martin was shocked by the suspicion that things were not going right with him as a human being.
The pleasant mass of the H?tel des Grottes looming140 dimly white against its black background came into view. The lights in an uncurtained and unshuttered window, above the terrace, were visible. A figure passed rapidly across the room and sent drunkards and adventures and curly-headed five-year-olds packing from his mind. But he averted141 his eyes and walked on and came to the Pont de Dronne, and then halted to light a cigarette. The frosty silence of sharp moonlight hung over the town. The silver shimmer142 reflected from reaches of water and from slated143 roofs invested it with unspeakable beauty and peace. A little cold caressing144 wind came from the distant mountains, seen in soft outline. Near black shelves of rock and dark mysteries of forest and masses of houses beyond the bridge-end closed other horizons. He remembered his first impression of Brant?me, when he had sat with Corinna on the terrace, a mothering shelter from all fierce and cruel things.
“And yet,” thought he, as he puffed145 his cigarette smoke in the clear air, “beyond this little spot lies a world of unceasing endeavour and throbbing146 pulses and women of disturbing beauty. Such a woman on her meteoric147 passage from one sphere of glory to another has flashed before my eyes to-night. Why am I here pursuing an avocation148, which, though honest, is none the less greasy149 and obscure?”
Unable to solve the enigma150, he sighed and threw his cigarette, which had gone out during his meditation151, into the river. A patter of quick footsteps at the approach of the bridge caused him to turn his head, and he saw emerge from the gloom into the moonlight a tall, fur-clad figure advancing towards him. She gave him a swift look of recognition.
“Monsieur Martin——”
He raised his cap. “Good evening, Miss Merriton.”
She halted. “My good host and hostess are gone to bed. I couldn’t sit by my window and sentimentalise through the glass; so I came out.”
“It’s a fine night,” said Martin.
“It is. But not one to hang about on a windy bridge. Come for a little walk, if you have time, and protect me against the dangers of Brant?me.”
Go for a walk with her? Defend her from dangers? Verily he would go through the universe with her! His heart thumped152. It was in his whirling brain to cry: “Come and ride with me throughout the world and the more dragons I can meet and slay153 in your service, the more worthy154 shall I be to kiss the hem2 of your sacred grey velvet dinner-gown.” But from his fundamental, sober, commonsense155 he replied:
She drew a little breath. “Thank you,” she said. “That’s frank and sensible. I’m always forgetting that France isn’t New York, or Paris for the matter of that, where one can do as one likes. I don’t know Provincial157 France a little bit, but I suppose, for red-hot gossip, it isn’t far behind a pretty little New England village. Still, can’t we get out of range, somehow, of the eyes? That road over there”—she waved a hand in the direction of the silent high-road, which Martin had lately travelled—“doesn’t seem to be encumbered158 with the scandal-mongers of Brant?me.”
He laughed. “Will you try it?”
They set forth160 briskly. The glimpse into her nature delighted him. She appreciated at once the motive161 of his warning, but was serenely162 determined163 to have her own way.
“We were just beginning an interesting little talk when you were called off,” she remarked.
Martin felt himself grow red, remembering the tightly pocketed bagman who took the stage while he searched for eleemosynary sous.
“My profession has its drawbacks,” said he.
“So has every profession. I’ve got a friend in America—I have met him two or three times—who is conductor on the Twentieth Century Express between New York and Chicago. He’s by way of being an astronomer164, and the great drawback of his profession is that he has no time to sit on top of a mountain and look at stars. The drawback of yours is that you can’t carry on pleasant conversations whenever you like. But the profession’s all right, unless you’re ashamed of it.”
“But why should I be ashamed of it?” asked Martin.
“I don’t know. Why should you? My father, who was the son of a New England parson——”
“My father was a parson,” said Martin.
“Was he? Well, that’s good. We both come of a God-fearing stock, which is something in these days. Anyway, my father, in order to get through college, waited on the men in Hall at Harvard, and was a summer waiter at a hotel in the Adirondacks. Of course there are some Americans who would like it to be thought that their ancestors brought over the family estates with them in the Mayflower. But we’re not like that. Say,” she said, after a few steps through the sweet keenness of the moonlit night. “Have you heard lately from Corinna?”
He had not. In her last letter to him she had announced her departure from the constricting165 family circle of Wendlebury. She was going to London.
“Where she would have a chance of self-development,” said Lucilla, with a laugh.
“How did you know that?” Martin asked in simple surprise, for those had been almost Corinna’s own words.
“What else would she go to London for?”
“I don’t know,” said Martin. “She did not tell me.”
They did not discuss Corinna further. But Martin felt that his companion had formulated166 his own diagnosis167 of Corinna’s abiding168 defect: her suspicion that the cosmic scheme centred round the evolution of Corinna Hastings. In a very subtle way the divinity had established implied understandings between them. They were of much the same parentage. In her own family the napkin had played no ignoble169 part. They were at one in their little confidential estimate of their common friend. And when she threw back her adorable head and drew a deep breath and said: “It’s just lovely here,” he felt deliciously near her. Deliciously and dangerously. A little later, as they came upon the rock dwellings, she laid a fleeting170, but thrilling touch on his arm.
“What in the world are those houses?”
He told her. He described the lives of the inhabitants. He described, on the way back, for the rocks marked the limit of their stroll, his adventure with Boucabeille. Ordinarily shy, and if not tongue-tied, at least unimaginative in speech, he now found vivid words and picturesque171 images, his soul set upon repaying her, in some manner for her gracious comradeship. Her smiles, her interest, her quick sympathy, the occasional brush of her furs against his body, as she leaned to listen, intoxicated172 him. He spoke173 of France, the land of his adoption174, and the spiritual France that no series of hazardous175 governments could impair176, with rhapsodical enthusiasm. She declared, in her rich, deep voice, as though carried away by him:
“I love to hear you say such things. It is splendid to get to the soul of a people.”
Her tone implied admiration177 of achievement. He laughed rather foolishly, in besotted happiness. They had reached the steep road leading to the H?tel des Grottes. She threw a hand to the moonlit bridge, where they had met.
“Were you thinking of all that when I dragged you off?”
He laughed again. “No,” he confessed. “I was wondering what on earth I was doing there.”
“I think,” said she softly, “you have just given me the mot de l’enigme.”
In the vestibule they came across Bigourdin, cigarette in mouth, sprawling178 as might have been expected, on the cane-bottomed couch. He was always the last to retire, a fact which the blissful Martin had forgotten. Lucilla sailed up, radiant in her furs, the flush of exercise on her cheeks visible even under the dim electric light. Bigourdin raised his ponderous179 bulk.
“I found Monsieur Martin outside,” she said, “and I commandeered him as an escort round the neighbourhood. He couldn’t refuse. I hope I haven’t done wrong.”
“Martin knows more about Brant?me,” replied Bigourdin courteously180, “than most of the Brant?mois themselves.”
Céleste appeared from the gloom of the stairs. Lucilla, after an idle word or two, retired. Bigourdin closed and bolted the front door. To do that he would trust nobody, not even Martin. Having completed the operation, he advanced slowly towards his employé.
“Did you go to the café to-night?”
“No,” replied Martin. “I was walking with mademoiselle, who, as she may have told you, is a friend of Mademoiselle Corinna.”
“Yes, yes, she told me that,” said Bigourdin. “There is no need of explanations, mon ami. But I am glad you did not go to the café. I ought to have warned you. We must be very discreet181 towards the Viriots. There is no longer any marriage. Félise doesn’t want it. Her father has formally forbidden it. I have no desire to make anybody unhappy. But there it is. Foutu, le mariage. And I haven’t said anything as yet to the Viriots. And, again, I can’t say anything to Monsieur Viriot, until he says something to me. Voilà la situation. Cest d’une délicatesse extraordinaire.”
He passed his hand over his head and tried to grip the half-inch stubble.
“I tell you this, mon cher Martin, because you know the intimate affairs of the family. So”—he shook an impressive finger—“act towards the Viriots, father and son, as if you knew nothing, nothing at all. Laissez-moi faire.”
Martin pledged the discretion182 of the statues in the old Alhambra tale. What did the extraordinary delicacy183 of the situation between Bigourdin and the Viriots matter to him? When he reached his room, he laughed aloud, oblivious184 of Bigourdin, the Viriots and poor little Félise who (though he knew it not) lay achingly awake.
At last a woman, a splendid wonder of a woman, a woman with the resplendent dignity of the King’s daughter of the fairy tales, with the bewilderment of beauty of face and of form and of voice like the cooing of a dove, with the delicate warm sympathy of sheer woman, had come into his life.
The usually methodical Martin threw his shirt and trousers across the room and walked about like a lunatic in his under things, until a sneeze brought him to the consciousness of wintry cold.
The only satisfying sanction of romance is its charm of intimate commonplace.
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1
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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2
hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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3
dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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4
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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5
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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6
spartan
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| adj.简朴的，刻苦的；n.斯巴达；斯巴达式的人 | |
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7
differentiated
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| 区分，区别，辨别( differentiate的过去式和过去分词 )； 区别对待； 表明…间的差别，构成…间差别的特征 | |
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8
mediocre
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| adj.平常的，普通的 | |
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9
rite
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| n.典礼，惯例，习俗 | |
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10
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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11
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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12
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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13
hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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14
gamut
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| n.全音阶，(一领域的)全部知识 | |
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15
ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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16
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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17
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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18
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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19
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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20
incognito
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| adv.匿名地；n.隐姓埋名；adj.化装的，用假名的，隐匿姓名身份的 | |
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21
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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22
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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23
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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24
clan
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| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
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25
predilections
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| n.偏爱，偏好，嗜好( predilection的名词复数 ) | |
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26
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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27
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28
nominal
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| adj.名义上的；(金额、租金)微不足道的 | |
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29
luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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30
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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32
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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33
jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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34
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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35
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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36
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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37
gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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38
scuttling
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| n.船底穿孔，打开通海阀（沉船用）v.使船沉没( scuttle的现在分词 )；快跑，急走 | |
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39
lumbered
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| 砍伐（lumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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40
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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41
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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42
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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43
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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44
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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45
fragrantly
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| adv.芬芳地；愉快地 | |
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46
tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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47
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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48
inordinate
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| adj.无节制的；过度的 | |
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49
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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50
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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51
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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52
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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53
deign
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| v. 屈尊, 惠允 ( 做某事) | |
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54
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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55
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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56
caravan
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| n.大蓬车；活动房屋 | |
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57
chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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58
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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59
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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60
larder
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| n.食物贮藏室，食品橱 | |
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61
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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62
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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63
aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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64
altruistic
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| adj.无私的，为他人着想的 | |
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65
baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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66
repudiated
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| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的过去式和过去分词 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
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67
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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68
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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69
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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70
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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71
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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72
desolating
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| 毁坏( desolate的现在分词 )； 极大地破坏； 使沮丧； 使痛苦 | |
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73
swooping
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的现在分词 ) | |
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74
prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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75
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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76
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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77
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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78
entities
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| 实体对像； 实体，独立存在体，实际存在物( entity的名词复数 ) | |
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79
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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80
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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81
folder
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| n.纸夹，文件夹 | |
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82
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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83
turpitude
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| n.可耻；邪恶 | |
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84
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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86
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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87
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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88
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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89
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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90
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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91
tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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92
chrysanthemums
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| n.菊花( chrysanthemum的名词复数 ) | |
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93
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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94
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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95
supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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96
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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97
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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98
impersonality
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| n.无人情味 | |
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99
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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101
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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102
adiposity
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| n.肥胖，肥胖症 | |
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103
coppers
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| 铜( copper的名词复数 )； 铜币 | |
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104
metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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105
hurl
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| vt.猛投，力掷，声叫骂 | |
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106
donor
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| n.捐献者；赠送人；(组织、器官等的)供体 | |
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107
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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108
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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109
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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110
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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111
primly
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| adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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112
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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113
rigidity
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| adj.钢性，坚硬 | |
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114
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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115
quays
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| 码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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116
smiting
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的现在分词 ) | |
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117
inveighed
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| v.猛烈抨击，痛骂，谩骂( inveigh的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
nostalgia
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| n.怀乡病，留恋过去，怀旧 | |
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119
retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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120
dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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121
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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122
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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123
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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124
mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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125
enticed
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| 诱惑，怂恿( entice的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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126
trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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127
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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128
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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129
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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130
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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131
throttle
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| n.节流阀，节气阀，喉咙；v.扼喉咙，使窒息，压 | |
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132
luminousness
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| 透光率 | |
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133
invective
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| n.痛骂，恶意抨击 | |
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134
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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135
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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136
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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137
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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138
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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139
mundane
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| adj.平凡的；尘世的；宇宙的 | |
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140
looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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141
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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142
shimmer
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| v./n.发微光，发闪光；微光 | |
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143
slated
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| 用石板瓦盖( slate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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144
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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145
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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146
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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147
meteoric
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| adj.流星的，转瞬即逝的，突然的 | |
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avocation
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| n.副业，业余爱好 | |
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149
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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150
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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151
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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152
thumped
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| v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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153
slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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154
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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155
commonsense
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| adj.有常识的；明白事理的；注重实际的 | |
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156
prudish
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| adj.装淑女样子的，装规矩的，过分规矩的；adv.过分拘谨地 | |
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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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158
encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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161
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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astronomer
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| n.天文学家 | |
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165
constricting
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| 压缩，压紧，使收缩( constrict的现在分词 ) | |
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166
formulated
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| v.构想出( formulate的过去式和过去分词 )；规划；确切地阐述；用公式表示 | |
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167
diagnosis
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| n.诊断，诊断结果，调查分析，判断 | |
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168
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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169
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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170
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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171
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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172
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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173
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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174
adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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175
hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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176
impair
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| v.损害，损伤；削弱，减少 | |
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177
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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178
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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179
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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180
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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181
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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182
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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183
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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184
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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