“If I were a good American,” she said, “I should be racing1 about in the car doing the sights of the neighbourhood; but to sit lazily in the sun is too great a temptation. Besides,” she added, “I have explored the town this morning. I went round with Monsieur Bigourdin.”
“He is very proud of Brant?me,” said Martin.
She dismissed Brant?me. “I have lost my heart to him. He is so big and comfortable and honest, and he talks history like a poetical2 professor with the manners of an Embassy attaché. He’s unique among landlords.”
“I love Bigourdin,” said Martin, “but the type is not uncommon3 in these old inns of France—especially those which have belonged to the same family for generations. There is the proprietor5 of the H?tel du Commerce at Périgueux, for instance, who makes paté de foie gras, just like Bigourdin, and is a well-known authority on the prehistoric6 antiquities7 of the Dordogne. He once went to London, for a day; and what do you think was his object? To inspect the collection of flint instruments at the Guildhall Museum. He told me so himself.”
“That’s all very interesting,” said Lucilla, “but I’m sure he’s nothing like Bigourdin. He can’t be. And his hotel can’t be like this. It’s the queerest hotel I’ve ever struck. It’s run by such unimaginable people. I think I’ve lost my heart to all of you. There’s Bigourdin, there’s Félise, the dearest and most delicate little soul in the world, the daughter of a remarkable8 mystery of a man, there are Baptiste and Euphémie and Marie, the chambermaid, who seem to exude10 desire to fold me to their bosoms11 whenever I meet them, and there is yourself, an English University man, an exceedingly competent waiter and a perfectly12 agreeable companion.”
The divinity crowned with a little sealskin motoring toque which left unhidden the fascination13 of her up-brushed hair, cooed on deliciously. The knees of Martin, leaning against the parapet, became as water. He had a crazy desire to kneel at her feet on the concrete floor of the terrace. Then he noticed that between her feet and the cold concrete floor there was no protecting footstool. He fetched one from the dining room and had the felicity of placing it for her and readjusting the rugs.
“I suppose you’re not going to be a waiter here all your life,” she said.
He signified that the hypothesis was correct.
“What are you going to do?”
“Follow you to the ends of the earth,” but common sense replied that he did not know. He had made no plans. She suggested that he might travel about the wide world. He breathed an inward sigh. Why not the starry15 firmament16? Why not, rainbow-winged and golden spear in hand, swoop17, a bright Archangel, from planet to planet?
“You ought to see Egypt,” she said, “and feel what a speck18 of time you are when the centuries look down on you. It’s wholesome19. I’m going early in the New Year. I go there and try to paint the desert; and then I sit down and cry—which is wholesome too—for me.”
Before Martin’s inner vision floated a blurred20 picture of camels and pyramids and sand and oleographic sunsets. He said, infatuated: “I would give my soul to go to Egypt.”
“Egypt is well worth a soul,” she laughed.
Words and reply were driven from his head by the sight of a great splotch of grease on the leg of his trousers. A dress suit worn daily for two or three months in pursuit of a waiter’s avocation21, does not look its best in stark22 sunlight. Self-conscious, he crossed his legs, as he leaned against the parapet, in order to hide the splotch. Then he noticed that one of the studs of his shirt had escaped from the frayed23 and blackened buttonhole. Again he felt her humorous eyes upon him. For a few moments he dared not meet them. When he did look up he found them fixed24 caressingly25 on the Pekinese spaniel, which had slipped upon its back in the hope of a rubbed stomach, and was waving feathery paws in pursuit of her finger. A moment’s reflection brought heart of grace. Greasy26 suit and untidy stud-hole must have been obvious to her from his first appearance on the terrace—indeed they must have been obvious while he had waited on her at déjeuner. Her invitation to converse27 was proof that she disregarded outer trappings, that she recognised the man beneath the soup-stained raiment. He uncrossed his legs and stood upright. Then he remembered her remark.
“The question is,” said he, “whether my soul would fetch enough to provide me with a ticket to Egypt.”
She smiled lazily. The sunlight being full on her face, he noticed that her eyelashes were brown. Wondrous28 discovery!
“Anyhow,” she replied, “where there’s a soul, there’s a way.”
She took a cigarette from a gold case that lay on the little iron table beside her. Martin sprang forward with a match. She thanked him graciously.
“It isn’t money that does the real things,” she said, after a few meditative29 puffs30. “To hear an American say so must sound strange to your English ears. You believe, I know, that Americans make money an Almighty31 God that can work any miracles over man and natural forces that you please. But it isn’t so. The miracles, such as they are, that America has performed, have been due to the naked human soul. Money has come as an accident or an accretion33 and has helped things along. We have a saying which you may have heard: ‘Money talks.’ That’s just it. It talks. But the soul has had to act first. Money had nothing to do with American Independence. It was the soul of George Washington. It wasn’t money that invented the phonograph. It was the soul of the train newsboy Edison. It wasn’t money that brought into being the original Cornelius Vanderbilt. It was the soul of the old ferryman that divined the power of steam both on sea and land a hundred years ago, and accidentally or incidentally or logically or what you please, founded the Vanderbilt fortune. I could go on for ever with instances from my own country—instances that every school-child knows. In the eyes of the world the Almighty Dollar may seem to rule America —but every thinking American knows in his heart of hearts that the Almighty Dollar is but an accidental symbol of the Almighty soul of man. And it’s the soul that we’re proud of and that keeps the nation together. All this more or less was at the back of my mind when I said where there’s a soul there’s a way.”
As this little speech progressed her face lost its expression of serene34 and humorous contentment with the world, and grew eager and her eyes shone and her voice quickened. He regarded her as some fainéant Homeric warrior35 might have regarded the goddess who had descended36 cloud-haste from Olympus to exhort37 him to noble deeds. The exhortation38 fluttered both pride and pulses. He saw in her a woman capable of great things and she had appealed to him as a man also capable.
“I’m glad,” said Lucilla. “Look me up when you get there,” she added with a smile. “It seems a big place, but it isn’t. Cairo, Luxor, Assouan—and at any rate the Semiramis Hotel at Cairo.”
And then she began to talk of that wonderful land, of the mystery of the desert, the inscrutable gods of granite40 and Karnac brooding over the ghost of Thebes. She spoke41 from wide knowledge and sympathy. An allusion42 here and there indicated how true a touch she had on far divergent aspects of life. Apart from her radiant adorableness which held him captive, she possessed44 a mind which stimulated45 his own so long lain sluggish46. He had not met before the highly educated woman of the world. Instinctively47 he contrasted her with Corinna, who in the first days of their pilgrimage had dazzled him with her attainments48. She had a quick intelligence, but in any matter of knowledge was soon out of her depth; yet she exhibited singular adroitness49 in regaining50 the shallows where she found safety in abiding51. Lucilla, on the other hand, swam serenely52 out into deep blue water. From every point of view she was a goddess of bewildering attributes.
After a while she shivered slightly. The sun had disappeared behind a corner of the hotel. Greyness overspread the terrace. The glory of the short winter afternoon had departed. She rose, Heliogabalus, also shivering, under her arm. Martin held the rugs.
“I wonder,” said she, “whether you could possibly send up some tea to my quaint53 little salon54. Perhaps you might induce Félise to join me.”
That was all the talk he had with her. In the evening the arrival of an English motor party kept him busy, both during dinner and afterwards; for not only did they desire coffee and liqueurs served in the vestibule, but they gave indications to his experienced judgment55 of requiring relays of whiskies and sodas56 until bedtime. Again he did not visit the Café de l’Univers.
The next morning she started for the Riviera. She was proceeding57 thither58 via Toulouse, Carcassonne, Narbonne and the coast. To Martin’s astonishment59 Félise was accompanying her, on a visit for ten days or a fortnight to the South. It appeared that the matter had been arranged late the previous evening. Lucilla had made the proposal, swept away difficulty after difficulty with her air of a smiling, but irresistible60 providence61 and left Bigourdin and Félise not a leg save sheer churlishness to stand on. Clothes? She had ten times the amount she needed. The perils62 of the lonely and tedious return train journey? Never could Félise accomplish it. Bigourdin turned up an Indicateur des Chemins de Fer. There were changes, there were waits. Communications were arranged, with diabolical63 cunning, not to correspond. Perhaps it was to confound the Germans in case of invasion. As far as he could make out it would take seventy-four hours, forty-three minutes to get from Monte Carlo to Brant?me. It was far simpler to go from Paris to Moscow, which as every one knew was the end of the world. Félise would starve. Félise would perish of cold. Félise would get the wrong train and find herself at Copenhagen or Amsterdam or Naples, where she wouldn’t be able to speak the language. Lucilla laughed. There was such a thing as L’Agence Cook which moulded the Indicateur des Chemins de Fer to its will. She would engage a man from Cook’s before whose brass-buttoned coat and a gold-lettered cap band the Indicateur would fall to pieces, to transfer Félise personally, by easy stages, from house to house. Félise had pleaded her uncle’s need. Lucilla, in the most charming way imaginable, had deprecated as impossible any such colossal64 selfishness on the part of Monsieur Bigourdin. Overawed by the Olympian he had peremptorily65 ordered Félise to retire and pack her trunk. Then, obeying the dictates66 of his sound sense he had asked Lucilla what object she had in her magnificent invitation. His little girl, said he, would acquire a taste for celestial67 things which never afterwards would she be in a position to gratify. To which, Lucilla:
“How do you know she won’t be able to gratify them? A girl of her beauty, charm and character, together with a little knowledge of the world of men, women and things, is in a position to command whatever she chooses. She has the beauty, charm and character and I want to add the little knowledge. I want to see a lovely human flower expand”—she had a graceful68 trick of restrained gesture which impressed Bigourdin. “I want to give a bruised69 little girl whom I’ve taken to my heart a good time. For myself, it’s some sort of way of finding a sanction for my otherwise useless existence.”
And Bigourdin clutching at his bristles70 had plucked forth71 no adequately inspired reply. The will of the New World had triumphed over that of the Old.
All the staff of the hotel witnessed the departure.
“Monsieur Martin,” said Félise in French, about to step into the great car, a medley72, to her mind, of fur rugs and dark golden dogs and grey cats and maids and chauffeurs73 and innumerable articles of luggage, “I have scarcely had two words with you. I no longer know where I have my head. But look after my uncle and see that the laundress does not return the table-linen black.”
“Bien, Mademoiselle Félise,” said Martin.
Lucilla, pink and white and leopard-coated, shook hands with Bigourdin, thanked him for his hospitality and reassured74 him as to the perfect safety of Félise. She stepped into the car. Martin arranged the rugs and closed the door. She held out her hand to him.
“We meet in Egypt,” she said in a low voice. As the car drove off, she turned round and blew a gracious kiss to the little group.
“Voilà une petite sorcière d’Américaine,” said Bigourdin. “Pif! Paf! and away goes Félise on her broomstick.”
“Here am I,” continued Bigourdin, “between pretty sheets. I have no longer a housekeeper76, seeing that Madame Thuillier rendered herself unbearable77. However”—he shrugged78 his shoulders resignedly—“we must get on by ourselves as best we can. The trip will be good for the health of Félise. It will also improve her mind. She will stay in many hotels and observe their organisation79.”
From the moment that Martin returned to his duties he felt unusual lack of zeal80 in their performance. Deprived of the Celestial Presence the H?tel des Grottes seemed to be stricken with a blight81 The rooms had grown smaller and barer, the furniture more common, and the terrace stretched outside a bleak82 concrete wilderness83. Often he stood on the bridge and repeated the question of the memorable84 evening. What was he doing there when the wide world was illuminated85 by a radiant woman? Suddenly Bigourdin, Félise, the circle of the Café de l’Univers became alien in speech and point of view. He upbraided86 himself for base ingratitude87. He realised, more from casual talk with Bigourdin, than from sense of something wanting, the truth of Félise’s last remark. In the usual intimate order of things she would have related her experiences of Chartres and Paris in which he would have manifested a more than brotherly interest. During her previous absence he had thought much of Félise and had anticipated her return with a throb88 of the heart. The dismissal of Lucien Viriot, much as he admired the gallant89 ex-cuirassier, pleased him mightily90. He had shared Bigourdin’s excitement over the escape from Chartres, over Fortinbras’s prohibition91 of the marriage, over her return in motoring state. When she had freed herself from Bigourdin’s embrace, and turned to greet him, the clasp of her two little hands and the sight of her eager little face had thrilled him. He had told her, as though she belonged to him, of the things he knew she was dying to hear. . . . And then the figure of the American girl with her stately witchery had walked through the door of the salle-à-manger into his life.
The days went on dully, shortening and darkening as they neared Christmas. Félise wrote letters to her uncle, artlessly filled with the magic of the South. Two letters from Lucilla Merriton decreed extension of her guest’s visit. Bigourdin began to lose his genial92 view of existence. He talked gloomily of France’s unreadiness for war. There were thieves and traitors93 in the Cabinet. Whole Army Corps95 were notoriously deficient96 in equipment and transport. It was enough, he declared, to make a patriotic97 Frenchman commit protesting suicide in the lobby of the Chamber9 of Deputies. And what news had Martin received of Mademoiselle Corinna? Martin knew little save that she was engaged in some mysterious work in London.
“But what is she doing?” cried Bigourdin, at last.
“I haven’t the remotest idea,” replied Martin.
“Dites donc, mon ami,” said Bigourdin, the gloom of anxiety deepening on his brow. “You do not think, by any chance”—he hesitated before breathing the terrible surmise—“you do not think she has made herself a suffragette?”
“How can I tell?” replied Martin. “With Corinna all things are possible.”
“Except to take command of the H?tel des Grottes,” said Bigourdin, and he sighed vastly.
One evening he said: “My good friend Martin, I am feeling upset. Instead of going to the Café de l’Univers, let us have a glass of the vieille fine du Brigadier in the petit salon where I have ordered Marie to make a good fire.”
The old Liqueur Brandy of the Brigadier was literally98, from the market standpoint, worth its weight in gold. In the seventies Bigourdin’s father, during the course of reparations, had discovered, in a blocked and forgotten cellar, three almost evaporated casks bearing the inscription99 just decipherable beneath the mildew100 in Brigadier General Bigourdin’s old war-dog handwriting: “Cognac. 1812.” His grandson, who had lost a leg and an arm in 1870, knew what was due to the brandy of the Grande Armée. Instead of filling up the casks with newer brandy and selling the result at extravagant101 prices, he reverently102 bottled the remaining contents of the three casks and on each bottle stuck a printed label setting forth the great history of the brandy, and stored the lot in a dry bin94 which he charged his son to venerate103 as one of the sacred depositaries of France in the family of Bigourdin.
Now in any first-class restaurant in Paris, Monte Carlo, Aix-les-Bains, you can get Napoleon Brandy. The bottle sealed with the still mind-stirring initial “N” on the neck, is uncorked solemnly before you by the silver-chained functionary104. It is majestic105 liquid. But not a drop of the distillation106 of the Napoleonic grape is there. The casks once containing it have been filled and refilled for a hundred years. For brandy unlike port does not mature in bottle. The best 1812 brandy bottled that year would be to-day the same as it was then. But if it has remained for over sixty years in cask, you shall have a precious fluid such as it is given to few kings or even emperors to taste. I doubt whether there are a hundred gallons of it in the wide, wide world.
The proposal to open a bottle of the Old Brandy of the Brigadier portended107 a state of affairs so momentous108 that Martin gaped109 at the back of Bigourdin on his way to the cellar. On the occasion of what high solemnity the last had been uncorked, Martin did not know: certainly not on the occasion of the dinner of ceremony to the Viriots, in spite of the fact that the father of the prospective110 bridegroom was marchand de vins en gros and was expected by Bigourdin to produce at the return dinner some of his famous Chambertin.
“Come,” said Bigourdin, cobwebbed bottle in hand, and Martin followed him into the prim111 little salon. From a cupboard whose glass doors were veiled with green-pleated silk, he produced two mighty32 quart goblets112 which he set down on a small table, and into each poured about a sherry-glass of the precious brandy.
“Like this,” he explained, “we do not lose the perfume.”
Martin sipped113; it was soft like wine and the delicate flavour lingered deliciously on tongue and palate.
“I like to think,” said Bigourdin, “that it contains the soul of the Grande Armée.”
“My friend,” said Bigourdin, lighting115 a cigarette, “I am not as contented116 with the world as perhaps I ought to be. I had an interview with Monsieur Viriot to-day which distressed117 me a great deal. The two families have been friends and the Viriots have supplied us with wine on an honourable118 understanding for generations. But the understanding was purely119 mercantile and did not involve the sacrifice of a virgin120. Le Père Viriot seems to think that it did. I exposed to him the disinclination of Félise, and the impossibility of obtaining that which is necessary, according to the law, the consent of her parents. He threw the parents to the four winds of heaven. He conducted himself like a man bereft121 of reason. Always beware of the obstinacy122 of a flat-headed man.”
“What was the result of the interview?” asked Martin.
“We quarrelled for good and all. We quitted each other as enemies. He sent round his clerk this afternoon with his account, and I paid it in cash down to the last centime. And now I shall have to go to the Maison Prunier of Périgueux, who are incapable123 of any honourable understanding and will try to supply me with abominable124 beverages125 which will poison and destroy my clientèle.”
Recklessly he finished his brandy and poured himself out another portion. Then he passed the bottle to Martin.
“Sers-toi,” said he, using for the first time the familiar second person singular. Martin was startled, but said nothing. Then he remembered that Bigourdin, contrary to his usual abstemious126 habits, had been supplied at dinner with a cradled quart of old Corton which awakens127 generosity128 of sentiment towards their fellows in the hearts of men.
“Mon brave,” he remarked, after a pause, “my heart is full of problems which I cannot resolve and I have no one to turn to but yourself.”
“I appreciate your saying so very much,” replied Martin; “but why not consult our wise and experienced friend Fortinbras?”
“Voilà,” cried Bigourdin, waving a great hand. “It is he who sets me the greatest problem of all. Why do you think I have let Félise go away with that pretty whirlwind of an American?” Martin stiffened129, not knowing whether this was a disparagement130 of Lucilla; but Bigourdin, heedless, continued: “It is because she is very unhappy, and it is out of human power to give her consolation131. You are a gentleman and a man of honour. I will repose132 in you a sacred confidence. But that which I am going to tell you, you will swear never to reveal to a living soul.”
Martin gave his word. Bigourdin, without touching133 on long-past sorrows, described the visit of Félise to the Rue43 Maugrabine.
“It was my sister,” said he, “for years sunk in the degradation134 of drunkenness—so rare among Frenchwomen—it is madness, que veux-tu? Often she has gone away to be cured, with no effect. I have urged my brother-in-law to put her away permanently135 in a maison de santé; but he has not been willing. It was he, he maintains, who in far-off, unhappy days, when, pauvre gar?on, he lifted his elbow too often himself, gave her the taste for alcohol. For that reason he treats her with consideration and even tenderness. Cest beau. And he himself, you must have remarked, has not drunk anything but water for many years.”
“Of course,” said Martin, and his mind went back to his first meeting with Fortinbras in the lonely Petit Cornichon, when the latter imbibed136 such prodigious137 quantities of raspberry syrup138 and water. It seemed very long ago. Bigourdin went on talking.
“And so,” said he, at last, “you see the unhappy situation which Fortinbras, like a true Don Quixote, has arranged between himself and Félise. She retains the sacred ideal of her mother, but holds in horror, very naturally, the father whom she has always adored. It is a bleeding wound in her innocent little soul. What can I do?”
Martin was deeply moved by the pitifulness of the tale. Poor little Félise, how much she must have suffered.
“Would it not be better,” said he, “to sacrifice a phantom139 mother—for that’s what it comes to—for the sake of a living father?”
Bigourdin agreed, but Fortinbras expressly forbade such a disclosure. In this he sympathised with Fortinbras, although the mother was his own flesh and blood. Truly he had not been lucky in sisters—one a bigote and the other an alcoolique. He expressed sombre views as to the family of which he was the sole male survivor140. Seeing that his wife had given him no children, and that he had not the heart to marry one of the damsels of the neighbourhood, he bewailed the end of the good old name of Bigourdin. But perhaps it were best. For who could tell, if he begat a couple of children, whether one would not be afflicted141 with alcoholic142, and the other with religious mania143? To beget144 brave children for France, a man, nom de Dieu! must put forth all the splendour and audacity145 of his soul. How could he do so, when the only woman who could conjure146 up within him the said splendour and audacity would have nothing to do with him? To fall in love with a woman was a droll147 affair. But if you loved her, you loved her, however little she responded. It was a species of malady148 which must be supported with courageous149 resignation. He sighed and poured out a third glass of the brandy of the Brigadier. Martin did likewise, thinking of the woman whose white fingers held the working of the splendour and audacity of the soul of Martin Overshaw. He felt drawn150 into brotherly sympathy with Bigourdin; but, for the life of him, he could not see how anybody could be dependent for soul provisions of splendour and audacity upon Corinna Hastings. The humbly151 aspiring152 fellow moved him to patronising pity.
Martin strove to comfort him with specious153 words of hope. But Bigourdin’s mental condition was that of a man to whom wallowing in despair alone brings consolation. He had been suffering from a gathering154 avalanche155 of misfortunes. First had come his rejection156, followed by the unsatisfied longing157 of the devout158 lover. It cannot be denied, however, that he had borne himself gallantly159. Then the fading of his dream of the Viriot alliance had filled him with dismay. Félise’s adventure in the Rue Maugrabine and its resulting situation had caused him sleepless160 nights. Lucilla Merriton had taken him up between her fingers and twiddled him round, thereby161 depriving him of volition162, and having put him down in a state of bewilderment, had carried off Félise. And to-day, last accretion that set the avalanche rolling, his old friend Viriot had called him a breaker of honourable understandings and had sent a clerk with his bill. The avalanche swept him into the Slough163 of Despond, wherein he lay solacing164 himself with hopeless imaginings and the old brandy of the Brigadier. But human instinct made him beckon165 to Martin, call him “tu” and bid him to keep an eye on the quagmire166 and stretch out a helping167 hand. He also had in view a subtle and daring scheme.
“Mon brave ami,” said he, “when I die”—his broad face assumed an expression of infinite woe168 and he spoke as though he were seventy—“what will become of the H?tel des Grottes? Félise will benefit principally, bien entendu, by my will; but she will marry one of these days and will follow her husband, who probably will not want to concern himself with hotel keeping.” He glanced shrewdly at Martin, who regarded him with unmoved placidity169. “To think that the hotel will be sold and all its honourable traditions changed would break my heart. I should not like to die without any solution of continuity.”
“But, my dear Bigourdin,” said Martin, “what are you thinking of? You’re a young man. You’re not stricken with a fatal malady. You’re not going to die. You have twenty, thirty, perhaps forty years before you in the course of which all kinds of things may happen.”
Bigourdin leant forward and stretched out his great arm across the fireplace until his fingers touched Martin’s knee.
“Do you know what is going to happen? War is going to happen. Next year—the year after—five years hence—que sais-je, moi?—but it has to come. All these pacifists and anti-militarists are either imbeciles or traitors—those that are not dreaming mad-house dreams of the millennium170 are filling their pockets—of the latter there are some in high places. There is going to be war, I tell you, and many people are going to die. And when the bugle171 sounds I put on my old uniform and march to the cannon’s mouth like my fathers before me. And why shouldn’t I die, like my brother in Morocco? Tell me that?”
In spite of his intimacy172 with the sturdy thought of provincial173 France, Martin could not realise how the vague imminence174 of war could affect so closely the personal life of an individual Frenchman.
“No matter,” said Bigourdin, after a short discussion. “I have to die some day. It was not to argue about the probable date of my decease that I have asked you to honour me with this special conversation. I have expressed to you quite frankly175 the motives176 which actuate me at the present moment. I have done so in order that you may understand why I desire to make you a business proposition.”
“A business proposition?” echoed Martin.
“Oui, mon ami.”
He replenished177 Martin’s enormous beaker and his own and gave the toast.
“A l’Entente Cordiale—between our nations and between our two selves.”
Lest the uninitiated may regard this sitting as a dram drinking orgy, it must be borne in mind that in such brandy as that of the Brigadier, strength has melted into the gracious mellowness178 of old age. The fiery179 spirit that the cantinière or the vivandière of 1812 served out of her little waist-slung barrel to the warriors180 of the Grande Armée, was now but a fragrant181 memory of battles long ago.
“A business proposition,” repeated Bigourdin, and forthwith began to develop it. It was the very simplest business proposition in the world. Why should not Martin invest all or part of his little heritage in the century-old and indubitably flourishing business of the H?tel des Grottes, and become a partner with Bigourdin? Lawyers would arrange the business details. In this way, whether Bigourdin met with a gory182 death within the next two or three years or a peaceful one a quarter of a century hence, he would be reassured that there would be no solution of continuity in the honourable tradition of the H?tel des Grottes.
It was then that Martin fully183 understood the solemnity of the occasion—the petit salon with fire specially4 lit, the Brigadier brandy, the preparatory revelation of the soul-state of Bigourdin. The unexpectedness of the suggestion, however, dazed him. He said politely:
“My dear friend, your proposal that I should associate myself with you in this business is a personal compliment, which I shall never cease to appreciate. But——”
“But what?”
“I must think over it.”
“Naturally,” said Bigourdin. “One would be a linnet or a butterfly instead of a man if one took a step like that without thinking. But at least the idea is not disagreeable to you.”
“Of course not,” replied Martin. “The only question is how should I get the money?”
“Your little heritage, parbleu.”
“You could sell out to-morrow or the next day and get the whole in bank notes or golden sovereigns.”
“I suppose I could,” said Martin. Not till then had he realised the simple fact that if he chose he could walk about with a sack of a thousand sovereigns over his shoulder. He had taken it in an unspeculative way for granted that the capital remained locked up behind impassable doors in the Bank of England. Instinct, however, restrained him from confessing to Bigourdin such innocence185 in business affairs.
“If I did not think it would be as safe here as in the hands of the British Government, I would not make the suggestion.”
Martin started upright in his chair.
“My dear friend, I know that,” he cried ingenuously186, horrified187 lest he should be thought to suspect Bigourdin’s good faith.
“And you would no longer wear that costume.” Bigourdin smiled and waved a hand towards the dress-suit.
“Which is beginning to show signs of wear,” said Martin.
He glanced down and caught sight of the offending splotch of grease. The quick association of ideas caused a vision of Lucilla to pass before his eyes. He heard her rich, deep voice: “We meet in Egypt.” But how the deuce could they meet in Egypt or in any other Lucilla-lit spot on the earth if he started inn-keeping with Bigourdin, and tied himself down for life to Brant?me? A chill ran down his spine188.
“Eh, bien?” said Bigourdin, recalling him to the petit salon.
Martin had an inspiration of despair. “I should like,” said he, “to talk the matter over with Fortinbras.”
“It is what I should advise,” said Bigourdin heartily189. “You can go to Paris whenever you like. And now n’en parlons plus. I feel much happier than at the beginning of the evening. It is the brandy of the brave old Brigadier. Let us empty the bottle and drink to the repose of his soul. He would ask nothing better.”
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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prehistoric
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| adj.（有记载的）历史以前的，史前的，古老的 | |
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7
antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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8
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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9
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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10
exude
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| v.(使)流出，(使)渗出 | |
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11
bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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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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13
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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14
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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15
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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16
firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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17
swoop
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| n.俯冲，攫取；v.抓取，突然袭击 | |
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18
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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19
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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20
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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21
avocation
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| n.副业，业余爱好 | |
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22
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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23
frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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24
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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25
caressingly
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| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
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26
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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27
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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28
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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29
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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30
puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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31
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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32
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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33
accretion
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| n.自然的增长，增加物 | |
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34
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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35
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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36
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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37
exhort
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| v.规劝，告诫 | |
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38
exhortation
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| n.劝告，规劝 | |
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39
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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40
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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41
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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42
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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43
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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44
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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45
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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46
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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47
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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48
attainments
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| 成就，造诣； 获得( attainment的名词复数 )； 达到； 造诣； 成就 | |
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49
adroitness
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50
regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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51
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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52
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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53
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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54
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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55
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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56
sodas
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| n.苏打( soda的名词复数 )；碱；苏打水；汽水 | |
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57
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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58
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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59
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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60
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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61
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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62
perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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63
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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64
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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65
peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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66
dictates
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| n.命令，规定，要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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67
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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68
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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69
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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70
bristles
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| 短而硬的毛发，刷子毛( bristle的名词复数 ) | |
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71
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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72
medley
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| n.混合 | |
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73
chauffeurs
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| n.受雇于人的汽车司机( chauffeur的名词复数 ) | |
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74
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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75
maligned
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| vt.污蔑，诽谤（malign的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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76
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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77
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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78
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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79
organisation
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| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
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80
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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81
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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82
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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83
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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84
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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85
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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86
upbraided
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| v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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87
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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88
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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89
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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90
mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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91
prohibition
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| n.禁止；禁令，禁律 | |
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92
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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93
traitors
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| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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94
bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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95
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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96
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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97
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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98
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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99
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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100
mildew
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| n.发霉；v.（使）发霉 | |
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101
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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102
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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103
venerate
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| v.尊敬，崇敬，崇拜 | |
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104
functionary
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| n.官员；公职人员 | |
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105
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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106
distillation
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| n.蒸馏，蒸馏法 | |
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107
portended
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| v.预示( portend的过去式和过去分词 )；预兆；给…以警告；预告 | |
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108
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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109
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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110
prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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111
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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112
goblets
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| n.高脚酒杯( goblet的名词复数 ) | |
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113
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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115
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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116
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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117
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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118
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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119
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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120
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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121
bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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122
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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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
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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125
beverages
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| n.饮料( beverage的名词复数 ) | |
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126
abstemious
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| adj.有节制的，节俭的 | |
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127
awakens
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的第三人称单数 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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128
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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129
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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130
disparagement
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| n.轻视，轻蔑 | |
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131
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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132
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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133
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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134
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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135
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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136
imbibed
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| v.吸收( imbibe的过去式和过去分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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138
syrup
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| n.糖浆，糖水 | |
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139
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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140
survivor
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| n.生存者，残存者，幸存者 | |
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141
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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142
alcoholic
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| adj.（含）酒精的，由酒精引起的；n.酗酒者 | |
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143
mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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144
beget
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| v.引起；产生 | |
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145
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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146
conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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147
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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148
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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149
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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150
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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151
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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152
aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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153
specious
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| adj.似是而非的；adv.似是而非地 | |
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154
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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155
avalanche
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| n.雪崩，大量涌来 | |
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156
rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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157
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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158
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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159
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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160
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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161
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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volition
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| n.意志；决意 | |
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163
slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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solacing
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| v.安慰，慰藉( solace的现在分词 ) | |
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165
beckon
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| v.(以点头或打手势)向...示意，召唤 | |
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166
quagmire
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| n.沼地 | |
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167
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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168
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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169
placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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170
millennium
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| n.一千年，千禧年；太平盛世 | |
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171
bugle
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| n.军号，号角，喇叭；v.吹号，吹号召集 | |
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172
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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173
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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174
imminence
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| n.急迫，危急 | |
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175
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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176
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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177
replenished
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| 补充( replenish的过去式和过去分词 )； 重新装满 | |
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178
mellowness
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| 成熟； 芳醇； 肥沃； 怡然 | |
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179
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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180
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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181
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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182
gory
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| adj.流血的；残酷的 | |
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183
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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184
dividends
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| 红利( dividend的名词复数 )； 股息； 被除数； （足球彩票的）彩金 | |
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185
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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186
ingenuously
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| adv.率直地，正直地 | |
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187
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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188
spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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189
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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