Now Madame Chauvet liked Martin, as did every one in Brant?me. He was courteous8, he was modest, he was sympathetic. Whatever he did was marked by an air of good-breeding which the French are very quick to notice. Whether he handed her the stewed9 veal10 or listened to the latest phase of her chronic11 phlebitis, Madame Chauvet always felt herself in the presence of what she termed, une ame d’élite—a picked and chosen soul; he was also as gentle as a sheep. Why, therefore, Félise, in her daily intercourse12 with Martin, should insist on her waving the banner of the proprieties13 over their heads, was more than the good lady could understand. Félise was more royalist than the King, more timid than a nunnery, more white-wax and rose-leaves than her favourite author, Monsieur Réné Bazin, had ever dared to portray14 as human. If Martin had been six foot of thews and muscles, with conquering moustaches, and bold and alluring15 eyes, she would not have hesitated to protect Félise with her Frenchwoman’s little plump body and unshakable courage. But why all this precaution against the mild, grey-eyed, sallow-faced Martin, doux comme un mouton? And why this display of daughterly affection suddenly awakened16 after fifteen years’ tepid17 acquaintance? Even Martin, unconscious of offence, wondered at such prim18 behaviour. The fact remained, however, that she scarcely spoke19 to him during the greater part of Bigourdin’s absence.
But when the news came that her mother was dead and laid to rest, and she had recovered from the first overwhelming shock, she dropped all outer trappings of manner and became once more the old Félise. Madame Chauvet, knowing nothing of the dream-mother, offered her unintelligent consolation20. She turned instinctively21 to Martin, in whom she had confided22. Martin was moved by her grief and did his best to sympathise; but he wished whole-heartedly that Bigourdin had not told him the embarrassing truth. Here was the poor girl weeping her eyes out over a dead angel whom he knew to be nothing of the kind. He upbraided23 himself for a sacrilegious hypocrite when he suggested that they would meet in Heaven. She withdrew, however, apparently24 consoled.
A few hours later, she came to him again—in the vestibule. She had dried her eyes and she wore the air of one who has accepted sorrow and bravely faced an unalterable situation. She showed also a puzzled little knitting of the brows.
“Tell me truly, Martin,” she said. “Did my uncle, before he left, give you the real reason of his going to Paris?”
Challenged, Martin could not lie. “Yes. Your mother was very ill. But he commanded me not to tell you, in order to save you suffering. He didn’t know. She might recover, in which case all would have been well.”
“So you, too, were dragged into this strange plot, to keep me away from my mother.”
“I’ve never heard of one, Félise,” answered Martin, this time with conscience-smiting mendacity, “and my part has been quite innocent.”
“There has been a plot of some kind,” said Félise, breaking into the more familiar French. “My uncle, my father, my Aunt Clothilde have been in it. And now you—under my uncle’s orders. There has been a mystery about my mother which I have never been able to understand—like the mystery of the Trinity or the Holy Sacraments. And to-day I understand still less. I have not seen my mother since I was five years old. She has not written to me for many years, although I have written regularly. Did she get my letters? These are questions I have been asking myself the last few hours. Why did my father not allow me to see her in the hospital in Paris? Why did my Aunt Clothilde always turn the mention of her name aside and would tell me nothing about her? And now, when she died, why did they not telegraph for me to go to Paris, so as to look for one last time on her face? They knew all that was in my heart. What have they all been hiding from me?”
“My poor Félise,” said Martin, “how can I tell?”
And how could he, seeing that he was bound in honour to keep her in ignorance?
“Sometimes I think she may have had some dreadful disease that ravaged25 her dear features, and they wished to spare me the knowledge. But my father has always drawn26 me the picture of her lying beautiful as she always was upon the bed she could not leave.”
“Whatever it was,” said Martin, “you may be sure that those who love you acted for the best.”
“That is all very well for a child; but not for a grown woman. And it is not as though I have not shown myself capable of serious responsibilities. It is heart-rending,” she added after a little pause, “to look into the eyes of those one loves and see in them something hidden.”
Sitting there sideways on the couch by Martin’s side, her girlish figure bent27 forward and her hands nervously28 clasped on her knee, the oval of her pretty face lengthened29 despondently30, her dark eyes fixed31 upon him in reproachful appeal, she looked at once so pathetic and so winning that for the moment he forgot the glory of Lucilla and longed to comfort her. He laid his hand on her white knuckles32.
“I would give anything,” said he——
She loosened her clasp, thus eluding33 his touch, and moved a little aside. Madame Chauvet appeared from the kitchen passage, bearing a steaming cup.
“Ma pauvre petite,” she said, “I have brought you a cup of camomile tea. Drink it. It calms the nerves.”
Martin rose and the good lady took his seat and discoursed34 picturesquely35 upon her mother’s last illness, death and funeral, until Félise, notwithstanding the calming properties of the camomile tea, burst into tears and fled to her room.
“Poor little girl,” said Madame Chauvet, sympathetically. “I cried just like that. I remember it as if it were yesterday.”
The next day Bigourdin returned. He walked about expanding his chest with great draughts36 of air like the good provincial37 who had suffocated38 in the capital. He railed at the atmosphere, the fever, the cold-heartedness of Paris.
“One is much better here,” said he. “And we have made much further progress in civilisation39. Even the H?tel de la Dordogne has not yet a bathroom.”
He was closeted long with Félise, and afterwards came to Martin, great wrinkles of perturbation marking his forehead.
“She has been asking me questions which it has taken all my tact40 and diplomacy41 to answer. Mon Dieu, que j’ai menti! But I have convinced her that all we have done with regard to her mother has been right. I will tell you what I have said.”
“You had better not,” replied Martin, anxious to have no more embarrassing confidences; “the less I know, the simpler it is for me to plead ignorance when Félise questions me—not to say the more truthful42.”
“You are right,” said Bigourdin. “Magna est veritas et pr?valebit.” And as Martin, not catching43 the phrase as pronounced in continental44 fashion, looked puzzled, he repeated it. “It’s Latin,” he added. “Why should I not quote it? I have received a good education.”
Now about this time a gracious imp1 of meddlesomeness45 alighted on Lucilla’s shoulder and whispered into her ear. She arose from a sea of delicate raiment and tissue paper whose transference by Céleste into ugly trunks she and Heliogabalus were idly superintending, and, sitting down at the writing-desk of her hotel bedroom, scribbled46 a short letter. If she had blown the imp away, as she might easily have done, for such imps47 are irresponsible dragon-fly kind of creatures, Martin might possibly have foregone his consultation48 with Fortinbras and remained at Brant?me. Félise having once restored him to the position he occupied in her confidence, allowed him to remain there. In his thoughts she assumed a new significance. He realised, in his blundering masculine way, that she was many-sided, complex, mysterious; at one turn, simple and caressive as a child, at another passionate49 in her affections, at yet another calm and self-reliant; altogether that she had a strangely sweet and strong personality. For the first time, the alliance so subtly planned by Bigourdin, entered his head. If Bigourdin thought him worthy50 to be his partner and carry on the historic traditions of the H?tel des Grottes, surely he would look with approval on his carrying them on in conjunction with the most beloved member of his family. And Félise? There his inexperience came to a stone wall. He was modest. He did not in the least assume as a possibility that she might have already given him her heart. But he reflected that, after all, in the way of nature, maidens51 did marry unattractive and undeserving men; that except for an unaccountable phase of coldness, she had always bestowed52 on him a friendly regard which, if courteously53 fostered, might develop into an affection warranting on her part a marriage with so unattractive and undeserving a man as himself. And Bigourdin, great, splendid-hearted fellow, claimed him, and this warm Périgord, this land of plenty and fat things, claimed him. Here lay his destiny. Why not blot54 out, with the blackest curtain of will, the refulgent55 figure that was making his life a torture and a dream?
And then came the imp-inspired letter.
With kind regards,
Yours sincerely,
Lucilla Merriton.
Paralysed then were the promptings towards sluggish57 plentitude and tepid matrimonial comfort. Love summoned him to fantastic adventure. For a while he lost mental balance. He decided58 to put himself in the hands of Fortinbras. He would abide59 loyally by his decision. Under his auspices60 he had already made one successful bid for happiness. By dismissing Margett’s Universal College to the limbo61 of irretrievable things, according to the Dealer62’s instructions, had he not tasted during the past five months hundreds of the once forbidden delights of life? Was he the same man who in apologetic trepidation63 had written to Corinna in August? His blind faith in Fortinbras was intensified64 by knowledge of the suffering whereby the Dealer in Happiness had acquired wisdom. East or West, whichever way Fortinbras pointed65, he would go.
Thus in some measure he salved his conscience when he left Brant?me. Bigourdin expected him back at the end of his fortnight’s holiday. So did Félise. She packed him a little basket of food and wine, and with a smile bade him hasten back. She did not question the purport66 of his journey. He needed a change, a peep into the great world of Paris and London.
“If you have a quarter the good time I had, I envy you,” she said.
And Bigourdin, with a grip of the hand and a knowing smile, as they parted, whispered: “I will give that old dress suit to Anatole, the plongeur at the Café de l’Univers. He will be enchanted67.”
The train steamed out of the station carrying a traitorous68, double-dyed villain69. It arrived at Paris carrying a sleepless70, anxious-eyed young man throbbing71 with suspense72. He drove to the H?tel du Soleil et de l’Ecosse.
“Evidently,” replied Martin, who now had no timidities in the presence of hotel managers and was not impressed by the professional facial memory. Was he not himself on the verge74 of becoming a French innkeeper? He presented a business card of the H?tel des Grottes mysteriously inscribed75 by Bigourdin, and demanded a good room. The beady black eyes of the Proven?al regarded him shrewdly.
“Some months ago you were a professor.”
“It is always permissible76 for an honest man to change his vocation,” said Martin.
“That is very true,” said Bocardon. “I myself made my studies as a veterinary surgeon, but as I am one of those unfortunates whom horses always kick and dogs always bite, I entered the service of my brother, Emile Bocardon, who keeps an hotel at N?mes.”
“The H?tel de la Curatterie,” said Martin.
“Not personally. But it is familiar to every commis-voyageur in France.”
His professional knowledge at once gained him the esteem79 and confidence of Monsieur Bocardon and a magnificent chamber80 at a minimum tariff81. After he had eaten and sent a message to Fortinbras at the new address given him by Bigourdin, he went out into the crisp, exhilarating air, with Paris and all the universe before him.
In the queer profession into which he had drifted, Heaven knows how, of giving intimate counsel not only to the students, but (as his reputation spread) to the small shopkeepers and work-people of the rive gauche82, at his invariable fee of five francs per consultation, Fortinbras had been able to take a detached view of human problems. In their solution he could forget the ever frightening problem of his own existence, and find a subdued83 delight. Only in the case of Corinna and Martin had he posed otherwise than as an impersonal84 intelligence. As an experiment he had brought them into touch with his own personal concerns. And now there was the devil to pay.
For consider. Here he was prepared to deal out advice to Martin according to the conspiracy85 into which he had entered with Bigourdin. Martin was to purchase an interest in the H?tel des Grottes and (although he knew it not) marry Félise. There could not have been a closer family arrangement.
When Fortinbras rose from the frosty terrasse of the Café Cardinal86, at the corner of the Rue77 Richelieu and the Boulevard des Italiens, their appointed rendezvous87, and greeted Martin, there was something more than benevolence88 in his smile, something paternal89 in his handshake. They entered the Café-Restaurant and sat down at one of the tables not yet laid for déjeuner, for it was only eleven o’clock. Fortinbras, attired90 in his customary black, looked more trim, more prosperous. Collar, cuffs91 and tie were of an impeccable whiteness. The silk hat which he hung with scrupulous92 care on the peg93 against the wall, was startlingly new. He looked like a disguised cardinal in easy circumstances. He made bland94 enquiries as to the health of the good folks at Brant?me, and ordered an apéritif for Martin and black-currant syrup95 and water for himself. Then Martin said:
“I have come from Brant?me to consult you on a matter of the utmost importance—to myself, of course. It’s a question of my whole future.”
He laid a five-franc piece on the table. Fortinbras pushed the coin back.
“My dear boy, this is a family affair. I know all about it. For you I’m no longer the Marchand de Bonheur.”
“If you’re not,” said Martin, “I don’t know what the devil I shall do.” And, with his finger, he flicked96 the coin midway between them.
“My dear fellow,” said Fortinbras, flicking97 the coin an inch towards Martin, “if you so desire it, I will deal with you in my professional capacity. But as in the case of the solicitor98 or the doctor it would be unprofessional to accept fees for the settlement of his own family affairs, so, in this matter, I am unable to accept a fee from you. Bigourdin, whose character you have had an intimate opportunity of judging, has offered you a share in his business. As a lawyer and a man of the world, I say unhesitatingly, ‘Accept it,’ As long as Brant?me lasts—and there are no signs of it perishing,—commercial travellers and tourists will visit it and go to the H?tel des Grottes. And as long as European civilisation lasts, it will demand the gastronomic99 delicacies100 of truffles, paté de foie gras, Périgord pie, stuffed quails101 and comp?te of currants which now find their way from the fabrique of the hotel to Calcutta, Moscow, San Francisco, Bayswater and Buenos Ayres. As a marchand de bonheur, as you are pleased to call me, I also unhesitatingly affirm that in your acceptance you will find true happiness.”
He sipped102 his cassis and water, and leaned back on the plush-covered seat. Martin pushed the five-franc piece three or four inches towards Fortinbras.
“It isn’t such a simple, straightforward103 matter as you seem to imagine,” said Martin. “Otherwise I should have closed with Bigourdin’s generous offer straight away. I’m not a fool. And I’m devotedly104 attached to Bigourdin, who, for no reason that I can see, save his own goodness of heart, has treated me like a brother. I haven’t come to consult you as a man of business at all. And as for conscientious3 scruples105 about Bigourdin being a relative of yours, please put them away.” He pushed the coin another inch. “It is solely106 as marchand de bonheur, in the greatest crisis of my life, when I’m torn to pieces by all sorts of conflicting emotions, that I want to consult you. There are complications you know nothing about.”
“Complications?” Fortinbras stretched out a benign107 hand. “Is it possible that there is some little—what shall we say?—sentiment?” He smiled, seeing the young man’s love for Félise barring his candid108 way. “You can be frank with me.”
“It’s a damned sight more than sentiment,” cried Martin with unprecedented109 explosiveness. “Read this.”
He dragged from his pocket a dirty, creased110 and crumpled111 letter and threw it across the table. Fortinbras adjusted his glasses and read the imp-inspired message. He took off his glasses and handed back the letter. His face became impassive and he regarded Martin with expressionless, tired, blue eyes.
“Your promise. What was that?”
“To go to Egypt.”
“Why should you go to Egypt to meet Lucille Merriton?”
Martin threw up both hands in a wide gesture. “Can’t you see? I’m mad to go to Egypt, or Cape112 Horn, or Hell, to meet her. But I’ve enough sanity113 left to come here and consult you.”
Fortinbras regarded him fixedly114, and nodded his head reflectively many times; and without taking his eyes off him, reached out his hand for the five-franc piece which he slipped into his waistcoat pocket.
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1
imp
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| n.顽童 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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conscientiousness
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| 责任心 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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latitude
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| n.纬度，行动或言论的自由(范围)，(pl.)地区 | |
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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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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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stewed
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| adj.焦虑不安的，烂醉的v.炖( stew的过去式和过去分词 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
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veal
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| n.小牛肉 | |
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chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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proprieties
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| n.礼仪，礼节；礼貌( propriety的名词复数 )；规矩；正当；合适 | |
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portray
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| v.描写，描述；画(人物、景象等) | |
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alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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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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tepid
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| adj.微温的，温热的，不太热心的 | |
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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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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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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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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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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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ravaged
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| 毁坏( ravage的过去式和过去分词 )； 蹂躏； 劫掠； 抢劫 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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despondently
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| adv.沮丧地，意志消沉地 | |
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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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knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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eluding
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的现在分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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discoursed
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| 演说（discourse的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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picturesquely
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draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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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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suffocated
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| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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meddlesomeness
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scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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imps
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| n.（故事中的）小恶魔( imp的名词复数 )；小魔鬼；小淘气；顽童 | |
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consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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52
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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54
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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refulgent
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| adj.辉煌的，灿烂的 | |
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redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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limbo
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| n.地狱的边缘；监狱 | |
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dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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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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traitorous
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| adj. 叛国的, 不忠的, 背信弃义的 | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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permissible
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| adj.可允许的，许可的 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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tariff
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| n.关税，税率；(旅馆、饭店等)价目表，收费表 | |
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gauche
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| adj.笨拙的，粗鲁的 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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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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cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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syrup
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| n.糖浆，糖水 | |
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flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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flicking
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的现在分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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gastronomic
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| adj.美食（烹饪）法的，烹任学的 | |
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delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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quails
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| 鹌鹑( quail的名词复数 )； 鹌鹑肉 | |
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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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103
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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104
devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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106
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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107
benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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creased
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的过去式和过去分词 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹； 皱皱巴巴 | |
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111
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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112
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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113
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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114
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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115
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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116
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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