He got up, dressed, and went downstairs. He saw old Gely and his wife, his daughters, Marie the maid, and the little concierge2: it seemed to him that they looked at him strangely, curiously3, with some sorrowful sad knowledge in their eyes, and a nameless numb4 excitement gripped him, dulled his heart. He felt the nameless apprehension5 that he always felt — that perhaps all men feel — when they have been away a day or two. It was a premonition of bad news, of some unknown misfortune: he wanted to ask them if someone had come for him — without knowing who could come — if they had a message for him — not knowing who might send him one — an almost feverish6 energy to demand that they tell him at once what unknown calamity7 had befallen him in his absence. But he said nothing, but still haunted by what he thought was the strange and troubling look in their eyes — a look he had often thought he observed in people, which seemed to tell of a secret knowledge, an inhuman8 chemistry, a communion in men’s lives to which his own life was a stranger — he hurried out into the street.
Outside the streets were wet with mist, the old cobbles shone with a dull wet gleam, through the mist the lamps burned dimly, and through the fog he heard the swift and unseen passing of the taxi-cabs, the shrill9 tooting of their little horns.
Yet everything was ghost-like and phantasmal — the streets of Paris had the unfamiliar10 reality of streets that one revisits after many years of absence, or walks again after the confinement11 of a long and serious illness.
He ate at a little restaurant in the Rue12 de la Seine, and troubled by the dismal13 lights, the high old houses, and the empty streets of the Latin Quarter sounding only with the brief passage of some furious little taxi drilling through those narrow lanes towards the bridge of the Seine and the great blaze and gaiety of night, he finally forsook14 that dark quarter, which seemed to be the image of the unquiet loneliness that beset15 him, and crossing the bridge, he spent the remainder of the evening reading in one of the cafés near Les Magasins du Louvre.
The next morning, when he awoke, a pneumatique was waiting for him. It was from Elinor, and read:
“Darling, where are you? Are you still recovering from the great debauch16, or have you given us the go-by, or what? The suspense17 is awful — won’t you say it ain’t so, and come to lunch with us today at half-past twelve? We’ll be waiting for you at the studio. — ELINOR”— Below this in a round and almost childish hand, was written: “We want to see you. We missed you yesterday. — ANN.”
He read this brief and casual little note over again and again, he laughed exultantly18, and smote19 his fist into the air and read again. All of the old impossible joy was revived in him. He went to the window and looked out: a lemony sunlight was falling on the old pale walls and roofs and chimney-pots of Paris: everything sparkled with health and hope and work and morning — and all because two girls from Boston in New England had written him a note.
He held the flimsy paper of the pneumatique tenderly, as if it were a sacred parchment too old and precious for rough handling; he even lifted it to his nose and smelled it. It seemed to him that all the subtle, sensuous20 femininity of the two women was in it — the seductive and thrilling fragrance21, impalpable and glorious as the fragrance of a flower, which their lives seemed to irradiate and to give to everything, to everyone they touched, a sense of triumph, joy and tenderness. He read the one blunt line that Ann had written him as if it were poetry of haunting magic: the level, blunt and toneless inflexibility22 of her voice sounded in the line as if she had spoken; he read into her simple words a thousand buried meanings — the tenderness of a profound, simple and inarticulate spirit, whose feelings were too deep for language, who had no words for them.
When he got to the studio he found the two women waiting, but Starwick was not there. Ann was quietly, bluntly matter of fact as usual; Elinor almost hilariously25 gay, but beneath her gaiety he sensed at once a deep and worried perturbation, a worn anxiety that shone nakedly from her troubled eyes.
They told him that on their return from Rheims, Starwick had left the studio to meet Alec and had not been seen since. No word from him had they had that night or the day before, and now, on the second day since his disappearance26, their anxiety was evident.
But during lunch — they ate at a small restaurant in the neighbourhood, near the Montparnasse railway station — Elinor kept up a gay and rapid conversation, and persisted in speaking of Starwick’s disappearance as a great lark27 — the kind of thing to be expected from him.
“PERFECTLY insane, of course!” she cried, with a gay laugh. “But then, it’s typical of him: it’s just the kind of thing that kind would do. Oh, he’ll turn up, of course,” she said, with quiet confidence, “— he’ll turn up in a day or two, after some wild adventure that no one in the world but Francis Starwick could have had. . . . I MEAN!” she cried, “picking that Frenchman — Alec — up the way he did the other night. UTTERLY28 mad, of course!” she said gaily29. “— But then, there you ARE! It wouldn’t be Frank if he didn’t!”
“I see nothing very funny about it,” said Ann bluntly. “It looks like a pretty rotten mess to me. We know nothing at all about that Frenchman — who he is, what he does; we don’t even know his name. For all you know he may be one of the worst thugs or criminals in Paris.”
“Oh, I know, my dear — but don’t be absurd!” Elinor protested. “The man’s all right — Frank’s always picking up these people — it always turns out all right in the end — oh, but of course!” she cried, as if dispelling30 a troubling thought from her mind —“Of course it will! It’s too ridiculous to allow yourself to be upset like this!”
But in spite of her vigorous assurance, her eyes were full of care and of something painful and baffled, an almost naked anguish31.
He left them after lunch, promising32 to meet them again for dinner. Starwick had not come back. When they had finished dinner, the two women went back to the studio to wait for Starwick’s possible return, and Eugene went to look for him in Montmartre, promising to let them know at once if he found Starwick or got news of him. When he got to Montmartre, he made a round first of all the resorts which Starwick had liked best and frequented most, as Eugene remembered them, of course; but no one had seen him since they had last been there all together. Finally, he went to the bistro in the Rue Montmartre, where they had first encountered Alec, and asked the soiled barman with the dark mistrustful eye if he had seen either Alec or Starwick in the past three days. The man eyed him suspiciously for a moment before answering. Then he surlily replied that he had seen neither of them. In spite of the man’s denial, he stayed on, drinking one cognac after another at the bar, while it filled up, ebbed33 and flowed, with the mysterious rout34 and rabble35 of the night. He waited until four o’clock in the morning: neither Starwick nor Alec had appeared. He got into a taxi and was driven back across Paris to Montparnasse. When he got to the studio, the two women were still awake, waiting, and he gave them his disappointing news. Then he departed, promising to return at noon.
All through that day they waited: the apprehension of the two women was now painfully evident, and Ann spoke23 bluntly of calling in the police. Towards six o’clock that evening, while they were engaged in vigorous debate concerning their course of action, there were steps along the alley-way outside, and Starwick entered the studio, followed by the Frenchman, Alec.
Starwick was in excellent spirits, his eyes were clear, his ruddy face looked fresh, and had a healthy glow. In response to all their excited greetings and inquiries36, he laughed gleefully, teasingly, and refused to answer. When they tried to find out from Alec where Starwick had been, he too smiled an engaging but malicious37 smile, shrugged38 his shoulders politely, and said: “I do not know, I s’ink he tells you if he v’ants — if not!” again he smiled, and shrugged politely. And this moody39 and secretive silence was never broken. Starwick never told them where he had been. Once or twice, during dinner, which was a hilarious24 one, he made casual and mysteriously hinting references to Brussels, but, in response to all of Elinor’s deft40, ironic41 cross-examination, he only laughed his burbling laugh, and refused to answer.
And she, finally defeated, laughed suddenly, a laugh of rich astonishment42, crying: “PERFECTLY insane, of course! But then, what did I tell you? It’s just the sort of thing that Frank WOULD do!”
But, in spite of all her high light spirits, her gay swift laughter, her distinguished43 ease, there was in the woman’s eyes something the boy had never seen before: a horrible, baffled anguish of torment44 and frustration45. And although her manner towards the Frenchman, Alec, was gracious, gay, and charming — although she now accepted him as “one of us,” and frequently said with warm enthusiasm that he was “a PER-FECTLY swell46 person — I like him SO much!” there was often something in her eyes when she looked at him that it was not good to see.
Alec was their guest, and Starwick’s constant companion, everywhere they went thereafter. And everywhere, in every way, he proved himself to be a droll47, kind, courteous48, witty49 and urbanely50 cynical51 person: a man of charming and engaging qualities and delightful52 company. They never asked his name, nor inquired about his birth, his family, or his occupation. They seemed to accept his curious fellowship with Starwick as a matter of course: they took him on their daily round of café‘s, restaurants, night-clubs, and resorts, as if he were a lifelong friend of the family. And he accepted all their favours gracefully53, politely, with wit and grace and charm, with a natural and distinguished dignity and ease. He, too, never asked disturbing questions; he was a diplomat54 by nature, a superb tactician55 from his birth. Nevertheless, the puzzled, doubting and inquiring expression in his eyes grew deeper day by day; his tongue was eloquently56 silent, but the question in his puzzled eyes could not be hidden, and constantly sought speech.
As for Eugene, he now felt for the first time an ugly, disquieting57 doubt: suddenly he remembered many things — words and phrases and allusions58, swift, casual darts59 and flashes of memory that went all the way back to the Cambridge years, that had long since been forgotten — but that now returned to fill his mind. And sometimes when he looked at Starwick, he had the weird60 and unpleasant sensation of looking at someone he had never seen before.
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1
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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concierge
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| n.管理员；门房 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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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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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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debauch
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| v.使堕落，放纵 | |
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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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exultantly
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| adv.狂欢地，欢欣鼓舞地 | |
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smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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inflexibility
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| n.不屈性，顽固，不变性；不可弯曲；非挠性；刚性 | |
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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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24
hilarious
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| adj.充满笑声的，欢闹的；[反]depressed | |
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hilariously
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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dispelling
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的现在分词 ) | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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ebbed
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的过去式和过去分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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rout
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| n.溃退，溃败；v.击溃，打垮 | |
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rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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41
ironic
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| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
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42
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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43
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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44
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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45
frustration
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| n.挫折，失败，失效，落空 | |
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46
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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48
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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49
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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50
urbanely
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| adv.都市化地，彬彬有礼地，温文尔雅地 | |
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51
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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52
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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53
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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54
diplomat
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| n.外交官，外交家；能交际的人，圆滑的人 | |
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55
tactician
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| n. 战术家, 策士 | |
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56
eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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57
disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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58
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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59
darts
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| n.掷飞镖游戏；飞镖( dart的名词复数 )；急驰，飞奔v.投掷，投射( dart的第三人称单数 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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60
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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