“But yes, madame. I assure you — you need have no — kalms? — kalms?”— the younger and larger of the two women said in a doubtful tone, lifting puzzled eyebrows5 at her older companion —“KALMS, Comtesse, je ne comprends pas KALMS. Qu’est-ce que ?a veut dire6?”
“Mais non, cherie,” the other answered patiently. “Pas KALMS— QUALMS7— QUALMS.” She pronounced the word slowly and carefully several times, until the other woman succeeded in saying it after her, at which the little woman nodded her meagre little head emphatically with a movement of bird-like satisfaction, and said:
“Oui! Oui! Bon! C’est ?a! QUALMS?
“Mais ?a veut dire?” the other said inquiringly in a puzzled tone.
“?a veut dire, chérie — you need have no qualms, madame —” the little wren-like woman considered carefully before she spoke8 —“Vous n’avez pas besoin de perturbation — n’est-ce pas?” she cried, with an eager look of triumph.
“Ah-h!” the other cried, with an air of great enlightenment. “Oui! Je comprends. . . . I assure you, madame, that you need have no qualms about the plumbing9 arrangements.”
“Bon! Bon!” the little woman nodded her head approvingly. “PLUMBING, chérie. PLUMBING,” she added gently as an afterthought.
“You will find everyt’ing t’oroughly modairne —”
“THOROUGHLY—” the other said, slowly and carefully. “THOROUGHLY— you pronounce it this way, my dear — TH— TH—” She leaned forward, inserting her tongue illustratively between her false teeth.
“Thoroughly,” the other said, with evident difficulty, and repeated —“thoroughly modairne —”
“MODERN, dear! MODERN!” the little wren-like woman said slowly and carefully again, but then, nodding her head with a movement of swift decision, she went on sharply: “Mais non! ?a va! ?a va bien!” She nodded her head vigorously. “Laissez comme ?a! Les Américains aiment mieux comme ?a — un peu d’accent, n’est-ce pas?” she said craftily10. “Pour les Américains.”
“Ah, oui!” the other woman responded at once, nodding seriously. “Vous avez raison. Ce n’est pas bon de parler trop correctement. Un peu d’accent est mieux. Ils aiment ?a — les Américains.”
They nodded wisely at each other, their faces comically eloquent11 with that strange union of avarice12, hard worldliness, and provincial13 na?veté which qualifies a Frenchman’s picture of the earth. Then, looking up at the young man, who was standing14 awkwardly before the bureau, the younger of the two women said coldly:
“Monsieur? —”
The young woman was perhaps twenty-eight years old, but her cold, dark face, which was lean and sallow and cleft15 powerfully by a large strong nose, had the maturity16 of cold mistrustfulness and unyielding avarice which was incalculable. It was as if from birth her spirit had been steeped in the hard and bitter dyes of man’s iniquity17, as if she had sucked the acid nutriment of mistrust and worldly wisdom out of her mother’s breast — as if her hard heart and her cold, dark eyes had never known youth, remembered innocence18, or been blinded by romantic fantasies — as if, in short, she had sprung full-armoured from her cradle, versed19 in all grim arts of seeking for one’s self, clutching her first sous in a sweating palm, learning to add by numbers before she could prattle21 a child’s prayer.
Seen so, the woman’s face had a cold and stern authority of mistrust that was impregnable. The face, indeed, might have been the very image of a hotel-keeper’s soul, impeccable in its perfection of bought courtesy, but hard, cold, lifeless, cruel as hell, obdurate22 as a block of granite23, to any warming ray of mercy, pardon, or concession24 where another’s loss and its own gain might be concerned.
And yet, for all its cold and worldly inhumanity, the face was a passionate25 one as well. Her strong, black brows grew straight and thick in an unbroken line above her eyes, her upper lip was dark with a sparse26 but unmistakable moustache of a few black hairs, her face, at once cold and hard in its mistrust, and smouldering with a dark and sinister27 desire, was stamped with that strange fellowship of avarice and passion he had seen in the faces of women such as this all over France.
He had seen these women everywhere — behind the cashier’s desk in restaurants, shops, and stores, behind the desks in cafés, theatres, and brothels, or in the bureau of a hotel such as this. Sometimes they were alone, sometimes they were seated together behind one of those enormous tall twin desks, enthroned there like the very magistrates28 of gain, totting up the interminable figures in their ledgers30 with the slow care and minute painfulness of greed. They sat there, singly or two abreast31, behind their tall desks near the door, casting their hard eyes in a glance of cold mistrust upon the customers and at each other, conspiring32 broodingly together as they checked and compared each other’s ledgers — seeming to be set there, in fact, not only as a watch upon the cheats and treasons of the world, but as a watch upon their own as well.
And yet, haired darkly on their upper lips, cold, hard, mistrustful in their grasping avarice as they might be, he had always felt in them the complement33 of a sinister passion. He felt that when all the day’s countings were over, the last entry made in the enormous ledger29, the last figure added up, and the last drops of sweat wrung34 from the leaden visage of the final sous — then, THEN, he felt, they would pull down the shutters35, bare their teeth in smiles of savage36 joy, and go to their appointed meeting with their lover, Jack37 the Ripper. Upon faces such as these, even during their daylight impassivity of cold mistrust, the ardour of their nocturnal secrecies38 was almost obscenely articulate; it required little effort of the imagination to see these women quilted in a vile39, close darkness, a union of evil chemistries, locked in the grip of a criminal love, with teeth bared in the bite and shine of a profane40 and lawless ecstasy41, and making savage moan.
Such, in fact, was the face of the young woman in the bureau of the hotel, who now looked up at him with the cold inquiry42 of mistrust and said:
“Monsieur? —”
“I— I’d like to get a room,” he stammered43 awkwardly, faltering44 before her hard, impassive stare, and speaking to her in her own language.
“Comment?” she said sharply, a little startled at being addressed so immediately in the language wherein she had just been holding — studious practice. “Vous désirez? —”
“Une chambre,” he mumbled45 —“pas trop chère.”
“Ah-h — a room! He says he wants a room, my dear,” the little woman now put in, quickly and eagerly. She hopped46 up briskly and came towards him with an eager gleam in her sharp old eyes, an anticipating hope in her meagre face.
“You are a stranger?” she inquired, peering sharply at him. “An American?”— with a look of eager hope.
“Yes,” he said.
“Ah-h!” her breath went in with a little intake47 of greedy satisfaction. “I thought so! . . . Yvonne! Yvonne!” she cried sharply, turning to the other woman in a state of great excitement. “He’s an American — he wants a room — he must have something good — an American,” she babbled48, “the best you’ve got —”
“But yes!” cried Yvonne rising. “To be sure. At vunce!” she cried, and struck a bell, calling: “Jean! Jean!”
“But not — not,” the youth stuttered, “not the best — it’s just for me — I’m all alone,” he appealed to the smaller woman —“something not very expensive,” he said desperately49.
“Ah — hah — hah!” she said, emitting a little chuckling50 laugh of gloating satisfaction and continuing to peer craftily up at him. “An American! And young, too. — How old are you, my boy?”
“T-t-twenty-four,” he stuttered, staring at her helplessly.
“Ah — hah — hah!” Again the little gloating laugh. “I thought so — and why are you here? . . . What are you doing here in Orléans, eh?” she said imperatively51, yet coaxingly52. “What brings you here, my boy?”
“Why — why —” he stammered confusedly, and then finding no adequate reason (since there was none) for being there, he blurted53 out — “I’m — a writer — a — a — journalist,” he stammered, feeling this made his lie the less.
“Ah — hah — hah,” she chuckled54 softly again with a kind of abstracted gluttony of satisfaction —“a journalist, eh, my boy?” In her ravenous55 eagerness she had begun to pat and stroke his arm with a claw-like hand, as a cook might stroke a fat turkey before killing56 it. “A journalist, eh? . . . Yvonne! Yvonne!” suddenly she turned to the other woman again, speaking rapidly in a burst of high excitement. “The young man is a journalist . . . an American journalist . . . he writes for The New York Times, Yvonne . . . the greatest newspaper in America.”
“Well, not exactly that,” he blundered, red in the face from confusion and embarrassment57. “I never said —”
“Ah — hah — hah,” the little old woman said again with her little gloating laugh, peering up at him with a crafty58 gleam in her sharp old eyes, and stroking his arm in her unconscious eagerness. “ . . . And you’ve come to write about us, eh? . . . Joan of Arc, eh?” she said seducingly, with a little crafty laugh of triumph. “— The Cathedral . . . the Maid of Orléans . . . ah, my boy, you have come to the right place. . . . I will show you everything. . . . I will take care of you. . . . You are in good hands now. . . . Ah-h, we love the Americans here. . . . Yvonne! Yvonne!” she cried again, her excitement growing all the time. “He says he is here to write about Orléans for The New York Times . . . he will put it all in . . . the Cathedral . . . Joan of Arc . . . the hotel here . . . the greatest paper in America . . . millions of people will come here when they read it —”
“Well, now, I never said —” he began again.
“Ah — hah — hah,” again she was peering up at him craftily, with old eyes of eager greed, chortling her little laugh of gloating triumph, as she stroked his arm. “Twenty-four, eh? . . . And where are you from, my boy? . . . Where is your home?”
“Why — New York, I suppose,” he said hesitantly.
“Yes, yes, I know,” she said impatiently —“but before that? Where were you born? . . . What State are you from?”
He stared at her for a moment with bewildered face.
“Why, I don’t think you’d know where it is,” he said at length. “I’m from Catawba.”
“Catawba — yes!” the old woman pressed on eagerly. “And what part of Catawba? What town?”
“Why,”— he stared at her, gape-jawed with amazement59 —“a place called Altamont.”
“Altamont!” she crowed jubilantly. “Altamont — yes! Altamont — of course!”
“You KNOW it?” he said incredulously. “You’ve HEARD of it?”
“HEARD of it! Why, my boy, I’ve been there seven times!” She chuckled with triumph, then went on with a wild and incoherent eagerness. “Little Mother, they call me . . . I am known everywhere. . . . Letters . . . cablegrams . . . the Governor of Arkansas . . .” she babbled. “I gave up everything . . . spent my fortune. . . . Ah, my boy, I love the Americans. . . . They call me Little Mother. . . . Altamont! . . . A beautiful town! . . . Do you know Doctor Bradford and his family? . . . And how is Harold? . . . What’s Alice doing now — has she married? . . . a lovely girl. . . . And how is George Watson? . . . What’s he doing, eh? . . . Is he still secretary of the Chamber60 of Commerce? . . . And Mrs. Morgan Hamilton. . . . And Charles McKee — ah, how I should like to see all my dear old friends in Altamont again.”
“You — you know them — all those people?” he gasped61, hearing as in a dream the great cathedral bells throng62 out upon the air of night.
“KNOW them! . . . I know everyone in the town. . . . I always stay with Doctor Bradford and his family. . . . Ah, what lovely people, my boy. . . . How good they have been to me. . . . I love Americans! . . . Little Mother, they call me,” she went on in a strange, tranced tone, her eyes burning feverishly63 as she spoke — “‘As the brave little woman who is known to thousands of Our Boys as the Little Mother of the Stars and Stripes stood before the great audience that packed the City Auditorium64 last night as it had never been packed before in its whole history, it is safe to say there was not a dry eye in the great’— Yvonne!” She broke sharply away from her mysterious recitation, and again addressed herself excitedly to the hotel woman —“I know his town . . . I know his family . . . I know his father and mother . . . I have stayed at their house! . . . They are all dear friends of mine! . . . Quick! Tell Madame Vatel that an American friend of mine is here. . . . Tell her it is going to be a great thing for her . . . for Orléans . . . for all of us. . . . Tell her he is going to write about the hotel in The New York Times . . . you will give him a good room . . . a good price, eh?” she said cunningly. “He will bring hundreds of people here to the hotel —”
“But yes, Countess,” said Yvonne. “Perfectly.”
“The best! The best!” the old woman cried. “He comes from one of the most prominent families in America — ah — hah — hah! You will see!” She chuckled with mysterious cunning. “I shall make you all rich and famous before I’m through . . . I know all the rich Americans. . . . Hah — hah. . . . They will all come here now when he has written about us. . . . The New York Times, Yvonne,” she whispered gloatingly, “the paper all the rich Americans read. . . . Tell Madame Vatel what has happened. . . . Ah, a great thing, Yvonne. . . . a great thing for us all — see!” she whispered mysteriously, pointing towards the bewildered youth —“the head, Yvonne! The head! You can tell by the head, Yvonne,” she whispered. “WHAT a clever head, Yvonne. . . . The New York Times, eh? . . .” she chuckled craftily, “that all the clever writers write for! . . . Tell Vatel!” she whispered gloatingly, rubbing her little claw-like hands together. “Tell Madame. . . . Tell everyone. . . . He must have the best,” she muttered with conspiratorial65 secrecy66. “The best.”
“But yes, Countess,” Yvonne said smoothly67. “Monsieur shall have nothing but the best. Number Seven, I think,” she said reflectively. “Oui! Number Seven!” She nodded her head decisively with satisfaction. “I am sure Monsieur will like the room. . . . Jean! Jean!” She clapped her hands sharply to the attentive68 porter, who now sprang forward nimbly. “Apportez les baggages de Monsieur au Numéro Sept.”
“But — but — the price?” the youth said awkwardly.
“The price,” said Yvonne, “to Monsieur is — twelve francs. To others — that is deeferent, eh?” she said with a significant smile and an expressive69 shrug70. “But since Monsieur is a friend of the Countess, the price will be twelve francs.”
“Cheap! Cheap!” the Countess muttered. “And now, my boy,” she said coaxingly, taking him by the arm, “you must take your meals here, too. . . . The cuisine71! . . . Ah-h! Merveilleuse!” she whispered, making a small rhapsodic gesture with one hand. “You will eat here, too, my boy — eh?”
He nodded dumbly, and the old woman turned immediately to Yvonne with a look of cunning triumph, saying: “Did you hear, Yvonne? . . . Do you see? . . . He will take his meals here, too. . . . Tell Vatel. . . . Tell Madame. . . . I know all the rich Americans. . . . They will all come now, Yvonne,” she whispered. “You will see. . . . And now, my boy,” she said with an air of decision, turning to him again, “have you had dinner yet? . . . No? . . . Good!” she said with satisfaction. “I shall eat with you,” she took him by the arm possessively. “We shall eat together here in the hotel. . . . I shall have Pierre set a table for us . . . we shall always eat together there — just you and I. . . . Ah, you have come to the right place . . . I shall look after you and watch you like your own mother, my boy. . . . There are so many bad places here in Orléans . . . so many low resorts. I shall tell you where they are so that you can keep out of them . . . it is so easy for a young man to go astray. . . . So many young Americans who come over here get into trouble, meet with bad companions, because they have no one to guide them. . . . But have no fear, my boy . . . I will watch over you while you are here like your own mother. . . . They call me Little Mother.”
He cast a distressed72 and perplexed73 glance towards Yvonne, and that capable person came instantly and suavely75 to his rescue.
“Perhaps, Countess,” she said smoothly, “Monsieur would like to see his room and brosh up a beet76 after ze fatigue77 of his journey — eh?”
He looked at her gratefully, and the Countess, nodding her head vigorously, said instantly:
“Oui! Oui! C’est ?a! . . . By all means, my boy, go up to your room and wash up a bit. . . . Ah, a lovely room! He will like it, eh, Yvonne? . . . New furnishings, hot and cold water, beautiful plumbing.”
“I can assure Monsieur,” said Yvonne dutifully, “that he need have no — kalms —”
“QUALMS, Yvonne, QUALMS,” the Countess corrected her gently —“a lovely room, my boy! And when you have finished come on down and we will dine together. . . . You will find me here. I will wait for you. And while you eat,” she said enticingly78. “I shall let you read my clippings — ah-h, I have a great book full of them. . . . You shall read it all, everything — what it says about their Little Mother,” she said tenderly. “And I shall keep you company. I shall talk to you and tell you what to do in Orléans. . . . No, no, I shall eat nothing,” she said hastily, as if to allay79 some economic apprehension80 on his part. “It will cost you nothing. . . . A little of your coffee, perhaps. . . . Perhaps a glass of wine — no more. Ah, my dear,” the old woman went on sadly, “the food here is so lovely, and I cannot eat it . . . I can eat nothing —”
“Nothing?” he said, staring at her.
“Rien, rien, rien,” she cried, waving her hand sidewise.
“The Countess is on — what you say — a diet?” said Yvonne sympathetically. “Eet ees the doctor’s orders — she cannot eat.”
“Rien du tout,” the Countess said again. “Nothing but horse’s blood, my dear,” the Countess said in a sad voice. “That’s all I live on now.”
“HORSE’S blood!” he stared at her unbelievingly.
“Oui!” she nodded. “Sang de cheval! You see, my dear,” she went on in an explanatory tone, “I have an?mia — and by the doctor’s orders I take horse’s blood. . . . But the food here is so lovely. Lovely. I shall wait for you, my boy, and watch you eat.”
“Jean!” cried Yvonne sharply, giving the youth his freedom by one brisk act. “Les baggages de Monsieur. Numéro Sept.”
She handed the key to the porter.
“Oui, monsieur,” the porter said cheerfully, picking up the youth’s valise. “Par ici, s’il vous pla?t.”
They went back and got into the little lift, just big enough for two. It mounted slowly, creakingly, with slatting rope. They got off at the first flight: he followed the porter down a thickly carpeted hall and then, while the man switched on lights, turned down the coverlet of the bed, and pulled the heavy curtains together in order to assure that atmosphere of stale nocturnal confinement81 without which sleep in France seems impossible, he examined the room.
The place easily lived up to all the rapturous prophesies82 which the Countess had made of it. It was astonishingly luxurious83 — with that almost indecent luxury that is characteristic of a French hotel room, and that is disquietingly similar to the luxury of a brothel. The bed was a lavish84, canopied85 affair with crimson86 hangings; the floor was covered with a thick crimson carpet, completely noiseless to the tread; there was a sensually fat sofa and several fat chairs covered with fat, red plush and painted with gilt87, a great gilt-rimmed mirror above the mantel, a washbowl of deep and heavy porcelain88 with glittering nickel fixtures89, a lavish bidet, the inevitable90 provision of a French woman’s needs, and curtains of a fat, silk, quilted material whose sensual folds were now closely drawn91 together, completing the effect of bordello secrecy and luxury previously92 described.
And this oriental luxury was being provided to him for seventy cents a day on the recommendation of a mad old woman who drank horse’s blood and whom he had never seen until a half-hour ago. As he stood there bewildered by this new, strange turn of chance and destiny, he felt the stillness of the old town around him, and heard again the vast, sweet thronging93 of the cathedral bells through the dark and silent air, and felt again, as he had felt so many times, the strange and bitter miracle of life. And there was something in his heart he could not utter.
When he went downstairs again, he found the old woman waiting for him, with an eager and cunning gleam at once comical and pathetic in her sharp old eyes, and a great book of newspaper clippings in her arms.
With an air of complete possession, she took him by the arm, and thus linked, they entered the hotel restaurant together. As they went in, it was at once evident that the fame of the young journalist had preceded him. There was a great scraping of chairs around the family table and Madame Vatel, her husband, their comely94 married daughter, and the daughter’s little girl, rose from the family soup in unison95, and received him with a chorus of smiles, bows, and enchanted96 murmurs97 of greeting that alarmed him by their profuse98 respectfulness, and that became almost fawningly99 obsequious101 as the Countess began to publish the merits of his power and influence in a torrential French of which he could only capture occasional glittering fragments, the chief of which was the proud name of The New York Times —“le grand journal américain.”
Then, having muttered out a few desperate words of thanks for the overwhelming and unexpected warmth of their reception, he and the Countess were escorted by a bowing waiter to the table which had been prepared for them at the other end of the restaurant, near the street entrance. The food — a savoury and wholesome102 country soup, broiled103 fish, succulent thick slices of roast beef, tender, red, and juicy as none he had ever tasted before, a crisp and tender salad of endive, and camembert and coffee — was as delicious as the Countess had predicted; the wine — a Beaujolais, of which the old woman drank half a glass — both cheap and good; the service of the old waiter, suave74, benevolent104, and almost unctuously105 attentive; and his own mixed feelings of alarm, astonishment106, embarrassment at the position in which he had been placed, resentment107 at the imposture108 into which the old woman had compelled him, and wild, helpless, mounting, and astounded109 laughter — were explosive, indescribable.
He would look up uneasily from the delicious food to see the Vatel family, heads together around their table in a congress of whispering secrecy, and with the imprint110 of conspiratorial greed and cunning on their faces. Then they would catch his eye, nudge one another, and bow and smile at him with fawning100 graciousness, and he would return to his food savagely111, not knowing whether to curse or howl with laughter.
During the whole course of the meal, the Countess sat opposite him, watching like a hawk112 every move he made, her old eyes gleaming cunningly and a strange, fixed113 smile, which he had come to recognize as being at once crafty and na?ve, shrewd with guile114 and yet pathetically inquiring, hovering115 faintly upon her sharp and meagre face.
All the time while he was eating, the old woman kept up her strange, fragmentary monologue116 — a semi-coherent discourse117 which mirrored forth118 the very image of her soul and seemed to be addressed to herself as much as to any listener. With a ravenous attentiveness119 she watched him devour120 his food, exhorted121 him to waste none of it, and to sop122 up the sauce as well, demanded of the old waiter second helpings123 of the delicious roast beef, accompanying her command with a glittering account of the prosperity that would accrue124 to him and the hotel as a result of this solicitude125; plied126 the boy with questions concerning his friends, his work, his future prospects127, and his travels — in short, pried128, probed, wormed and insinuated129 her way into every corner of his history, and appointed herself guide and censor130 of his life and conduct from this moment on.
“How long have you been over here, my boy?”— she said in her low but vibrant131 monotone, which had that curious, dead resonance132, an almost bodiless energy that seems to come from indestructible vitality133 of mind or spirit when the vitality of flesh has been exhausted134. It was an energy at once as bitterly tenacious135 as man’s clutch on life, yet marked all the time by the brooding fatality136 of people who have lived too long and seen all things go —“How long have you been in Europe? . . . And where were you first? . . . England, yes. . . . And after England. . . . Paris? Where did you stay there? . . . How much did they charge you for your room? . . . Twelve francs. . . . Yes, but you could do better, my boy. . . . You could do much better. . . . You should find a place for eight francs a day. . . . All the Americans spend too much money,” she said sadly. “They come over here and waste their money. . . . I have seen so many Americans get stranded137 here. . . . During the war I had to help so many out. . . . Tell me, my boy,” she leaned over and clutched his arm with her claw-like hand, “you are not going to get stranded here like other Americans, are you?” Her voice had a low, hoarse138, and fatal note in it. “Promise me you won’t get stranded here.”
He promised her.
“How much money have you got, my boy — eh?” she said, her old eyes lighted with an avaricious139 gleam. A sudden apprehension shocked her; she started forward, saying quickly —“You’ve got enough to pay your bill? You’ve got enough to get you out of Orléans? . . . You won’t get stranded here at the hotel?”
He reassured140 her, and with a look of relief she continued:
“You must tell me every day how much you spend. . . . You must let me watch your money for you. . . . So few young men in America understand the value of money. . . . They throw it away as if it were dirt. . . . There are so many ways to waste your money here in France. . . . We have so many things to spend money on — it’s gone before you know it — restaurants, hotels, liquor, wine, cafés — Ah, cafés, cafés!” she sighed with dead fatality. “Cafés everywhere you go,” she said. “They are the curse of France. Cafés and women. . . . Have you met the women yet?” she demanded sharply.
He told her that he had.
“Yes, I know,” she said, her voice sad with its note of resigned fatality. “You meet them in cafés — bad women, waiting there to prey141 upon the young Americans. . . . Tell me —” the eager gleam awakened142 in her eyes again —” have you given them much of your money?”
He told her that he had.
“Ah, I know,” she answered sadly. “All the young Americans waste their money in that way. . . . Don’t do it, my boy,” her claw-like hand went out and grasped his arm. “Promise me you will not give any more money away to those women. . . . They are BAD, bad . . . the shame of France. . . . Get yourself a nice girl, my boy. . . . I know some nice girls here in Orléans. . . . I will introduce you — But don’t go to the cafés, my boy — Or, if you go, don’t talk to any of the women there. . . . No nice woman here in Orléans goes to the café . . . all the women that you meet there are bad, bad. . . . The best café,” she concluded irrelevantly143, “is on the Place Martroi. You will find the women there. . . . If you go, tell me tomorrow about the music. . . . They have good music there. . . . I love good music. . . . One hears so little music here in Orléans. . . . There are so few amusements for a decent woman here. . . . Sometimes I want to go to the café to hear the music, but if I did I would no longer be a decent woman. . . . I suppose you’ll go to the café tonight?” she said sadly, fatally, but with an eager glint of inquiry in her old eyes. “All the Americans go to the café‘s. It’s the only place there is to go to here.”
Towards ten o’clock, which was the hour of retiring, he escaped from her and went to the café of which she had spoken. There was an orchestra of three pieces playing the kind of music that is played in French cafés; and many mirrors, and long seats of old worn leather around the walls; and several young prostitutes sitting singly at tables, patiently ogling144 the sporting males of Orléans, who stroked their moustaches and ogled145 back, but spent no money on them. And there was one extremely lovely, blond, seductive and experienced-looking prostitute from Paris who ogled no one, but sat by herself at a table, frowning reflectively with half-closed eyes and with a cigarette in her mouth, studiously involved in solitaire and completely indifferent to the gallantries of the ogling males of Orléans, although many a languishing146 look was cast in her direction. The men played cards or dominoes together, held their secret, sly, and whispered conversations, and then roared with laughter; the café orchestra played the music that a French café orchestra always plays; the waiters went back and forth with trays and glasses; the proprietor147 went from table to table talking to his regular patrons; the women sat patiently at tables, and smiled and ogled when they caught somebody’s eye; and somehow the whole scene was instantly, poignantly148 familiar, like something he had known all his life.
And he did not know why this was true. But something essential in the substance and the structure of the scene — the beautiful and sophisticated prostitute from Paris, the seducers and gallants of the town of Orléans, the feeling of silence, secrecy, and darkness all around him in the old sleeping town — in which this place was now the only spot of warmth and gaiety and lightness — even the occasional shrill149 fife and piping whistle at the railway station not far away — all these things and people had their counterpart, somehow, in the life of small towns everywhere and in the life he had known in a small town as a child, when he had lain in his bed in darkness and had heard the distant wail150 and thunder of a departing train, and had seen then in the central core and vision of his heart’s desire, his image of the distant, the shining, the fabulous151, thousand-spired, magic city, and had thought then of a lovely and seductive red-haired woman named Norah Ryan, who had that year come from the great city to live there in his mother’s house, and whose coming and whose going would always be a thing of mystery and wonder to them all; and felt, then, as now, all around him the numb20 nocturnal stillness of the town, the impending152 prescience of wild joy, the heartbeats of ten thousand sleeping men.
And this feeling of unutterable loss and familiarity, of strangeness and reality, remained with him later when he left the closing café and walked home towards his hotel through a silent, cobbled street, between rows of old, still houses, the shuttered secrecy of the shops.
And later, the feeling was more strong and strange than ever, as he lay in his sumptuous153 bed in the hotel, reading the clippings in the Countess’s books — those incredible explosions of Yankee journalese that this old woman had inspired in a thousand little towns across America — brought back here, read here now, in the midnight stillness of this ancient town as the great cathedral bells thronged154 through the air — the miraculous155 weavings of dark chance and destiny, all near as his heart and farther off than heaven, familiar as his life, and stranger than a dream.
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1
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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grandiose
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| adj.宏伟的，宏大的，堂皇的，铺张的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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7
qualms
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| n.不安；内疚 | |
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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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9
plumbing
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| n.水管装置；水暖工的工作；管道工程v.用铅锤测量（plumb的现在分词）；探究 | |
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craftily
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| 狡猾地，狡诈地 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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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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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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19
versed
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| adj. 精通，熟练 | |
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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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prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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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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sparse
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| adj.稀疏的，稀稀落落的，薄的 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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magistrates
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| 地方法官，治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
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ledger
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| n.总帐，分类帐；帐簿 | |
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ledgers
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| n.分类账( ledger的名词复数 ) | |
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abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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conspiring
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| 密谋( conspire的现在分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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complement
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| n.补足物，船上的定员；补语；vt.补充，补足 | |
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34
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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38
secrecies
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| 保密（secrecy的复数形式） | |
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39
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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41
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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42
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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43
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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45
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
hopped
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| 跳上[下]( hop的过去式和过去分词 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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47
intake
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| n.吸入，纳入；进气口，入口 | |
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48
babbled
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| v.喋喋不休( babble的过去式和过去分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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49
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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50
chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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51
imperatively
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| adv.命令式地 | |
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52
coaxingly
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| adv. 以巧言诱哄，以甘言哄骗 | |
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53
blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
ravenous
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| adj.极饿的，贪婪的 | |
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56
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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57
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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58
crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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59
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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60
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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61
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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62
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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63
feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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64
auditorium
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| n.观众席，听众席；会堂，礼堂 | |
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65
conspiratorial
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| adj.阴谋的，阴谋者的 | |
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66
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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67
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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68
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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70
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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71
cuisine
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| n.烹调，烹饪法 | |
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72
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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73
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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74
suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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75
suavely
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76
beet
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| n.甜菜；甜菜根 | |
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77
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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78
enticingly
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79
allay
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| v.消除，减轻(恐惧、怀疑等) | |
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80
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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81
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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82
prophesies
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的第三人称单数 ) | |
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83
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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84
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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85
canopied
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| adj. 遮有天篷的 | |
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86
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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87
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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88
porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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89
fixtures
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| （房屋等的）固定装置( fixture的名词复数 )； 如（浴盆、抽水马桶）； 固定在某位置的人或物； （定期定点举行的）体育活动 | |
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90
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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91
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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92
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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93
thronging
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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94
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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96
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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97
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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98
profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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99
fawningly
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| adv.奉承地，讨好地 | |
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100
fawning
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| adj.乞怜的，奉承的v.（尤指狗等）跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的现在分词 )；巴结；讨好 | |
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101
obsequious
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| adj.谄媚的，奉承的，顺从的 | |
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102
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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103
broiled
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| a.烤过的 | |
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104
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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105
unctuously
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| adv.油腻地，油腔滑调地；假惺惺 | |
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106
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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107
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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108
imposture
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| n.冒名顶替，欺骗 | |
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109
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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110
imprint
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| n.印痕，痕迹；深刻的印象；vt.压印，牢记 | |
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111
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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112
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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113
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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114
guile
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| n.诈术 | |
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115
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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116
monologue
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| n.长篇大论，（戏剧等中的）独白 | |
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117
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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118
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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119
attentiveness
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| [医]注意 | |
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120
devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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121
exhorted
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| v.劝告，劝说( exhort的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sop
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| n.湿透的东西，懦夫；v.浸，泡，浸湿 | |
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123
helpings
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| n.（食物）的一份( helping的名词复数 )；帮助，支持 | |
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124
accrue
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| v.(利息等)增大，增多 | |
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125
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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126
plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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127
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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128
pried
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| v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的过去式和过去分词 )；撬开 | |
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129
insinuated
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| v.暗示( insinuate的过去式和过去分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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130
censor
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| n./vt.审查，审查员；删改 | |
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131
vibrant
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| adj.震颤的，响亮的，充满活力的，精力充沛的，(色彩)鲜明的 | |
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132
resonance
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| n.洪亮；共鸣；共振 | |
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133
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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134
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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tenacious
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| adj.顽强的，固执的，记忆力强的，粘的 | |
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136
fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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137
stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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138
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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139
avaricious
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| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
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140
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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141
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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142
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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143
irrelevantly
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| adv.不恰当地，不合适地；不相关地 | |
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144
ogling
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| v.（向…）抛媚眼，送秋波( ogle的现在分词 ) | |
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145
ogled
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| v.（向…）抛媚眼，送秋波( ogle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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146
languishing
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| a. 衰弱下去的 | |
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147
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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148
poignantly
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149
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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150
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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151
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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152
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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153
sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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154
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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