One morning he awoke with a shock of apprehension2, the foreboding of calamitous3 mischance. It was the first time in weeks that he had taken thought of the state of his resources or felt any care or worry for the future. He counted his money with feverish4 haste, and discovered that less than 250 francs remained. For a moment he sat on the edge of the bed, holding the little wad of franc notes in his hand, stunned5 and bewildered by this sudden realization6 that his funds were exhausted7, and for the moment not knowing what to do. His hotel bill for the week was due; he went at once to the bureau and asked for it; a hasty calculation assured him that when he had paid it, less than twenty francs would be left.
He knew no one in Tours to whom he could appeal for aid; one glance at the impeccable, cold courtesy of the female face, hard, dark and Gallic, in the bureau of the hotel — the basalt of the eyes, the line of hair across the brows — told him that he could as soon wring8 milk and honey from the cobble-stones as extract an ounce of charitable relief from the granite9 coffers of her soul. The brows drew in, the black eyes hardened with a cold narrowing of mistrust: even before he spoke10 he saw she had read the story of his profligate12 extravagance, and that from that moment the hard propriety13 of her suspicious soul had been turned against him with that virtuous14 dislike which such people feel for unmoneyed men. When he spoke, therefore, it was to tell her he was leaving that day: she inclined her dark, hard face impassively, saying: “Oui, monsieur,” and asked if he would have his room vacated by twelve o’clock.
He went to the railway station and looked up rates and distances. During the whole period of his stay in Tours — in fact, during the whole course of his wanderings since leaving Paris — he had been vaguely15 assured that he was moving in the general direction of Provence, Marseilles, and the South. He now discovered, on consulting a map, that he was off this course by some hundreds of kilometres, and on the southwest road to Bordeaux, the Pyrenees, and Spain. For a moment, he was decided16 to take the train for Bordeaux — a post card from Ann had been mailed from Carcassonne, and she had informed him that they were on their way to Biarritz. A brief inquiry17, however, convinced him that his funds were by no means sufficient to get him even as far as Bordeaux and, over there, he felt, his case was more desperate than ever. He knew no one there and had no hope of meeting anyone he knew. He discovered also that the lowest fare back to Paris — the third-class fare — was about thirty-four francs, almost twice as much as he possessed18.
Finally, with a feeling of malevolent19 joy — for, curiously20, a growing realization of his plight21, and the dark, hard eyes of the Frenchmen fixed22 on him in an expression of avaricious23 mistrust, had now wakened in him a jubilant indifference24, a desire to roar with laughter — he thought of Orléans and the Countess.
He found that his funds were sufficient for third-class fare to Orléans, which was about seventeen francs, and that a train was leaving in an hour. Returning to the hotel, he packed his valise with frenzied25 haste, throwing his clothes in and stamping it down with his feet, rode to the station in the hotel’s horse-drawn bus, and an hour later was on his way back to Orléans.
Late March had come: the day was overcast26 with thin, grey clouds, an uncertain milky27 radiance of light; the fields and earth and forests, still bare, had a moist, thawed28 fertility that spoke of spring. On the way up, snow began to fall, a brief flurry of large, wet flakes29 that melted as they fell: it was soon over, and the sun broke through in thin, wavering gusts30 of light.
There were no other passengers in his compartment31; he sat looking out of the window across the wet fields, and from time to time, as he visualized32 the look of startled, crafty33 apprehension on the Countess’s face when she saw him, he burst into wild, sudden whoops34 and yells of laughter that echoed loudly above the steady pounding of the wheels.
It was noon when he reached Orléans: he took his heavy bag and went limping out across the station square, pausing once to rest his aching arms and change his grip. On entering the hotel he found Yvonne in the bureau. She looked up from her ledger35 as he entered, her dark face hardening with a mistrust of cold surprise as she saw him.
“Monsieur has returned to stay?” she inquired, and looking towards his valise. “You wish a room?”
“I do not know yet,” he said easily. “I shall let you know in a few minutes. At present, I should like to speak to the Countess. Is she here?”
She did not answer for a moment, her black brows gathered in a line, and her eyes grew perceptibly harder, colder, more mistrustful as she looked at him.
“Yes. I s’ink she is in her room,” she said at length. “I vill see. . . . Jean!” she called sharply, and struck a bell.
The porter appeared, started with surprise when he saw the youth, and then smiled cordially and greeted him in friendly fashion. Then he turned inquiringly to Yvonne. She spoke curtly36:
“Dites à Madame la Comtesse que Monsieur le jeune Américain est revenu. Il attend.”
“Mais oui, monsieur,” the porter said briskly, turning towards him. “Et votre bagage?” he looked inquiringly at the valise. “Vous restez ici?”
“Je ne sais pas. Je vous dirai plus tard. Merci,” he said, as the porter took the valise and put it away behind the office desk.
The porter departed with his message. Yvonne returned to her books, and he waited, pacing the hall in a state of nervous elation37, until he heard the old woman’s voice, sharp, startled, excited, speaking to the porter on the floor above. Then he heard her coming down the stairs, turned and faced her sharply-inquiring, apprehensive38 face as she came down, and was vigorously pumping her uncertain and unwilling39 little claw, before she had time to stammer40 out a greeting:
“But what — why — what brings you here?” she said. “I thought you had returned to Paris by now. Where have you been?” she asked sharply.
“In Tours,” he answered.
“Tours! But what were you doing there all this time? . . . What happened to you?” she asked suspiciously.
“Ah, Countess,” he said solemnly, “it is a long story.” Then, with a deliberate burlesque41 of portentous42 gravity, he lowered his voice and whispered hoarsely43, “I fell among thieves.”
“What —?” she said in a faltering45 tone. “What are you saying? . . . You mean you have come back here . . . that you have no . . . how much money have you left?” she demanded sharply.
He thrust his hand into his trousers pocket, fished around and pulled out a few small coins: four two-franc pieces, a franc, two twenty-five-centime coins, a ten — and a five-centime piece —
“That’s all,” he said, counting them over. “Nine francs sixty-five.”
“W-w-w-w-what?” she stammered46. “Nine francs sixty-five — do you mean that’s all you have left?”
“That’s all,” he said cheerfully, “but now that I’m here at last it doesn’t matter.”
“Here!” she gasped47. “Do you mean you are going — what do you intend to do?” she said sharply.
“Oh,” he said easily, “I shall wait here until I get money from America.”
“And — and how long do you think that will take?” the old woman was twisting her skinny fingers with feverish apprehension.
“Oh, not long,” he said airily. “I wrote my mother yesterday, and it ought not to take over four weeks to get an answer.”
“Four or five weeks!” the old woman said hoarsely. “What are you saying? Four or five weeks, and you have nine francs sixty-five in your pockets! My God! the man is mad!”
“Oh, that part of it will be all right, I guess,” he said with an easy laugh. “I told my mother all about you and Monsieur and Madame Vatel, and all my other friends here, and how good you had been to me, and how you were always befriending Americans, and how they call you Little Mother. I told her you couldn’t have been kinder to me if you’d been my own mother, and that she didn’t need to worry about me at all. So I guess that part of it’s all right,” he concluded comfortably. “I told her that I’d just put up here at the hotel, and that you and the Vatels would take good care of me until the money comes from home.”
“Put up here! . . . For four or five weeks! . . . Hush48, my boy! Hush!” she whispered, clutching him feverishly49 with her bony little claw and casting an apprehensive glance towards Yvonne, whose dark head was lowered studiously above her ledger, but who suggested, by a certain strained attentiveness50 of posture51, that she was missing none of the conversation.
“Come,” the Countess whispered feverishly again, pulling him towards the stairway as she spoke. “You come with me, my boy. I want to talk to you alone.”
They went upstairs to a parlour on the first floor, deserted52, closed, a little stale with its sumptuous53 bordello furnishings of gilt54 and crimson55 plush. There the Countess turned to him and said directly:
“See here, my boy. What you want to do is out of the question. It will be impossible for you to stay here for four or five weeks! Impossible!” she cried, twisting her bony little hands with growing agitation56. “It cannot be done!”
He looked surprised, a little pained.
“Why?” he said.
“Because,” she said, and now at last her tone was simple and direct in its quiet assertion, “the Vatels will not keep you here — they will not give you credit for so long a time —”
“And you?” he said quietly.
“My friend,” the old woman answered simply, “I have not got it.” She raised her bony little shoulders in a shrug57. “At the present moment I have nothing — not a sou! I get a little money from America on the first and fifteenth of each month — if I had it, I would give it to you, but I have nothing now. And what I get would not be nearly enough to pay your expenses here for five weeks. It cannot be done.”
For the first time since his return he felt respect and sympathy for her; in face of the plain and honest directness of her confession58 all of his former humour of cynical59 mockery had vanished. He said:
“In that case it cannot be done. You are right. I must try to get help elsewhere.”
“You have friends in Paris, haven’t you? You know people there — Americans?”
“Yes — I think I could get help from someone if I were in Paris.”
“Then I shall try to help you to get there,” she said quickly. “How much will you need?”
“I think the third-class fare from here is about seventeen francs,” he said.
“And you have — how much? Nine sixty-five?” She calculated swiftly, was silent a moment, and then, with an air of decision, marked by a faint flush of painful embarrassment60 on her withered61 cheek as she thought of the unpleasant task before her, she said: “If you will wait here, I will go below and see what I can do with these people. . . . I do not know,” she said shortly, the faint flush deepening as she spoke, “but I will try.”
She left him and presently he heard voices below, mixed in rapid and excited argument. In ten minutes the old woman returned. In her hand she held a ten-franc note.
“Here,” she said, giving it to him. “With what you have, it will be enough to get you to Paris. I have inquired. There is a train in twenty minutes. Now, my boy,” she said quickly, taking him by the arm, “you must go. You will just have time to buy your ticket and get on the train. You have no time to lose.”
He had been surprised and disappointed at the meagre exactness of her loan: he had eaten nothing all day long and suddenly, with no funds to spare and the prospect62 of a continued and indefinite fast before him, he felt ravenously63 hungry. And now it was his turn to redden with embarrassment; he found it difficult to speak, and in a moment said hesitantly:
“I wonder if these people here would let me have a sandwich. . . . I’ve had nothing to eat.”
She did not answer; he saw the faint flush deepen on her sallow cheeks again and, already sorry for the additional distress64 his request had caused her, he said quickly:
“No, it doesn’t matter. I’ll get something when I get to Paris. Besides, there’s not time now, anyway. I’ll have to get that train.”
“Yes,” she said quickly, with relief. “I think you should. That is best. . . . And now, my boy, make haste. You have no more time to lose.”
“Good-bye, Countess,” he said, taking her by the hand, and suddenly feeling for the old, lonely, and penniless woman the deepest affection and respect he had ever felt for her. “You have really been my friend. I’m sorry that I’ve had to cause you this trouble. I’ll send you the money when I get to Paris. Good-bye, now, and good luck to you.”
When she answered, her voice was quiet and her old eyes were sad and tranquilly65 resigned:
“Ah,” she said, “I was afraid that this would happen to you. I have known so many Americans — they are so reckless, so extravagant66, they do not watch their money. . . . Good-bye, my boy,” she now said quietly, clasping his hand. “Take care of yourself and do not get into any more trouble. . . . Let me know if all goes well with you. . . . Good-bye, good-bye. . . . Ah, you are so young, aren’t you? Some day you will learn. . . . Good-bye, God bless you — you must hurry now — good-bye. Good-bye.”
She followed him as he went quickly down the stairs, and stood on the stairs watching him as he departed. His valise had been put out before the bureau, where he could get it easily: Yvonne and Madame Vatel were waiting silently in the office. Yvonne did not speak at all; when he spoke to Madame Vatel, she cocked her head a little and said coldly: “Monsieur?”
He seized the valise and started for the door with it at a rapid limping stride. At the door he paused, turned, and saw the Countess, still standing67 on the stairs and looking at him with old, sad eyes.
“Good-bye,” he cried in jubilant farewell. “Good-bye, Countess.”
“Good-bye, my boy,” her voice was so weary, old, and sad he could scarcely hear her.
Then he limped rapidly away from the hotel, across the square, and towards the station and the train.
All through the afternoon the train roared up across the fat and fertile countryside towards Paris. A late sun broke through ragged68 clouds of torn gold: the light was wild and radiant with a prophecy of spring. In the compartment his only companion was a young soldier: a boy of eighteen, tall, gawky, big of hand and foot and limb, looking even clumsier than he really was in his thick-soled army shoes, his blue-olive uniform — his long shanks coarsely wound with bands of olive cloth.
The boy had a friendly, olive-coloured face, a little marred69 by pimples70 and fuzzy unshaved hair; he talked constantly, amiably71 indifferent to his companion’s foreign speech and manner, garrulously72 friendly in a hoarse44 boy’s voice.
In the middle of the afternoon he began to unpack73 various bundles from the staggering impedimenta of military equipment with which he was surrounded. From a pocket of his overcoat he solemnly fished out an enormous tin of sardines75. From another package he took out a gigantic bottle of red wine, and with the same gravity began to unfold from its wrapping in a newspaper a three-foot loaf of crusty bread.
Then, with the same deliberate concentration, he opened the sardine74 tin, uncorked the wine-bottle and took a hearty76 preliminary swig, pulled out a clasp-knife with an evil-looking six-inch blade and, holding the loaf gripped firmly between his knees, began with a backward motion to carve a crisp and liberal slab77 out of the crusty loaf. This done, he put the bread aside, solemnly impaled78 a huge sardine upon the point of his gleaming knife, smacked79 it down upon the slab of bread and, furnishing himself with another hearty swig of the red wine, began to poke11 the sandwich happily away towards its intended destination, carrying on a choked but completely unperturbed conversation with his companion as he did so.
And his fellow traveller, gazing on that coarse but appetizing fare, felt the pangs80 of hunger awake in him again with such maddening insistence81 that the whole legend of his starved desire must have been written on his yearning82 face and in his greedy eyes. At any rate, the young soldier, his mouth still crammed83 with food, uttered some inarticulate but friendly sounds, in which the word “Mangez” alone was intelligible84, suddenly thrust loaf, bottle, knife, and sardine tin towards his starved companion, and with a gesture of rude encouragement, hoarsely spattered forth85 again:
“Mangez!”
The fellow-traveller required no second bidding. He fell to ravenously on sardines, wine, and crusty loaf; they sat there cramming86 themselves enthusiastically, uttering choked and muffled87 sounds from time to time and grinning at each other amiably.
Nothing he had ever eaten tasted as good as that coarse fare; the strong, plain wine was pulsing warmly in his veins88, the food made a warm glow in his grateful belly89; outside, the sun had broken through in stripes of ragged gold and bronze, above the wheels he could hear great roars of hearty country laughter from another compartment, the high, rich, sanguinary voice of a Frenchman as he cried “Parbleu!”
And he was going back to Paris again, without a penny, a prospect, or a plan, and he felt no care nor pain nor trouble any longer — nothing but wild joy and jubilant happiness such as he had never felt before. He did not know why.
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1
comatose
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| adj.昏睡的，昏迷不醒的 | |
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2
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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3
calamitous
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| adj.灾难的，悲惨的；多灾多难；惨重 | |
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4
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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5
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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6
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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7
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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8
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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9
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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10
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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11
poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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12
profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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13
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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14
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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15
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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16
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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17
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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18
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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19
malevolent
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| adj.有恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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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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plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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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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avaricious
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| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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overcast
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| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
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milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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thawed
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| 解冻 | |
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flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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visualized
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| 直观的，直视的 | |
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crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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whoops
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| int.呼喊声 | |
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ledger
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| n.总帐，分类帐；帐簿 | |
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curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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stammer
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| n.结巴，口吃；v.结结巴巴地说 | |
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41
burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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45
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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46
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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47
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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48
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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49
feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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50
attentiveness
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| [医]注意 | |
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51
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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52
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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53
sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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54
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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55
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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56
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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57
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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58
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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59
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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60
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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ravenously
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| adv.大嚼地，饥饿地 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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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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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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pimples
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| n.丘疹，粉刺，小脓疱( pimple的名词复数 ) | |
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amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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garrulously
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unpack
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| vt.打开包裹（或行李），卸货 | |
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sardine
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| n.[C]沙丁鱼 | |
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sardines
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| n. 沙丁鱼 | |
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76
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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impaled
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| 钉在尖桩上( impale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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cramming
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| n.塞满，填鸭式的用功v.塞入( cram的现在分词 )；填塞；塞满；（为考试而）死记硬背功课 | |
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87
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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