老妇人的故事 英文版The Old Wives' Tale
阿诺德.本涅特 Arnold Bennett
IV
But in three days' Chirac, with amazing luck, fell into anothersituation, and on the Journal des Debats. It was the Prussians whohad found him a place. The celebrated Payenneville, secondgreatest chroniqueur of his time, had caught a cold while doinghis duty as a national guard, and had died of pneumonia. Theweather was severe again; soldiers were being frozen to death atAubervilliers. Payenneville's position was taken by another man,whose post was offered to Chirac. He told Sophia of his goodfortune with unconcealed vanity.
She behaved just as though Chirac had disgusted her. She humbledhim. But with his fellow-lodgers his airs of importance as amember of the editorial staff of the Debats were comical in theiringenuousness. On the very same day Carlier gave notice to leaveSophia. He was comparatively rich; but the habits which hadenabled him to arrive at independence in the uncertain vocation ofa journalist would not allow him, while he was earning nothing, tospend a sou more than was absolutely necessary. He had decided tojoin forces with a widowed sister, who was accustomed to parsimonyas parsimony is understood in France, and who was living onhoarded potatoes and wine.
"There!" said Sophia, "you have lost me a tenant!"
And she insisted, half jocularly and half seriously, that Carlierwas leaving because he could not stand Chirac's infantile conceit.The flat was full of acrimonious words.
On Christmas morning Chirac lay in bed rather late; the newspapersdid not appear that day. Paris seemed to be in a sort of stupor.About eleven o'clock he came to the kitchen door.
"I must speak with you," he said. His tone impressed Sophia.
"Enter," said she.
He went in, and closed the door like a conspirator. "We must havea little fete," he said. "You and I."
"Fete!" she repeated. "What an idea! How can I leave?"
If the idea had not appealed to the secrecies of her heart,stirring desires and souvenirs upon which the dust of time laythick, she would not have begun by suggesting difficulties; shewould have begun by a flat refusal.
"That is nothing," he said vigorously. "It is Christmas, and Imust have a chat with you. We cannot chat here. I have not had atrue little chat with you since you were ill. You will come withme to a restaurant for lunch."
She laughed. "And the lunch of my lodgers?"
"You will serve it a little earlier. We will go out immediatelyafterwards, and we will return in time for you to prepare dinner.It is quite simple."
She shook her head. "You are mad," she said crossly.
"It is necessary that I should offer you something," he went onscowling. "You comprehend me? I wish you to lunch with me to-day.I demand it, and you are not going to refuse me."
He was very close to her in the little kitchen, and he spokefiercely, bullyingly, exactly as she had spoken to him wheninsisting that he should live on credit with her for a while.
"You are very rude," she parried.
"If I am rude, it is all the same to me," he held outuncompromisingly. "You will lunch with me; I hold to it."
"How can I be dressed?" she protested.
"That does not concern me. Arrange that as you can."
It was the most curious invitation to a Christmas dinnerimaginable.
At a quarter past twelve they issued forth side by side, heavilyclad, into the mournful streets. The sky, slate-coloured, presagedsnow. The air was bitterly cold, and yet damp. There were nofiacres in the little three-cornered place which forms the mouthof the Rue Clausel. In the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette, a singleempty omnibus was toiling up the steep glassy slope, the horsesslipping and recovering themselves in response to the whip-cracking, which sounded in the streets as in an empty vault.Higher up, in the Rue Fontaine, one of the few shops that wereopen displayed this announcement: "A large selection of cheesesfor New Year's gifts." They laughed.
"Last year at this moment," said Chirac, "I was thinking of onlyone thing--the masked ball at the opera. I could not sleep afterit. This year even the churches, are not open. And you?"
She put her lips together. "Do not ask me," she said.
They proceeded in silence.
"We are triste, we others," he said. "But the Prussians, in theirtrenches, they cannot be so gay, either! Their families and theirChristmas trees must be lacking to them. Let us laugh!"
The Place Blanche and the Boulevard de Clichy were no more livelythan the lesser streets and squares. There was no life anywhere,scarcely a sound; not even the sound of cannon. Nobody knewanything; Christmas had put the city into a lugubrious trance ofhopelessness. Chirac took Sophia's arm across the Place Blanche,and a few yards up the Rue Lepic he stopped at a small restaurant,famous among the initiated, and known as "The Little Louis." Theyentered, descending by two steps into a confined and sombrelypicturesque interior.
Sophia saw that they were expected. Chirac must have paid aprevious visit to the restaurant that morning. Several disorderedtables showed that people had already lunched, and left; but inthe corner was a table for two, freshly laid in the best manner ofsuch restaurants; that is to say, with a red-and-white checkedcloth, and two other red-and-white cloths, almost as large as thetable-cloth, folded as serviettes and arranged flat on two thickplates between solid steel cutlery; a salt-cellar, out of whichone ground rock-salt by turning a handle, a pepper-castor, twoknife-rests, and two common tumblers. The phenomena whichdifferentiated this table from the ordinary table were a champagnebottle and a couple of champagne glasses. Champagne was one of thefew items which had not increased in price during the siege.
The landlord and his wife were eating in another corner, a fat,slatternly pair, whom no privations of a siege could haveemaciated. The landlord rose. He was dressed as a chef, all inwhite, with the sacred cap; but a soiled white. Everything in theplace was untidy, unkempt and more or less unclean, except justthe table upon which champagne was waiting. And yet the restaurantwas agreeable, reassuring. The landlord greeted his customers ashonest friends. His greasy face was honest, and so was the pale,weary, humorous face of his wife. Chirac saluted her.
"You see," said she, across from the other corner, indicating abone on her plate. "This is Diane!"
"Ah! the poor animal!" exclaimed Chirac, sympathetically.
"I was saying to my wife," the landlord put in, "how she wouldhave enjoyed that bone--Diane!" He roared with laughter.
Sophia and the landlady exchanged a curious sad smile at thispleasantry, which had been re-discovered by the landlord forperhaps the thousandth time during the siege, but which heevidently regarded as quite new and original.
"Eh, well!" he continued confidentially to Chirac. "I have foundfor you something very good--half a duck." And in a still lowertone: "And it will not cost you too dear."
No attempt to realize more than a modest profit was ever made inthat restaurant. It possessed a regular clientele who knew thevalue of the little money they had, and who knew also how toappreciate sincere and accomplished cookery. The landlord was thechef, and he was always referred to as the chef, even by his wife.
"How did you get that?" Chirac asked.
"Ah!" said the landlord, mysteriously. "I have one of my friends,who comes from Villeneuve St. Georges--refugee, you know. Infine ..." A wave of the fat hands, suggesting that Chirac should notinquire too closely.
"In effect!" Chirac commented. "But it is very chic, that!"
"I believe you that it is chic!" said the landlady, sturdily.
"It is charming," Sophia murmured politely.
"And then a quite little salad!" said the landlord.
"But that--that is still more striking!" said Chirac.
The landlord winked. The fact was that the commerce which resultedin fresh green vegetables in the heart of a beleagured town wasnotorious.
"And then also a quite little cheese!" said Sophia, slightlyimitating the tone of the landlord, as she drew from theinwardness of her cloak a small round parcel. It contained a Briecheese, in fairly good condition. It was worth at least fiftyfrancs, and it had cost Sophia less than two francs. The landladyjoined the landlord in inspecting this wondrous jewel. Sophiaseized a knife and cut a slice for the landlady's table.
"Madame is too good!" said the landlady, confused by this noblegenerosity, and bearing the gift off to her table as a fox-terrierwill hurriedly seek solitude with a sumptuous morsel. The landlordbeamed. Chirac was enchanted. In the intimate and unaffectedcosiness of that interior the vast, stupefied melancholy of thecity seemed to be forgotten, to have lost its sway.
Then the landlord brought a hot brick for the feet of madame. Itwas more an acknowledgment of the slice of cheese than anecessity, for the restaurant was very warm; the tiny kitchenopened directly into it, and the door between the two was open;there was no ventilation whatever.
"It is a friend of mine," said the landlord, proudly, in the wayof gossip as he served an undescribed soup, "a butcher in theFaubourg St. Honore, who has bought the three elephants of theJardin des Plantes for twenty-seven thousand francs."
Eyebrows were lifted. He uncorked the champagne.
As she drank the first mouthful (she had long lost her youthfulaversion for wine), Sophia had a glimpse of herself in a tiltedmirror hung rather high on the opposite wall. It was severalmonths since she had attired herself with ceremoniousness. Thesudden unexpected vision of elegance and pallid beauty pleasedher. And the instant effect of the champagne was to crenew in hermind a forgotten conception of the goodness of life and of thejoys which she had so long missed.