As I started up the stairs the concierge knocked on the glass of the door of her lodge, and as I stopped she came out. She had some letters and a telegram.
"Here is the post. And there was a lady here to see you."
"Did she leave a card?"
"No. She was with a gentleman. It was the one who was here last night. In the end I find she is very nice."
"Was she with a friend of mine?"
"I don't know. He was never here before. He was very large. Very, very large. She was very nice. Very, very nice. Last night she was, perhaps, a little--" She put her head on one hand and rocked it up and down. "I'll speak perfectly frankly, Monsieur Barnes. Last night I found her not so gentille. Last night I formed another idea of her. But listen to what I tell you. She is très, très gentille. She is of very good family. It is a thing you can see."
"They did not leave any word?"
"Yes. They said they would be back in an hour."
"Send them up when they come."
"Yes, Monsieur Barnes. And that lady, that lady there is some one. An eccentric, perhaps, but quelqu'une, quelqu'une!"
The concierge, before she became a concierge, had owned a drink-selling concession at the Paris race-courses. Her life-work lay in the pelouse, but she kept an eye on the people of the pesage, and she took great pride in telling me which of my guests were well brought up, which were of good family, who were sportsmen, a French word pronounced with the accent on the men. The only trouble was that people who did not fall into any of those three categories were very liable to be told there was no one home, chez Barnes. One of my friends, an extremely underfed-looking painter, who was obviously to Madame Duzinell neither well brought up, of good family, nor a sportsman, wrote me a letter asking if I could get him a pass to get by the concierge so he could come up and see me occasionally in the evenings.
I went up to the flat wondering what Brett had done to the concierge. The wire was a cable from Bill Gorton, saying he was arriving on the _France_. I put the mail on the table, went back to the bedroom, undressed and had a shower. I was rubbing down when I heard the door-bell pull. I put on a bathrobe and slippers and went to the door. It was Brett. Back of her was the count. He was holding a great bunch of roses.
"Hello, darling," said Brett. "Aren't you going to let us in?"
"Come on. I was just bathing."
"Aren't you the fortunate man. Bathing."
"Only a shower. Sit down, Count Mippipopolous. What will you drink?"
"I don't know whether you like flowers, sir," the count said, "but I took the liberty of just bringing these roses."
"Here, give them to me." Brett took them. "Get me some water in this, Jake." I filled the big earthenware jug with water in the kitchen, and Brett put the roses in it, and placed them in the centre of the dining-room table.
"I say. We have had a day."
"You don't remember anything about a date with me at the Crillon?"
"No. Did we have one? I must have been blind."
"You were quite drunk, my dear," said the count.
"Wasn't I, though? And the count's been a brick, absolutely."
"You've got hell's own drag with the concierge now."
"I ought to have. Gave her two hundred francs."
"Don't be a damned fool."
"His," she said, and nodded at the count.
"I thought we ought to give her a little something for last night. It was very late."
"He's wonderful," Brett said. "He remembers everything that's happened."
"So do you, my dear."
"Fancy," said Brett. "Who'd want to? I say, Jake, do we get a drink?"
"You get it while I go in and dress. You know where it is."
"Rather."
While I dressed I heard Brett put down glasses and then a siphon, and then heard them talking. I dressed slowly, sitting on the bed. I felt tired and pretty rotten. Brett came in the room, a glass in her hand, and sat on the bed.
"What's the matter, darling? Do you feel rocky?"
She kissed me coolly on the forehead.
"Oh, Brett, I love you so much."
"Darling," she said. Then: "Do you want me to send him away?"
"No. He's nice."
"I'll send him away."
"No, don't."
"Yes, I'll send him away."
"You can't just like that."
"Can't I, though? You stay here. He's mad about me, I tell you."
She was gone out of the room. I lay face down on the bed. I was having a bad time. I heard them talking but I did not listen. Brett came in and sat on the bed.
"Poor old darling." She stroked my head.
"What did you say to him?" I was lying with my face away from her. I did not want to see her.
"Sent him for champagne. He loves to go for champagne."
Then later: "Do you feel better, darling? Is the head any better?"
"It's better."
"Lie quiet. He's gone to the other side of town."
"Couldn't we live together, Brett? Couldn't we just live together?"
"I don't think so. I'd just _tromper_ you with everybody. You couldn't stand it."
"I stand it now."
"That would be different. It's my fault, Jake. It's the way I'm made."
"Couldn't we go off in the country for a while?"
"It wouldn't be any good. I'll go if you like. But I couldn't live quietly in the country. Not with my own true love."
"I know."
"Isn't it rotten? There isn't any use my telling you I love you."
"You know I love you."
"Let's not talk. Talking's all bilge. I'm going away from you, and then Michael's coming back."
"Why are you going away?"
"Better for you. Better for me."
"When are you going?"
"Soon as I can."
"Where?"
"San Sebastian."
"Can't we go together?"
"No. That would be a hell of an idea after we'd just talked it out."
"We never agreed."
"Oh, you know as well as I do. Don't he obstinate, darling."
"Oh, sure," I said. "I knowyou're right. I'm just low, and when I'm low I talk like a fool."
I sat up, leaned over, found my shoes beside the bed and put them on. I stood up.
"Don't look like that, darling."
"How do you want me to look?"
"Oh, don't be a fool. I'm going away to-morrow."
"To-morrow?"
"Yes. Didn't I say so? I am."
"Let's have a drink, then. The count will be back."
"Yes. He should be back. You know he's extraordinary about buying champagne. It means any amount to him."
We went into the dining-room. I took up the brandy bottle and poured Brett a drink and one for myself. There was a ring at the bell-pull. I went to the door and there was the count. Behind him was the chauffeur carrying a basket of champagne.
"Where should I have him put it, sir?" asked the count.
"In the kitchen," Brett said.
"Put it in there, Henry," the count motioned. "Now go down and get the ice." He stood looking after the basket inside the kitchen door. "I think you'll find that's very good wine," he said. "I know we don't get much of a chance to judge good wine in the States now, but I got this from a friend of mine that's in the business."
"Oh, you always have some one in the trade," Brett said.
"This fellow raises the grapes. He's got thousands of acres of them."
"What's his name?" asked Brett. "Veuve Cliquot?"
"No," said the count. "Mumms. He's a baron."
"Isn't it wonderful," said Brett. "We all have titles. Why haven't you a title, Jake?"
"I assure you, sir," the count put his hand on my arm. "It never does a man any good. Most of the time it costs you money."
"Oh, I don't know. It's damned useful sometimes," Brett said.
"I've never known it to do me any good."
"You haven't used it properly. I've had hell's own amount of credit on mine."
"Do sit down, count," I said. "Let me take that stick."
The count was looking at Brett across the table under the gaslight. She was smoking a cigarette and flicking the ashes on the rug. She saw me notice it. "I say, Jake, I don't want to ruin your rugs. Can't you give a chap an ash-tray?"
I found some ash-trays and spread them around. The chauffeur came up with a bucket full of salted ice. "Put two bottles in it, Henry," the count called.
"Anything else, sir?"
"No. Wait down in the car." He turned to Brett and to me. "We'll want to ride out to the Bois for dinner?"
"If you like," Brett said. "I couldn't eat a thing."
"I always like a good meal," said the count.
"Should I bring the wine in, sir?" asked the chauffeur.
"Yes. Bring it in, Henry," said the count. He took out a heavy pigskin cigar-case and offered it to me. "Like to try a real American cigar?"
"Thanks," I said. "I'll finish the cigarette."
He cut off the end of his cigar with a gold cutter he wore on one end of his watch-chain.
"I like a cigar to really draw," said the count. "Half the cigars you smoke don't draw."
He lit the cigar, puffed at it, looking across the table at Brett. "And when you're divorced, Lady Ashley, then you won't have a title."
"No. What a pity."
"No," said the count. "You don't need a title. You got class all over you."
"Thanks. Awfully decent of you."
"I'm not joking you," the count blew a cloud of smoke. "You got the most class of anybody I ever seen. You got it. That's all."
"Nice of you," said Brett. "Mummy would be pleased. Couldn't you write it out, and I'll send it in a letter to her."
"I'd tell her, too," said the count. "I'm not joking you. I never joke people. Joke people and you make enemies. That's what I always say."
"You're right," Brett said. "You're terribly right. I always joke people and I haven't a friend in the world. Except Jake here."
"You don't joke him."
"That's it."
"Do you, now?" asked the count. "Do you joke him?"
Brett looked at me and wrinkled up the corners of her eyes.
"No," she said. "I wouldn't joke him."
"See," said the count. "You don't joke him."
"This is a hell of a dull talk," Brett said. "How about some of that champagne?"
The count reached down and twirled the bottles in the shiny bucket. "It isn't cold, yet. You're always drinking, my dear. Why don't you just talk?"
"I've talked too ruddy much. I've talked myself all out to Jake."
"I should like to hear you really talk, my dear. When you talk to me you never finish your sentences at all."
"Leave 'em for you to finish. Let any one finish them as they like."
"It is a very interesting system," the count reached down and gave the bottles a twirl. "Still I would like to hear you talk some time."
"Isn't he a fool?" Brett asked.
"Now," the count brought up a bottle. "I think this is cool."
I brought a towel and he wiped the bottle dry and held it up. "I like to drink champagne from magnums. The wine is better but it would have been too hard to cool." He held the bottle, looking at it. I put out the glasses.
"I say. You might open it," Brett suggested.
"Yes, my dear. Now I'll open it."
It was amazing champagne.
"I say that is wine," Brett held up her glass. "We ought to toast something. 'Here's to royalty.'
"This wine is too good for toast-drinking, my dear. You don't want to mix emotions up with a wine like that. You lose the taste."
Brett's glass was empty.
"You ought to write a book on wines, count," I said.
"Mr. Barnes," answered the count, "all I want out of wines is to enjoy them."
"Let's enjoy a little more of this," Brett pushed her glass forward. The count poured very carefully. "There, my dear. Now you enjoy that slowly, and then you can get drunk."
"Drunk? Drunk?"
"My dear, you are charming when you are drunk."
"Listen to the man."
"Mr. Barnes," the count poured my glass full. "She is the only lady I have ever known who was as charming when she was drunk as when she was sober."
"You haven't been around much, have you?"
"Yes, my dear. I have been around very much. I have been around a very great deal."
"Drink your wine," said Brett. "We've all been around. I dare say Jake here has seen as much as you have."
My dear, I am sure Mr. Barnes has seen a lot. Don t think I don't think so, sir. I have seen a lot, too."
"Of course you have, my dear," Brett said. "I was only ragging."
"I have been in seven wars and four revolutions," the count said.
"Soldiering?" Brett asked.
"Sometimes, my dear. And I have got arrow wounds. Have you ever seen arrow wounds?"
"Let's have a look at them."
The count stood up, unbuttoned his vest, and opened his shirt. He pulled up the undershirt onto his chest and stood, his chest black, and big stomach muscles bulging under the light.
"You see them?"
Below the line where his ribs stopped were two raised white welts. "See on the back where they come out." Above the small of the back were the same two scars, raised as thick as a finger.
"I say. Those are something."
"Clean through."
The count was tucking in his shirt.
"Where did you get those?" I asked.
"In Abyssinia. When I was twenty-one years old."
"What were you doing?" asked Brett. "Were you in the army?"
"I was on a business trip, my dear."
"I told you he was one of us. Didn't I?" Brett turned to me. "I love you, count. You're a darling."
"You make me very happy, my dear. But it isn't true."
"Don't be an ass."
"You see, Mr. Barnes, it is because I have lived very much that now I can enjoy everything so well. Don't you find it like that?"
"Yes. Absolutely."
"I know," said the count. "That is the secret. You must get to know the values."
"Doesn't anything ever happen to your values?" Brett asked.
"No. Not any more."
"Never fall in love?"
"Always," said the count. "I am always in love."
"What does that do to your values?"
"That, too, has got a place in my values."
"You haven't any values. You're dead, that's all."
"No, my dear. You're not right. I'm not dead at all."
We drank three bottles of the champagne and the count left the basket in my kitchen. We dined at a restaurant in the Bois. It was a good dinner. Food had an excellent place in the count's values. So did wine. The count was in fine form during the meal. So was Brett. It was a good party.
"Where would you like to go?" asked the count after dinner. We were the only people left in the restaurant. The two waiters were standing over against the door. They wanted to go home.
"We might go up on the hill," Brett said. "Haven't we had a splendid party?"
The count was beaming. He was very happy.
"You are very nice people," he said. He was smoking a cigar again. "Why don't you get married, you two?"
"We want to lead our own lives," I said.
"We have our careers," Brett said. "Come on. Let's get out of this."
"Have another brandy," the count said.
"Get it on the hill."
"No. Have it here where it is quiet."
"You and your quiet," said Brett. "What is it men feel about quiet?"
"We like it," said the count. "Like you like noise, my dear."
"All right," said Brett. "Let's have one."
"Sommelier!" the count called.
"Yes, sir."
"What is the oldest brandy you have?"
"Eighteen eleven, sir."
"Bring us a bottle."
"I say. Don't be ostentatious. Call him off, Jake."
"Listen, my dear. I get more value for my money in old brandy than in any other antiquities."
"Got many antiquities?"
"I got a houseful."
Finally we went up to Montmartre. Inside Zelli's it was crowded, smoky, and noisy. The music hit you as you went in. Brett and I danced. It was so crowded we could barely move. The nigger drummer waved at Brett. We were caught in the jam, dancing in one place in front of him.
"Hahre you?"
"Great."
"Thaats good."
He was all teeth and lips.
"He's a great friend of mine," Brett said. "Damn good drummer."
The music stopped and we started toward the table where the count sat. Then the music started again and we danced. I looked at the count. He was sitting at the table smoking a cigar. The music stopped again.
"Let's go over."
Brett started toward the table. The music started and again we danced, tight in the crowd.
"You are a rotten dancer, Jake. Michael's the best dancer I know."
"He's splendid."
"He's got his points."
"I like him," I said. "I'm damned fond of him."
"I'm going to marry him," Brett said. "Funny. I haven't thought about him for a week."
"Don't you write him?"
"Not I. Never write letters."
"I'll bet he writes to you."
"Rather. Damned good letters, too."
"When are you going to get married?"
"How do I know? As soon as we can get the divorce. Michael's trying to get his mother to put up for it."
"Could I help you?"
"Don't be an ass. Michael's people have loads of money."
The music stopped. We walked over to the table. The count stood up.
"Very nice," he said. "You looked very, very nice."
"Don't you dance, count?" I asked.
"No. I'm too old."
"Oh, come off it," Brett said.
"My dear, I would do it if I would enjoy it. I enjoy to watch you dance."
"Splendid," Brett said. "I'll dance again for you some time. I say. What about your little friend, Zizi?"
"Let me tell you. I support that boy, but I don't want to have him around."
"He is rather hard."
"You know I think that boy's got a future. But personally I don't want him around."
"Jake's rather the same way."
"He gives me the willys."
"Well," the count shrugged his shoulders. "About his future you can't ever tell. Anyhow, his father was a great friend of my father."
"Come on. Let's dance," Brett said.
We danced. It was crowded and close.
"Oh, darling," Brett said, "I'm so miserable."
I had that feeling of going through something that has all happened before. "You were happy a minute ago."
The drummer shouted: "You can't two time--"
"It's all gone."
"What's the matter?"
"I don't know. I just feel terribly."
". . . . . ." the drummer chanted. Then turned to his sticks.
"Want to go?"
I had the feeling as in a nightmare of it all being something repeated, something I had been through and that now I must go through again.
". . . . . ." the drummer sang softly.
"Let's go," said Brett. "You don't mind."
". . . . . ." the drummer shouted and grinned at Brett.
"All right," I said. We got out from the crowd. Brett went to the dressing-room.
"Brett wants to go," I said to the count. He nodded. "Does she? That's fine. You take the car. I'm going to stay here for a while, Mr. Barnes."
We shook hands.
"It was a wonderful time," I said. "I wish you would let me get this." I took a note out of my pocket.
"Mr. Barnes, don't be ridiculous," the count said.
Brett came over with her wrap on. She kissed the count and put her hand on his shoulder to keep him from standing up. As we went out the door I looked back and there were three girls at his table. We got into the big car. Brett gave the chauffeur the address of her hotel.
"No, don't come up," she said at the hotel. She had rung and the door was unlatched.
"Really?"
"No. Please."
"Good night, Brett," I said. "I'm sorry you feel rotten."
"Good night, Jake. Good night, darling. I won't see you again." We kissed standing at the door. She pushed me away. We kissed again. "Oh, don't!" Brett said.
我正要上楼，看门的敲敲她小屋门上的玻璃，我站停了，她走出屋来。她拿着几封信和一份电报。“这是你的邮件。有位夫人曾经来看过你。”
“她有没有留下名片？”“没有。她是和一位先生一起来的。她就是昨晚来的那位。我到头来发现，她非常好。”“她是和我的朋友一起来的？”
“我不认识。他从没到这儿来过。他是个大块头。个头非常非常大。她非常好。非常非常好。昨儿晚上，她可能有点儿——”她把头支在一只手上，上下摇晃着。“老实告诉你吧，巴恩斯先生。昨儿晚上我觉得她不怎么gentille。昨儿晚上给我的印象可不这样。可是你听我说呀。她实在是tres tres gentille。她出身高贵。看得出来。”
“他们可曾留下什么口信？”
“他们说过一个钟头再来。”
“来了就让他们上楼。”“是，巴恩斯先生。再说那位夫人，那位夫人看来不一般。也许有点古怪，但是位高贵人物！”这着门的来此之前在巴黎赛马场开一家小酒店。她的营生要靠场子里的大众，但是她却打眼梢上留神着过磅处周围的上流人士，她非常自豪地对我说，我的客人里面，哪些非常有教养，哪些是出身于望门贵族，哪些是运动家——最后这个词用法语的读法，把重音放在最后一个音节上。问题在我的来客如果不属于这三类人物，那就麻烦了，她很可能会对人家说，巴恩斯家没人。我有个画画的朋友，长得面黄肌瘦，在杜齐纳太太看来，显然既不富有教养，不是出身名门，也不是运动家。他给我写了一封信，问我是否可以给他弄张入门证，好让他偶尔在晚上来看看我。
我一面上楼， 一面心里纳闷：勃莱特是怎么把看门的笼络住的。电报是比尔.戈顿打来的，说他乘“法兰西号”即将到达。我把邮件放在桌上，回进卧室，脱下衣服洗了个淋浴。我正在擦身，听见门铃响了。我穿上浴衣，趿上拖鞋去开门。是勃莱特。她身后站着伯爵。他拿着一大束玫瑰花。
“嗨，亲爱的，”勃莱特说。“允许我们进屋吗？”
“请进。刚才我正在洗澡。”
“你真是好福气。还洗澡。”
“只是冲一冲。坐吧，米比波普勒斯伯爵。你想喝点什么？”
“我不知道你是不是喜欢鲜花，先生，”伯爵说，“我且冒昧送你几朵玫瑰花。”
“来，把花给我。”勃莱特接过花束。“给我在这里面灌上点水，杰克。”我到厨房把大瓦罐灌满了水，勃莱特把花插在里面，放在餐桌的中央。
“啊呀，我们玩了整整一天。”
“你是不是把我们在‘克里荣’的约会忘得一干二净啦？”
“不记得了。我们有约会？我准是喝糊涂了。”
“你喝得相当醉了，亲爱的，”伯爵说。
“是吗？这位伯爵可绝对是个慷慨可靠的好人。”
“你现在已经赢得了看门女人的欢心。”
“那当然罗。我给了她两百法郎。”
“别尽干傻事。”
“是他的，”她朝伯爵点了点头说。
“我想我们应该给她一点，因为昨夜打扰她了。实在时间太晚了。”
“他真了不起，”勃莱特说。“过去的事通通记得。”
“你也一样，亲爱的。”
“想想看，”勃莱特说。“谁愿意伤那个脑筋？喂，杰克，我们可以来一杯吗？”
“你拿吧，我进去穿衣服。你知道放在哪儿。”
“当然知道。”
在我穿衣服的工夫，我听见勃莱特摆上酒杯，放下苏打水瓶，然后听见他们在说话。我坐在床上慢条斯理地穿上衣服。我感到疲乏，心境很坏。勃莱特端着一杯酒进屋来，坐在床上。
“怎么啦，亲爱的？觉得头晕？”
她在我的前额上不在意地吻了一下。
“勃莱特，啊，我多么爱你。”“亲爱的，”她说。接着又问：“你想要我把他打发走？”
“不。他心地很好。”
“我这就把他打发走。”
“不，别这样。”
“就这么办，我把他打发走。”
“你不能就这么干。”
“我不能？你在这儿待着。告诉你，他对我是一片痴心。”
她走出房门。我趴在床上。我很难受。我听他们在说话，但是我没有留神去听。勃莱特进来坐在床上。
“亲爱的，我可怜的人儿。”她抚摸我的头。
“你跟他怎么说的？”我脸背着她躺着。我不愿看见她。
“叫他弄香槟酒去了。他喜欢去买香槟酒。”
她又说：“亲爱的，你觉得好些吧？头晕好点了吗？”
“好一点了。”
“好好躺着。他过河去了。”
“我们不能在一块过，勃莱特？我们不能就那么住到一起？”
“我看不行。我会见人就搞关系而对你不忠实。你会受不了的。”
“我现在不是能受得了吗！”
“那是两码事。这是我的不对，杰克。我本性难改啊。”
“我们能不能到乡间去住一阵子？”
“一点好处也没有。如果你喜欢，我就去。不过我在乡间不会安安静静地待着。和我真正心爱的人在一起也不行。”
“我明白。”“不是挺糟吗？我口头说爱你是一点用也没有。”“你知道我是爱你的。”
“不谈了。空谈顶无聊。我要离开你，迈克尔也快回来了。”
“你为什么要走？”
“对你好。对我也好。”
“什么时候走？”
“尽快。”
“上哪儿？”
“圣塞瓦斯蒂安。”
“我们不能一起去？”
“不行。我们刚刚谈通了，怎么又糊涂了。”
“我们从来没有一致过。”
“唉，你心里和我一样明白。别固执了，亲爱的。”
“当然，”我说。“我知道你说得对。我的情绪不好，我的情绪一不好就满口胡诌。”
我起来坐着，哈腰在床边找鞋穿上。我站了起来。
“不要这么瞅着，亲爱的。”
“你叫我怎么瞅？”
“哦，别傻了。明天我就走。”
“明天？”
“对。我不是说过了？我要走。”
“那么我们来干一杯。伯爵就要回来了。”
“是啊。他该回来了。你知道他特别热衷于买香槟酒。在他看来，这是最重要不过的。”
我们走进饭间。我拿起酒瓶给勃莱特倒了一杯白兰地，给我自己也倒了一杯。门铃响了。我去开门，是伯爵。司机站在他身后，拎着一篮子香槟酒。
“我叫他把这篮子酒放在哪儿，先生？”伯爵问。
“放厨房去，”勃莱特说。
“拎到那儿去，亨利，”伯爵指了指。“现在下去把冰块取来。”他站在厨房门里面看着司机把篮子放好， “我想你喝了就会知道这是非常好的酒， ”他说。“我知道在美国现在很少有机会品尝到好酒。这是我从一个做酿酒生意的朋友那里弄来的。”
“随便什么行当，你总是有熟人的，”勃莱特说。
“这位朋友是栽植葡萄的。有几千英亩葡萄园。”
“他叫什么？”勃莱特问。“叫弗夫.克利科”
“不是，”伯爵说。“叫穆默。他是一位男爵。”
“真有意思，”勃莱特说。“我们都有个衔头，你怎么没有呢，杰克？”
“我老实告诉你吧，先生，”伯爵把手搭在我的胳膊上说。“衔头不能给人带来任何好处。往往只能使你多花钱。”
“哦，我可说不准。有时候它是怪有用的，”勃莱特说。
“我从来不知道它对我有什么好处，”
“你使用得不恰当。它给我可带来了极大的荣誉。”
“请坐，伯爵，”我说。“让我把你的手杖放好。”在煤气灯亮光下，伯爵凝视着坐在桌子对面的勃莱特。 她在抽烟， 往地毯上弹烟灰。她看见我注意到了。“喂，杰克，我不愿意弄脏你的地毯。你不能给我个烟灰缸吗？”
我找了几个烟灰缸，在几个地方摆好。司机拎了一桶加盐的冰块上来。“放两瓶进去冰着，亨利，”伯爵招呼他说。
“还有事吗，先生？”
“没有了。下去到车子里等着吧。”他转身对勃莱特和我说，“我们要不要坐车到布洛涅森林吃饭去？”
“随你的便，”勃莱特说。“我一点也不想吃。”
“凡是好饭菜我都来者不拒，”伯爵说。
“要把酒拿进来吗，先生？”司机问。
“好。拿来吧，亨利，”伯爵说。他掏出一个厚实的猪皮烟盒，朝我递过来。“来一支真正的美国雪茄好吗？”
“谢谢，”我说。“我要把这支烟抽完。”
他用拴在表链一端的金制小轧刀轧去雪茄头。
“我喜欢通气的雪茄，”伯爵说。“我们抽的雪茄有一半是不通气的。”
他点燃了雪茄，噗噗地吸着，眼睛望着桌子对面的勃莱特。“等你离了婚，阿施利夫人，你的衔头就没有了。”
“是啊。真遗憾。”
“不用惋惜，”伯爵说。“你用不着衔头。你浑身上下都具有高贵的风度。”
“谢谢。你的嘴巴真甜。”
“我不是在逗你，”伯爵喷出一口烟说。“就我看来，谁也没有你这种高贵的风度。你有。就这么回事。”
“你真好，”勃莱特说。“我妈妈听了会高兴的。你能不能写下来，我好在信里给她寄去？”
“我跟她也会这么说的，”伯爵说。“我不是在逗你。我从来不跟别人开玩笑。好开玩笑者必树敌。我经常这么说。”
“你说得对，”勃莱特说。“你说得太对了。我经常同人开玩笑，因此我在世界上没有朋友。除了这位杰克。”
“你别逗他。”
“是实话嘛。”
“现在呢？”伯爵问。“你是跟他说着玩儿的吧？”
勃莱特眯着眼睛看我，眼角出现皱纹。
“不，”她说。“我不会逗他的。”
“明白了，”伯爵说。“你不是逗他。”
“谈这些多无聊，”勃莱特说。“来点香槟酒怎么样？”
伯爵弯腰把装在亮闪闪的小桶里的酒瓶转动了一圈。“还没有冰透呢。你总喝个没完，亲爱的。为什么你不光是谈谈呢？”
“我已经唠唠叨叨地说得太多了。我跟杰克把什么事都谈透了。”
“我真想听你好好地说说话，亲爱的。你跟我说话老是说半句留半句。”
“那下半句是留给你说的。谁乐意就由谁来接着说。”
“这种说话的方式可真有趣，”伯爵伸手把瓶子又转动了一圈。“可我还是愿意听你说话。”
“你看他傻不傻？”勃莱特问。
“行了，”伯爵拿起一瓶酒说。“我看这一瓶冰透了。”
我拿来一条毛巾，他把酒瓶擦干，举起来。“我爱喝大瓶装的香槟酒。这种酒比较好，但是冰镇起来很费事。”他拿着酒瓶端详着。我放好杯子。
“喂，你可以开瓶了，”勃莱特提醒他。
“好，亲爱的。我这就开。”
真是呱呱叫的香槟酒。
“我说这才叫酒哩，”勃莱特举起酒杯。“我们应该举杯祝酒。‘为王室干杯。’”
“这酒用来祝酒未免太好了，亲爱的。你喝这样的酒不能动感情。这样品尝不出味儿来，”
勃莱特的酒杯空了。
“你应该写一本论酒的专著，伯爵，”我说。
“巴恩斯先生，”伯爵回答，“我喝酒的唯一乐趣就是品味。”
“再来点尝尝，”勃莱特把酒杯往前一推。伯爵小心翼翼地给她斟酒。“喝吧，亲爱的。现在你先慢慢品，然后喝个醉。”
“醉？醉？”
“亲爱的，你的醉态真迷人。”
“听他往下说。”
“巴恩斯先生，”伯爵说，斟满我的杯子。“我没见过第二个女人象她那样，喝醉了还照样那么光艳照人。”
“你没见过多大世面，对不？”
“不对，亲爱的。我见得多了。我见过很多很多。”
“喝你的酒吧，”勃莱特说。“我们都见过世面。我敢说杰克见过的不见得比你少。”
“亲爱的，我相信巴恩斯先生见过很多。你别以为我不这么想，先生。但是我也见过很多。”
“当然你是这样的，亲爱的，”勃莱特说。“我只不过是说着玩儿的。”
“我经历过七次战争、四场革命，”伯爵说。
“当兵打仗吗？”勃莱特问。“有几回，亲爱的，我还受过几处箭伤。你们见过箭伤的伤疤吗？”
“让我们见识见识。”
伯爵站起来，解开他的背心，掀开衬衣。他把汗衫撩到胸部，露出黑黝黝的胸脯，大腹便便地站在灯下。
“看见了吧？”
在末一根肋骨下面有两处隆起的白色伤疤。“你们看后面箭头穿出去的地方。”在脊背上腰部的上方，同样有两个隆起的疤痕，有指头那么粗。
“哎呀，真不得了。”
“完全穿透了。”
伯爵把衬衣塞好。
“在哪儿受的这些伤？”我问。
“在阿比西尼亚。我当时二十一岁。”
“你当时干什么呀？”勃莱特问。“你在军队里？”
“我是去做买卖的，亲爱的。”
“我跟你说过，他是我道中人。我说过没有？”勃莱特扭过头来问我。“我爱你，伯爵。你真可爱。”
“你说得我心里美滋滋的，亲爱的。不过，这不是真情。”
“别蠢了。”
“你瞧，巴恩斯先生，正因为我历经坎坷，所以今天才能尽情享乐。你是否也是这么看的？”
“是的。绝对正确。”
“我知道，”伯爵说。“奥秘就在其中。你必须对生活价值形成一套看法。”“你对生活价值的看法从来没有受到过干扰？”勃莱特问。“没有。再也不会啦。”“从来没有恋爱过？”“经常恋爱，”伯爵说。“谈情说爱是常事。”“关于你对生活价值的看法，恋爱有什么影响？”“在我对生活价值的看法中，恋爱也占有一定的位置。”“你没有任何对生活价值的看法。你已经死去了，如此而已。”
“不，亲爱的。你说得不对。我绝对没有死去。”
我们喝了三瓶香槟酒，伯爵把篮子留在我的厨房里里。我们在布洛涅森林一家餐厅里吃饭。菜肴很好。食品在伯爵对生活价值的看法中占有特殊的位置。跟美酒同等。进餐的时候，伯爵举止优雅。勃莱特也一样。这是一次愉快的聚会。
“你们想上哪儿去？”吃完饭，伯爵问。餐厅里就剩下我们三个人了。两个侍者靠门站着。他们想要回家了。
“我们可以上蒙马特山，”勃莱特说。“我们这次聚会不是挺好吗？”
伯爵笑逐颜开。他特别开心。
“你们俩都非常好，”他说。他又抽起雪茄来。“你们为什么不结婚，你们俩？”
“我们各有不同的生活道路，”我说。
“我们的经历不同，”勃莱特说。“走吧。我们离开这里。”
“再来杯白兰地吧，”伯爵说。
“到山上喝去。 ” “不。这儿多安静，在这里喝。”“去你的，还有你那个‘安静’，”勃莱特说。“男人到底对安静怎么看？”“我们喜欢安静，”伯爵说。“正如你喜欢热闹一样，亲爱的。”
“好吧，”勃菜特说。“我们就喝一杯。”
“饮料总管！”伯爵招呼说。
“来了，先生。”
“你们最陈的白兰地是哪年的？”
“一八一一年，先生。”
“给我们来一瓶。”
“嗨，别摆阔气了。叫他退掉吧，杰克。”
“你听着，亲爱的。花钱买陈酿白兰地比买任何古董部值得。”
“你收藏了很多古董？”
“满满一屋子。”
最后，我们登上了蒙马特山。泽利咖啡馆里面拥挤不堪，烟雾腾腾，人声嘈杂。一进门，乐声震耳。勃莱特和我跳舞。舞池里挤得我们只能勉强挪动步子。黑人鼓手向勃莱特招招手。我们披挤在人群里，在他面前原地不动地踏着舞步。
“你合（好）？”
“挺好。”
“那就合（好）罗！”
他脸上最醒目的是一口白牙和两片厚嘴唇。
“他是我很要好的朋友，”勃莱特说。“一位出色的鼓手。”
乐声停了，我们朝伯爵坐的桌子方向走去。这时又奏起了乐曲，我们又接着跳舞。我瞅瞅伯爵。他正坐在桌子边抽雪茄。音乐又停了。
“我们过去吧。”勃莱特朝桌子走去。乐声又起，我们又紧紧地挤在人群里跳着。“你跳得真糟，杰克。迈克尔是我认识的人中跳得最好的。”
“他很了不起。”
“他有他的优点。”
“我喜欢他，”我说。“我特别喜欢他。”
“我打算嫁给他，”勃莱特说。“有意思。我有一星期没想起他了。”
“你没有给他写信？”
“我才不呢。我从不写信。”
“他准给你写了。”
“当然。信还写得非常好。”
“你们什么时候结婚？”
“我怎么知道？等我办完了离婚手续吧。迈克尔想叫他母亲拿钱出来办。”
“要我帮忙不？”
“别蠢了。迈克尔家有的是钱。”
乐声停了。我们走到桌子边。伯爵站起来。
“非常好，”他说。“你们跳起舞来非常非常好看。”
“你不跳舞，伯爵？”我问。
“不。我上年纪了。”
“嗳，别说笑话了，”勃莱特说。
“亲爱的，要是我跳舞能感到乐趣，我会跳的。我乐意看你们跳。”
“太好了，”勃莱特说。“过些时候我再跳给你看看。你那位小朋友齐齐怎么样啦？”
“跟你说吧。我资助他，但是我不要他老跟着我。”
“他也着实不容易。”
“你知道，我认为这孩子会很有出息。但是就我个人而言，我不要他老在我跟前。”
“杰克的想法也是这样。”
“他使我心惊肉跳。”
“至于，”伯爵耸耸肩说，“他将来怎么样，谁也说不准。不管怎么说，他的父亲是我父亲的好友。”
“走。跳舞去，”勃莱特说。
我们跳舞。场子里又挤，又闷。
“亲爱的，”勃莱特说，“我是多么痛苦。”
我有这种感觉：这一切以前全经历过。“一分钟之前你还挺高兴嘛。”
鼓手大声唱着：“你不能对爱人不忠——”
“一切都烟消云散了。”
“怎么回事儿？”
“不知道。我只感到心情糟透了。”
“……，”鼓手唱着。然后抓起鼓槌。
“想走？”
我有这种感觉：好象在做恶梦，梦境反复出现，我已经熬过来了，现在又必须从头熬起。
“……，”鼓手柔声唱着。
“我们走吧，”勃莱特说，“你别见怪。”
“……，”鼓手大声唱着，对勃莱特咧嘴笑笑。
“好，”我说，我们从人群中挤出来。勃莱特到盥洗室去。
“勃莱特想走，”我对伯爵说。他点点头。“她要走？好啊。你用我的车子吧。我要再待一会儿，巴恩斯先生。”
我们握手。
“今晚过得真好，”我说。“但愿你允许我……”我从口袋里拿出一张钞票。
“巴恩斯先生，这不象话，”伯爵说。
勃莱特穿戴好了走过来。她亲了下伯爵，按住他的肩膀，不让他站起来。我们刚出门，我回头一看，己经有二位姑娘在他身旁坐下了。我们跨进大轿车。勃莱特告诉司机她旅馆的地址。
“不，你别上去了，”她站在旅馆门口说。她刚才按过一下门铃，于是门开了。
“真的？”
“对。请回吧。”
“再见，勃莱特，”我说。“你的心情不好，我感到很不安。”
“再见，杰克。再见，亲爱的。我不要再和你相会了。”我们站在门边亲吻着。她把我推开。我们再一次亲吻。“唉，别这样！”勃莱特说。
她赶紧转过身去，走进旅馆。司机把我送到我的住处。我给他二十法郎，他伸手碰了下帽沿，说了声“再见，先生”，就开车走了。我按按门铃。门开了，我上楼睡下。