the nabob-第12章

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by　its　good　humour；　its　cheerfulness；　and　that　loquacious　and　flattering　benevolence　which　makes　the　Irish　in　a　way　the　Gascons　of　England。　And　what　a　splendid　appetite！　With　what　heartiness；　what　ease　of　conscience　he　used　his　white　teeth　as　he　talked！

〃Well；　Jansoulet；　you　have　read　it？〃

〃What？〃

〃How；　then！　you　do　not　know？　You　have　not　read　what　the　/Messenger/　says　about　you　this　morning？〃

Beneath　the　dark　tan　of　his　cheeks　the　Nabob　blushed　like　a　child；　and；　his　eyes　shining　with　pleasure：

〃Is　it　possiblethe　/Messenger/　has　spoken　of　me？〃

〃Through　two　columns。　How　is　it　that　Moessard　has　not　shown　it　to　you？〃

〃Oh；〃　put　in　Moessard　modestly；　〃it　was　not　worth　the　trouble。〃

He　was　a　little　journalist；　with　a　fair　complexion　and　smart　in　his　dress；　sufficiently　good…looking；　but　with　a　face　which　presented　that　worn　appearance　noticeable　as　the　special　mark　of　waiters　in　night…　restaurants；　actors；　and　light　women；　and　produced　by　conventional　grimacing　and　the　wan　reflection　of　gaslight。　He　was　reputed　to　be　the　paid　lover　of　an　exiled　and　profligate　queen。　The　rumour　was　whispered　around　him；　and；　in　his　own　world；　secured　him　an　envied　and　despicable　position。

Jansoulet　insisted　on　reading　the　article；　impatient　to　know　what　had　been　said　of　him。　Unfortunately　Jenkins　had　left　his　copy　at　the　duke's。

〃Let　some　one　go　fetch　me　a　/Messenger/　quickly；〃　said　the　Nabob　to　the　servant　behind　him。

Moessard　intervened。

〃It　is　needless。　I　must　have　the　thing　on　me　somewhere。〃

And　with　the　absence　of　ceremony　of　the　tavern　/habitue/；　of　the　reporter　who　scribbles　his　paragraph　with　his　glass　beside　him；　the　journalist　drew　out　a　pocket…book；　crammed　full　of　notes；　stamped　papers；　newspaper　cuttings；　notes　written　on　glazed　paper　with　crests；　which　he　proceeded　to　litter　over　the　table；　pushing　away　his　plate　in　order　to　search　for　the　proof　of　his　article。

〃There　you　are。〃　He　passed　it　over　to　Jansoulet；　but　Jenkins　besought　him：

〃No；　no；　read　it　aloud。〃

The　company　having　echoed　the　request　in　chorus；　Moessard　took　back　his　proof　and　commenced　to　read　in　a　loud　voice；　〃The　Bethlehem　Society　and　Mr。　Bernard　Jansoulet；〃　a　long　dithyramb　in　favour　of　artificial　lactation；　written　from　notes　made　by　Jenkins；　which　were　recognisable　through　certain　fine　phrases　much　affected　by　the　Irishman；　such　as　〃the　long　martyrology　of　childhood；〃　〃the　sordid　traffic　in　the　breast；〃　〃the　beneficent　nanny…goat　as　foster…mother；〃　and　finishing；　after　a　pompous　description　of　the　splendid　establishment　at　Nanterre；　with　a　eulogy　of　Jenkins　and　a　glorification　of　Jansoulet：　〃O　Bernard　Jansoulet；　benefactor　of　childhood！〃　It　was　a　sight　to　see　the　vexed；　scandalized　faces　of　the　guests。　What　an　intriguer　was　this　Moessard！　What　an　impudent　piece　of　sycophantry！　And　the　same　envious；　disdainful　smile　quivered　on　every　mouth。　And　the　deuce　of　it　was　that　a　man　had　to　applaud；　to　appear　charmed；　the　master　of　the　house　not　being　weary　as　yet　of　incense；　and　taking　everything　very　seriously；　both　the　article　and　the　applause　it　provoked。　His　big　face　shone　during　the　reading。　Often；　down　yonder；　far　away；　had　he　dreamed　a　dream　of　having　his　praises　sung　like　this　in　the　newspapers　of　Paris；　of　being　somebody　in　that　society；　the　first　among　all；　on　which　the　entire　world　has　its　eyes　fixed　as　on　the　bearer　of　a　torch。　Now；　that　dream　was　becoming　a　reality。　He　gazed　upon　all　these　people　seated　at　his　board；　the　sumptuous　dessert；　this　panelled　dining…room　as　high；　certainly；　as　the　church　of　his　native　village；　he　listened　to　the　dull　murmur　of　Paris　rolling　along　in　its　carriages　and　treading　the　pavements　beneath　his　windows；　with　the　intimate　conviction　that　he　was　about　to　become　an　important　piece　in　that　active　and　complicated　machine。　And　then；　through　the　atmosphere　of　physical　well…being　produced　by　the　meal；　between　the　lines　of　that　triumphant　vindication；　by　an　effect　of　contrast；　he　beheld　unfold　itself　his　own　existence；　his　youth；　adventurous　as　it　was　sad；　the　days　without　bread；　the　nights　without　shelter。　Then　suddenly；　the　reading　having　come　to　an　end；　his　joy　overflowing　in　one　of　those　southern　effusions　which　force　thought　into　speech；　he　cried；　beaming　upon　his　guests　with　that　frank　and　thick…lipped　smile　of　his：

〃Ah；　my　friends；　my　dear　friends；　if　you　could　know　how　happy　I　am！　What　pride　I　feel！〃

Scarce　six　weeks　had　passed　since　he　had　landed　in　France。　Excepting　two　or　three　compatriots；　those　whom　he　thus　addressed　as　his　friends　were　but　the　acquaintances　of　a　day；　and　that　through　his　having　lent　them　money。　This　sudden　expansion；　therefore；　appeared　sufficiently　extraordinary；　but　Jansoulet；　too　much　under　the　sway　of　emotion　to　notice　anything；　continued：

〃After　what　I　have　just　heard；　when　I　behold　myself　here　in　this　great　Paris；　surrounded　by　all　its　wealth　of　illustrious　names；　of　distinguished　intellects；　and　then　call　up　the　remembrance　of　my　father's　booth！　For　I　was　born　in　a　booth。　My　father　used　to　sell　old　nails　at　the　corner　of　a　boundary　stone　in　the　Bourg…Saint…Andeol。　If　we　had　bread　in　the　house　every　day　and　stew　every　Sunday　it　was　the　most　we　had　to　expect。　Ask　Cabassu　whether　it　was　not　so。　He　knew　me　in　those　days。　He　can　tell　you　whether　I　am　not　speaking　the　truth。　Oh；　yes；　I　have　known　what　poverty　is。〃　He　threw　back　his　head　with　an　impulse　of　pride　as　he　savoured　the　odour　of　truffles　diffused　through　the　suffocating　atmosphere。　〃I　have　known　it；　and　the　real　thing　too；　and　for　a　long　time。　I　have　been　cold。　I　have　known　hungergenuine　hunger；　rememberthe　hunger　that　intoxicates；　that　wrings　the　stomach；　sets　circles　dancing　in　your　head；　deprives　you　of　sight　as　if　the　inside　of　your　eyes　was　being　gouged　out　with　an　oyster…knife。　I　have　passed　days　in　bed　for　want　of　an　overcoat　to　go　out　in；　fortunate　at　that　when　I　had　a　bed；　which　was　not　always。　I　have　sought　my　bread　from　every　trade；　and　that　bread　cost　me　such　bitter　toil；　it　was　so　black；　so　tough；　that　in　my　mouth　I　keep　still　the　flavour　of　its　acrid　and　mouldy　taste。　And　thus　until　I　was　thirty。　Yes；　my　friends；　at　thirty　years　of　ageand　I　am　not　yet　fiftyI　was　still　a　beggar；　without　a　sou；　without　a　future；　with　the　remorseful　thought　of　the　poor　old　mother；　become　a　widow；　who　was　half…dying　of　hunger　away　yonder　in　her　booth；　and　to　whom　I　had　nothing　to　give。〃

Around　this　Amphitryon　recounting　the　story　of　his　evil　days　the　faces　of　his　hearers　expressed　curiosity。　Some　appeared　shocked；　Monpavon　especially。　For　him；　this　exposure　of　rags　was　in　execrable　taste；　an　absolute　breach　of　good　manners。　Cardailhac；　sceptical　and　dainty；　an　enemy　to　scenes　of　emotion；　with　face　set　as　if　it　were　hypnotized；　sliced　a　fruit　on　the　end　of　his　fork　into　wafers　as　thin　as　cigarette　papers。

The　governor　exhibited；　on　the　contrary；　a　flatly　admiring　demeanour；　uttering　exclamations　of　amazement　and　compassion；　while；　not　far　away；　in　singular　contrast；　Brahmin　Bey；　the　thunderbolt　of　war；　upon　whom　this　reading　followed　by　a　lecture　after　a　heavy　meal　had　had　the　effect　of　inducing　a　restorative　slumber；　slept　with　his　mouth　open　beneath　his　white　moustache；　his　face　congested　by　his　collar；　which　had　slipped　up。　But　the　most　general　expression　was　one　of　indifference　and　boredom。　What　could　it　matter　to　them；　I　ask　you；　what　had　they　to　do　with　Jansoulet's　childhood　in　the　Bourg…Saint…　Andeol；　the　trials　he　had　endured；　the　way　in　which　he　had　trudged　his　path？　They　had　not　come　to　listen　to　idle　nonsense　of　that　kind。　Airs　of　interest　falsely　affected；　glances　that　counted　the　ovals　of　the　ceiling　or　the　bread…crumbs　on　the　table…cloth；　mouths　compressed　to　stifle　a　yawn；　betrayed；　accordingly；　the　general　impatience　provoked　by　this　untimely　story。　Yet　he　himself　seemed　not　to　weary　of　it。　He　found　pleasure　in　the　recital　of　his　sufferings　past；　even　as　the　mariner　safe　in　port；　remembering　his　voyagings　over　distant　seas；　and　the　perils　and　the　great　shipwrecks。　There　followed　the　story　of　his　good　luck；　the　prodigious　chance　that　had　placed　him　suddenly　upon　the　road　to　fortune。　〃I　was　wandering　about　the　quays　of　Marseilles　with　a　comrade　as　poverty…stricken　as　myself；　who　is　beco