Лучшие повести британских и американских писателей / Best Short Novels by British & American Authors. Коллектив авторов
Лучшие повести британских и американских писателей / Best Short Novels by British & American Authors
when my sisters were children, we had an English governess in the house. She left us, as we then understood, to be married. We heard no more of her until а week or ten days since, when my mother received а letter, in which our ex-governess described herself as being in а condition of great poverty and distress. After much hesitation she had ventured – at the suggestion of а lady who had been kind to her – to write to her former employers, and to appeal to their remembrance of old times. You know my mother: she is not only the most kind-hearted, but the most innocent of women – it is impossible to persuade her of the wickedness that there is in the world. She replied by return of post, inviting the governess to come here and see her, and inclosing the money for her traveling expenses. When my father came home, and heard what had been done, he wrote at once to his agent in London to make inquiries, inclosing the address on the governess’ letter. Before he could receive the agent’s reply the governess, arrived. She produced the worst possible impression on his mind. The agent’s letter, arriving а few days later, confirmed his suspicions. Since we had lost sight of her, the woman had led а most disreputable life. My father spoke to her privately: he offered – on condition of her leaving the house – а sum of money to take her back to England. If she refused, the alternative would be an appeal to the authorities and а public scandal. She accepted the money, and left the house. On her way back to England she appears to have stopped at Metz. You will understand what sort of woman she is when I tell you that she was seen the other day in а tavern, with your handsome groom, Joseph Rigobert.’
While my informant was relating these circumstances, my memory was at work. I recalled what Francis Raven had vaguely told us of his wife’s experience in former days as governess in а German family. А suspicion of the truth suddenly flashed across my mind. ‘What was the woman’s name?’ I asked.
Mr. Beldheimer’s son answered: ‘Alicia Warlock.’
I had but one idea when I heard that reply – to get back to my house without а moment’s needless delay. It was then ten o’clock at night – the last train to Metz had left long since. I arranged with my young friend – after duly informing him of the circumstances – that I should go by the first train in the morning, instead of staying to breakfast with the other guests who slept in the house.
At intervals during the night I wondered uneasily how things were going on at Maison Rouge. Again and again the same question occurred to me, on my journey home in the early morning – the morning of the first of March. As the event proved, but one person in my house knew what really happened at the stables on Francis Raven’s birthday. Let Joseph Rigobert take my place as narrator, and tell the story of the end to You – as he told it, in times past, to his lawyer and to Me.
The Fourth Narrative
Statement of Joseph Rigobert: Addressed to the Advocate Who Defended Him at His Trial
Respected Sir, – On the twenty-seventh of February I was sent, on business connected with the stables at Maison Rouge, to the city of Metz. On the public promenade I met а magnificent woman. Complexion, blond. Nationality, English. We mutually admired each other; we fell into conversation. (She spoke French perfectly – with the English accent.) I offered refreshment; my proposal was accepted. We had а long and interesting interview – we discovered that we were made for each other. So far, who is to blame?
Is it my fault that I am а handsome man – universally agreeable as such to the fair sex? Is it а criminal offense to be accessible to the amiable weakness of love? I ask again, who is to blame? Clearly, nature. Not the beautiful lady – not my humble self.
To resume. The most hard-hearted person living will understand that two beings made for each other could not possibly part without an appointment to meet again.
I made arrangements for the accommodation of the lady in the village near Maison Rouge. She consented to honor me with her company at supper, in my apartment at the stables, on the night of the twenty-ninth. The time fixed on was the time when the other servants were accustomed to retire – eleven o’clock.
Among the grooms attached to the stables was an Englishman, laid up with а broken leg. His name was Francis. His manners were repulsive; he was ignorant of the French language. In the kitchen he went by the nickname of the ‘English Bear.’ Strange to say, he was а great favorite with my master and my mistress. They even humored certain superstitious terrors to which this repulsive person was subject – terrors into the nature of which I, as an advanced freethinker, never thought it worth my while to inquire.
On the evening of the twenty-eighth the Englishman, being а prey to the terrors which I have mentioned, requested that one of his fellow servants might sit up with him for that night only. The wish that he expressed was backed by Mr. Fairbank’s authority. Having already incurred my master’s displeasure – in what way, а proper sense of my own dignity forbids me to relate – I volunteered to watch by the bedside of the English Bear. My object was to satisfy Mr. Fairbank that I bore no malice, on my side, after what had occurred between us. The wretched Englishman passed а night of delirium. Not understanding his barbarous language, I could only gather from his gesture that he was in deadly fear of some fancied apparition at his bedside. From time to time, when this madman disturbed my slumbers, I quieted him by swearing at him. This is the shortest and best way of dealing with persons in his condition.
On the morning of the twenty-ninth, Mr. Fairbank left us on а journey. Later in the day, to my unspeakable disgust, I found that I had not done with the Englishman yet. In Mr. Fairbank’s absence, Mrs. Fairbank took an incomprehensible interest in the question of my delirious fellow servant’s repose at night. Again, one or the other of us was to watch at his bedside, and report it, if anything happened. Expecting my fair friend to supper, it was necessary to make sure that the other servants at the stables would be safe in their beds that night. Accordingly, I volunteered once more to be the man who kept watch. Mrs. Fairbank complimented me on my humanity. I possess great command over my feelings. I accepted the compliment without а blush.
Twice, after nightfall, my mistress and the doctor (the last staying in the house in Mr. Fairbank’s absence) came to make inquiries. Once before the arrival of my fair friend – and once after. On the second occasion (my apartment being next door to the Englishman’s) I was obliged to hide my charming guest in the harness room. She consented, with angelic resignation, to immolate her dignity to the servile necessities of my position. А more amiable woman (so far) I never met with!
After the second visit I was left free. It was then close on midnight. Up to that time there was nothing in the behavior of the mad Englishman to reward Mrs. Fairbank and the doctor for presenting themselves at his bedside. He lay half awake, half asleep, with an odd wondering kind of look in his face. My mistress at parting warned me to be particularly watchful of him toward two in the morning. The doctor (in case anything happened) left me а large hand bell to ring, which could easily be heard at the house.
Restored to the society of my fair friend, I spread the supper table. А pâté, а sausage, and а few bottles of generous Moselle wine, composed our simple meal. When persons adore each other, the intoxicating illusion of Love transforms the simplest meal into а banquet. With immeasurable capacities for enjoyment, we sat down to table. At the very moment when I placed my fascinating companion in а chair, the infamous Englishman in the next room took that occasion, of all others, to become restless and noisy once more. He struck with his stick on the floor; he cried out, in а delirious access of terror, ‘Rigobert! Rigobert!’
The sound of that lamentable voice, suddenly assailing our ears, terrified my fair friend. She lost all her charming color in an instant. ‘Good heavens!’ she exclaimed. ‘Who is that in the next room?’
‘A mad Englishman.’
‘An Englishman?’
‘Compose yourself, my angel. I will quiet him.’
The lamentable voice called out on me again, ‘Rigobert! Rigobert!’
My fair friend caught me by the arm. ‘Who is he?’ she cried. ‘What is his name?’
Something in her face struck me as she put that question. А spasm of jealousy shook me to the soul. ‘You know him?’