the nabob-第97章
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ver…general？ In any case； the bold formula of a judicial assignation in the first instance； instead of a private invitation； spoke sufficiently of the gravity of the situation and the firm resolution of Justice。
In view of such an extremity； foreseen and expected for long； he had made his plans。 A Monpavon in the criminal courts！a Monpavon； librarian in a convict prison！ Never！ He put all his affairs in order； tore up his papers； emptied his pockets carefully； and took something from his toilet…table； so calmly and naturally； that when he said to Francis； as he was going out； 〃Am going to the bathsThat dirty ChamberFilthy dust〃the servant took him at his word。 And the marquis was not lying。 His exciting post up there in the dust of the tribune had tired him as much as two nights in the train； and his decision to die associated itself with his desire to take a bath； the old Sybarite thought of going to sleep in the bath； like what's his name； and other famous personages of antiquity。 And in justice； it must be said that not one of these Stoics went to his death more quietly than he。
With a white camellia in his buttonhole； above his rosette of the Legion of Honour； he was going up the Boulevard des Capucines with a light step； when the sight of Mme。 Jenkins troubled his serenity for a moment。 She had a youthful air； a light in her eyes； something so piquant that he stopped to look at her。 Tall and beautiful； with her long dress of black gauze； her shoulders wrapped in a lace mantle； her hat trimmed with a garland of autumn leaves； she disappeared in the midst of other elegant women in the balmy atmosphere； and the thought that his eyes were going to close forever on this delightful sight； whose pleasures he knew so well； saddened Monpavon a little； and took the spring from his step。 But a few paces farther on； a meeting of another kind gave him back all his courage。
Some one； threadbare； shamefaced； dazzled by the light； was coming down the Boulevard。 It was old Marestang； former senator； former minister； so deeply compromised in the affairs of the 〃Malta Biscuits；〃 that； in spite of his age； his services； and the great scandal of such a proceeding； he had been condemned to two years of prison； struck off the roll of the Legion of Honour； of which he had been one of the dignitaries。 The affair was long ago； the poor wretch had just been let out of prison before his sentence had expired； lost； ruined； not having even the means to gild his trouble； for he had had to pay what he owed。 Standing on the curb； he was waiting with bent head till the crowds of carriages should allow him to pass； embarrassed by this stoppage at the fullest spot of the boulevards between the passers…by and the sea of open carriages filled with familiar figures。 Monpavon walking near him； caught his timid； uneasy look； imploring a recognition and hiding from it at the same time。 The idea that one day he could humiliate himself thus； gave him a shudder of revolt。 〃Oh！ that is not possible！〃 And straightening himself up and throwing out his chest； he kept on his way； firmer and more resolute than before。
M。 de Monpavon walks to his death！ He goes there by the long line of the boulevards； all on fire in the direction of the Madeleine； where he treads the elastic asphalt once more as a lounger； nose in the air； hands crossed behind。 He has time； there is no hurry； he is master of the rendezvous。 At each instant he smiles before him； waves a greeting from the ends of his fingers or makes the more formal bow we have just seen。 Everything revives him； charms him； the noise of the watering… carts； the awnings of the /cafes/； pulled down to the middle of the foot…paths。 The approach of death gives him the feelings of a convalescent accessible to all the delicacy； the hidden poesy of an exquisite hour of summer in the midst of Parisian lifeof an exquisite hourhis last； and which he will prolong till night。 No doubt it is for that reason that he passes the sumptuous establishment where he ordinarily takes his bath。 He does not stop either at the Chinese Baths。 He is too well known here。 All Paris would know of it the same evening。 There would be a scandal of bad taste； much coarse rumour about his death in the clubs and drawing…rooms。 And the old sensualist； the well…bred man； wishes to spare himself this shame； to plunge and be swallowed up in the vague anonymity of suicide； like those soldiers who； after great battles； neither wounded； dead； or living； are simply put down as 〃missing。〃 That is why he has nothing on him which can be recognised； or furnish a hint to the inquiries of the police； why he seeks in this immense Paris the distant quarter where will open for him the terrible but oblivious confusion of the pauper's grave。 Already； since Monpavon has been walking； the aspect of the boulevard has changed。 The crowd has become more compact； more active； and preoccupied； the houses smaller； marked with signs of commerce。 When the gates of Saint…Denis and Saint…Martin are passed； with their overflow from the faubourgs； the provincial physiognomy of the town accentuates itself。 The old beau no longer knows any one； and can congratulate himself on being unknown。
The shopkeepers looking curiously after him； with his fine linen； his well…cut coat； and good figure； take him for some famous actor strolling on the boulevardwitness of his first triumphsbefore the play begins。 The wind freshens； the twilight softens the distances； and while the long road behind him still glitters； it grows darker now at every steplike the past； with its retrospections to him who looks back and regrets。 It seems to Monpavon that he is walking into blackness。 He shivers a little； but does not falter； and continues to walk with erect head and chest thrown out。
M。 de Monpavon walks to his death！ Now he is entering the complicated labyrinth of noisy streets； where the clatter of the omnibus mingles with the thousand humming trades of the working city； where the heat of the factory chimneys loses itself in the fever of a whole people struggling against hunger。 The air trembles； the gutters steam； the houses shake at the passing of the wagons； of the heavy drays rumbling round the narrow streets。 On a sudden the marquis stops； he has found what he wanted。 Between the black shop of a charcoal…seller and the establishment of a packing…case maker； whose pine boards leaning on the walls give him a little shiver； there is a wide door； surmounted by its sign； the word BATHS on a dirty lantern。 He enters； crosses a little damp garden where a jet of water weeps in a rockery。 Here is the gloomy corner he was looking for。 Who would ever believe that the Marquis de Monpavon had come there to cut his throat？ The house is at the end； low； with green blinds and a glass door； with a sham air of a villa。 He asks for a bath； and while it is being prepared he smokes his cigar at the window； with the noise of the water behind him； looks at the flower…bed of sparse lilac； and the high walls which inclose it。
At the side there is a great yard； the court…yard of a fire station； with a gymnasium； whose masts and swings； vaguely seen from below； look like gibbets。 A bugle…call sounds in the yard； and its call takes the marquis thirty years back； reminds him of his campaigns in Algeria； the high ramparts of Constantine； the arrival of Mora at the regiment； and the duels； and the little parties。 Ah！ how well life began then！ What a pity that those cursed cardspspsps Well； it's something to have saved appearances。
〃Your bath is ready； sir；〃 said the attendant。
At that moment； breathless and pale； Mme。 Jenkins was entering Andre's studio； where an instinct stronger than her will had brought herthe wish to embrace her child before she died。 When she opened the door （he had given her a key） she was relieved to find that he was not there； and that she would have time to calm her excitement； increased as it was by the long walk to which she was so little accustomed。 No one was there。 But on the table was the little note which he always left when he went out； so that his mother； whose visits were becoming shorter and less frequent on account of the tyranny of Jenkins； could tell where he was； and wait for
