The Nabob by Alphonse Daudet (good english books to read TXT) 📖

loaded mules ascend with firm foot among the shingle, and a washer-woman stoops near a microscopic pond--the few drops that remained of the great inundation of winter. From time to time one crosses the street of some village, or little town rather, grown rusty through too much sun, of historic age, the houses closely packed and joined by dark arcades--a network of vaulted courts which clamber the hillside with glimpses of the upper daylight, here and there letting one see crowds of children with aureoles of hair, baskets of brilliant fruit, a woman coming down the road, her water-pot on her head and her distaff on her arm. Then at a corner of the street, the blue sparkle of the waves and the immensity of nature.
But as the day advanced, the sun rising in the heavens spread over the sea--now escaped from its mists, still with the transparence of quartz--thousands of rays striking the water like arrow-heads, a dazzling sight made doubly so by the whiteness of the rocks and of the soil, by a veritable African sirocco which raised the dust in a whirlwind on the road. They were coming to the hottest and most sheltered places of the Corniche--a true exotic temperature, scattering dates, cactus, and aloes. Seeing these thin trunks, this fantastic vegetation in the white hot air, feeling the blinding dust crackle under the wheels like snow, de Gery, his eyes half closed, dreaming in this leaden noon, thought he was once more on that fatiguing road from Tunis to the Bardo, in a singular medley of Levantine carriages with brilliant liveries, of long-necked camels, of caparisoned mules, of young donkeys, of Arabs in rags, of half-naked negroes, of officials in full-dress with their guard of honour. Should he find there, where the road ran through the gardens of palm-trees, the strange and colossal architecture of the Bey's palace, its barred windows with closed lattices, its marble gates, its balconies in carved wood painted in bright colours?--It was not the Bardo, but the lovely country of Bordighera, divided, like all those on the coast, into two parts--the sea town lying on the shore; and the upper town, joined to it by a forest of motionless palm-trees, with upright stem and falling crown--like green rockets, springing into the blue with their thousand feathers.
The insupportable heat, the overtired horses, forced the traveller to stop for a couple of hours at one of those great hotels which line the road, and bring every November into this little town, so marvellously sheltered, the luxurious life and cosmopolitan animation of an aristocratic wintering place. But at this time of year there was no one in the sea town of Bordighera but fishermen, invisible at this hour. The villas and hotels seemed dead, their blinds and shutters closed. They took Paul through long, cool, and silent passages to a great drawing-room facing north, which seemed to be part of the suites let for the season, whose doors communicated with the other rooms. White curtains, a carpet, the comfort demanded by the English even when travelling, and outside the windows, which the hotel-keeper opened wide to tempt the traveller to a longer stay, a splendid view of the mountain. An astonishing quiet reigned in this great deserted inn, with neither manager, nor cook, nor waiters--the whole staff coming only in the winter--and given up for domestic needs to a local spoil-sauce, expert at a _stoffato_, a _risotto_; also to two stablemen, who clothed themselves at meal-time with the dress-coat and white tie of office. Happily, de Gery was only going to remain there for an hour or two, to rest his eyes from the overpowering light, his head from the dolorous grip of the sun.
From the divan where he lay, the admirable landscape, diversified with light and trembling leaves, seemed to descend to his window by stages of different greens, where scattered villas shone white, and among them that of Maurice Trott, the banker, recognisable by its capricious architecture and the height of its palms.
The Levantine house, whose gardens came up to the windows of the hotel, had sheltered for some months an artistic celebrity, the sculptor Brehat, who was dying of consumption, and owed the prolonging of his existence to this princely hospitality. The neighbourhood of this dying celebrity--of which the hotel-keeper was proud, and which he would have liked to charge in the bill--the name of Brehat, which de Gery had so often heard pronounced with admiration in Felicia Ruys's studio, brought back his thoughts to the beautiful face, with its pure lines, which he had last seen in the Bois de Boulogue, leaning on Mora's shoulder. What had become of this unfortunate girl when this prop had failed her? Would this lesson be of use to her in the future? And, by a strange coincidence, while he was thinking thus of Felicia, a great white greyhound was bounding up an alley of green trees on the slopes of the neighbouring garden. It was like Kadour--the same short hair, the same mouth, red, fierce, and delicate. Paul, before his open window, was assailed in a moment by all sorts of visions, sad or charming. Perhaps the beauty of the scene before his eyes made his thoughts wander. Under the orange-trees and lemon-trees in rows, laden with their golden fruit, stretched immense fields of violets in regular and packed beds, separated by little irrigation canals, whose white stone cut up the exuberant verdure.
An exquisite ordour of violets dried in the sun was rising--a hot boudoir scent, enervating, enfeebling, which called up for de Gery feminine visions--Aline, Felicia--permeating the fairy-like landscape, in this blue-charged atmosphere, this heavenly day, which one might have called the perfume become visible of so many open flowers. The creaking of a door made him open his eyes. Some one had just gone into the next room. He heard the rustle of a dress against the thin partition, a leaf turned in a book which could not be very interesting, for a long sigh turning into a yawn made him start. Was he still sleeping, dreaming? Had he not heard the cry of the "jackal in the desert," so much in keeping with the burning temperature out of doors? No--nothing more. He fell asleep again, and this time all the confused images which pursued him fixed themselves in a dream--a very pleasant dream.
He was on his honeymoon with Aline. She was a delicious wife, her clear eyes full of love and faith, which only knew, only looked at him. In this very room, on the other side of the partition, she was sitting in white morning dress, which smelt of violets and of the fine lace of her trousseau. They were having breakfast--one of those solitary breakfasts of a honeymoon, served in their bedroom, opposite the blue sea, and the clear sky, which tinge with azure the glass in which one drinks, the eyes where one sees one's self, the future--life--the distant horizon. Oh! how good it was; what a divine youth-giving light; how happy they were!
And all at once, in the delight of their kisses, Aline became sad. Her eyes filled with tears. She said to him: "Felicia is there. You will love me no longer." And he laughed, "Felicia here? What an idea!" "Yes, yes; she is there." Trembling she pointed to the next room, from which came angry barks, and the voice of Felicia: "Here, Kadour! Here, Kadour!" the low, concentrated, furious voice of some one who is hiding and suddenly discovered.
Wide awake, the lover, disenchanted, found himself in his empty room, before an empty table, his dream, fled through the window to the great hillside. But he heard very distinctly in the next room the bark of a dog, and hurried knocks on the door.
"Open the door! It is I--it is Jenkins."
Paul sat up on his divan, stupefied. Jenkins here? How was that? To whom was he speaking? What voice was going to answer him? No one answered. A light step went to the door, and the lock creaked nervously.
"Here you are at last," said the Irishman, entering.
And truly if he had not taken care to announce himself, Paul would never have taken this brutal, violent, hoarse voice heard through the partition for the doctor's with his sugary manners.
"At last I have found you after a week of searching, of mad rushing from Genoa to Nice, from Nice to Genoa. I knew that you had not gone, because the yacht was in the harbour, and I was going to inspect all the inns on the coast, when I remembered Brehat. I have just come from him. It was he who told me you were here."
But to whom was he speaking? Who was so singularly obstinate? At last a beautiful, sad voice, which Paul well knew, made the hot afternoon air vibrate.
"Well, yes, Jenkins, here I am. What is the matter?"
Through the wall Paul could see the disdainful mouth, turned down with disgust.
"I have come to prevent you from going--from doing this foolish thing."
"What foolish thing? I have some work at Tunis. I must go there."
"But you don't think, my dear child, that--"
"Oh, enough of your fatherly airs, Jenkins. We know what lies underneath it. Speak to me as you did just now. I prefer the bull-dog to the spaniel. I fear it less."
"Well, I tell you that you must be mad to go over there alone, young and beautiful as you are."
"And am I not always alone? Would you like me to take Constance, at her age?"
"Or me?"
"You!" She pronounced the word with an ironical laugh. "And what about Paris? And your patients--deprive society of its Cagliostro? Never, on any account."
"I have, however, made up my mind to follow you wherever you go," said Jenkins resolutely.
There was an instant of silence. Paul asked himself if it was worthy of him to listen to this conversation which was full of terrible revelations. But in spite of his fatigue an invincible curiosity nailed him to the spot. It seemed to him that the enigma which had so long been perplexing and troubling him was going to be solved at last, to show the woman sad or perverse, concealed by the fashionable artist. He remained there, still holding his breath, needlessly, however; for the two, believing themselves to be alone in the hotel, let their passions and their voices rise without constraint.
"Well, what do you want of me?"
"I want you."
"Jenkins!"
"Yes, yes, I know; you have forbidden me to say such words before you, but other men than I have said them, and nearer still."
"And if it were so, wretch! If I have not been able to protect myself from disgust and boredom, if I have lost my pride, is it for you to say a word? As if you were not the cause of it; as if you had not forever saddened and darkened my life for me!"
And these burning and rapid words revealed to the terrified Paul de Gery the horrible meaning of this apparently affectionate guardianship, against which the mind, the thought, the dreams of the young girl had had to struggle so long, and which had left her the incurable sadness of precocious regret, the heart-break of a life hardly begun.
"I loved you! I love you still! Passion excuses everything," answered Jenkins in a hollow voice.
"Love me, then, if that amuses you. As for me, I hate you not only for the wrong you have done me, all the beliefs and energy you have killed in me, but because you represent what is most execrable, most hideous under the sun--hypocrisy and lies. This society masquerade, this heap of falsity, of grimaces, of cowardly and unclean conventions have sickened me to such an extent, that I am running away exiling myself so