The Secret Agent Joseph Conrad (best books to read for self improvement txt) đ
- Author: Joseph Conrad
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âAh! ever since. Well! What have you got to say for yourself?â he asked sharply.
Mr. Verloc answered with some surprise that he was not aware of having anything special to say. He had been summoned by a letterâ âAnd he plunged his hand busily into the side pocket of his overcoat, but before the mocking, cynical watchfulness of Mr. Vladimir, concluded to leave it there.
âBah!â said that latter. âWhat do you mean by getting out of condition like this? You havenât got even the physique of your profession. Youâ âa member of a starving proletariatâ ânever! Youâ âa desperate socialist or anarchistâ âwhich is it?â
âAnarchist,â stated Mr. Verloc in a deadened tone.
âBosh!â went on Mr. Vladimir, without raising his voice. âYou startled old Wurmt himself. You wouldnât deceive an idiot. They all are that by the by, but you seem to me simply impossible. So you began your connection with us by stealing the French gun designs. And you got yourself caught. That must have been very disagreeable to our government. You donât seem to be very smart.â
Mr. Verloc tried to exculpate himself huskily.
âAs Iâve had occasion to observe before, a fatal infatuation for an unworthyâ ââ
Mr. Vladimir raised a large white, plump hand. âAh, yes. The unlucky attachmentâ âof your youth. She got hold of the money, and then sold you to the policeâ âeh?â
The doleful change in Mr. Verlocâs physiognomy, the momentary drooping of his whole person, confessed that such was the regrettable case. Mr. Vladimirâs hand clasped the ankle reposing on his knee. The sock was of dark blue silk.
âYou see, that was not very clever of you. Perhaps you are too susceptible.â
Mr. Verloc intimated in a throaty, veiled murmur that he was no longer young.
âOh! Thatâs a failing which age does not cure,â Mr. Vladimir remarked, with sinister familiarity. âBut no! You are too fat for that. You could not have come to look like this if you had been at all susceptible. Iâll tell you what I think is the matter: you are a lazy fellow. How long have you been drawing pay from this Embassy?â
âEleven years,â was the answer, after a moment of sulky hesitation. âIâve been charged with several missions to London while His Excellency Baron Stott-Wartenheim was still Ambassador in Paris. Then by his Excellencyâs instructions I settled down in London. I am English.â
âYou are! Are you? Eh?â
âA natural-born British subject,â Mr. Verloc said stolidly. âBut my father was French, and soâ ââ
âNever mind explaining,â interrupted the other. âI daresay you could have been legally a Marshal of France and a Member of Parliament in Englandâ âand then, indeed, you would have been of some use to our Embassy.â
This flight of fancy provoked something like a faint smile on Mr. Verlocâs face. Mr. Vladimir retained an imperturbable gravity.
âBut, as Iâve said, you are a lazy fellow; you donât use your opportunities. In the time of Baron Stott-Wartenheim we had a lot of soft-headed people running this Embassy. They caused fellows of your sort to form a false conception of the nature of a secret service fund. It is my business to correct this misapprehension by telling you what the secret service is not. It is not a philanthropic institution. Iâve had you called here on purpose to tell you this.â
Mr. Vladimir observed the forced expression of bewilderment on Verlocâs face, and smiled sarcastically.
âI see that you understand me perfectly. I daresay you are intelligent enough for your work. What we want now is activityâ âactivity.â
On repeating this last word Mr. Vladimir laid a long white forefinger on the edge of the desk. Every trace of huskiness disappeared from Verlocâs voice. The nape of his gross neck became crimson above the velvet collar of his overcoat. His lips quivered before they came widely open.
âIf youâll only be good enough to look up my record,â he boomed out in his great, clear oratorical bass, âyouâll see I gave a warning only three months ago, on the occasion of the Grand Duke Romualdâs visit to Paris, which was telegraphed from here to the French police, andâ ââ
âTut, tut!â broke out Mr. Vladimir, with a frowning grimace. âThe French police had no use for your warning. Donât roar like this. What the devil do you mean?â
With a note of proud humility Mr. Verloc apologised for forgetting himself. His voiceâ âfamous for years at open-air meetings and at workmenâs assemblies in large halls, had contributed, he said, to his reputation of a good and trustworthy comrade. It was, therefore, a part of his usefulness. It had inspired confidence in his principles. âI was always put up to speak by the leaders at a critical moment,â Mr. Verloc declared, with obvious satisfaction. There was no uproar above which he could not make himself heard, he added; and suddenly he made a demonstration.
âAllow me,â he said. With lowered forehead, without looking up, swiftly and ponderously he crossed the room to one of the French windows. As if giving way to an uncontrollable impulse, he opened it a little. Mr. Vladimir, jumping up amazed from the depths of the armchair, looked over his shoulder; and below, across the courtyard of the Embassy, well beyond the open gate, could be seen the broad back of a policeman watching idly the gorgeous perambulator of a wealthy baby being wheeled in state across the Square.
âConstable!â said Mr. Verloc, with no more effort than if he were whispering; and Mr. Vladimir burst into a laugh on seeing the policeman spin round as if prodded by a sharp instrument. Mr. Verloc shut the window quietly, and returned to the middle of the room.
âWith a voice like that,â he said, putting on the husky conversational pedal, âI was naturally trusted. And I knew what to say, too.â
Mr. Vladimir, arranging his cravat, observed him in the glass over the mantelpiece.
âI daresay you have the social revolutionary jargon by heart well enough,â he said contemptuously. âVox etâ ââ ⊠You havenât ever studied Latinâ âhave you?â
âNo,â growled Mr. Verloc. âYou did not expect me to know it. I belong to
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