75 лучших рассказов / 75 Best Short Stories

‘Parbleu! [312] Poor devils on the lookout for such work are as plentiful all along the South American coast as commissionaires on the street corners here.’ The ferryman was evidently surprised at the fascination possessed by this infamous topic for so lady-like a person; but having, as you see, a very ready tongue, it is probable that his delight in being able to give her information and hear himself talk were still greater. ‘And then down there,’ he went on, ‘they never forget a grudge. If a fellow doesn’t serve you one day, he’ll do it another. A Spaniard’s hatred is like lost sleep – you can put it off for a time, but it will gripe you in the end. The rascals always keep their promises to themselves… An enemy on shipboard is jolly fun. It’s like bulls tethered in the same field. You can’t stand still half a minute except against a wall. Even when he makes friends with you, his favors never taste right. Messing with him is like drinking out of a pewter mug. And so it is everywhere. Let your shadow once flit across a Spaniard’s path, and he’ll always see it there. If you’ve never lived in any but these damned clockworky European towns, you can’t imagine the state of things in a South American seaport – one half the population waiting round the corner for the other half. But I don’t see that it’s so much better here, where every man’s a spy on every other. There you meet an assassin at every turn, here a sergent de ville [313] … At all events, the life là bas used to remind me, more than anything else, of sailing in a shallow channel, where you don’t know what infernal rock you may ground on. Every man has a standing account with his neighbor, just as madame has at her fournisseur’s [314] ; and, ma foi , those are the only accounts they settle. The master of the Santiago may pay me one of these days for the pretty names I heaved after him when we parted company, but he’ll never pay me my wages’.

A short pause followed this exposition of the virtues of the Spaniard.

‘You yourself never put a man out of the world, then?’ resumed Hortense.

‘Oh, que si! [315] …. Are you horrified?’

‘Not at all. I know that the thing is often justifiable.’

The man was silent a moment, perhaps with surprise, for the next thing he said was:

‘Madame is Spanish?’

‘In that, perhaps, I am,’ replied Hortense.

Again her companion was silent. The pause was prolonged. Madame Bernier broke it by a question which showed that she had been following the same train of thought.

‘What is sufficient ground in this country for killing a man?’

The boatman sent a loud laugh over the water. Hortense drew her cloak closer about her.

‘I’m afraid there is none.’

‘Isn’t there a right of self-defence?’

‘To be sure there is – it’s one I ought to know something about. But it’s one that ces messieurs [316] at the Palais make short work with.’

‘In South America and those countries, when a man makes life insupportable to you, what do you do?’

‘ Mon Dieu! I suppose you kill him.’

‘And in France?’

‘I suppose you kill yourself. Ha! ha! ha!’

By this time they had reached the end of the great breakwater, terminating in a lighthouse, the limit, on one side, of the inner harbor. The sun had set.

‘Here we are at the lighthouse,’ said the man; ‘it’s growing dark. Shall we turn?’

Hortense rose in her place a few moments, and stood looking out to sea. ‘Yes,’ she said at last, ‘you may go back – slowly.’ When the boat had headed round she resumed her old position, and put one of her hands over the side, drawing it through the water as they moved, and gazing into the long ripples.

At last she looked up at her companion. Now that her face caught some of the lingering light of the west, he could see that it was deathly pale.

‘You find it hard to get along in the world,’ said she: ‘I shall be very glad to help you.’

The man started, and stared a moment. Was it because this remark jarred upon the expression which he was able faintly to discern in her eyes? The next, he put his hand to his cap.

‘Madame is very kind. What will you do?’

Madame Bernier returned his gaze.

‘I will trust you.’

‘Ah!’

‘And reward you.’

‘Ah? Madame has a piece of work for me?’

‘A piece of work,’ Hortense nodded.

The man said nothing, waiting apparently for an explanation. His face wore the look of lowering irritation which low natures feel at being puzzled.

‘Are you a bold man?’

Light seemed to come in this question. The quick expansion of his features answered it. You cannot touch upon certain subjects with an inferior but by the sacrifice of the barrier which separates you from him. There are thoughts and feelings and glimpses and foreshadowings of thoughts which level all inequalities of station.

‘I’m bold enough,’ said the boatman, ‘for anything you want me to do.’

‘Are you bold enough to commit a crime?’

‘Not for nothing.’