Джозеф Конрад - Suspense

Miss Aglae repressed with difficulty the loud burst of laughter which was the usual expression of her unsophisticated emotions. She had heard ladies and gentlemen in the salon express a very similar opinion on Bonaparte, but she thought suddenly of Miss Adèle and emitted a sigh.

“He seems to get his paw on the whole world, anyhow. What sort of a fellow is he, Bernard? You have seen him.”

Bernard had seen the fellow. He assured Miss Aglae that he was a miserable shrimp of a man in big boots, and with lank hair hanging down his yellow cheeks. “I could break him in two like a straw if I could only get him into my hands.”

Believing it implicitly the black maid suggested that Bernard should go and do it.

“I would go at once,” said the faithful follower. “But if I went I would never see you again. He has always a hundred thousand men around him.”

At this Miss Aglae who had begun to smile ended with a sigh of such a deeply sorrowful nature that Bernard assured her that the time would come; yes, some day the day would come when everybody would get back his own. Aglae was ready to believe this prophecy. But meantime there was Miss Adèle. That sweet child was now ready to get married, but everybody was so very poor. Bernard put on a sentimental expression in the dim light of the tallow dip, the flame of which swayed by the side of his straw mattress, and made the shadow of his head protected by a nightcap dance too high up the wall of the draughty passage. Timidly he muttered of love. That would get over all the difficulties.

“You very stupid man, Mr. Bernard. Love! What sort of trash you talk? Love don’t buy fish for dinner.” Then with sudden anxiety she inquired, “Have you got money for marketing to–morrow?”

Bernard had the money. Not much, but he had the money. “Then you go out early and buy fish for dinner. This Madame le Marquise orders. Easier than killing an emperor,” she continued sarcastically. “And take care fat woman in Billingsgate don’t cheat you too much,” she added with dignity before drawing her head in and shutting the door of her dark cupboard.

A month later, sitting upon his straw bed and with his eyes fixed on the door of Miss Aglae’s cupboard, Bernard had just begun to think that he had done something to offend, and that he would be deprived of his whispered midnight chat, when the door opened, and the head of the girl appeared in its usual position. It drooped. Its white eyeballs glistened full of tears. It said nothing for a long time. Bernard was extremely alarmed. He wanted to know in an anxious whisper what was wrong. The maid let him cudgel his brains for a whole minute before she made the statement that oh! she did not like the looks of a certain gentleman visitor in a “too–much–laced coat.”

Bernard, relieved but uncomprehending, snatched the candlestick off the floor and raised it to the protruded head of the maid.

“What is there to cry about?” he asked. The tears glistening on the dusky cheek astonished him beyond measure; and as an African face lends itself to the expression of sorrow more than any other type of human countenance, he was profoundly moved and, without knowing the cause, by mere sympathy felt ready to cry himself.

“You don’t see! You don’t understand anything, Bernard. You stand there at the door like a stick. What is the use of you, I can’t tell.”

Bernard would have felt the injustice to be unbearable if he had not had a strong sense of his own merits. Moreover it was obvious that Aglae was thoroughly upset. As to the man in the too–much–laced coat, Bernard remembered that he was dressed very splendidly indeed. He had called first in company of a very fine English gentleman, a friend of the family, and he had repeated the call always with that same friend. It was a fact that he had never called by himself yet. The family had dined with him only the day before, as Bernard knew very well, because he had to call the hackney coach and had given the address, not to mention having the confidential task of carrying the marquise down the stairs and then up again on their return from that entertainment. There could be nothing wrong with a man with whom the family dined. And the marquise herself too, she who, so to speak, never went out anywhere!

“What has he done?” he asked without marked excitement. “I have never seen you so distressed, Miss Aglae.”

“Me upset? I should think me upset. I fear him wants carry off Mademoiselle Adèle—poor child.”

This staggered the faithful Bernard. “I should like him to try,” he said pugnaciously. “I keep a cudgel there in this passage.” A scornful exclamation from the maid made him pause. “Oh!” he said, in a changed tone, “carry her off for a wife? Well, what’s wrong in that?”

“Oh! you silly!” whimpered Aglae. “Can’t you see him twice, twice and a half, the age of Mademoiselle Adèle?”

Bernard remained silent a minute. “Fine–looking man,” he remarked at last. “Do you know anything else about him?”

“Him got plenty of money,” sobbed out Aglae.

“I suppose the parents will have something to say about that,” said Bernard after a short meditation. “And if Mademoiselle Adèle herself …”

But Aglae wailed under her breath as it were, “It’s done, Bernard, it’s done!”

Bernard, fascinated, stared upwards at the maid. A mental reference to abundance of money for marketing flashed through his mind.

“I suppose Mademoiselle Adèle can love a man like that. Why not?”

“Him got very fine clothes certainly,” hissed Aglae furiously. Then she broke down and became full of desolation. “Oh, Bernard, them poor people, you should have seen their faces this morning when I served the breakfast. I feel as if I must make a big howl while I give plate to M. le Marquis. I hardly dare look at anybody.”

“And mademoiselle?” asked Bernard in an anxious whisper.

“I don’t like to look at her either,” went on Aglae in a tone of anguish. “She got quite a flush on her face. She think it very great and fine, make everybody rich. I ready to die with sorrow, Bernard. She don’t know. She too young. Why don’t you cry with me—you great, stupid man?”

The marriage, the prospect of which failed to commend itself to the coloured maid, took place in due course. The contract which expressed the business side of that alliance was graced by the signature of a prince of the blood, and by two other signatures of a most aristocratic complexion. The French colony in London refrained from audible comments. The gracious behaviour of H.R.H. the Duc de Berry to the bridegroom killed all criticism in the very highest circles of the emigration. In less exalted circles there were slight shrugs and meaning glances, but very little else besides, except now and then a veiled sarcasm which could be ascribed to envy as much as to any other sentiment. Amongst the daughters of the emigration there must have been more than one who in her heart of hearts thought Adèle d’Armand a very lucky girl. The splendour of the entertainments which were given to the London society by the newly–wedded couple after their return from the honeymoon put it beyond all doubt that the man whom Aglae described as wearing a “too–much–laced coat” was very rich. It began also to be whispered that he was a man of fantastic humours, and of eccentric whims of the sort that do not pass current in the best society; especially in the case of a man whose rank was dubious, and whose wealth was but recently acquired. But the embittered and irreconcilable remnant of the exiled aristocracy gave but little of its sympathy to Adèle d’Armand. She ought to have waited till the king was restored, and either married suitably—or else entered a convent for ladies of rank. For these too would soon be restored.