雙語·灼人的秘密 進攻

The hunter began to think that the time had come when he could bring his quarry to bay. A trio was not to his liking. Very pleasant as a temporary convenience doubtless, but it had served its turn and was not the object of his maneuvering. He knew that, as the saying runs, “Two’s company, three’s none”—that the presence of a third party makes it necessary for Eros to wear a mask, that, except in a duet, loving words lose their tang and the fire of an onslaught is chilled. Throughout their conversation she must never be allowed to forget what he was aiming at. He was sure she had already understood....

It did not seem to Otto at all improbable that his preoccupation with the lady would be crowned with success. She had reached an age when a woman may well regret having remained faithful to a husband she has never loved, an age when her mature beauty craves for one last acknowledgment, when a choice has to be made between the antagonistic forces constituted by motherhood and womanhood.Life, whose riddles had long since appeared to be solved, in this fateful hour poses a fresh question, and the magnetic needle of the will hovers between the hope of a final love-experience and quiet resignation. A matron has then to decide whether she is to live for herself or for her children, whether she is to be the devoted mother or the beloved woman. The baron, who credited himself with a profound knowledge of feminine psychology, believed he had struck up acquaintance with the lady precisely at the perilous hour when she would be obliged to decide the issue as between pleasure and duty. He noticed that in their talks she rarely mentioned her husband, who plainly could satisfy no more than the most superficial of her needs. She had expected marriage to give her an outstanding position in the world, but it had failed to do so; and, worse than this, her husband had little interest in their boy. A shade of melancholy and boredom veiled her lustrous eyes, darkening her life and blunting the edges of her sensibilities.

The baron made up his mind to set about his business of conquest without further ado, but he realized that he must not betray undue haste. Like an angler playing a fish, he wished to land his catch and at the same time to postpone the moment of netting, so as to be sure that his prey did not escape him. He would assume indifference, entice her into making the first advances; whereas in reality it was he who wooed her favours. Taking advantage of his social position, he resolved to treat her somewhat arrogantly so that she would feel her inferiority. It tickled his fancy, this thought that the glamour of an aristocratic name, the gloss of distinguished manners, would enable him to overcome her scruples and to clasp her beautiful body in his embrace.

The game was becoming an exciting one, and called for discretion. Otto spent that afternoon in his own room, well aware that he would be missed and his presence looked for. Yet, truth to tell, this deliberate absence did not so much affect the lady, who hardly noticed it, as the boy, for whom it constituted a martyrdom. Edgar felt utterly lost, utterly at a loose end. With boyish obstinacy he waited, throughout the creeping, dreary hours, for a glimpse of his friend. To have sought other recreations would have seemed to him a betrayal. He haunted the passages and stairs, and, as evening approached, his heart was filled with anguish. He began to imagine that some misfortune had overtaken the baron, or that he had given unwitting offense to his big friend. Impatient and alarmed, the boy felt his eyes brimming over with scalding tears.

At dinner, Baron Otto von Sternfeldt received a warm welcome. Edgar sprang up to greet him, and, to the astonishment of the other guests and to the distress of his mother, flung his arms passionately round the baron’s neck, exclaiming:

“Oh, where have you been? We’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

Frau Blumental reddened with vexation at being dragged into the business in this tactless fashion. She called her son to order.

“Sois sage, Edgar. Assieds-toi!”

The child obeyed, but continued to ply his questions, so that his mother again reprimanded him.

“You must remember that Baron von Sternfeldt is his own master and can do as he likes. Perhaps he finds our society boring.”

Admirable, thought Otto, she had included herself in the company, so that the reproach to her child became an indirect compliment to himself.

Our huntsman was again on the alert. He was indeed in luck to have thus easily found the spoor! With bright eyes, with a flush which brought the bloom on to his cheeks, he now talked easily and wittily. Like all strongly erotic persons, his eloquence grew as he felt himself appreciated by the object of his desire. He had a gift for anecdote and sprightly repartee which, after a couple of glasses of the champagne he had ordered in honour of the occasion, outstripped even his own expectations. Big-game hunts in India with an English nobleman—here, forsooth, was a splendid subject to captivate the interest of a woman for whom such exotic experiences were unattainable. Nevertheless, it was the boy who was the most impressed by these personal experiences, and not the woman. He sat enthralled, forgetting to eat or drink, lapping up every word that dropped from Sternfeldt’s lips. Who could ever have hoped to meet in the flesh a hero of dangerous exploits, and to hear the account of adventures so enchanting? Tiger hunts, brownskinned natives, Juggernaut cars crushing thousands of human bodies beneath their weight—of these Edgar had read in books. But he had never believed that such things actually existed. They had seemed no more than fairy-tales. Now they were proved to be true. Edgar’s eyes could not leave his friend’s face, or, alternatively, those marvelous hands whose fingers had pressed the trigger and had killed tigers. The boy hardly ventured a question, and, when he did, his voice trembled with excitement. His lively imagination quickly called up a picture of the baron perched aloft upon an elephant’s back, sitting in a purple howdah, to right and left swarthy men wearing magnificent turbans;the tiger snarling and showing its teeth; the jungle; blood oozing from the elephant’s neck where the great cat clawed. Even more interesting narratives were in store, for Sternfeldt told of how old and well-trained elephants were used as decoys to entrap wild ones. Edgar’s eyes sparkled....

Then, shattering his magic world, came the voice of his mother, saying, as she glanced at her watch:

“Neuf heures? Au lit, Edgar!”

The boy went pale with alarm. Bedtime is for every child a bugaboo, for it implies a putting to shame, is a public demonstration that adults look upon a boy or a girl of tender years as an inferior, as a creature in need of more sleep than their Olympian selves. Doubly poignant was the disgrace of such an implication at so unique, so interesting a moment as that which Edgar was experiencing.

“Oh, Mother, do let me hear just one more story about the elephant who...”

He was ready to beg and pray for her leniency, when it dawned upon him that the role of suppliant little accorded with his new status as grown-up. Too late! His mother, brushing his request aside, said severely:

“Non, Edgar, il se fait tard. Monte. Sois sage. Je te raconterai toutes les histoires de Monsieur le Baron demain.”

The child hesitated. Usually his mother saw him into bed. Still, he was not going to demean himself by begging a favour in front of this stranger. Not he! So Edgar merely asked:

“Promise, Mother, you’ll tell me everything, you won’t forget? All about the elephants...”

“Yes, yes.”

“To-night, when you come up?”

“Yes. Now run along with you.”

How Edgar managed to bid them good night without breaking down, he did not know. His throat ached with suppressed tears. Sternfeldt pulled a comical face which brought a grin to the lad’s mouth, but he had to make quick tracks for the exit in order to conceal the sobs which could no longer be kept in check.