Chapter XI

by William Somerset Maugham

　　During the journey I thought over my errand with misgiving.Now that I was free from the spectacle of Mrs. Strickland'sdistress I could consider the matter more calmly. I waspuzzled by the contradictions that I saw in her behaviour.She was very unhappy, but to excite my sympathy she was ableto make a show of her unhappiness. It was evident that shehad been prepared to weep, for she had provided herself with asufficiency of handkerchiefs; I admired her forethought, butin retrospect it made her tears perhaps less moving. I couldnot decide whether she desired the return of her husbandbecause she loved him, or because she dreaded the tongue ofscandal; and I was perturbed by the suspicion that the anguishof love contemned was alloyed in her broken heart with thepangs, sordid to my young mind, of wounded vanity. I had notyet learnt how contradictory is human nature; I did not knowhow much pose there is in the sincere, how much baseness inthe noble, nor how much goodness in the reprobate.But there was something of an adventure in my trip, and myspirits rose as I approached Paris. I saw myself, too, fromthe dramatic standpoint, and I was pleased with my role of thetrusted friend bringing back the errant husband to hisforgiving wife. I made up my mind to see Strickland thefollowing evening, for I felt instinctively that the hour mustbe chosen with delicacy. An appeal to the emotions is littlelikely to be effectual before luncheon. My own thoughts werethen constantly occupied with love, but I never could imagineconnubial bliss till after tea.I enquired at my hotel for that in which Charles Stricklandwas living. It was called the Hotel des Belges. But theconcierge, somewhat to my surprise, had never heard of it.I had understood from Mrs. Strickland that it was a large andsumptuous place at the back of the Rue de Rivoli. We lookedit out in the directory. The only hotel of that name was inthe Rue des Moines. The quarter was not fashionable; it wasnot even respectable. I shook my head."I'm sure that's not it," I said.The concierge shrugged his shoulders. There was no otherhotel of that name in Paris. It occurred to me thatStrickland had concealed his address, after all. In givinghis partner the one I knew he was perhaps playing a trick on him.I do not know why I had an inkling that it would appealto Strickland's sense of humour to bring a furious stockbrokerover to Paris on a fool's errand to an ill-famed house in amean street. Still, I thought I had better go and see.Next day about six o'clock I took a cab to the Rue des Moines,but dismissed it at the corner, since I preferred to walk to thehotel and look at it before I went in. It was a street ofsmall shops subservient to the needs of poor people, and aboutthe middle of it, on the left as I walked down, was the Hoteldes Belges. My own hotel was modest enough, but it wasmagnificent in comparison with this. It was a tall, shabbybuilding, that cannot have been painted for years, and it hadso bedraggled an air that the houses on each side of it lookedneat and clean. The dirty windows were all shut. It was nothere that Charles Strickland lived in guilty splendour withthe unknown charmer for whose sake he had abandoned honour and duty.I was vexed, for I felt that I had been made a fool of,and I nearly turned away without making an enquiry. I went inonly to be able to tell Mrs. Strickland that I had done my best.The door was at the side of a shop. It stood open, and justwithin was a sign: Bureau au premier. I walked up narrowstairs, and on the landing found a sort of box, glassed in,within which were a desk and a couple of chairs. There was abench outside, on which it might be presumed the night porterpassed uneasy nights. There was no one about, but under anelectric bell was written Garcon. I rang, and presently awaiter appeared. He was a young man with furtive eyes and asullen look. He was in shirt-sleeves and carpet slippers.I do not know why I made my enquiry as casual as possible."Does Mr. Strickland live here by any chance?" I asked."Number thirty-two. On the sixth floor."I was so surprised that for a moment I did not answer."Is he in?"The waiter looked at a board in the bureau."He hasn't left his key. Go up and you'll see."I thought it as well to put one more question."Madame est la?""Monsieur est seul."The waiter looked at me suspiciously as I made my way upstairs.They were dark and airless. There was a foul andmusty smell. Three flights up a Woman in a dressing-gown,with touzled hair, opened a door and looked at me silently asI passed. At length I reached the sixth floor, and knocked atthe door numbered thirty-two. There was a sound within, andthe door was partly opened. Charles Strickland stood before me.He uttered not a word. He evidently did not know me.I told him my name. I tried my best to assume an airy manner."You don't remember me. I had the pleasure of dining with youlast July.""Come in," he said cheerily. "I'm delighted to see you.Take a pew."I entered. It was a very small room, overcrowded withfurniture of the style which the French know as LouisPhilippe. There was a large wooden bedstead on which was abillowing red eiderdown, and there was a large wardrobe,a round table, a very small washstand, and two stuffed chairscovered with red rep. Everything was dirty and shabby.There was no sign of the abandoned luxury that Colonel MacAndrewhad so confidently described. Strickland threw on the floor theclothes that burdened one of the chairs, and I sat down on it."What can I do for you?" he asked.In that small room he seemed even bigger than I remembered him.He wore an old Norfolk jacket, and he had not shaved forseveral days. When last I saw him he was spruce enough,but he looked ill at ease: now, untidy and ill-kempt,he looked perfectly at home. I did not know how he wouldtake the remark I had prepared."I've come to see you on behalf of your wife.""I was just going out to have a drink before dinner.You'd better come too. Do you like absinthe?""I can drink it.""Come on, then."He put on a bowler hat much in need of brushing."We might dine together. You owe me a dinner, you know.""Certainly. Are you alone?"I flattered myself that I had got in that important questionvery naturally."Oh yes. In point of fact I've not spoken to a soul for three days.My French isn't exactly brilliant."I wondered as I preceded him downstairs what had happened tothe little lady in the tea-shop. Had they quarrelled already,or was his infatuation passed? It seemed hardly likely if,as appeared, he had been taking steps for a year to make hisdesperate plunge. We walked to the Avenue de Clichy, and satdown at one of the tables on the pavement of a large cafe.