The Arrow of Gold: A Story Between Two Notes

by Joseph Conrad

  CHAPTER IV

  It was the last evening of Carnival. The same masks, the same yells, thesame mad rushes, the same bedlam of disguised humanity blowing about thestreets in the great gusts of mistral that seemed to make them dance likedead leaves on an earth where all joy is watched by death.

  It was exactly twelve months since that other carnival evening when I hadfelt a little weary and a little lonely but at peace with all mankind.It must have been--to a day or two. But on this evening it wasn't merelyloneliness that I felt. I felt bereaved with a sense of a complete anduniversal loss in which there was perhaps more resentment than mourning;as if the world had not been taken away from me by an august decree butfilched from my innocence by an underhand fate at the very moment when ithad disclosed to my passion its warm and generous beauty. Thisconsciousness of universal loss had this advantage that it inducedsomething resembling a state of philosophic indifference. I walked up tothe railway station caring as little for the cold blasts of wind asthough I had been going to the scaffold. The delay of the train did notirritate me in the least. I had finally made up my mind to write aletter to Dona Rita; and this "honest fellow" for whom I was waitingwould take it to her. He would have no difficulty in Tolosa in findingMadame de Lastaola. The General Headquarters, which was also a Court,would be buzzing with comments on her presence. Most likely that "honestfellow" was already known to Dona Rita. For all I knew he might havebeen her discovery just as I was. Probably I, too, was regarded as an"honest fellow" enough; but stupid--since it was clear that my luck wasnot inexhaustible. I hoped that while carrying my letter the man wouldnot let himself be caught by some Alphonsist guerilla who would, ofcourse, shoot him. But why should he? I, for instance, had escaped withmy life from a much more dangerous enterprise than merely passing throughthe frontier line in charge of some trustworthy guide. I pictured thefellow to myself trudging over the stony slopes and scrambling down wildravines with my letter to Dona Rita in his pocket. It would be such aletter of farewell as no lover had ever written, no woman in the worldhad ever read, since the beginning of love on earth. It would be worthyof the woman. No experience, no memories, no dead traditions of passionor language would inspire it. She herself would be its sole inspiration.She would see her own image in it as in a mirror; and perhaps then shewould understand what it was I was saying farewell to on the verythreshold of my life. A breath of vanity passed through my brain. Aletter as moving as her mere existence was moving would be somethingunique. I regretted I was not a poet.

  I woke up to a great noise of feet, a sudden influx of people through thedoors of the platform. I made out my man's whiskers at once--not thatthey were enormous, but because I had been warned beforehand of theirexistence by the excellent Commissary General. At first I saw nothing ofhim but his whiskers: they were black and cut somewhat in the shape of ashark's fin and so very fine that the least breath of air animated theminto a sort of playful restlessness. The man's shoulders were hunched upand when he had made his way clear of the throng of passengers Iperceived him as an unhappy and shivery being. Obviously he didn'texpect to be met, because when I murmured an enquiring, "Senor Ortega?"into his ear he swerved away from me and nearly dropped a little handbaghe was carrying. His complexion was uniformly pale, his mouth was red,but not engaging. His social status was not very definite. He waswearing a dark blue overcoat of no particular cut, his aspect had norelief; yet those restless side-whiskers flanking his red mouth and thesuspicious expression of his black eyes made him noticeable. This Iregretted the more because I caught sight of two skulking fellows,looking very much like policemen in plain clothes, watching us from acorner of the great hall. I hurried my man into a fiacre. He had beentravelling from early morning on cross-country lines and after we got onterms a little confessed to being very hungry and cold. His red lipstrembled and I noted an underhand, cynical curiosity when he had occasionto raise his eyes to my face. I was in some doubt how to dispose of himbut as we rolled on at a jog trot I came to the conclusion that the bestthing to do would be to organize for him a shake-down in the studio.Obscure lodging houses are precisely the places most looked after by thepolice, and even the best hotels are bound to keep a register ofarrivals. I was very anxious that nothing should stop his projectedmission of courier to headquarters. As we passed various street cornerswhere the mistral blast struck at us fiercely I could feel him shiveringby my side. However, Therese would have lighted the iron stove in thestudio before retiring for the night, and, anyway, I would have to turnher out to make up a bed on the couch. Service of the King! I must saythat she was amiable and didn't seem to mind anything one asked her todo. Thus while the fellow slumbered on the divan I would sit upstairs inmy room setting down on paper those great words of passion and sorrowthat seethed in my brain and even must have forced themselves in murmurson to my lips, because the man by my side suddenly asked me: "What didyou say?"--"Nothing," I answered, very much surprised. In the shiftinglight of the street lamps he looked the picture of bodily misery with hischattering teeth and his whiskers blown back flat over his ears. Butsomehow he didn't arouse my compassion. He was swearing to himself, inFrench and Spanish, and I tried to soothe him by the assurance that wehad not much farther to go. "I am starving," he remarked acidly, and Ifelt a little compunction. Clearly, the first thing to do was to feedhim. We were then entering the Cannebiere and as I didn't care to showmyself with him in the fashionable restaurant where a new face (and sucha face, too) would be remarked, I pulled up the fiacre at the door of theMaison Doree. That was more of a place of general resort where, in themultitude of casual patrons, he would pass unnoticed.

  For this last night of carnival the big house had decorated all itsbalconies with rows of coloured paper lanterns right up to the roof. Iled the way to the grand salon, for as to private rooms they had been allretained days before. There was a great crowd of people in costume, butby a piece of good luck we managed to secure a little table in a corner.The revellers, intent on their pleasure, paid no attention to us. SenorOrtega trod on my heels and after sitting down opposite me threw anill-natured glance at the festive scene. It might have been abouthalf-past ten, then.

  Two glasses of wine he drank one after another did not improve histemper. He only ceased to shiver. After he had eaten something it musthave occurred to him that he had no reason to bear me a grudge and hetried to assume a civil and even friendly manner. His mouth, however,betrayed an abiding bitterness. I mean when he smiled. In repose it wasa very expressionless mouth, only it was too red to be altogetherordinary. The whole of him was like that: the whiskers too black, thehair too shiny, the forehead too white, the eyes too mobile; and he lentyou his attention with an air of eagerness which made you uncomfortable.He seemed to expect you to give yourself away by some unconsidered wordthat he would snap up with delight. It was that peculiarity that somehowput me on my guard. I had no idea who I was facing across the table andas a matter of fact I did not care. All my impressions were blurred; andeven the promptings of my instinct were the haziest thing imaginable.Now and then I had acute hallucinations of a woman with an arrow of goldin her hair. This caused alternate moments of exaltation and depressionfrom which I tried to take refuge in conversation; but Senor Ortega wasnot stimulating. He was preoccupied with personal matters. Whensuddenly he asked me whether I knew why he had been called away from hiswork (he had been buying supplies from peasants somewhere in CentralFrance), I answered that I didn't know what the reason was originally,but I had an idea that the present intention was to make of him acourier, bearing certain messages from Baron H. to the Quartel Real inTolosa.

  He glared at me like a basilisk. "And why have I been met like this?" heenquired with an air of being prepared to hear a lie.

  I explained that it was the Baron's wish, as a matter of prudence and toavoid any possible trouble which might arise from enquiries by thepolice.

  He took it badly. "What nonsense." He was--he said--an employe (
forseveral years) of Hernandez Brothers in Paris, an importing firm, and hewas travelling on their business--as he could prove. He dived into hisside pocket and produced a handful of folded papers of all sorts which heplunged back again instantly.

  And even then I didn't know whom I had there, opposite me, busy nowdevouring a slice of pate de foie gras. Not in the least. It neverentered my head. How could it? The Rita that haunted me had no history;she was but the principle of life charged with fatality. Her form wasonly a mirage of desire decoying one step by step into despair.

  Senor Ortega gulped down some more wine and suggested I should tell himwho I was. "It's only right I should know," he added.

  This could not be gainsaid; and to a man connected with the Carlistorganization the shortest way was to introduce myself as that "MonsieurGeorge" of whom he had probably heard.

  He leaned far over the table, till his very breast-bone was over theedge, as though his eyes had been stilettos and he wanted to drive themhome into my brain. It was only much later that I understood how neardeath I had been at that moment. But the knives on the tablecloth werethe usual restaurant knives with rounded ends and about as deadly aspieces of hoop-iron. Perhaps in the very gust of his fury he rememberedwhat a French restaurant knife is like and something sane within him madehim give up the sudden project of cutting my heart out where I sat. Forit could have been nothing but a sudden impulse. His settled purpose wasquite other. It was not my heart that he was after. His fingers indeedwere groping amongst the knife handles by the side of his plate but whatcaptivated my attention for a moment were his red lips which were formedinto an odd, sly, insinuating smile. Heard! To be sure he had heard!The chief of the great arms smuggling organization!

  "Oh!" I said, "that's giving me too much importance." The personresponsible and whom I looked upon as chief of all the business was, ashe might have heard, too, a certain noble and loyal lady.

  "I am as noble as she is," he snapped peevishly, and I put him down atonce as a very offensive beast. "And as to being loyal, what is that?It is being truthful! It is being faithful! I know all about her."

  I managed to preserve an air of perfect unconcern. He wasn't a fellow towhom one could talk of Dona Rita.

  "You are a Basque," I said.

  He admitted rather contemptuously that he was a Basque and even then thetruth did not dawn upon me. I suppose that with the hidden egoism of alover I was thinking of myself, of myself alone in relation to Dona Rita,not of Dona Rita herself. He, too, obviously. He said: "I am aneducated man, but I know her people, all peasants. There is a sister, anuncle, a priest, a peasant, too, and perfectly unenlightened. One can'texpect much from a priest (I am a free-thinker of course), but he isreally too bad, more like a brute beast. As to all her people, mostlydead now, they never were of any account. There was a little land, butthey were always working on other people's farms, a barefooted gang, astarved lot. I ought to know because we are distant relations.Twentieth cousins or something of the sort. Yes, I am related to thatmost loyal lady. And what is she, after all, but a Parisian woman withinnumerable lovers, as I have been told."

  "I don't think your information is very correct," I said, affecting toyawn slightly. "This is mere gossip of the gutter and I am surprised atyou, who really know nothing about it--"

  But the disgusting animal had fallen into a brown study. The hair of hisvery whiskers was perfectly still. I had now given up all idea of theletter to Rita. Suddenly he spoke again:

  "Women are the origin of all evil. One should never trust them. Theyhave no honour. No honour!" he repeated, striking his breast with hisclosed fist on which the knuckles stood out very white. "I left myvillage many years ago and of course I am perfectly satisfied with myposition and I don't know why I should trouble my head about this loyallady. I suppose that's the way women get on in the world."

  I felt convinced that he was no proper person to be a messenger toheadquarters. He struck me as altogether untrustworthy and perhaps notquite sane. This was confirmed by him saying suddenly with no visibleconnection and as if it had been forced from him by some agonizingprocess: "I was a boy once," and then stopping dead short with a smile.He had a smile that frightened one by its association of malice andanguish.

  "Will you have anything more to eat?" I asked.

  He declined dully. He had had enough. But he drained the last of abottle into his glass and accepted a cigar which I offered him. While hewas lighting it I had a sort of confused impression that he wasn't such astranger to me as I had assumed he was; and yet, on the other hand, I wasperfectly certain I had never seen him before. Next moment I felt that Icould have knocked him down if he hadn't looked so amazingly unhappy,while he came out with the astounding question: "Senor, have you everbeen a lover in your young days?"

  "What do you mean?" I asked. "How old do you think I am?"

  "That's true," he said, gazing at me in a way in which the damned gazeout of their cauldrons of boiling pitch at some soul walking scot free inthe place of torment. "It's true, you don't seem to have anything onyour mind." He assumed an air of ease, throwing an arm over the back ofhis chair and blowing the smoke through the gash of his twisted redmouth. "Tell me," he said, "between men, you know, has this--wonderfulcelebrity--what does she call herself? How long has she been yourmistress?"

  I reflected rapidly that if I knocked him over, chair and all, by asudden blow from the shoulder it would bring about infinite complicationsbeginning with a visit to the Commissaire de Police on night-duty, andending in God knows what scandal and disclosures of political kind;because there was no telling what, or how much, this outrageous brutemight choose to say and how many people he might not involve in a mostundesirable publicity. He was smoking his cigar with a poignantlymocking air and not even looking at me. One can't hit like that a manwho isn't even looking at one; and then, just as I was looking at himswinging his leg with a caustic smile and stony eyes, I felt sorry forthe creature. It was only his body that was there in that chair. It wasmanifest to me that his soul was absent in some hell of its own. At thatmoment I attained the knowledge of who it was I had before me. This wasthe man of whom both Dona Rita and Rose were so much afraid. It remainedthen for me to look after him for the night and then arrange with BaronH. that he should be sent away the very next day--and anywhere but toTolosa. Yes, evidently, I mustn't lose sight of him. I proposed in thecalmest tone that we should go on where he could get his much-neededrest. He rose with alacrity, picked up his little hand-bag, and, walkingout before me, no doubt looked a very ordinary person to all eyes butmine. It was then past eleven, not much, because we had not been in thatrestaurant quite an hour, but the routine of the town's night-life beingupset during the Carnival the usual row of fiacres outside the MaisonDoree was not there; in fact, there were very few carriages about.Perhaps the coachmen had assumed Pierrot costumes and were rushing aboutthe streets on foot yelling with the rest of the population. "We willhave to walk," I said after a while.--"Oh, yes, let us walk," assentedSenor Ortega, "or I will be frozen here." It was like a plaint ofunutterable wretchedness. I had a fancy that all his natural heat hadabandoned his limbs and gone to his brain. It was otherwise with me; myhead was cool but I didn't find the night really so very cold. Westepped out briskly side by side. My lucid thinking was, as it were,enveloped by the wide shouting of the consecrated Carnival gaiety. Ihave heard many noises since, but nothing that gave me such an intimateimpression of the savage instincts hidden in the breast of mankind; theseyells of festivity suggested agonizing fear, rage of murder, ferocity oflust, and the irremediable joylessness of human condition: yet they wereemitted by people who were convinced that they were amusing themselvessupremely, traditionally, with the sanction of ages, with the approval oftheir conscience--and no mistake about it whatever! Our appearance, thesoberness of our gait made us conspicuous. Once or twice, by commoninspiration, masks rushed forward and forming a circle danced round usuttering discordan
t shouts of derision; for we were an outrage to thepeculiar proprieties of the hour, and besides we were obviously lonelyand defenceless. On those occasions there was nothing for it but tostand still till the flurry was over. My companion, however, would stamphis feet with rage, and I must admit that I myself regretted not havingprovided for our wearing a couple of false noses, which would have beenenough to placate the just resentment of those people. We might havealso joined in the dance, but for some reason or other it didn't occur tous; and I heard once a high, clear woman's voice stigmatizing us for a"species of swelled heads" (_espece d'enfles_). We proceeded sedately,my companion muttered with rage, and I was able to resume my thinking.It was based on the deep persuasion that the man at my side was insanewith quite another than Carnivalesque lunacy which comes on at one statedtime of the year. He was fundamentally mad, though not perhapscompletely; which of course made him all the greater, I won't say dangerbut, nuisance.

  I remember once a young doctor expounding the theory that mostcatastrophes in family circles, surprising episodes in public affairs anddisasters in private life, had their origin in the fact that the worldwas full of half-mad people. He asserted that they were the realmajority. When asked whether he considered himself as belonging to themajority, he said frankly that he didn't think so; unless the folly ofvoicing this view in a company, so utterly unable to appreciate all itshorror, could be regarded as the first symptom of his own fate. Weshouted down him and his theory, but there is no doubt that it had throwna chill on the gaiety of our gathering.

  We had now entered a quieter quarter of the town and Senor Ortega hadceased his muttering. For myself I had not the slightest doubt of my ownsanity. It was proved to me by the way I could apply my intelligence tothe problem of what was to be done with Senor Ortega. Generally, he wasunfit to be trusted with any mission whatever. The unstability of histemper was sure to get him into a scrape. Of course carrying a letter toHeadquarters was not a very complicated matter; and as to that I wouldhave trusted willingly a properly trained dog. My private letter to DonaRita, the wonderful, the unique letter of farewell, I had given up forthe present. Naturally I thought of the Ortega problem mainly in theterms of Dona Rita's safety. Her image presided at every council, atevery conflict of my mind, and dominated every faculty of my senses. Itfloated before my eyes, it touched my elbow, it guarded my right side andmy left side; my ears seemed to catch the sound of her footsteps behindme, she enveloped me with passing whiffs of warmth and perfume, withfilmy touches of the hair on my face. She penetrated me, my head wasfull of her . . . And his head, too, I thought suddenly with a sideglance at my companion. He walked quietly with hunched-up shoulderscarrying his little hand-bag and he looked the most commonplace figureimaginable.

  Yes. There was between us a most horrible fellowship; the association ofhis crazy torture with the sublime suffering of my passion. We hadn'tbeen a quarter of an hour together when that woman had surged up fatallybetween us; between this miserable wretch and myself. We were haunted bythe same image. But I was sane! I was sane! Not because I was certainthat the fellow must not be allowed to go to Tolosa, but because I wasperfectly alive to the difficulty of stopping him from going there, sincethe decision was absolutely in the hands of Baron H.

  If I were to go early in the morning and tell that fat, bilious man:"Look here, your Ortega's mad," he would certainly think at once that Iwas, get very frightened, and . . . one couldn't tell what course hewould take. He would eliminate me somehow out of the affair. And yet Icould not let the fellow proceed to where Dona Rita was, because,obviously, he had been molesting her, had filled her with uneasiness andeven alarm, was an unhappy element and a disturbing influence in herlife--incredible as the thing appeared! I couldn't let him go on to makehimself a worry and a nuisance, drive her out from a town in which shewished to be (for whatever reason) and perhaps start some explosivescandal. And that girl Rose seemed to fear something graver even than ascandal. But if I were to explain the matter fully to H. he would simplyrejoice in his heart. Nothing would please him more than to have DonaRita driven out of Tolosa. What a relief from his anxieties (and hiswife's, too); and if I were to go further, if I even went so far as tohint at the fears which Rose had not been able to conceal from me, whythen--I went on thinking coldly with a stoical rejection of the mostelementary faith in mankind's rectitude--why then, that accommodatinghusband would simply let the ominous messenger have his chance. He wouldsee there only his natural anxieties being laid to rest for ever.Horrible? Yes. But I could not take the risk. In a twelvemonth I hadtravelled a long way in my mistrust of mankind.

  We paced on steadily. I thought: "How on earth am I going to stop you?"Had this arisen only a month before, when I had the means at hand andDominic to confide in, I would have simply kidnapped the fellow. Alittle trip to sea would not have done Senor Ortega any harm; though nodoubt it would have been abhorrent to his feelings. But now I had notthe means. I couldn't even tell where my poor Dominic was hiding hisdiminished head.

  Again I glanced at him sideways. I was the taller of the two and as ithappened I met in the light of the street lamp his own stealthy glancedirected up at me with an agonized expression, an expression that made mefancy I could see the man's very soul writhing in his body like animpaled worm. In spite of my utter inexperience I had some notion of theimages that rushed into his mind at the sight of any man who hadapproached Dona Rita. It was enough to awaken in any human being amovement of horrified compassion; but my pity went out not to him but toDona Rita. It was for her that I felt sorry; I pitied her for havingthat damned soul on her track. I pitied her with tenderness andindignation, as if this had been both a danger and a dishonour.

  I don't mean to say that those thoughts passed through my headconsciously. I had only the resultant, settled feeling. I had, however,a thought, too. It came on me suddenly, and I asked myself with rage andastonishment: "Must I then kill that brute?" There didn't seem to be anyalternative. Between him and Dona Rita I couldn't hesitate. I believe Igave a slight laugh of desperation. The suddenness of this sinisterconclusion had in it something comic and unbelievable. It loosened mygrip on my mental processes. A Latin tag came into my head about thefacile descent into the abyss. I marvelled at its aptness, and also thatit should have come to me so pat. But I believe now that it wassuggested simply by the actual declivity of the street of the Consulswhich lies on a gentle slope. We had just turned the corner. All thehouses were dark and in a perspective of complete solitude our twoshadows dodged and wheeled about our feet.

  "Here we are," I said.

  He was an extraordinarily chilly devil. When we stopped I could hear histeeth chattering again. I don't know what came over me, I had a sort ofnervous fit, was incapable of finding my pockets, let alone the latchkey.I had the illusion of a narrow streak of light on the wall of the houseas if it had been cracked. "I hope we will be able to get in," Imurmured.

  Senor Ortega stood waiting patiently with his handbag, like a rescuedwayfarer. "But you live in this house, don't you?" he observed.

  "No," I said, without hesitation. I didn't know how that man wouldbehave if he were aware that I was staying under the same roof. He washalf mad. He might want to talk all night, try crazily to invade myprivacy. How could I tell? Moreover, I wasn't so sure that I wouldremain in the house. I had some notion of going out again and walking upand down the street of the Consuls till daylight. "No, an absent friendlets me use . . . I had that latchkey this morning . . . Ah! here it is."

  I let him go in first. The sickly gas flame was there on duty,undaunted, waiting for the end of the world to come and put it out. Ithink that the black-and-white hall surprised Ortega. I had closed thefront door without noise and stood for a moment listening, while heglanced about furtively. There were only two other doors in the hall,right and left. Their panels of ebony were decorated with bronzeapplications in the centre. The one on the left was of course Blunt'sdoor. As the pass
age leading beyond it was dark at the further end Itook Senor Ortega by the hand and led him along, unresisting, like achild. For some reason or other I moved on tip-toe and he followed myexample. The light and the warmth of the studio impressed himfavourably; he laid down his little bag, rubbed his hands together, andproduced a smile of satisfaction; but it was such a smile as a totallyruined man would perhaps force on his lips, or a man condemned to a shortshrift by his doctor. I begged him to make himself at home and said thatI would go at once and hunt up the woman of the house who would make himup a bed on the big couch there. He hardly listened to what I said.What were all those things to him! He knew that his destiny was to sleepon a bed of thorns, to feed on adders. But he tried to show a sort ofpolite interest. He asked: "What is this place?"

  "It used to belong to a painter," I mumbled.

  "Ah, your absent friend," he said, making a wry mouth. "I detest allthose artists, and all those writers, and all politicos who are thieves;and I would go even farther and higher, laying a curse on all idle loversof women. You think perhaps I am a Royalist? No. If there was anybodyin heaven or hell to pray to I would pray for a revolution--a redrevolution everywhere."

  "You astonish me," I said, just to say something.

  "No! But there are half a dozen people in the world with whom I wouldlike to settle accounts. One could shoot them like partridges and noquestions asked. That's what revolution would mean to me."

  "It's a beautifully simple view," I said. "I imagine you are not theonly one who holds it; but I really must look after your comforts. Youmustn't forget that we have to see Baron H. early to-morrow morning."And I went out quietly into the passage wondering in what part of thehouse Therese had elected to sleep that night. But, lo and behold, whenI got to the foot of the stairs there was Therese coming down from theupper regions in her nightgown, like a sleep-walker. However, it wasn'tthat, because, before I could exclaim, she vanished off the first floorlanding like a streak of white mist and without the slightest sound. Herattire made it perfectly clear that she could not have heard us comingin. In fact, she must have been certain that the house was empty,because she was as well aware as myself that the Italian girls aftertheir work at the opera were going to a masked ball to dance for theirown amusement, attended of course by their conscientious father. Butwhat thought, need, or sudden impulse had driven Therese out of bed likethis was something I couldn't conceive.

  I didn't call out after her. I felt sure that she would return. I wentup slowly to the first floor and met her coming down again, this timecarrying a lighted candle. She had managed to make herself presentablein an extraordinarily short time.

  "Oh, my dear young Monsieur, you have given me a fright."

  "Yes. And I nearly fainted, too," I said. "You looked perfectly awful.What's the matter with you? Are you ill?"

  She had lighted by then the gas on the landing and I must say that I hadnever seen exactly that manner of face on her before. She wriggled,confused and shifty-eyed, before me; but I ascribed this behaviour to hershocked modesty and without troubling myself any more about her feelingsI informed her that there was a Carlist downstairs who must be put up forthe night. Most unexpectedly she betrayed a ridiculous consternation,but only for a moment. Then she assumed at once that I would give himhospitality upstairs where there was a camp-bedstead in my dressing-room.I said:

  "No. Give him a shake-down in the studio, where he is now. It's warm inthere. And remember! I charge you strictly not to let him know that Isleep in this house. In fact, I don't know myself that I will; I havecertain matters to attend to this very night. You will also have toserve him his coffee in the morning. I will take him away before teno'clock."

  All this seemed to impress her more than I had expected. As usual whenshe felt curious, or in some other way excited, she assumed a saintly,detached expression, and asked:

  "The dear gentleman is your friend, I suppose?"

  "I only know he is a Spaniard and a Carlist," I said: "and that ought tobe enough for you."

  Instead of the usual effusive exclamations she murmured: "Dear me, dearme," and departed upstairs with the candle to get together a few blanketsand pillows, I suppose. As for me I walked quietly downstairs on my wayto the studio. I had a curious sensation that I was acting in apreordained manner, that life was not at all what I had thought it to be,or else that I had been altogether changed sometime during the day, andthat I was a different person from the man whom I remembered getting outof my bed in the morning.

  Also feelings had altered all their values. The words, too, had becomestrange. It was only the inanimate surroundings that remained what theyhad always been. For instance the studio. . . .

  During my absence Senor Ortega had taken off his coat and I found him asit were in the air, sitting in his shirt sleeves on a chair which he hadtaken pains to place in the very middle of the floor. I repressed anabsurd impulse to walk round him as though he had been some sort ofexhibit. His hands were spread over his knees and he looked perfectlyinsensible. I don't mean strange, or ghastly, or wooden, but justinsensible--like an exhibit. And that effect persisted even after heraised his black suspicious eyes to my face. He lowered them almost atonce. It was very mechanical. I gave him up and became rather concernedabout myself. My thought was that I had better get out of that beforeany more queer notions came into my head. So I only remained long enoughto tell him that the woman of the house was bringing down some beddingand that I hoped that he would have a good night's rest. And directly Ispoke it struck me that this was the most extraordinary speech that everwas addressed to a figure of that sort. He, however, did not seemstartled by it or moved in any way. He simply said:

  "Thank you."

  In the darkest part of the long passage outside I met Therese with herarms full of pillows and blankets.