Chapter 11 eleven

During the trip, I considered my errand to Paris carefully, and felt some misgivings.Now that Mrs. Strickland's distress was out of my sight, I seemed to be able to consider the matter more calmly.I found some inconsistencies in Mrs. Strickland's behaviour, which puzzled me.She was very unhappy, but she was very good at showing me her unhappiness in order to excite my sympathy.She was evidently about to cry, for she had a good deal of handkerchiefs ready; and though I admired her forethought, in retrospect, the moving force of her tears was diminished.I couldn't see whether she wanted her husband back because she loved him, or because she was afraid of being judged; and I wondered whether the pain of loss that broke her heart was also mixed with the sorrow of damaged vanity (which was very important to my young man. The mind is a dirty thing); and this suspicion bewildered me too.I did not then understand how contradictory human nature is, how much affectation there is in sincerity, how much meanness in nobility, or how much virtue is to be found even in vice.

But I went to Paris this time with a certain element of adventure, and as I got closer to my destination, my emotions gradually increased.I also see myself in terms of theater and appreciate my role as a heartfelt friend bringing back a errant husband to a forgiving wife.I resolved to go to Strickland again the next evening, because I felt instinctively that the time must be carefully calculated and fixed.If you want to move someone emotionally, you will rarely succeed before lunch.In those years, I myself often fantasized about love affairs, but only after having evening tea can I fantasize about the happiness of a beautiful marriage.

I inquired at the hotel where I was staying where Charles Strickland lived.The hotel where he stayed was called the Belgian Hotel.I am surprised that the gatekeeper has not heard of this place.I have heard from Mrs. Strickland that it is a very large and stately hotel, which is situated behind the Rue de Rivoli.We checked the hotel business guide.There is only one hotel with this name, on Mona Road.This is not an area for rich people, not even a decent place.I shook my head. "Definitely not this one," I said. The janitor shrugged.There is no other hotel with this name in Paris.It occurred to me that Strickland hadn't wanted his whereabouts to be known.He may have been joking with him by giving this address to his partner.I don't know why, but I thought it would suit Strickland's sense of humor to lure an irate stockbroker into a very disreputable house in a low street in Paris, and make a fool of himself.Even so, I figured I'd have to check it out.About six o'clock the next day I hailed a cab and arrived in the Rue de Morne.I dismissed the car on the corner and figured I'd better walk to the hotel and look outside before going in.This street is lined with small shops for the poor. Halfway down the road, on the left side of the road I turned in, is the Belgian Hotel.I was staying in a mediocre hotel myself, but compared with this one it was grand.This is a dilapidated small building, which has not been painted for many years and is dirty. In contrast, the houses on both sides look clean and tidy.The dirty windows were all shut.Charles Strickland and the beauty who had seduced him from his honor and duty obviously did not seek pleasure in such a place, enjoying their sinful and luxurious life.I was very annoyed and felt that I was clearly being played.I almost turned away without even asking.I went in only as an afterthought to tell Mrs. Strickland that I had done my best.

The entrance of the hotel is next to a shop, the door is open, and there is a sign as soon as you enter the door: The accountant is on the second floor.I went up the narrow stairs, and on the landing I saw a small cabinet with a glass door and a window, in which there was a desk and two or three chairs.There is a bench outside the pavilion, where the gatekeeper probably spends the night.There was no one around, but I saw the word Waiter under a bell button.I pressed it, and a person popped out of nowhere.This man was very young, with mischievous eyebrows and a dejected face. He was wearing only a shirt and was pulling a pair of felt slippers.

I myself don't know why I pretended to be casual when I asked him about Strickland. "Is there a Mr. Strickland living here?" I asked. "No. 32, sixth floor." I was so taken aback that I didn't answer for a while. "Is he home?" The waiter looked at a board in the counting room. "His key is not here. Go up and see for yourself." I thought I might as well ask him one more question. "Is your wife here too?" "Only sir." The waiter eyed me suspiciously as I walked up the stairs.The stairs were stuffy and dark, and a foul, musty smell filled the nostrils.A door opened three flights of stairs up, and as I passed, a woman in pajamas with shaggy hair stared at me without saying a word.Finally, I went to the sixth floor and knocked on the door of No. 32.There was a sound in the room, and the door opened a crack.Charles Strickland appeared before me.He stood there without saying a word, obviously not recognizing who I was.

I reported my name.I try to put on a carefree look. "You don't remember me. I had the honor of dining at your house this past June." "Come in," he said cheerfully. "Nice to meet you. Sit down." I go in.It was a small room crowded with pieces of furniture, what the French call Louis Philippe.There was a large wooden bed on which was piled a large red eiderdown quilt puffy, a large wardrobe, a round table, a small washstand, and two upholstered chairs wrapped in red ribbed cloth.There is not a single thing that is not dirty and tattered.There was not even a shadow of the frivolity and pomp which Colonel MacAndrew had so poignantly described.Strickland threw the clothes on the floor, which had been heaped on a chair, and told me to sit down.

"Did you come to see me for something?" he asked. In this little room he seemed even taller than I remembered him to be.He wore an old Norfolk coat and hadn't shaved in days.Last time I saw him he was well-groomed, but he looked uncomfortable; now he was scruffy, but he looked very natural.I wondered how he would react to what I had prepared. "I came to see you at the behest of your wife." "I was going out for a drink before supper. You'd better come with me. Do you like absinthe?" "You can have a drink." "Then let's go"

He put on a bowler hat; the hat was long overdue for scrubbing. "We can have dinner together. You owe me a meal, you know." "Of course. Are you alone?" I am very proud that I have raised such an important question so naturally. "Oh, yes. To tell you the truth, I haven't spoken to anyone for three days. My French is very poor." As I was leading down the stairs, I thought of the girl in the tea shop, and wondered what had happened to her.Had they already quarreled, or had the heat of his infatuation passed?From what I've seen, it's hard to believe that he's been planning for a year just to come to Paris like this.We walked to the Boulevard de Criser and sat down at one of the many tables set up on the pavement in a large café.