Читать книгу The Adventures of M. D'Haricot - J. Storer Clouston - Страница 11

A stiff, uninhabited-looking apartment of considerable size, lit with the electric light, upholstered in light wood and new red leather, and ornamented by a life-sized portrait of Fisher himself, this picture being as uncompromising and apoplectic as the original. Finally, standing in an artificially easy attitude before a fireplace containing a frilled arrangement of pink paper, picture an exceedingly uncomfortable Frenchman.

“You scarcely expected me?” I begin, with a smile.

“I did not,” says Fisher.

“I did not expect to see you,” I continue; but to this he makes no reply.

“I was looking for the house of Mr. Hankey.”

“Were you?” says Fisher.

“Do you know him?” I ask.

“No,” says Fisher.

A pause. The campaign has opened badly; no doubt of that. I must try another move.

“You will wonder how I knew him,” I say, pleasant.

Fisher only breathes more heavily.

“Our mutual friend, Smith,” I begin, watching closely to see if his mind responds to this name. I know that Smith is common in England, and think he will surely know some one so called. “Smith mentioned you.”

But no, there is no gleam of recognition.

“Indeed,” is all he remarks, very calmly.

There is no help for it, I must go on.

“I intended to call upon you some day this week. I have heard you highly spoken of—'The great Fisher,' 'The famous Fisher.' Indeed, sir, I assure you, your name is a household word in Scotland.”

I choose Scotland because I know its accent is different from English. My own also is different. Therefore I shall be Scotch. Unhappy selection!

“Do you mean to pretend you are Scotch?” says Fisher, frowning as well as breathing at me.

I must withdraw one foot.

“Half Scotch, half Italian,” I reply.

Ah, France, why did I deny you? I was afraid to own you, I blush to confess it. And I was righteously punished.

“Italian?” says he, with more interest. “Ah, indeed!”

He stares more intently, frowns more portentously, and respires more loudly than ever.

“A charming country,” I say.

“No doubt,” says Fisher.

At this moment the door opens behind him and a lady appears. She has a puffy cheek, a pale eye, a comfortable figure, a curled fringe of gray hair, and slightly projecting teeth; in a word, the mate of Fisher. There can be no mistake, and I am quick to seize the chance.

“My dear Mrs. Fisher!” I exclaim, advancing towards her.

With a movement like a hippopotamus wallowing, Fisher places himself between us. Does he think I have come to elope with her?

I assume the indignant rôle.

“Mr. Fisher!” I cry, much hurt at this want of confidence.

“Who is this gentleman?” asks Mrs. Fisher, looking at me, I think, with a not altogether disapproving glance.

“Ask him,” says Fisher.

“Madame,” I say, with a bow, “I am an unfortunate stranger, come to pay my respects to Mr. Fisher and his beautiful lady. I wish you could explain my reception.”

“What is your name?” says Mrs. Fisher, with comparative graciousness, considering that she is a bourgeois Englishwoman taken by surprise, and fearing both to be cold to a possible man of position and to be friendly with a possible nobody.

A name I must have, and I must also invent it at once, and it must be something both Scotch and Italian. I take the first two that come into my head.

“Dugald Cellarini,” I reply.

They look at one another dubiously. I must put them at their ease at any cost.

“A fine picture,” I say, indicating the portrait of my host, “and an excellent likeness. Do you not think so, Mrs. Fisher?”

She looks at me as if she had a new thought.

“Are you a friend of the artist?” she asks.

“An intimate,” I reply with alacrity.

“We have informed Mr. Benzine that we specially desired him not to bring any more of his Bohemian acquaintances to our house,” says the amiable lady.

I am plunging deeper into the morass! Still, I have at last accounted for my presence.

“Mr. Benzine did not warn me of this, madame,” I reply, coldly. “I apologize and I withdraw.”

I make a step towards the door, but the large form of Fisher still intervenes.

“Then Benzine sent you?” he says.

“He did, though evidently under a misapprehension.”

“And what about Smith?” asks Fisher, with an approach to intelligence in his bovine eye.

“Well, what about him?” I ask, defiantly.

“Did he send you, too?”

“My reception has been such that I decline to give any further explanations.”

“That is all very well,” says Fisher—“that is all very well—”

He is evidently cogitating what is all very well, when we hear heavy steps in the passage.

“They have come at last!” he exclaims, and opens the door.

“More visitors!” I say to myself, hoping now for a diversion. In another moment I get it. Enter the butler and two gigantic policemen.