Nicole awoke late, murmuring something back into her dream before she parted her long lashes tangled with sleep. Dick’s bed was empty—only after a minute did she realize that she had been awakened by a knock at their salon door.

“Entrez!” she called, but there was no answer, and after a moment she slipped on a dressing-gown and went to open it. A sergent de ville confronted her courteously and stepped inside the door.

“Mr. Afghan North—he is here?”

“What? No—he’s gone to America.”

“When did he leave, Madame?”

“Yesterday morning.”

He shook his head and waved his forefinger at her in a quicker rhythm.

“He was in Paris last night. He is registered here but his room is not occupied. They told me I had better ask at this room.”

“Sounds very peculiar to me—we saw him off yesterday morning on the boat train.”

“Be that as it may, he has been seen here this morning. Even his carte d’identité has been seen. And there you are.”

“We know nothing about it,” she proclaimed in amazement.

He considered. He was an ill-smelling, handsome man.

“You were not with him at all last night?”

“But no.”

“We have arrested a Negro. We are convinced we have at last arrested the correct Negro.”

“I assure you that I haven’t an idea what you’re talking about. If it’s the Mr. Abraham North, the one we know, well, if he was in Paris last night we weren’t aware of it.”

The man nodded, sucked his upper lip, convinced but disappointed.

“What happened?” Nicole demanded.

He showed his palms, puffing out his closed mouth. He had begun to find her attractive and his eyes flickered at her.

“What do you wish, Madame? A summer affair. Mr. Afghan North was robbed and he made a complaint. We have arrested the miscreant. Mr. Afghan should come to identify him and make the proper charges.”

Nicole pulled her dressing-gown closer around her and dismissed him briskly. Mystified she took a bath and dressed. By this time it was after ten and she called Rosemary but got no answer—then she phoned the hotel office and found that Abe had indeed registered, at six-thirty this morning. His room, however, was still unoccupied. Hoping for a word from Dick she waited in the parlor of the suite; just as she had given up and decided to go out, the office called and announced:

“Meestaire Crawshow, un nègre.”

“On what business?” she demanded.

“He says he knows you and the doctaire. He says there is a Meestaire Freeman into prison that is a friend of all the world. He says there is injustice and he wishes to see Meestaire North before he himself is arrested.”

“We know nothing about it.” Nicole disclaimed the whole business with a vehement clap of the receiver. Abe’s bizarre reappearance made it plain to her how fatigued she was with his dissipation. Dismissing him from her mind she went out, ran into Rosemary at the dressmaker’s, and shopped with her for artificial flowers and all-colored strings of colored beads on the rue de Rivoli. She helped Rosemary choose a diamond for her mother, and some scarfs and novel cigarette cases to take home to business associates in California. For her son she bought Greek and Roman soldiers, a whole army of them, costing over a thousand francs. Once again they spent their money in different ways, and again Rosemary admired Nicole’s method of spending. Nicole was sure that the money she spent was hers—Rosemary still thought her money was miraculously lent to her and she must consequently be very careful of it.

It was fun spending money in the sunlight of the foreign city with healthy bodies under them that sent streams of color up to their faces; with arms and hands, legs and ankles that they stretched out confidently, reaching or stepping with the confidence of women lovely to men.

When they got back to the hotel and found Dick, all bright and new in the morning, both of them had a moment of complete childish joy.

He had just received a garbled telephone call from Abe who so it appeared, had spent the forenoon in hiding.

“It was one of the most extraordinary telephone conversations I’ve ever held.”

Dick had talked not only to Abe but to a dozen others. On the phone these supernumeraries had been typically introduced as:“—man wants to talk to you is in the Teput Dome, well he says he was in it—what is it?

“Hey, somebody, shut-up—anyhow, he was in some shandel-scandal and he kaa possibly go home. My own personal is that—my personal is he’s had a—” Gulps sounded and thereafter what the party had, rested with the unknown.

The phone yielded up a supplementary offer:

“I thought it would appeal to you anyhow as a psychologist.” The vague personality who corresponded to this statement was eventually hung on to the phone; in the sequence he failed to appeal to Dick, as a psychologist, or indeed as anything else. Abe’s conversation flowed on as follows:

“Hello.”

“Well?”

“Well, hello.”

“Who are you?”

“Well.” There were interpolated snorts of laughter.

“Well, I’ll put somebody else on the line.”

Sometimes Dick could hear Abe’s voice, accompanied by scufflings, droppings of the receiver, far-away fragments such as, “No, I don’t, Mr. North….” Then a pert decided voice had said:“If you are a friend of Mr. North you will come down and take him away.”

Abe cut in, solemn and ponderous, beating it all down with an overtone of earth-bound determination.

“Dick, I’ve launched a race riot in Montmartre. I’m going over and get Freeman out of jail. If a Negro from Copenhagen that makes shoe polish—hello, can you hear me—well, look, if anybody comes there—” Once again the receiver was a chorus of innumerable melodies.

“Why you back in Paris?” Dick demanded.

“I got as far as évreux, and I decided to take a plane back so I could compare it with St. Sulpice. I mean I don’t intend to bring St. Sulpice back to Paris. I don’t even mean Baroque! I meant St. Germain. For God’s sake, wait a minute and I’ll put the chasseur on the wire.”

“For God’s sake, don’t.”

“Listen—did Mary get off all right?”

“Yes.”

“Dick, I want you to talk with a man I met here this morning, the son of a naval officer that’s been to every doctor in Europe. Let me tell you about him—”

Dick had rung off at this point—perhaps that was a piece of ingratitude for he needed grist for the grinding activity of his mind.

“Abe used to be so nice,” Nicole told Rosemary. “So nice. Long ago—when Dick and I were first married. If you had known him then. He’d come to stay with us for weeks and weeks and we scarcely knew he was in the house. Sometimes he’d play—sometimes he’d be in the library with a muted piano, making love to it by the hour—Dick, do you remember that maid? She thought he was a ghost and sometimes Abe used to meet her in the hall and moo at her, and it cost us a whole tea service once—but we didn’t care.”

So much fun—so long ago. Rosemary envied them their fun, imagining a life of leisure unlike her own. She knew little of leisure but she had the respect for it of those who have never had it. She thought of it as a resting, without realizing that the Divers were as far from relaxing as she was herself.

“What did this to him?” she asked. “Why does he have to drink?”

Nicole shook her head right and left, disclaiming responsibility for the matter:“So many smart men go to pieces nowadays.”

“And when haven’t they?” Dick asked. “Smart men play close to the line because they have to—some of them can’t stand it, so they quit.”

“It must lie deeper than that.” Nicole clung to her conversation; also she was irritated that Dick should contradict her before Rosemary. “Artists like—well, like Fernand don’t seem to have to wallow in alcohol. Why is it just Americans who dissipate?”

There were so many answers to this question that Dick decided to leave it in the air, to buzz victoriously in Nicole’s ears. He had become intensely critical of her. Though he thought she was the most attractive human creature he had ever seen, though he got from her everything he needed, he scented battle from afar, and subconsciously he had been hardening and arming himself, hour by hour. He was not given to self-indulgence and he felt comparatively graceless at this moment of indulging himself, blinding his eyes with the hope that Nicole guessed at only an emotional excitement about Rosemary. He was not sure—last night at the theatre she had referred pointedly to Rosemary as a child.

The trio lunched downstairs in an atmosphere of carpets and padded waiters, who did not march at the stomping quick-step of those men who brought good food to the tables whereon they had recently dined. Here there were families of Americans staring around at families of Americans, and trying to make conversation with one another.

There was a party at the next table that they could not account for. It consisted of an expansive, somewhat secretarial, would-you-mind-repeating young man, and a score of women. The women were neither young nor old nor of any particular social class; yet the party gave the impression of a unit, held more closely together for example than a group of wives stalling through a professional congress of their husbands. Certainly it was more of a unit than any conceivable tourist party.

An instinct made Dick suck back the grave derision that formed on his tongue; he asked the waiter to find out who they were.

“Those are the gold-star muzzers,” explained the waiter.

Aloud and in low voices they exclaimed. Rosemary’s eyes filled with tears.

“Probably the young ones are the wives,” said Nicole.

Over his wine Dick looked at them again; in their happy faces, the dignity that surrounded and pervaded the party, he perceived all the maturity of an older America. For a while the sobered women who had come to mourn for their dead, for something they could not repair, made the room beautiful. Momentarily, he sat again on his father’s knee, riding with Mosby while the old loyalties and devotions fought on around him. Almost with an effort he turned back to his two women at the table and faced the whole new world in which he believed.

—Do you mind if I pull down the curtain?

尼科尔很晚才醒来，嘟哝了几句又进入了梦乡，最后才分开在睡眠中粘在一起的长长的睫毛。迪克的床空着——她很快明白过来，她是被客厅的敲门声惊醒的。

“请进！”她叫道，但门口没有动静。过了一会儿，她手忙脚乱披上一件晨衣过去开门。来者是个警察，跟她礼貌地打了个招呼便走进了客房。

“阿夫汗·诺思先生呢？他住在这儿吗？”

“什么？不在这里——他去美国了。”

“他什么时候走的，夫人？”

“昨天上午。”

警察摇摇头，朝她飞快地晃了晃食指。

“昨天夜里他还在巴黎。他在这家旅馆开了房间，但他的房间里没人。他们告诉我最好到这儿来问问。”

“这就怪了——昨天上午我们已把他送上了那班赶轮船的火车。”

“也许是那样吧，但今天早晨旅馆的人还看见他在这儿，甚至连他的身份证都看了。情况就是这样。”

“这我们可一点都不知道。”尼科尔满脸惊愕地说。

警察沉吟了片刻（此人相貌堂堂，只是身上有一股难闻的味）。

“你们昨天夜间没有和他在一起？”

“没有。”

“我们抓了一个黑人，而且我们坚信最终落入法网的就是那个作案的黑人。”

“我一头雾水，不知道你在说什么。如果你指的是我们的熟人亚伯拉罕·诺思先生，说他昨夜在巴黎，那我们就一无所知了。”

警察点点头，舔了舔上嘴唇，相信了尼科尔的话，但有些失望。

“出了什么事？”尼科尔问。

警察一摊手，努了努紧闭的嘴。这时他发现尼科尔长得很漂亮，便多看了她两眼。

“你想会出什么事，夫人？还不就是夏季常发的案件。阿夫汗·诺思先生遭到了抢劫，报了案。我们逮住了作案人。阿夫汗先生需要去辨认一下，并提出指控。”

尼科尔把身上的晨衣裹紧一些，很快就将警察打发走了。带着满腹的疑惑，她洗了澡，穿好了衣服。此时已过了十点钟。她给罗斯玛丽打电话，但没人接，随后又给旅馆的服务台打电话，这才知道阿贝确实开了房间，时间是今天早晨六点半，但他的房间到现在仍空着。她到套房的客厅里等迪克，希望能听听他的解释，可是久久不见迪克回来。正当她感到失望，决定出门时，旅馆的服务台打来电话，告诉她说：

“克劳肖先生求见——他是个黑人。”

“有什么事？”她问。

“他说他认识你和戴弗医生，说有个叫弗里曼的先生被关进了监狱——弗里曼先生是全世界人的朋友。他说这是件冤案，希望能在自己被捕之前见见诺思先生。”

“我们什么也不知道。”尼科尔猛地放下话筒，不再搭理这摊子事。阿贝·诺思这么古怪地再度冒出来叫她有点厌倦，觉得阿贝的放纵行为令人无法容忍。她决定不再去想他，便出门去了裁缝铺，谁知在那儿碰见了罗斯玛丽。随后，二人相伴去里沃利大街购物。她买了人造花和几串彩珠，又帮罗斯玛丽为她母亲挑了一颗钻石，还选了几条围巾和一些新颖别致的烟盒，让罗斯玛丽回国后送给加利福尼亚的同事。接下来，她为儿子买了许多希腊和罗马玩具兵，足够组成一支军队，花了她一千多法郎。她们花钱的方式再次显出了不同——尼科尔出手阔绰，再次叫罗斯玛丽羡慕不已。尼科尔泰然自若，觉得在花自己的钱，而罗斯玛丽不知怎的，总奇怪地觉得自己花的钱是借来的，必须精打细算。

沐浴着异国他乡的灿烂阳光，大把地花钱乃人生一大乐事。只见她们晃动着健康的身躯，脸上荡漾着明媚的光彩，满怀自信地伸出胳膊和双手，摆动双腿和脚踝，昂首阔步，深信她们的姿态在男人们的眼里十分可爱。

她们回到旅馆，发现这天上午的迪克容光焕发，面目一新，她们不由感到心情愉悦，一时间高兴得像孩子一样。

迪克刚接到阿贝打来的一个电话——阿贝说话吞吞吐吐，似乎在躲什么人。

“这是我有生以来接过的最怪异的电话。”他说道。

在阿贝的电话里，说话的不仅是他本人，还有十几个其他的人。那些人七嘴八舌地说什么：“有个人遇到了麻烦，这是他本人这么说的，想咨询一下你。怎么样？……喂，那是谁在说话？能不能闭上嘴！……实不相瞒，他卷进了一件丑闻，恐怕回不了家了。我个人认为……我个人认为他可能是……”话筒里传来喘息的声音，接下来又说了些什么，就听不清了。

电话的那头还有人建议说：“我觉得你是心理学家，可能会对一件事感兴趣。”接下来，那个不明身份的当事人便滔滔不绝说了起来，可是不管迪克是心理学家还是别的什么家，对他的事并无兴趣。

迪克同阿贝的通话是这样的：

“喂！”

“你好吗？”

“还好。喂！”

“你是谁？”

“我吗？”话筒里传来嘻嘻嘻一阵笑声。

“好的，我让别人来听电话。”

有时，迪克能听见话筒外有阿贝的声音，伴随着推推搡搡和掼话筒的声音，还能听到远处零零星星的说话声，诸如“不，我不能，诺思先生……”什么的。后来，话筒里有一个鲁莽的声音果断地说道：“如果你是诺思先生的朋友，那你就赶快来把他叫走吧。”

就在这时，阿贝插进来，语气庄重而生硬，以一种毅然决然的腔调压倒了其他一切声音，说道：“迪克，我在蒙马特尔发动了一场种族暴动，准备去把弗里曼救出监狱。如果有个哥本哈根来的黑人刷鞋匠去找你……喂，你能听见我说话吗？喂，如果有人去找你……”接下来，话筒里又响起了乱糟糟、七嘴八舌的声音。

“你为什么要回巴黎？”迪克问。

“我已经到了埃夫勒，然后决定坐飞机返回，这样就可以将它和圣苏尔皮斯做个比较。我并不是要将圣苏尔皮斯带回巴黎。我甚至不是说巴洛克！我是指圣日耳曼。看在上帝的分上，稍等一会儿，我去叫侍者来听电话。”

“看在上帝的分上，别去叫！”

“听着……玛丽走了吗？”

“走了。”

“迪克，今天上午我遇到了一个人，我想让你跟他谈谈。他父亲是个海军军官，在欧洲认识很多医生。我先跟你说说他的情况吧……”

迪克没等他说完就挂了电话。这样做也许不义气，但他心里乱成了一锅粥，需要清静清静。

“阿贝以前是个挺不错的人，”尼科尔对罗斯玛丽说，“可以说相当不错。真是往事如烟啊！那个时候我和迪克刚结婚。你要是在那时认识他就好了。他常来我们家，一住就是几个星期，静悄悄的，几乎就觉察不到他在屋子里。有时他会……有时他会在藏书室里弹哑巴钢琴，陶醉于其中……迪克，你还记得那个女仆吗？她觉得阿贝就像个鬼魂，有时在门厅里碰见她，会冲她嗷嗷怪叫，一次吓得她把一套茶具都摔碎了……不过，我们并不在意。”

多么有意思啊！真是妙趣横生的往事！罗斯玛丽羡慕他们，觉得那是一种闲云野鹤般的悠闲生活，跟她忙碌的日子截然不同。她不知道悠闲是什么滋味，像从未过上悠闲生活的人那样，她对悠闲抱有敬重的态度。她觉得那是一种修身养性的安逸生活，却全然不知戴弗夫妇像她一样一点也不安逸。

“他怎么会变成这样了呢？”她问道，“他为什么非得喝酒呢？”

尼科尔摇了摇头，似乎在表明自己与阿贝的堕落无关。只听她说道：“如今，有许多原本很有头脑的人都走了下坡路。”

“哪个时候不是如此？”迪克说，“有头脑的人一贯规行矩步，有些受不了约束，就走了下坡路，破罐子破摔。”

“一定还有更深层次的原因。”尼科尔固执地说——她为迪克竟然当着罗斯玛丽的面反驳自己而生气，“以艺术家为例吧……哦，费尔南德就不太可能嗜酒如命。为什么只有美国人才沉湎于酒色呢？”

这个问题有太多的答案，迪克决定不予点评，就让尼科尔自鸣得意好啦。近来，他特别爱挑尼科尔的毛病。虽然他认为尼科尔是自己见过的最有魅力的女人，虽然尼科尔满足了他所有的需要，但他隐约觉得他们俩之间的冲突已不可避免，于是不知不觉便强硬起来，时时刻刻在加强防御。他不是个放浪形骸的人，觉得自己和罗斯玛丽的私情有伤大雅，此时盲目地希望尼科尔不要多想，只将他对罗斯玛丽的感情视为热情。他心里有点忐忑……昨晚看戏时，尼科尔说罗斯玛丽还是个孩子，似乎话外有音。

他们三人在楼下吃了饭。餐厅里铺着地毯，侍者的脚步轻轻的，不像前不久他们吃饭遇见的那些侍者，把美味佳肴端上餐桌时，脚步又快又重。此时，餐厅里有几家美国人，你看看我，我看看你，似乎想彼此搭话。

旁边的餐桌好像在举办宴会，搞不清到底是什么宴会，其中有一个秘书模样的年轻男子，豁达健谈、彬彬有礼，总是提出“你不介意重复下刚才的话吧”这样的请求，另外还有二十几个妇女。那些妇女已不年轻，但也不算老，看不出属于社会的哪个阶层。她们像是一个团体，彼此关系很亲密，而非因为丈夫的业务关系聚在一起的女人。当然，她们是团体，却又不像是旅游团体。

迪克原想说句尖刻的打趣的话，却又本能地把溜到嘴边的话咽了回去，问侍者她们是些什么人。

“她们是阵亡将士的母亲。”侍者解释说。

他们听了，唏嘘感叹了一番。罗斯玛丽热泪盈眶。

“那些年轻女子也许是阵亡者的妻子。”尼科尔说。

迪克端着酒杯，又朝那群人望了一眼，看到的是一张张幸福的面容和弥漫于四周的庄严气氛，顿然感到历经风雨的美国已经成熟。那些哭泣的女人是来悼念自己死而不能复生的亲人的，神情是那般肃穆，一时间给餐厅增加了美感。迪克浮想联翩，仿佛又回到了童年时代——他坐在父亲的膝上；他和莫斯比一道骑马。美国传统的忠诚和献身精神在他的心头荡漾。几乎是费了很大的劲儿，他才回到现实中，将注意力转向身边的两个女子，重新面对这个他看得见的全新世界。

他的耳畔似乎又回响起了那对年轻人的对话：

“我放下窗帘，你不介意吧？”