Meals with the patients were a chore he approached with apathy. The gathering, which of course did not include residents at the Eglantine or the Beeches, was conventional enough at first sight, but over it brooded always a heavy melancholy. Such doctors as were present kept up a conversation but most of the patients, as if exhausted by their morning’s endeavor, or depressed by the company, spoke little, and ate looking into their plates.

Luncheon over, Dick returned to his villa. Nicole was in the salon wearing a strange expression.

“Read that,” she said.

He opened the letter. It was from a woman recently discharged, though with skepticism on the part of the faculty. It accused him in no uncertain terms of having seduced her daughter, who had been at her mother’s side during the crucial stage of the illness. It presumed that Mrs. Diver would be glad to have this information and learn what her husband was “really like.”

Dick read the letter again. Couched in clear and concise English he yet recognized it as the letter of a maniac. Upon a single occasion he had let the girl, a flirtatious little brunette, ride into Zurich with him, upon her request, and in the evening had brought her back to the clinic. In an idle, almost indulgent way, he kissed her. Later, she tried to carry the affair further, but he was not interested and subsequently, probably consequently, the girl had come to dislike him, and taken her mother away.

“This letter is deranged,” he said. “I had no relations of any kind with that girl. I didn’t even like her.”

“Yes, I’ve tried thinking that,” said Nicole.

“Surely you don’t believe it?”

“I’ve been sitting here.”

He sank his voice to a reproachful note and sat beside her.

“This is absurd. This is a letter from a mental patient.”

“I was a mental patient.”

He stood up and spoke more authoritatively.

“Suppose we don’t have any nonsense, Nicole. Go and round up the children and we’ll start.”

In the car, with Dick driving, they followed the little promontories of the lake, catching the burn of light and water in the windshield, tunnelling through cascades of evergreen. It was Dick’s car, a Renault so dwarfish that they all stuck out of it except the children, between whom Mademoiselle towered mast-like in the rear seat. They knew every kilometer of the road—where they would smell the pine needles and the black stove smoke. A high sun with a face traced on it beat fierce on the straw hats of the children.

Nicole was silent; Dick was uneasy at her straight hard gaze. Often he felt lonely with her, and frequently she tired him with the short floods of personal revelations that she reserved exclusively for him, “I’m like this—I’m more like that,” but this afternoon he would have been glad had she rattled on in staccato for a while and given him glimpses of her thoughts. The situation was always most threatening when she backed up into herself and closed the doors behind her.

At Zug Mademoiselle got out and left them. The Divers approached the Agiri Fair through a menagerie of mammoth steam-rollers that made way for them. Dick parked the car, and as Nicole looked at him without moving, he said:“Come on, darl.” Her lips drew apart into a sudden awful smile, and his belly quailed, but as if he hadn’t seen it he repeated:“Come on. So the children can get out.”

“Oh, I’ll come all right,” she answered, tearing the words from some story spinning itself out inside her, too fast for him to grasp. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll come—”

“Then come.”

She turned from him as he walked beside her but the smile still flickered across her face, derisive and remote. Only when Lanier spoke to her several times did she manage to fix her attention upon an object, a Punch-and-Judy show, and to orient herself by anchoring to it.

Dick tried to think what to do. The dualism in his views of her—that of the husband, that of the psychiatrist—was increasingly paralyzing his faculties. In these six years she had several times carried him over the line with her, disarming him by exciting emotional pity or by a flow of wit, fantastic and disassociated, so that only after the episode did he realize with the consciousness of his own relaxation from tension, that she had succeeded in getting a point against his better judgment.

A discussion with Topsy about the guignol—as to whether the Punch was the same Punch they had seen last year in Cannes—having been settled, the family walked along again between the booths under the open sky. The women’s bonnets, perching over velvet vests, the bright, spreading skirts of many cantons, seemed demure against the blue and orange paint of the wagons and displays. There was the sound of a whining, tinkling hootchy-kootchy show.

Nicole began to run very suddenly, so suddenly that for a moment Dick did not miss her. Far ahead he saw her yellow dress twisting through the crowd, an ochre stitch along the edge of reality and unreality, and started after her. Secretly she ran and secretly he followed. As the hot afternoon went shrill and terrible with her flight he had forgotten the children; then he wheeled and ran back to them, drawing them this way and that by their arms, his eyes jumping from booth to booth.

“Madame,” he cried to a young woman behind a white lottery wheel,“Est-ce que je peux laisser ces petits avec vous deux minutes? C’est très urgent—je vous donnerai dix francs.”

“Mais oui.”

He headed the children into the booth. “Alors—restez avec cette gentille dame.”

“Oui, Dick.”

He darted off again but he had lost her; he circled the merry-go-round keeping up with it till he realized he was running beside it, staring always at the same horse. He elbowed through the crowd in the buvette; then remembering a predilection of Nicole’s he snatched up an edge of a fortune-teller’s tent and peered within. A droning voice greeted him:“La septième fille d’une septième fille née sur les rives du Nil—entrez, Monsieur—”

Dropping the flap he ran along toward where the plaisance terminated at the lake and a small ferris wheel revolved slowly against the sky. There he found her.

She was alone in what was momentarily the top boat of the wheel, and as it descended he saw that she was laughing hilariously; he slunk back in the crowd, a crowd which, at the wheel’s next revolution, spotted the intensity of Nicole’s hysteria.

“Regardez-moi ?a!”

“Regarde donc cette Anglaise!”

Down she dropped again—this time the wheel and its music were slowing and a dozen people were around her car, all of them impelled by the quality of her laughter to smile in sympathetic idiocy. But when Nicole saw Dick her laughter died—she made a gesture of slipping by and away from him but he caught her arm and held it as they walked away.

“Why did you lose control of yourself like that?”

“You know very well why.”

“No, I don’t.”

“That’s just preposterous—let me loose—that’s an insult to my intelligence. Don’t you think I saw that girl look at you—that little dark girl. Oh, this is farcical—a child, not more than fifteen. Don’t you think I saw?”

“Stop here a minute and quiet down.”

They sat at a table, her eyes in a profundity of suspicion, her hand moving across her line of sight as if it were obstructed. “I want a drink—I want a brandy.”

“You can’t have brandy—you can have a bock if you want it.”

“Why can’t I have a brandy?”

“We won’t go into that. Listen to me—this business about a girl is a delusion, do you understand that word?”

“It’s always a delusion when I see what you don’t want me to see.”

He had a sense of guilt as in one of those nightmares where we are accused of a crime which we recognize as something undeniably experienced, but which upon waking we realize we have not committed. His eyes wavered from hers.

“I left the children with a gypsy woman in a booth. We ought to get them.”

“Who do you think you are?” she demanded. “Svengali?”

Fifteen minutes ago they had been a family. Now as she was crushed into a corner by his unwilling shoulder, he saw them all, child and man, as a perilous accident.

“We’re going home.”

“Home!” she roared in a voice so abandoned that its louder tones wavered and cracked. “And sit and think that we’re all rotting and the children’s ashes are rotting in every box I open? That filth!”

Almost with relief he saw that her words sterilized her, and Nicole, sensitized down to the corium of the skin, saw the withdrawal in his face. Her own face softened and she begged, “Help me, help me, Dick!”

A wave of agony went over him. It was awful that such a fine tower should not be erected, only suspended, suspended from him. Up to a point that was right: men were for that, beam and idea, girder and logarithm; but somehow Dick and Nicole had become one and equal, not opposite and complementary; she was Dick too, the drought in the marrow of his bones. He could not watch her disintegrations without participating in them. His intuition rilled out of him as tenderness and compassion—he could only take the characteristically modern course, to interpose—he would get a nurse from Zurich, to take her over to-night.

“You can help me.”

Her sweet bullying pulled him forward off his feet. “You’ve helped me before—you can help me now.”

“I can only help you the same old way.”

“Some one can help me.”

“Maybe so. You can help yourself most. Let’s find the children.”

There were numerous lottery booths with white wheels—Dick was startled when he inquired at the first and encountered blank disavowals. Evil-eyed, Nicole stood apart, denying the children, resenting them as part of a downright world she sought to make amorphous. Presently Dick found them, surrounded by women who were examining them with delight like fine goods, and by peasant children staring.

“Merci, Monsieur, ah Monsieur est trop généreux. C’était un plaisir, M’sieur, Madame. Au revoir, mes petits.”

They started back with a hot sorrow streaming down upon them; the car was weighted with their mutual apprehension and anguish, and the children’s mouths were grave with disappointment. Grief presented itself in its terrible, dark unfamiliar color. Somewhere around Zug, Nicole, with a convulsive effort, reiterated a remark she had made before about a misty yellow house set back from the road that looked like a painting not yet dry, but it was just an attempt to catch at a rope that was playing out too swiftly.

Dick tried to rest—the struggle would come presently at home and he might have to sit a long time, restating the universe for her. A “schizophrène” is well named as a split personality—Nicole was alternately a person to whom nothing need be explained and one to whom nothing could be explained. It was necessary to treat her with active and affirmative insistence, keeping the road to reality always open, making the road to escape harder going. But the brilliance, the versatility of madness is akin to the resourcefulness of water seeping through, over and around a dike. It requires the united front of many people to work against it. He felt it necessary that this time Nicole cure herself; he wanted to wait until she remembered the other times, and revolted from them. In a tired way, he planned that they would again resume the régime relaxed a year before.

He had turned up a hill that made a short cut to the clinic, and now as he stepped on the accelerator for a short straightaway run parallel to the hillside the car swerved violently left, swerved right, tipped on two wheels and, as Dick, with Nicole’s voice screaming in his ear, crushed down the mad hand clutching the steering wheel, righted itself, swerved once more and shot off the road; it tore through low underbrush, tipped again and settled slowly at an angle of ninety degrees against a tree.

The children were screaming and Nicole was screaming and cursing and trying to tear at Dick’s face. Thinking first of the list of the car and unable to estimate it Dick bent away Nicole’s arm, climbed over the top side and lifted out the children; then he saw the car was in a stable position. Before doing anything else he stood there shaking and panting.

“You—!” he cried.

She was laughing hilariously, unashamed, unafraid, unconcerned. No one coming on the scene would have imagined that she had caused it; she laughed as after some mild escape of childhood.

“You were scared, weren’t you?” she accused him. “You wanted to live!”

She spoke with such force that in his shocked state Dick wondered if he had been frightened for himself—but the strained faces of the children, looking from parent to parent, made him want to grind her grinning mask into jelly.

Directly above them, half a kilometer by the winding road but only a hundred yards climbing, was an inn; one of its wings showed through the wooded hill.

“Take Topsy’s hand,” he said to Lanier, “like that, tight, and climb up that hill—see the little path? When you get to the inn tell them ‘La voiture Divare est cassée.’ Some one must come right down.”

Lanier, not sure what had happened, but suspecting the dark and unprecedented, asked:

“What will you do, Dick?”

“We’ll stay here with the car.”

Neither of them looked at their mother as they started off. “Be careful crossing the road up there! Look both ways!” Dick shouted after them.

He and Nicole looked at each other directly, their eyes like blazing windows across a court of the same house. Then she took out a compact, looked in its mirror, and smoothed back the temple hair. Dick watched the children climbing for a moment until they disappeared among the pines half way up; then he walked around the car to see the damage and plan how to get it back on the road. In the dirt he could trace the rocking course they had pursued for over a hundred feet; he was filled with a violent disgust that was not like anger.

In a few minutes the proprietor of the inn came running down.

“My God!” he exclaimed. “How did it happen, were you going fast? What luck! Except for that tree you’d have rolled down hill!”

Taking advantage of émile’s reality, the wide black apron, the sweat upon the rolls of his face, Dick signalled to Nicole in a matter-of-fact way to let him help her from the car; whereupon she jumped over the lower side, lost her balance on the slope, fell to her knees and got up again. As she watched the men trying to move the car her expression became defiant. Welcoming even that mood Dick said:

“Go and wait with the children, Nicole.”

Only after she had gone did he remember that she had wanted cognac, and that there was cognac available up there—he told émile never mind about the car; they would wait for the chauffeur and the big car to pull it up onto the road. Together they hurried up to the inn.

同病人一起进餐是一件苦差事，迪克觉得索然无味。当然，一起进餐的人不包括“野蔷薇”楼或“山毛榉”楼里的患者。这种聚餐初看很平常，但总弥漫着一种浓重的郁悒气氛。医生们海阔天空地神聊，但大多数病人很少开口，只是默默地埋头吃饭，仿佛上午干活已累坏了，或者面对这样的场合有些情绪低落，不想说话。

吃完饭，迪克回到家中。尼科尔在客厅里，一脸怪异的神情，递给他一封信说道：“你看看这个。”

他打开了信。此信是一个新近出院的女子写来的，出院时精神状态堪忧，似乎还不稳定。她以坚定的语气指责迪克勾引她的女儿（她女儿是在她病重时来看护她的）。她说她相信戴弗夫人或许愿意知道这一情况，了解她丈夫的“真面目”。

迪克把信又读了一遍。尽管信里用英语书写的词句准确，意思清晰，但他还是认出它是出自于一个疯人之手。她的女儿是个皮肤微黑的白人女孩，有点水性杨花。一次，他到苏黎世出差，女孩也要跟着去，他便答应了，当晚就带她回到了诊所。他吻了女孩——那是随意的一吻，几乎可以说是迁就性的一吻。后来，女孩企图跟他进一步发展关系，但他不感兴趣。最后，可能是由于这个缘故，女孩恨上了他，把母亲也接走了。

“这封信满纸都是荒唐言，”他说，“我跟那个女孩根本没有任何关系。我甚至都不喜欢她。”

“是呀，我也愿意这么想。”尼科尔说。

“你肯定不会相信的，是吧？”

“我一直坐在这儿，没有离你而去。”

他在她身边坐下，压低声音，以一种责备的口吻说：“太离谱了。这封信可是一个精神病人写的！”

“我也曾是个精神病人。”

他站起来，以命令的语气说道：“这种无聊的事，咱们就不说了，尼科尔。去把孩子们叫来，咱们出去透透气。”

迪克开车带他们沿着湖的小岬行驶，穿过一片常青树树林，汽车的挡风玻璃反射着金色的阳光和粼粼的湖水映影。这是迪克的雷诺牌私家车，车身狭小，除了孩子，大人们能把半个身子都露在外边。家庭女教师坐在后排，挤在两个孩子中间，犹如一根高高竖立着的桅杆。他们对这条路非常熟悉，一路闻得到松针的清香味和黑色炉子的烟味。太阳高悬犹如一张明显的面庞，火辣辣的阳光射在孩子们的草帽上。

尼科尔沉默不语，冷冷的目光直射过来，让迪克感到浑身不自在。跟她在一起，他常常感到孤寂。平时，她老是叫他心烦，喋喋不休地把闷在心里的话讲给他听（这些话她从不对别人说，只讲给他听），说什么“我这个啦……我那个啦”。但这天下午，要是她喋喋不休、唠唠叨叨地说上一阵，让他从中了解她的想法，他会很高兴的。一般来说，只要她缄口不语，关上心扉的大门，情况就非常危险了。

在楚格，家庭女教师下车离开了他们。戴弗一家驱车前往阿吉里集市，途中不断有庞大的蒸汽压路机给他们让路。到了目的地，迪克停好车，尼科尔动也不动，只是用眼睛望着他。“该下车了，亲爱的。”他催促了一声。尼科尔突然一咧嘴，苦笑了一下，样子十分可怕，使得他的心一阵抽搐。不过，他装作没看见，又催了一声：“下车吧。你下来，好让孩子们也下车。”

“哦，我这就下来。”她回答说（她似乎别有心思，这些话是硬挤出来的，快得让他听都听不清），“别担心，我会下车的……”

“那就快下来吧。”

迪克走到尼科尔身边，她把脸偏过去，脸上仍挂着那种苦笑，含着讥讽，显得疏远。拉尼尔几次跟她说话，说的是《潘趣和朱迪》傀儡戏，只有在这时她才会注意力集中，平心静气和儿子交谈。

迪克苦思冥想，不知该怎么办才好。他扮演着双重角色，既是她的丈夫，又是她的精神病医生，正是这一点使他感到自己对她越来越无能为力。在这六年之中，她屡屡发作，令他穷于应对，有时叫他不胜怜悯，有时对他施展一些小手段（这些现象显得怪诞和离谱）——只有在事过之后，他才一方面感到紧张的心情松弛下来，同时意识到，她在跟他较真的对垒中成为取胜的一方。

托普西提出了一个问题：这出木偶戏里的潘趣是不是和去年他们在戛纳看过的那个潘趣是同一个人物？全家就此展开了讨论。之后，他们一路溜达，开始逛集市，两旁净是琳琅满目的露天货摊。但见上面铺陈着女人们的丝绒背心，背心上摆着女式呢帽，以及色彩绚丽的产自于各地的裙子（这些产品跟蓝色和橙色的货车以及陈列的其他货品相比，倒也显得淑雅）。肚皮舞蹈者发出叫喊声，身上的铃铛叮当作响。

突然，尼科尔撒腿就跑——事出突然，让迪克都没来得及反应。他远远看见她那黄色的衣衫在前面的人群中闪动，犹如一条飘带，飘荡在现实与虚幻之间。他立刻追了上去。她在前边悄无声息地跑，他在后边不声不响地追。她这一跑，他更觉得下午的阳光刺眼，闷热难忍，一时间竟把孩子们都忘了。待他想起来，便又跑回来找孩子们，然后拽着他们的胳膊去寻尼科尔，目光从一个个货摊扫过。

“太太，”他对一位站在一台白色摇奖机后面的少妇叫道，“我可以把孩子交给你照看一会儿吗？我有急事……我给你十个法郎。”

“好的。”

他把孩子领进摊位叮咛道：“跟这位好心的太太待在一起！”

“好的，迪克。”

他似离弦的箭一般跑了，但已不见了尼科尔的踪影。他围着旋转木马绕着圈地找，不停地跟着跑，后来才意识到木马也在转圈，而他的眼睛始终盯着同一匹木马。随后，他挤进买饮料的人群里找了找。末了，他突然记起了尼科尔的一个嗜好，便掀开一个占卜者帐篷的门帘，朝里面张望。一个浑浊的声音冲他说道：“尼罗河第七位公主生下的第七个女儿……请进，先生！”

他放下门帘，朝位于湖边的一家游乐场跑去——在蓝色的天幕下，那儿有一架小型摩天轮在慢慢转动着。他一眼就瞧见了尼科尔。

此刻，她独自一人坐在摩天轮顶部的座舱里。当她的座舱降下来时，他看见她在哈哈怪笑，于是便躲在了人群里。摩天轮又转了一圈，人们发现她在歇斯底里地大叫：“快看我呀！”

“快看那个英国女子！”人们纷纷在叫。

她又一次降了下来——这次，摩天轮在音乐声中慢慢停住了。十几个人围住她的座舱，见她怪笑，大家也跟着傻笑。可是，她一看见迪克，笑声便戛然而止了。她拔腿想溜，企图躲开他，却被他拽住了胳膊，拉着她走开了

“你怎么能如此失态？”

“原因你心知肚明。”

“不，我不清楚。”

“真是咄咄怪事……放开我……你真是把我当成傻瓜了。那女孩怎样瞧你，你以为我看不出来吗？对，就是那个黑黑的小女孩！哼，好可笑呀，竟跟一个不满十五岁的小姑娘眉来眼去！你以为我没看到吗？”

“在这儿坐坐，让心静一静。”

他们在一张桌子旁坐了下来。她目光里满是狐疑——只见她把手在眼前挥了挥，仿佛要挥开遮住视线的东西。接着，便听她说道：“我要喝一杯！我要喝白兰地！”

“你不能喝白兰地……要是你想喝酒，可以来杯黑啤酒。”

“我为什么不能喝白兰地？”

“咱们别争了。听我说……关于那个女孩的事，纯粹是错觉。你理解‘错觉’这个词的意思吗？”

“每次我看见你不想让我看见的事，你总说是错觉。”

他宛如身处噩梦之中，产生了一种朦胧的负疚感。常有这样的现象——我们在梦境里被指控犯了某种罪行，当时觉得的确有罪，不可抵赖，可是梦醒后却发现自己是无辜的。于是，他将目光移开，不敢正视她。

“我把孩子们留给了货摊上的一位吉卜赛女人。咱们该去接他们了。”他说道。

“你以为你是谁？”她仍在不依不饶地指责他，“莫非你是斯文加利不成？”

十五分钟前，他们还是一个不可分割的家庭。而此时，当他用不情愿的肩膀将她顶到了一个角落时，才明白他们的这个家（大人和孩子全都包括在内）只不过是一个危险的组合，是偶然拼凑在一起的。

“咱们回家去吧。”

“家！”她吼叫道，声音狂怒，嗓门高得都有点发颤和嘶哑了，“想一想吧，你不觉得这个家在腐烂吗？你不觉得每打开一个盒子，都会看到孩子们的尸骨在里面腐烂吗？真是肮脏！”

她说完，就像泄了气的皮球一样蔫了下来，这叫迪克松了口气。这时，她恢复了理智，也能够察言观色了，立刻看到了迪克脸上忍让的表情，于是她的神情也变得温和了，低声下气地恳求道：“帮帮我，帮帮我吧，迪克！”

迪克感到一阵心痛。眼前的这个美丽的躯壳怎么扶也扶不正，总是东倒西歪，靠在他身上，令人不胜伤感。男人就应该帮助妻子，挑大梁，拿主意，当家理财，从某种程度而言这就是义务。可有谁知道，迪克和尼科尔是两位一体，是平等的，既不是对立的，又不是互补的！她就是他，已渗入了他的骨髓。看着她精神崩溃，他怎能无动于衷、袖手旁观！他的心底顿时涌起一股柔情和怜悯，决定采用具有现代特征的方法进行干预——今晚就从苏黎世请个护士来照料她。

“你是能够帮助我的！”尼科尔的声音甜蜜，语气却强硬，而那声音在强烈震撼着他，“你以前帮过我，现在也能够帮助我。”

“我只能按以前的老办法帮你。”

“总有人是能帮助我的。”

“情况或许如此，但最能帮助你的是你自己。咱们去找孩子们吧。”

集市上有很多配备白色摇奖机的货摊。迪克见前边有个白色摇奖机，就走过去问孩子们的下落，对方回答说不知道，这叫他不由慌了神。尼科尔站在旁边，眼露凶光，气得乱骂那两个孩子，说他们是堕落世界的人，而她要摧毁那个堕落世界。过了一会儿，迪克就找到了孩子们，只见几个女人正乐呵呵地观赏他们，就像观赏漂亮的衣服，还有几个乡下孩子也在围观。

“谢谢你，先生。哎呀，先生真大方。我很高兴效力，先生，太太。再见，孩子们。”那位少妇接过迪克给她的十法郎，感激地说。

他们驱车回家，心里充满了忧伤，就连汽车也被他们的忧虑和痛苦压得发沉，孩子们则噘着嘴，显得非常失望。悲伤露出了一副不常见的嘴脸，是那样的狰狞可怕。到了楚格附近，尼科尔使了使劲儿，从牙缝里挤出了一句话，说公路一侧远处的一幢黄颜色的房屋朦朦胧胧的，看上去像是一幅还没干的油画——这话她以前就说过，此时重复就像是要抓住一根猛然抛过来的救命绳子。

迪克想静一静——他知道一回家就会有争执，也许要花费很多时间把事情的经过向她细细解释。尼科尔这样的人格分裂者，被定义为“精神分裂症患者”是非常合适的——有时你对她没必要解释，有时则说什么也解释不清。所以，必须以积极、稳定、持之以恒的态度对待她，让通向现实的道路永远敞开，使得逃避现实的道路寸步难行。不过，疯狂的人也有其智慧的一面，会想出各种办法来，犹如无孔不入的水，可以漫过堤坝，或绕过堤坝。这就需要许多人共同努力加以防范。这一次，他觉得有必要让尼科尔自我治疗——他想耐心等待，等待她回忆起先前的经历并感到厌恶。他苦心策划了一番，打算恢复一年前的那种恬适、放松的生活方式。

他把汽车朝一座小山开去，从那儿可以抄近路回诊所。他一踩油门，向山腰旁的一小段平坦路面冲去，汽车猛烈摇晃，东倒西歪，两轮腾空，吓得尼科尔尖叫不已，发疯地用手抓住了方向盘。他把她的手推开，扶正方向盘，谁知汽车又向旁边一偏，冲下公路，一头钻进低矮的灌木丛，颠簸了一下，以九十度斜撞上了一棵树木，这才慢慢停了下来。

孩子们在尖叫，尼科尔也在尖叫，还骂着人，用手去抓迪克的脸。迪克首先想到的是汽车，不知它倾斜到了什么程度。他拨开尼科尔的手，爬上车身，把孩子们抱出来。接着，他仔细一看，发现汽车的位置还稳定，于是就放下心，站在那儿又是发抖，又是喘粗气。

“你太不像话了！”他吼了一声。

只见尼科尔在那儿咯咯咯地狂笑，既不惭愧，也不害怕，亦不关心。要是有外人来现场，绝对想不到她就是肇事者——她笑啊笑，就像小孩子轻松逃过惩罚那般。

“你害怕了，是不是？”她取笑道，“你怪怕死的！”

听她这么一说，惊魂未定的迪克倒怀疑自己是否真的害怕了。可是，再看看孩子们一脸的紧张，将他俩轮番打量，他不由怒从心头起，恨不得撕碎她那张讪笑的脸。

山上有一家旅馆，透过山林可看见它的一角——从盘山路过去有半公里的路，而从山坡爬上去只有一百码。

他对拉尼尔说道：“你抓住托普西的手，就这样，抓紧点，爬上那个山头……看见那条小路了吗？你到那家旅馆去，对他们说：‘戴弗家的汽车坏了’。他们听了就会来人的。”

拉尼尔不知道究竟发生了什么事，但他觉得不妙，肯定出现了前所未有过的情况。

“你们要做什么，迪克？”拉尼尔问道。

“我们待在这儿看着汽车。”

两个孩子走了，对母亲瞧也没瞧一眼。迪克在他们身后喊道：“经过上边那条路的时候要小心！注意着两边！”

他和尼科尔互相对视，他们的眼睛就像隔着一个院落往外喷火的窗户。后来，尼科尔取出一只粉盒，照了照盒中的镜子，理了理两边的鬓发。迪克则将目光投向孩子们，看着他们消失在了半山腰的树林中。接下来，他绕着汽车走了一圈，察看车子的损坏情况，想着怎样把它弄回到公路上。根据泥土上的痕迹看得出，汽车是颠簸着冲了一百多英尺才停了下来。此时，他对尼科尔简直厌恶极了（这种厌恶感跟愤怒有所不同）。

没过几分钟，旅馆老板就跑了过来。

“天哪！”他叫了起来，“这是怎么回事？你们开快车了吧？还算幸运！要不是那棵树，你们就翻下山去了！”

这位旅馆老板埃米尔围着宽大的黑围裙，胖胖的脸上热汗直流。趁着他在场，迪克对尼科尔使了个眼色，示意她让自己扶她下车。尼科尔没理会，而是自己翻过较低的那一侧车身跳了下来，结果在山坡上失去平衡，跪倒在地，但马上又爬了起来。她看着两个男人奋力推车，脸上露出了不屑的神态。即使这样，迪克也不去计较，而是对她说道：“你到孩子那儿等着吧，尼科尔。”

她刚走开，他便想起她刚才要喝科尼亚克白兰地，不由有点担心，因为旅馆里是可以喝到这种酒的。他叫埃米尔别管汽车了，说过后叫个大卡车司机来，把它拖到公路上就是了。说完，他们就急急忙忙回旅馆了。