Nicole went to the window and bent over the sill to take a look at the rising altercation on the terrace; the April sun shone pink on the saintly face of Augustine, the cook, and blue on the butcher’s knife she waved in her drunken hand. She had been with them since their return to Villa Diana in February.

Because of an obstruction of an awning she could see only Dick’s head and his hand holding one of his heavy canes with a bronze knob on it. The knife and the cane, menacing each other, were like tripos and short sword in a gladiatorial combat. Dick’s words reached her first:

“—care how much kitchen wine you drink but when I find you digging into a bottle of Chablis Mouton—”

“You talk about drinking!” Augustine cried, flourishing her sabre.“You drink—all the time!”

Nicole called over the awning:“What’s the matter, Dick?” and he answered in English:

“The old girl has been polishing off the vintage wines. I’m firing her—at least I’m trying to.”

“Heavens! Well, don’t let her reach you with that knife.”

Augustine shook her knife up at Nicole. Her old mouth was made of two small intersecting cherries.

“I would like to say, Madame, if you knew that your husband drinks over at his bastide comparatively as a day-laborer—”

“Shut up and get out!” interrupted Nicole. “We’ll get the gendarmes.”

“You’ll get the gendarmes! With my brother in the corps! You—a disgusting American?”

In English Dick called up to Nicole:

“Get the children away from the house till I settle this.”

“—disgusting Americans who come here and drink up our finest wines,” screamed Augustine with the voice of the commune.

Dick mastered a firmer tone.

“You must leave now! I’ll pay you what we owe you.”

“Very sure you’ll pay me! And let me tell you—” she came close and waved the knife so furiously that Dick raised his stick, whereupon she rushed into the kitchen and returned with the carving knife reinforced by a hatchet.

The situation was not prepossessing—Augustine was a strong woman and could be disarmed only at the risk of serious results to herself—and severe legal complications which were the lot of one who molested a French citizen. Trying a bluff Dick called up to Nicole:

“Phone the poste de police.” Then to Augustine, indicating her armament, “This means arrest for you.”

“Ha-ha!” she laughed demoniacally; nevertheless she came no nearer. Nicole phoned the police but was answered with what was almost an echo of Augustine’s laugh. She heard mumbles and passings of the word around—the connection was suddenly broken.

Returning to the window she called down to Dick:“Give her something extra!”

“If I could get to that phone!” As this seemed impracticable, Dick capitulated. For fifty francs, increased to a hundred as he succumbed to the idea of getting her out hastily, Augustine yielded her fortress, covering the retreat with stormy grenades of “Salaud!” She would leave only when her nephew could come for her baggage. Waiting cautiously in the neighborhood of the kitchen Dick heard a cork pop, but he yielded the point. There was no further trouble—when the nephew arrived, all apologetic, Augustine bade Dick a cheerful, convivial good-by and called up “Au revoir, Madame! Bonne chance!” to Nicole’s window.

The Divers went to Nice and dined on a bouillabaisse, which is a stew of rock fish and small lobsters, highly seasoned with saffron, and a bottle of cold Chablis. He expressed pity for Augustine.

“I’m not sorry a bit,” said Nicole.

“I’m sorry—and yet I wish I’d shoved her over the cliff.”

There was little they dared talk about in these days; seldom did they find the right word when it counted, it arrived always a moment too late when one could not reach the other any more. To-night Augustine’s outburst had shaken them from their separate reveries; with the burn and chill of the spiced broth and the parching wine they talked.

“We can’t go on like this,” Nicole suggested. “Or can we?—what do you think?” Startled that for the moment Dick did not deny it, she continued, “Some of the time I think it’s my fault—I’ve ruined you.”

“So I’m ruined, am I?” he inquired pleasantly.

“I didn’t mean that. But you used to want to create things—now you seem to want to smash them up.”

She trembled at criticizing him in these broad terms—but his enlarging silence frightened her even more. She guessed that something was developing behind the silence, behind the hard, blue eyes, the almost unnatural interest in the children. Uncharacteristic bursts of temper surprised her—he would suddenly unroll a long scroll of contempt for some person, race, class, way of life, way of thinking. It was as though an incalculable story was telling itself inside him, about which she could only guess at in the moments when it broke through the surface.

“After all, what do you get out of this?” she demanded.

“Knowing you’re stronger every day. Knowing that your illness follows the law of diminishing returns.”

His voice came to her from far off, as though he were speaking of something remote and academic; her alarm made her exclaim, “Dick!” and she thrust her hand forward to his across the table. A reflex pulled Dick’s hand back and he added:“There’s the whole situation to think of, isn’t there? There’s not just you.” He covered her hand with his and said in the old pleasant voice of a conspirator for pleasure, mischief, profit, and delight:

“See that boat out there?”

It was the motor yacht of T. F. Golding lying placid among the little swells of the Nicean bay, constantly bound upon a romantic voyage that was not dependent upon actual motion. “We’ll go out there now and ask the people on board what’s the matter with them. We’ll find out if they’re happy.”

“We hardly know him,” Nicole objected.

“He urged us. Besides, Baby knows him—she practically married him, doesn’t she—didn’t she?”

When they put out from the port in a hired launch it was already summer dusk and lights were breaking out in spasms along the rigging of the Margin. As they drew up alongside, Nicole’s doubts reasserted themselves.

“He’s having a party—”

“It’s only a radio,” he guessed.

They were hailed—a huge white-haired man in a white suit looked down at them, calling:

“Do I recognize the Divers?”

“Boat ahoy, Margin!”

Their boat moved under the companionway; as they mounted Golding doubled his huge frame to give Nicole a hand.

“Just in time for dinner.”

A small orchestra was playing astern.

I’m yours for the asking—but till then

You can’t ask me to behave—

And as Golding’s cyclonic arms blew them aft without touching them, Nicole was sorrier they had come, and more impatient at Dick. Having taken up an attitude of aloofness from the gay people here, at the time when Dick’s work and her health were incompatible with going about, they had a reputation as refusers. Riviera replacements during the ensuing years interpreted this as a vague unpopularity. Nevertheless, having taken such a stand, Nicole felt it should not be cheaply compromised for a momentary self-indulgence.

As they passed through the principal salon they saw ahead of them figures that seemed to dance in the half light of the circular stern. This was an illusion made by the enchantment of the music, the unfamiliar lighting, and the surrounding presence of water. Actually, save for some busy stewards, the guests loafed on a wide divan that followed the curve of the deck. There were a white, a red, a blurred dress, the laundered chests of several men, of whom one, detaching and identifying himself, brought from Nicole a rare little cry of delight.

“Tommy!”

Brushing aside the Gallicism of his formal dip at her hand, Nicole pressed her face against his. They sat, or rather lay down together on the Antoninian bench. His handsome face was so dark as to have lost the pleasantness of deep tan, without attaining the blue beauty of negroes—it was just worn leather. The foreignness of his depigmentation by unknown suns, his nourishment by strange soils, his tongue awkward with the curl of many dialects, his reactions attuned to odd alarms—these things fascinated and rested Nicole—in the moment of meeting she lay on his bosom, spiritually, going out and out…. Then self-preservation reasserted itself and retiring to her own world she spoke lightly.

“You look just like all the adventurers in the movies—but why do you have to stay away so long?”

Tommy Barban looked at her, uncomprehending but alert; the pupils of his eyes flashed.

“Five years,” she continued, in throaty mimicry of nothing. “Much too long. Couldn’t you only slaughter a certain number of creatures and then come back, and breathe our air for a while?”

In her cherished presence Tommy Europeanized himself quickly.

“Mais pour nous héros,” he said, “il nous faut du temps, Nicole. Nous ne pouvons pas faire de petits exercises d’héro?sme—il faut faire les grandes compositions.”

“Talk English to me, Tommy.”

“Parlez fran?ais avec moi, Nicole.”

“But the meanings are different—in French you can be heroic and gallant with dignity, and you know it. But in English you can’t be heroic and gallant without being a little absurd, and you know that too. That gives me an advantage.”

“But after all—” He chuckled suddenly. “Even in English I’m brave, heroic and all that.”

She pretended to be groggy with wonderment but he was not abashed.

“I only know what I see in the cinema,” he said.

“Is it all like the movies?”

“The movies aren’t so bad—now this Ronald Colman—have you seen his pictures about the Corps d’Afrique du Nord? They’re not bad at all.”

“Very well, whenever I go to the movies I’ll know you’re going through just that sort of thing at that moment.”

As she spoke, Nicole was aware of a small, pale, pretty young woman with lovely metallic hair, almost green in the deck lights, who had been sitting on the other side of Tommy and might have been part either of their conversation or of the one next to them. She had obviously had a monopoly of Tommy, for now she abandoned hope of his attention with what was once called ill grace, and petulantly crossed the crescent of the deck.

“After all, I am a hero,” Tommy said calmly, only half joking. “I have ferocious courage, usually, something like a lion, something like a drunken man.”

Nicole waited until the echo of his boast had died away in his mind—she knew he had probably never made such a statement before. Then she looked among the strangers, and found as usual the fierce neurotics, pretending calm, liking the country only in horror of the city, of the sound of their own voices which had set the tone and pitch…. She asked:

“Who is the woman in white?”

“The one who was beside me? Lady Caroline Sibly-Biers.” They listened for a moment to her voice across the way:

“The man’s a scoundrel, but he’s a cat of the stripe. We sat up all night playing two-handed chemin-de-fer, and he owes me a mille Swiss.”

Tommy laughed and said:“She is now the wickedest woman in London—whenever I come back to Europe there is a new crop of the wickedest women from London. She’s the very latest—though I believe there is now one other who’s considered almost as wicked.”

Nicole glanced again at the woman across the deck—she was fragile, tubercular—it was incredible that such narrow shoulders, such puny arms could bear aloft the pennon of decadence, last ensign of the fading empire. Her resemblance was rather to one of John Held’s flat-chested flappers than to the hierarchy of tall languid blondes who had posed for painters and novelists since before the war.

Golding approached, fighting down the resonance of his huge bulk, which transmitted his will as through a gargantuan amplifier, and Nicole, still reluctant, yielded to his reiterated points: that the Margin was starting for Cannes immediately after dinner; that they could always pack in some caviare and champagne, even though they had dined; that in any case Dick was now on the phone, telling their chauffeur in Nice to drive their car back to Cannes and leave it in front of the Café des Alliés where the Divers could retrieve it.

They moved into the dining salon and Dick was placed next to Lady Caroline. Nicole saw that his usually ruddy face was drained of blood; he talked in a dogmatic voice, of which only snatches reached Nicole:

“…It’s all right for you English, you’re doing a dance of death…. Sepoys in the ruined fort, I mean Sepoys at the gate and gaiety in the fort and all that. The green hat, the crushed hat, no future.”

Lady Caroline answered him in short sentences spotted with the terminal “What?” the double-edged “Quite!” the depressing “Cheerio!” that always had a connotation of imminent peril, but Dick appeared oblivious to the warning signals. Suddenly he made a particularly vehement pronouncement, the purport of which eluded Nicole, but she saw the young woman turn dark and sinewy, and heard her answer sharply:

“After all a chep’s a chep and a chum’s a chum.”

Again he had offended some one—couldn’t he hold his tongue a little longer? How long? To death then.

At the piano, a fair-haired young Scotsman from the orchestra (entitled by its drum “The Ragtime College Jazzes of Edinboro”) had begun singing in a Danny Deever monotone, accompanying himself with low chords on the piano. He pronounced his words with great precision, as though they impressed him almost intolerably.

There was a young lady from hell,

Who jumped at the sound of a bell,

Because she was bad—bad—bad,

She jumped at the sound of a bell,

From hell (BOOMBOOM)

From hell (TOOTTOOT)

There was a young lady from hell—

“What is all this?” whispered Tommy to Nicole.

The girl on the other side of him supplied the answer:

“Caroline Sibly-Biers wrote the words. He wrote the music.”

“Quelle enfanterie!” Tommy murmured as the next verse began, hinting at the jumpy lady’s further predilections. “On dirait qu’il récite Racine!”

On the surface at least, Lady Caroline was paying no attention to the performance of her work. Glancing at her again Nicole found herself impressed, neither with the character nor the personality, but with the sheer strength derived from an attitude; Nicole thought that she was formidable, and she was confirmed in this point of view as the party rose from table. Dick remained in his seat wearing an odd expression; then he crashed into words with a harsh ineptness.

“I don’t like innuendo in these deafening English whispers.”

Already half-way out of the room Lady Caroline turned and walked back to him; she spoke in a low clipped voice purposely audible to the whole company.

“You came to me asking for it—disparaging my countrymen, disparaging my friend, Mary Minghetti. I simply said you were observed associating with a questionable crowd in Lausanne. Is that a deafening whisper? Or does it simply deafen you?”

“It’s still not loud enough,” said Dick, a little too late. “So I am actually a notorious—”

Golding crushed out the phrase with his voice saying:

“What! What!” and moved his guests on out, with the threat of his powerful body. Turning the corner of the door Nicole saw that Dick was still sitting at the table. She was furious at the woman for her preposterous statement, equally furious at Dick for having brought them here, for having become fuddled, for having untipped the capped barbs of his irony, for having come off humiliated—she was a little more annoyed because she knew that her taking possession of Tommy Barban on their arrival had first irritated the Englishwoman.

A moment later she saw Dick standing in the gangway, apparently in complete control of himself as he talked with Golding; then for half an hour she did not see him anywhere about the deck and she broke out of an intricate Malay game, played with string and coffee beans, and said to Tommy:

“I’ve got to find Dick.”

Since dinner the yacht had been in motion westward. The fine night streamed away on either side, the Diesel engines pounded softly, there was a spring wind that blew Nicole’s hair abruptly when she reached the bow, and she had a sharp lesion of anxiety at seeing Dick standing in the angle by the flagstaff. His voice was serene as he recognized her.

“It’s a nice night.”

“I was worried.”

“Oh, you were worried?”

“Oh, don’t talk that way. It would give me so much pleasure to think of a little something I could do for you, Dick.”

He turned away from her, toward the veil of starlight over Africa.

“I believe that’s true, Nicole. And sometimes I believe that the littler it was, the more pleasure it would give you.”

“Don’t talk like that—don’t say such things.”

His face, wan in the light that the white spray caught and tossed back to the brilliant sky had none of the lines of annoyance she had expected. It was even detached; his eyes focussed upon her gradually as upon a chessman to be moved; in the same slow manner he caught her wrist and drew her near.

“You ruined me, did you?” he inquired blandly. “Then we’re both ruined. So—”

Cold with terror she put her other wrist into his grip. All right, she would go with him—again she felt the beauty of the night vividly in one moment of complete response and abnegation—all right, then—

—But now she was unexpectedly free and Dick turned his back sighing:“Tch! Tch!”

Tears streamed down Nicole’s face—in a moment she heard some one approaching; it was Tommy.

“You found him! Nicole thought maybe you jumped overboard, Dick,” he said, “because that little English poule slanged you.”

“It’d be a good setting to jump overboard,” said Dick mildly.

“Wouldn’t it?” agreed Nicole hastily. “Let’s borrow life preservers and jump over. I think we should do something spectacular. I feel that all our lives have been too restrained.”

Tommy sniffed from one to the other trying to breathe in the situation with the night. “We’ll go ask the Lady Beer-and-Ale what to do—she should know the latest things. And we should memorize her song ‘There was a young lady from l’enfer.’ I shall translate it, and make a fortune from its success at the Casino.”

“Are you rich, Tommy?” Dick asked him, as they retraced the length of the boat.

“Not as things go now. I got tired of the brokerage business and went away. But I have good stocks in the hands of friends who are holding it for me. All goes well.”

“Dick’s getting rich,” Nicole said. In reaction her voice had begun to tremble.

On the after deck Golding had fanned three pairs of dancers into action with his colossal paws. Nicole and Tommy joined them and Tommy remarked:“Dick seems to be drinking.”

“Only moderately,” she said loyally.

“There are those who can drink and those who can’t. Obviously Dick can’t. You ought to tell him not to.”

“I!” she exclaimed in amazement. “I tell Dick what he should do or shouldn’t do!”

But in a reticent way Dick was still vague and sleepy when they reached the pier at Cannes. Golding buoyed him down into the launch of the Margin whereupon Lady Caroline shifted her place conspicuously. On the dock he bowed good-by with exaggerated formality, and for a moment he seemed about to speed her with a salty epigram, but the bone of Tommy’s arm went into the soft part of his and they walked to the attendant car.

“I’ll drive you home,” Tommy suggested.

“Don’t bother—we can get a cab.”

“I’d like to, if you can put me up.”

On the back seat of the car Dick remained quiescent until the yellow monolith of Golfe-Juan was passed, and then the constant carnival at Juan-les-Pins where the night was musical and strident in many languages. When the car turned up the hill toward Tarmes, he sat up suddenly, prompted by the tilt of the vehicle, and delivered a peroration:

“A charming representative of the—” he stumbled momentarily,“—a firm of—bring me Brains addled à l’Anglaise.” Then he went into an appeased sleep, belching now and then contentedly into the soft warm darkness.

尼科尔走到窗口，趴在窗台上查看楼下露台上的情况——那儿有人在吵架，越吵越凶。但见四月的阳光照在厨娘奥古斯汀的那张神圣的脸上，发出粉红色的光彩，而她手中像醉汉一样挥舞着的切菜刀则闪着蓝幽幽的光芒。自从他们二月里回到黛安娜别墅，这位厨娘就跟他们在一起生活了。

因为有遮篷挡着，尼科尔只能看见迪克的头和一只手（那只手紧握他那根沉甸甸的铜柄手杖）。那两人，一个持菜刀，一个拿手杖，彼此虎视眈眈，活像两个角斗士用长矛和短剑对峙。迪克的声音先传到她的耳朵里：“不管你在厨房里偷喝了多少酒，但是，要是让我发现你把手伸向沙布利——穆顿酒……”

“亏你还说别人喝酒！”奥古斯汀挥舞着菜刀，大喊大叫，“你自己才是个酒鬼，一天到晚喝个不停！”

尼科尔隔着遮篷冲楼下喊道：“怎么啦，迪克？”

迪克用英语回答：“这老婆子快把那些好酒喝光了。我要辞掉她……至少过后我会这么做的。”

“天哪！别让她用刀伤着你。”

奥古斯汀朝尼科尔晃了晃菜刀，两片嘴唇红红的，就像两颗紧挨着的红樱桃。

“我要说，太太，你要是知道你丈夫在他的小屋里喝得醉醺醺的，就像个出苦力的下等人……”

“闭嘴，滚出去！”尼科尔喝住了她，“我们要叫警察了。”

“你们还叫警察呢！我弟弟就是警察！你这个可恶的美国佬还叫警察？”

迪克用英语朝尼科尔喊道：“把孩子们从家里带走，让我来解决此事！”

“可恶的美国佬，跑到我们国家来，把我们的好酒都喝光啦！”奥古斯汀亮开泼妇的嗓门尖叫着。

迪克用更大的嗓门喝道：“你现在就给我走！欠你的工钱会付给你的。”

“你当然得付工钱！让我告诉你吧……”她逼上前去，狂怒地挥舞着菜刀，而迪克举起了手杖。她反身冲到厨房里，拿来一把切肉刀，外加一柄小斧子。

情况不容乐观——奥古斯汀是个强壮的妇人，要夺走她手里的刀斧，很可能会给她造成伤害，而伤害了一个法国公民，势必会陷入重重的法律纠纷。迪克想吓唬吓唬她，便仰起头对尼科尔喊道：“你打电话报警！”随后，他指着奥古斯汀的武器说：“凭这些就可以把你抓起来。”

“哈哈哈！”她狂笑不已，然而却不再往前逼进了。尼科尔给警察局打了电话，听到的却是和奥古斯汀的怪笑差不多的声音——话筒里传来一阵呜里哇啦的说话声和含糊不清的低语，后来电话就突然断了。

尼科尔折回到窗口，向下冲着迪克叫道：“多给她点钱，让她走吧！”

迪克原指望能打电话报警，而现在看来已不可能，只好妥协让步，只盼着赶快让她走，便把原来的五十法郎增加到了一百法郎。奥古斯汀放弃了自己的阵地，开始撤退，口里仍连声骂“不识抬举的东西！”，就像是抛了一堆手榴弹掩护自己的撤退。接下来，她仍不肯离去，非得等她的侄子前来帮她拿行李。迪克怀着警惕之心守在厨房跟前，听见她拔酒瓶塞喝酒的声音也不去管了。这之后没有再起风波……那位侄子来后，一再表示歉意。奥古斯汀也换上了一副欢快的表情，乐呵呵地跟迪克告别，还冲着尼科尔的窗户喊道：“再见，夫人！祝你好运！”

事后，戴弗夫妇去了尼斯，在餐馆吃了一顿法式马赛鱼汤，这道汤是用石头鱼和小龙虾煨的，用藏红花作佐料调味，以一瓶冰镇沙布利干白葡萄酒佐餐。迪克对奥古斯汀的离去表示惋惜。

“我可一点也不惋惜。”尼科尔说。

“我觉得惋惜嘛……那是因为我没能把她从悬崖上推下去。”

这些天来，他们俩谁都不敢多说话，常常觉得说出的话词不达意，彼此之间很难做到心心相通。今晚，奥古斯汀的那一顿发作令他们震惊，使他们不再沉湎于各自的心事，再加上喝着热乎乎的加了香料的鱼汤和有着灼热感的美酒，二人便推心置腹交谈了起来。

“咱们不能这样下去了，”尼科尔开口说道，“难道不是吗？你说呢？”迪克一时间没有表示否定，这叫她感到意外，“有时我觉得都怪我……是我毁了你。”

“这么说我已被毁了，是不是？”他打趣道。

“我不是那个意思，但我觉得你过去有创造的欲望，而如今似乎恨不得把这个世界砸得粉碎。”

她对自己如此直言不讳地批评他感到有点不安，而对方久久不说话，这就更让她不安了。她觉得他缄口不语，其中必有原因，那双冷峻的蓝眼睛后面似乎隐藏着什么，而他对孩子们表现出的浓厚兴趣有些不自然，这里面可能别有文章。他有时会一反常态，大发脾气，令她愕然——他会突然滔滔不绝地表示内心的鄙视，贬斥某个人、某个种族、某个阶级、某种生活方式和某种思维模式。就好像他的内心深处有着无穷的心事，一朝爆发，才让她有所醒悟。

“你到底心里是怎么想的？”她问。

“我只知道你的身体一天天好起来，知道你的病遵循的是‘病来如山倒，病去如抽丝’的定律。”

他的声音听起来是那么遥远，仿佛在讲解与此风马牛不相及的学术问题，惊得她不由大叫了一声“迪克！”，同时隔着桌子去抓他的手。迪克却条件反射似的把手抽了回去，说道：“事无巨细，需要通盘考虑，是不是？这不仅仅是你一个人的问题。”随后，他握住她的手，像一个寻欢作乐的阴谋家用一种插科打诨的语气，油腔滑调地说：“看见远处的那艘船了吗？”

那是T.F.戈尔丁的摩托游艇，静静地停泊在尼斯湾的海面上，随海浪一起一伏，虽然停在原处未动，却好像是在做一次浪漫的航行。“咱们可以到那儿去做个调查，看船上的人是不是幸福。”

“咱们和戈尔丁又不熟！”尼科尔不想去。

“他巴不得咱们去呢。再说，芭比跟他熟就够了。事实上，她差点嫁给了他，不是吗？她以前没嫁给他吗？”

于是，他们租了一艘小艇，出了港口，向戈尔丁的那艘“马金”号游艇驶去。此时已是夏日的黄昏时分，但见“马金”号游艇上的索具间灯光闪烁，星星点点透出来。到了跟前，尼科尔又犹豫了起来，说道：“他在开派对……”

“那只是收音机的声音。”迪克猜测说。

有人在招呼他们——一个穿白色外套，身材魁梧，满头银丝的男子从船上低头望着他们，叫道：“是戴弗夫妇吗？”

“欢迎！欢迎光临‘马金’号游艇！”

迪克他们的小艇停靠在了游艇的舷梯下。他们往上走时，戈尔丁弯下他那魁梧的身躯，对尼科尔伸出手说：“正赶上晚宴。”

一支小乐队正在游艇的后甲板演奏：

只要你开口，

我就是你的……

但不到那一天，你别指望我……

戈尔丁张开双臂，却没有拥抱他们，而是将他们朝后甲板引。尼科尔后悔得不得了，觉得不该到这儿来，因而对迪克也越加不耐烦了。由于迪克的工作原因以及她的健康原因，他们不再适合四处交游，于是便渐渐疏远了这些寻欢作乐的人，为自己赢得了“世外高人”的美名。在这几年，里维埃拉的后起之秀们则认为他们如此做派是一种不受欢迎的表现。然而，既然已亮明了这样的人生态度，尼科尔认为就不应该因为一时放纵而使其毁于一旦。

通过主舱时，他们看见前方圆形的舱尾处有些人影在晃动，似乎是在半明半暗的灯光下跳舞。其实，这只是由于悦耳的音乐、迷离的灯光以及海浪的起伏的原因，所产生的幻觉。事实是：有几个服务生在那儿忙碌，还有几个客人闲坐在一张宽宽的沙发上（那沙发安放在弧形甲板的转弯处），有的穿白衣服，有的穿红衣服，有的人的衣服辨不清是什么颜色，有的西装革履，穿得笔挺。突然，其中的一个客人站起来，做了自我介绍，使得尼科尔喜出望外，叫出了声：“汤米！”

汤米原想按法国人的礼仪吻一下她的手，谁知她抢先一步，把她的脸贴在了汤米的脸上。他们在一条古罗马式长凳上坐了下来，或者不如说斜躺了下来。他英俊的面孔黑黝黝的，已经看不见了过去的那种晒出来的悦目的古铜色，而他脸上的这种黑又不是黑人的那种发亮的漂亮的黑色，却是一种憔悴的脸色。异国的太阳改变了他的肤色，他乡的水土给他提供了养分，而今的他由于受到多种地方话的干扰，说话舌头打结，举动有些怪异，令人惊奇。正是这些因素使尼科尔着迷，心醉——二人刚一见面，她在精神层面便投入了他的怀抱，和他远走高飞了……后来，她倏然清醒，回到了现实世界，又恢复了原来的样子，轻描淡写地说：“你看上去简直就像是电影里的冒险家……你为什么一走就是这么长时间？”

汤米·巴尔班看看她，不明白她的意思，但有所警觉，于是两眼不由闪射出异彩。

“五年了，”她继续说道，声音低沉，像是没由来的模仿，“时间太长了。你怎么就不能在外边杀死几头猛兽，然后回来歇口气呢？”

在心上人面前，汤米迅速地使自己欧化了，用法语说道：“对我们这些英雄而言，需要长时间的磨炼，尼科尔。我们可不是在干鸡毛蒜皮的小事，而是在从事惊天动地的事业。”

“请跟我讲英语，汤米！”

“请跟我讲法语，尼科尔！”

“用法语说和用英语说，意思是不一样的——用法语说，你会显得英雄、豪迈，同时有高贵的气质，这你清楚；而用英语说，你可以表现出英雄气概和豪情壮志，然而却显得有点可笑，这你也清楚。这恐怕会给我以可乘之机呦。”

汤米突然忍俊不禁，咯咯一笑，说道：“不管怎么都是一样的。即便用英语说，我也会有英雄的气概和凌云的壮志。”

她装出一副不胜惊讶的样子，而他毫无愧色。

“我只知道电影里的英雄都是这样的。”他说。

“这是不是都像演电影一样呀？”

“那些表现英雄的电影真是不错……罗纳德·科尔曼就是一个顶天立地的英雄。你看过他演的反映北非军团的影片吗？这些都是顶呱呱的好片子。”

“好呀，要是去看电影，那我就知道你和影片中的英雄一样在干着惊天地泣鬼神的事业哟。”

尼科尔说话的时候，注意到一位小巧、白净、漂亮的年轻女子，一头秀发油光发亮，在甲板灯光的照射下，近似一种绿色。那女子先前坐在汤米的旁边，很可能一直在同汤米或边上的另一个人说话。显然，汤米刚才把注意力都集中在了那女子身上，此时却分了心。这叫那个女子大失所望，于是有些失态，恼怒地走到月牙形甲板的另一头去了。

“毕竟，我是个英雄嘛，”汤米不动声色地说，语气像是在开玩笑，又像是认真的，“我有着熊心豹胆，通常情况下，有几分像雄狮，又有几分像醉汉。”

尼科尔耐心地等待着，等待着他的那种夸夸其谈的英雄豪气逐渐消退——她知道他以前可能从未这般说过话。她打量了一下那些陌生人，结果发现那些人也是神经质，故作镇静，只是因为害怕城市才躲到了乡下，说话把调门定得高高的、语气狠狠的……

“那个穿白衣服的女子是何人？”她问道。

“刚才坐在我身边的那个？那是卡罗琳·西布利-比尔斯夫人。”他们静下来，听了一会儿她在甲板另一头说话的声音：

“那家伙是个无赖，手气很差。我们打了一通宵‘双决十一点’，他还欠我一千瑞士法郎呢。”

汤米笑着说：“她现在可是伦敦天字号的恶女。我每次回欧洲，总会遇上这样一帮来自伦敦的恶女。她是我最近才遇到的一个……不过，我觉得眼下又碰到一个，恐怕也是同样的凶恶。”

尼科尔又望了一眼甲板那头的女子——她身材纤弱，像是患有结核病……让人难以置信，如此瘦削的双肩，如此细弱的手臂，竟能举起象征着颓废的大旗（即没落帝国的最后一种标志）。她看上去有点像战前就为画家和小说家做模特的那种慵懒的高个金发女郎，但更像约翰·海德漫画中的胸脯平平的轻浮少女。

戈尔丁走了过来，尽量压低他那庞大身躯所发出的洪亮的声音，仿佛是在用一架大型扩音器表达自己的想法。尼科尔虽然不情愿，但还是听从了他一再强调的建议：晚宴后，“马金”号立即驶往戛纳。他们尽管已经吃了晚餐，但可以再吃点鱼子酱，喝点香槟酒。不管怎样吧，反正迪克现在已经在给他们在尼斯的司机打电话了，让司机把车开回戛纳，停在艾利斯咖啡馆门口——这样，他和尼科尔就可以在那儿找到他们的车。

大家走进餐厅，迪克被安排在西布利——比尔斯夫人身边。尼科尔看见他平日里红润的脸失去了血色。他说话时语调强硬，但尼科尔只能断断续续地听到一些：“你们英国人就是这样，喜欢过醉生梦死的生活……在几成废墟的城堡里，我是说在城堡门口安排几个印度兵把门，里面却是笙歌燕舞。今日有酒今日醉，哪还管明天如何！”

卡罗琳夫人回答时话不多，多半用“什么？”来结尾，夹杂着模棱两可的“是呀！”，抑或令人沮丧的“好吗！”。她的话给人以“山雨欲来风满楼”的感觉，而迪克显然没注意到这些警示。后来，他突然慷慨陈词，发表了一通言辞激烈的议论。尼科尔听不清他说些什么，但却看见那个年轻女子脸色铁青，怒容满面，听见她厉声回答：“外人说外人的话，朋友说朋友的话！”

他又得罪人了！难道他就不能管一管他的嘴吗？什么时候才能改呢？恐怕到死都改不了了！

在钢琴边，乐队（该乐队以打击乐器为名，叫作“爱丁堡拉格泰姆学院爵士乐队”）的一个苏格兰金发小伙子开始用《丹尼·德弗》的那种平音，随着钢琴弹出的低调唱起歌来。他歌声悠扬，字正腔圆，仿佛那歌词深深印在心间。

一个年轻女子从地狱来，

一听丧钟就高兴得跳起来，

因为她坏、坏、坏，

一听丧钟就高兴得跳起来，

从地狱来（咚咚锵）

从地狱来（锵咚咚）

一个年轻女子从地狱来……

“他唱的是什么歌？”汤米低声问尼科尔。

一个坐在他另一边的女孩代为回答说：“那是卡罗琳·西布利-比尔斯夫人作的词，他自己谱的曲。”

接下来，歌手开始唱第二段歌曲，似乎还要唱那位跳跃的女子。汤米禁不住嘟哝了一声：“多好呀！就像是在吟诵拉辛的台词！”

至少从表面看，卡罗琳夫人并没有在意别人在演唱她的作品。尼科尔又看了她一眼，发现自己倒是注意上了她，不是注意她的特征或个性，而是注意到她的态度有一种咄咄逼人的力量，暗想此人绝非好对付的人。众人从餐桌旁站起时，她的看法得到了证实。这时，迪克坐着没动，表情有些异常，猛不丁就冷言冷语地来了一句：“英国人就喜欢叽叽咕咕地嘟哝，含沙射影，聒噪得人心烦又讨厌！”

卡罗琳夫人已经快走出餐厅了，一听这话便转身回来，走到他跟前，声音清晰，斩钉截铁地说（这样是让大伙儿都能听得到）：“你来是找碴的，又是诽谤我的同胞，又是诋毁我的朋友玛丽·明盖蒂。恕我直言，有人看见你在洛桑跟一群不三不四的人鬼混。那算不算聒噪呢？是不是让人心烦呢？”

“反正还不够聒噪吧。”迪克愣了一会儿才说，“看来，我已经臭名远扬了……”

戈尔丁说了声“好啦！好啦！”，终止了他的饶舌。说完，他晃动着强健的身躯，招呼客人们往外走。走到门口，尼科尔回头看见迪克仍坐在餐桌旁。她对那个女人出言不逊感到气愤，同时也在生迪克的气，怪他不该带她到这里来，不该喝得醉醺醺的，不该对别人冷嘲热讽，弄得他自己却反受其辱。她情知自己一来就吸引了汤米·巴尔班，结果惹恼了那个英国女人，这些也叫她越想越气。

过了一会儿，她见迪克出现在了舷梯口，正站在那儿同戈尔丁说话，显然已完全镇静下来了。在后来的半个小时里，甲板上不见了他的身影，于是她便和汤米一道用细绳和咖啡豆玩一种复杂的马来游戏。末了，她对汤米说：“我去找一下迪克。”

自打晚餐后，游艇就一直向西航行。迷人的夜色从船舷两