The Doll - Bolesaw Prus [218]
Two Frenchmen appeared in the compartment. The landscape was again entirely different: wide horizons, mountains, vineyards. Here and there a large, two-storey house, old and solid, screened by trees, enveloped in ivy. Another Customs inspection. A change of trains, two Frenchman and a Frenchwoman got in and made enough noise for ten. They were evidently well-bred people: nevertheless, they laughed, changed places several times and apologised to Wokulski, though he didn’t know why.
At one station, Wokulski wrote a note to Suzin: ‘Paris, Grand Hotel’, and gave it with a banknote to the conductor, not caring how much he gave him, nor even whether the telegram arrived. At the next stop, someone thrust a whole bundle of banknotes into his hand, and they travelled on. Wokulski observed it was night again, and again fell into a state which might have been a dream, or was perhaps only lassitude. His eyes were closed; yet he thought he was asleep and that this strange state of indifference would leave him in Paris. ‘Paris …Paris …’ he said, still asleep, ‘I’ve been looking forward to Paris for so long …This will pass …Everything will pass.’
Ten o’clock in the morning and another station. The train had stopped under a roof: noise, shouting, people running about. Wokulski was surrounded by three Frenchmen offering their services. Suddenly someone caught his arm: ‘Well, Stanisław Piotrowicz, I’m glad to see you.’
Wokulski stared for a moment at a giant with a red face and flaxen beard, then said: ‘Ah, Suzin …’ They embraced. Suzin was accompanied by two more Frenchmen, one of whom took Wokulski’s baggage check.
‘Glad you are here,’ said Suzin, embracing him again, ‘I thought I would hang myself here in Paris without you …’
‘Paris …’ Wokulski thought.
‘But never mind me,’ Suzin went on, ‘you’ve become so stuckup among those miserable gentlefolks of yours that you don’t care about me any more. But it would have been a pity if you’d let the money slip. You’d have lost some fifty thousand roubles.’
The two Frenchmen accompanying Suzin reappeared and told them everything was ready. Suzin took Wokulski by the arm and led him out to a square containing many omnibuses and one- and two-horse carriages, with drivers sitting up in front or behind. After a few dozen paces they came to a two-horse carriage with a footman. They got in and drove off. ‘Look,’ said Suzin, ‘this is the rue La Fayette, and that the Boulevard Magenta. We’ll drive all the way down the rue La Fayette to our hotel near the Opéra. Paris is more a miracle than a city, I assure you. Wait till you see the Champs-Elysées and the Seine and the Rivoli…Oh, it’s a marvel, I assure you. Perhaps the women are a trifle too forward here. But tastes differ. In any case, I’m delighted you’re here: fifty thousand roubles aren’t to be sneezed at…Ah, there’s the Opéra and the Capucines, and this is our abode…’
Wokulski caught sight of a huge, five-storey building, wedge-shaped, with an iron balcony encircling the second floor, standing in a street planted with young trees and packed with omnibuses, carriages, people on horseback and on foot. The traffic was as thick as if at least half of Warsaw had gathered to stare at an accident; the roadway was as smooth as the pavement. He realised he was in the very heart of Paris, but felt no emotion, no curiosity. Nothing mattered.
The carriage drove through an imposing gate; the footman opened the carriage door; they stepped out. Suzin took Wokulski by the arm and conducted him into a small room which, after a moment, began ascending. ‘This is an elevator,’ Suzin said. ‘I have two apartments here, one on the first floor at a hundred francs a day, the other on the third at ten. I took one for you at ten francs. It can’t be helped—the Exhibition, you see.’
They emerged from the elevator into a corridor and a moment later were in an elegant drawing-room with mahogany furniture, a large bed under a canopy and a wardrobe