the next morning, when archer got out of the fall river train, he emerged upon a steaming midsummer boston. the streets near the station were full of the smell of beer and coffee and decaying fruit and a shirt- sleeved populace moved through them with the intimate abandon of boarders going down the passage to the bathroom.
archer found a cab and drove to the somerset club for breakfast. even the fashionable quarters had the air of untidy domesticity to which no excess of heat ever degrades the european cities. care-takers in calico lounged on the door-steps of the wealthy, and the common looked like a pleasure-ground on the morrow of a masonic picnic. if archer had tried to imagine ellen olenska in improbable scenes he could not have called up any into which it was more difficult to fit her than this heat-prostrated and deserted boston.
he breakfasted with appetite and method, beginning with a slice of melon, and studying a morning paper while he waited for his toast and scrambled eggs. a new sense of energy and activity had possessed him ever since he had announced to may the night before that he had business in boston, and should take the fall river boat that night and go on to new york the following evening. it had always been understood that he would return to town early in the week, and when he got back from his expedition to portsmouth a letter from the office, which fate had conspicuously placed on a corner of the hall table, sufficed to justify his sudden change of plan. he was even ashamed of the ease with which the whole thing had been done: it reminded him, for an uncomfortable moment, of lawrence lefferts's masterly contrivances for securing his freedom. but this did not long trouble him, for he was not in an analytic mood.
after breakfast he smoked a cigarette and glanced over the commercial advertiser. while he was thus engaged two or three men he knew came in, and the usual greetings were exchanged: it was the same world after all, though he had such a queer sense of having slipped through the meshes of time and space.
he looked at his watch, and finding that it was half-past nine got up and went into the writing-room. there he wrote a few lines, and ordered a messenger to take a cab to the parker house and wait for the answer. he then sat down behind another newspaper and tried to calculate how long it would take a cab to get to the parker house.
"the lady was out, sir," he suddenly heard a waiter's voice at his elbow; and he stammered: "out?--" as if it were a word in a strange language.
he got up and went into the hall. it must be a mistake: she could not be out at that hour. he flushed with anger at his own stupidity: why had he not sent the note as soon as he arrived?
he found his hat and stick and went forth into the street. the city had suddenly become as strange and vast and empty as if he were a traveller from distant lands. for a moment he stood on the door-step hesitating; then he decided to go to the parker house. what if the messenger had been misinformed, and she were still there?
he started to walk across the common; and on the first bench, under a tree, he saw her sitting. she had a grey silk sunshade over her head--how could he ever have imagined her with a pink one? as he approached he was struck by her listless attitude: she sat there as if she had nothing else to do. he saw her drooping profile, and the knot of hair fastened low in the neck under her dark hat, and the long wrinkled glove on the hand that held the sunshade. he came a step or two nearer, and she turned and looked at him.
"oh"--she said; and for the first time he noticed a startled look on her face; but in another moment it gave way to a slow smile of wonder and contentment.
"oh"--she murmured again, on a different note, as he stood looking down at her; and without rising she made a place for him on the bench.
"i'm here on business--just got here," archer explained; and, without knowing why, he suddenly began to feign astonishment at seeing her. "but what on earth are you doing in this wilderness?" he had really no idea what he was saying: he felt as if he were shouting at her across endless distances, and she might vanish again before he could overtake her.
"i? oh, i'm here on business too," she answered, turning her head toward him so that they were face to face. the words hardly reached him: he was aware only of her voice, and of the startling fact that not an echo of it had remained in his memory. he had not even remembered that it was low-pitched, with a faint roughness on the consonants.
"you do your hair differently," he said, his heart beating as if he had uttered something irrevocable.
"differently? no--it's only that i do it as best i can when i'm without nastasia."
"nastasia; but isn't she with you?"
"no; i'm alone. for two days it was not worth while to bring her."
"you're alone--at the parker house?"
she looked at him with a flash of her old malice. "does it strike you as dangerous?"
"no; not dangerous--"
"but unconventional? i see; i suppose it is." she considered a moment. "i hadn't thought of it, because i've just done something so much more unconventional." the faint tinge of irony lingered in her eyes. "i've just refused to take back a sum of money--that belonged to me."
archer sprang up and moved a step or two away. she had furled her parasol and sat absently drawing patterns on the gravel. presently he came back and stood before her.
"some one--has come here to meet you?"
"yes."
"with this offer?"
she nodded.
"and you refused--because of the conditions?"
"i refused," she said after a moment.
he sat down by her again. "what were the conditions?"
"oh, they were not onerous: just to sit at the head of his table now and then."
there was another interval of silence. archer's heart had slammed itself shut in the queer way it had, and he sat vainly groping for a word.
"he wants you back--at any price?"
"well--a considerable price. at least the sum is considerable for me."
he paused again, beating about the question he felt he must put.
"it was to meet him here that you came?"
she stared, and then burst into a laugh. "meet him--my husband? here? at this season he's always at cowes or baden."
"he sent some one?"
"yes."
"with a letter?"
she shook her head. "no; just a message. he never writes. i don't think i've had more than one letter from him." the allusion brought the colour to her cheek, and it reflected itself in archer's vivid blush.
"why does he never write?"
"why should he? what does one have secretaries for?"
the young man's blush deepened. she had pronounced the word as if it had no more significance than any other in her vocabulary. for a moment it was on the tip of his tongue to ask: "did he send his secretary, then?" but the remembrance of count olenski's only letter to his wife was too present to him. he paused again, and then took another plunge.
"and the person?"--
"the emissary? the emissary," madame olenska rejoined, still smiling, "might, for all i care, have left already; but he has insisted on waiting till this evening . . . in case . . . on the chance . . ."
"and you came out here to think the chance over?"
"i came out to get a breath of air. the hotel's too stifling. i'm taking the afternoon train back to portsmouth."
they sat silent, not looking at each other, but straight ahead at the people passing along the path. finally she turned her eyes again to his face and said: "you're not changed."
he felt like answering: "i was, till i saw you again;" but instead he stood up abruptly and glanced about him at the untidy sweltering park.
"this is horrible. why shouldn't we go out a little on the bay? there's a breeze, and it will be cooler. we might take the steamboat down to point arley." she glanced up at him hesitatingly and he went on: "on a monday morning there won't be anybody on the boat. my train doesn't leave till evening: i'm going back to new york. why shouldn't we?" he insisted, looking down at her; and suddenly he broke out: "haven't we done all we could?"
"oh"--she murmured again. she stood up and reopened her sunshade, glancing about her as if to take counsel of the scene, and assure herself of the impossibility of remaining in it. then her eyes returned to his face. "you mustn't say things like that to me," she said.
"i'll say anything you like; or nothing. i won't open my mouth unless you tell me to. what harm can it do to anybody? all i want is to listen to you," he stammered.
she drew out a little gold-faced watch on an enamelled chain. "oh, don't calculate," he broke out; "give me the day! i want to get you away from that man. at what time was he coming?"
her colour rose again. "at eleven."
"then you must come at once."
"you needn't be afraid--if i don't come."
"nor you either--if you do. i swear i only want to hear about you, to know what you've been doing. it's a hundred years since we've met--it may be another hundred before we meet again."
she still wavered, her anxious eyes on his face. "why didn't you come down to the beach to fetch me, the day i was at granny's?" she asked.
"because you didn't look round--because you didn't know i was there. i swore i wouldn't unless you looked round." he laughed as the childishness of the confession struck him.
"but i didn't look round on purpose."
"on purpose?"
"i knew you were there; when you drove in i recognised the ponies. so i went down to the beach."
"to get away from me as far as you could?"
she repeated in a low voice: "to get away from you as far as i could."
he laughed out again, this time in boyish satisfaction. "well, you see it's no use. i may as well tell you," he added, "that the business i came here for was just to find you. but, look here, we must start or we shall miss our boat."
"our boat?" she frowned perplexedly, and then smiled. "oh, but i must go back to the hotel first: i must leave a note--"
"as many notes as you please. you can write here." he drew out a note-case and one of the new stylographic pens. "i've even got an envelope--you see how everything's predestined! there--steady the thing on your knee, and i'll get the pen going in a second. they have to be humoured; wait--" he banged the hand that held the pen against the back of the bench. "it's like jerking down the mercury in a thermometer: just a trick. now try--"
she laughed, and bending over the sheet of paper which he had laid on his note-case, began to write. archer walked away a few steps, staring with radiant unseeing eyes at the passersby, who, in their turn, paused to stare at the unwonted sight of a fashionably- dressed lady writing a note on her knee on a bench in the common.
madame olenska slipped the sheet into the envelope, wrote a name on it, and put it into her pocket. then she too stood up.
they walked back toward beacon street, and near the club archer caught sight of the plush-lined "herdic" which had carried his note to the parker house, and whose driver was reposing from this effort by bathing his brow at the corner hydrant.
"i told you everything was predestined! here's a cab for us. you see!" they laughed, astonished at the miracle of picking up a public conveyance at that hour, and in that unlikely spot, in a city where cab-stands were still a "foreign" novelty.
archer, looking at his watch, saw that there was time to drive to the parker house before going to the steamboat landing. they rattled through the hot streets and drew up at the door of the hotel.
archer held out his hand for the letter. "shall i take it in?" he asked; but madame olenska, shaking her head, sprang out and disappeared through the glazed doors. it was barely half-past ten; but what if the emissary, impatient for her reply, and not knowing how else to employ his time, were already seated among the travellers with cooling drinks at their elbows of whom archer had caught a glimpse as she went in?
he waited, pacing up and down before the herdic. a sicilian youth with eyes like nastasia's offered to shine his boots, and an irish matron to sell him peaches; and every few moments the doors opened to let out hot men with straw hats tilted far back, who glanced at him as they went by. he marvelled that the door should open so often, and that all the people it let out should look so like each other, and so like all the other hot men who, at that hour, through the length and breadth of the land, were passing continuously in and out of the swinging doors of hotels.
and then, suddenly, came a face that he could not relate to the other faces. he caught but a flash of it, for his pacings had carried him to the farthest point of his beat, and it was in turning back to the hotel that he saw, in a group of typical countenances--the lank and weary, the round and surprised, the lantern-jawed and mild--this other face that was so many more things at once, and things so different. it was that of a young man, pale too, and half-extinguished by the heat, or worry, or both, but somehow, quicker, vivider, more conscious; or perhaps seeming so because he was so different. archer hung a moment on a thin thread of memory, but it snapped and floated off with the disappearing face--apparently that of some foreign business man, looking doubly foreign in such a setting. he vanished in the stream of passersby, and archer resumed his patrol.
he did not care to be seen watch in hand within view of the hotel, and his unaided reckoning of the lapse of time led him to conclude that, if madame olenska was so long in reappearing, it could only be because she had met the emissary and been waylaid by him. at the thought archer's apprehension rose to anguish.
"if she doesn't come soon i'll go in and find her," he said.
the doors swung open again and she was at his side. they got into the herdic, and as it drove off he took out his watch and saw that she had been absent just three minutes. in the clatter of loose windows that made talk impossible they bumped over the disjointed cobblestones to the wharf.
seated side by side on a bench of the half-empty boat they found that they had hardly anything to say to each other, or rather that what they had to say communicated itself best in the blessed silence of their release and their isolation.
as the paddle-wheels began to turn, and wharves and shipping to recede through the veil of heat, it seemed to archer that everything in the old familiar world of habit was receding also. he longed to ask madame olenska if she did not have the same feeling: the feeling that they were starting on some long voyage from which they might never return. but he was afraid to say it, or anything else that might disturb the delicate balance of her trust in him. in reality he had no wish to betray that trust. there had been days and nights when the memory of their kiss had burned and burned on his lips; the day before even, on the drive to portsmouth, the thought of her had run through him like fire; but now that she was beside him, and they were drifting forth into this unknown world, they seemed to have reached the kind of deeper nearness that a touch may sunder.
as the boat left the harbour and turned seaward a breeze stirred about them and the bay broke up into long oily undulations, then into ripples tipped with spray. the fog of sultriness still hung over the city, but ahead lay a fresh world of ruffled waters, and distant promontories with light-houses in the sun. madame olenska, leaning back against the boat-rail, drank in the coolness between parted lips. she had wound a long veil about her hat, but it left her face uncovered, and archer was struck by the tranquil gaiety of her expression. she seemed to take their adventure as a matter of course, and to be neither in fear of unexpected encounters, nor (what was worse) unduly elated by their possibility.
in the bare dining-room of the inn, which he had hoped they would have to themselves, they found a strident party of innocent-looking young men and women--school-teachers on a holiday, the landlord told them--and archer's heart sank at the idea of having to talk through their noise.
"this is hopeless--i'll ask for a private room," he said; and madame olenska, without offering any objection, waited while he went in search of it. the room opened on a long wooden verandah, with the sea coming in at the windows. it was bare and cool, with a table covered with a coarse checkered cloth and adorned by a bottle of pickles and a blueberry pie under a cage. no more guileless-looking cabinet particulier ever offered its shelter to a clandestine couple: archer fancied he saw the sense of its reassurance in the faintly amused smile with which madame olenska sat down opposite to him. a woman who had run away from her husband-- and reputedly with another man--was likely to have mastered the art of taking things for granted; but something in the quality of her composure took the edge from his irony. by being so quiet, so unsurprised and so simple she had managed to brush away the conventions and make him feel that to seek to be alone was the natural thing for two old friends who had so much to say to each other. . . .
第二天清晨，阿切尔走下福尔里弗号火车，出现在仲夏季节热气腾腾的波士顿。邻近车站的街道上弥漫着啤酒、咖啡和腐烂水果的气味，衣着随便的居民穿行其间，他们亲切放纵的神态宛如过道里向洗手间走去的乘客。
阿切尔租了辆马车去萨默塞特俱乐部吃早餐。甚至高级住宅区也同样透出一股杂乱无章的气息；而在欧洲，即使天气再热，那些城市也是不会堕落到这种境地的。穿印花布的看门人在富人的门阶上荡来荡去，广场看起来就像共济会野餐后的游乐场。如果说阿切尔曾竭力想象埃伦·奥兰斯卡所处环境的恶劣不堪，他却从没想到过有哪个地方，会比热浪肆虐、遭人遗弃的波士顿对她更不合适。
他慢条斯理地吃着早餐。他胃口极好。他先吃了一片甜瓜，然后一边等吐司和炒蛋，一边读一份晨报。自从昨晚告诉梅他要去波士顿办公事，需乘当晚的福尔里弗号并于翌日傍晚回纽约之后，他心中就产生了一种充满活力的新鲜感觉。大家一直认为，他可能要在周初回城。但显然是命运在作怪，当他从普茨茅斯探险归来时，一封来自事务所的信摆在门厅的桌子角上，为他突然改变计划提供了充足的理由。如此轻而易举地把事情安排停当，他甚至感到羞愧：这使他想起了劳伦斯·莱弗茨为获得自由而施展的巧妙伎俩，一时间心中感到不安。但这并没有困扰他很久，因为他此时已无心细细琢磨。
早餐后，他燃起一支烟，浏览着《商业广告报》。其间进来了两三个熟人，彼此照例互致寒暄：这个世界毕竟还是老样子，尽管他有一种稀奇古怪的感觉，仿佛自己是从时空之网悄悄溜了出来似的。
他看了看表，见时间已是9点半，便起身进了写字间，在里面写了几行字，指示信差坐马车送到帕克旅馆，他立候回音。然后便坐下展开另一张报纸，试着计算马车到帕克旅馆需要多少时间。
“那位女士出去了，先生，”他猛然听到身边侍者的声音。他结结巴巴地重复说：“出去了——”这话听起来仿佛是用一种陌生语言讲的。
他起身走进门厅。一定是弄错了：这个时候她是不会出去的。他因自己的愚蠢而气得满脸通红：为什么没有一到这儿就派人送信去呢？
他找到帽子和手杖，径直走到街上。这座城市突然变得陌生。辽阔并且空漠，他仿佛是个来自遥远国度的旅行者。他站在门前的台阶上迟疑了一阵，然后决定去帕克旅馆。万一信差得到的消息是错误的，她还在那儿呢？
他举步穿过广场，只见她正坐在树下第一条凳子上。一把灰色的丝绸阳伞挡在她头上——他怎么会想象她带着粉红色阳伞呢？他走上前去，被她无精打采的神态触动了：她坐在那儿，一副百无聊赖的样子。她低垂着头，侧对着他，黑色的帽子下面，发结低低地打在脖颈处，撑着伞的手上戴着打褶的长手套。他又向前走了一两步，她一转身看到了他。
“哦——”她说，阿切尔第一次见到她脸上露出惊讶的神情；但一会功夫，它便让位于困惑而又满足的淡淡笑容。
“哦——”当他站在那儿低头看她时，她又一次低声说，但语气已有所不同。她并没有站起来，而是在长凳上给他空出了位置。
“我来这儿办事——刚到，”阿切尔解释说，不知为什么，他忽然开始假装见到她非常惊讶。“可你究竟在这个荒凉的地方干什么呢？”他实际上不知自己说的是什么：他觉得自己仿佛在很远很远的地方向她叫喊；仿佛不等他赶上，她可能又会消失了。
“我？啊，我也是来办事，”她答道，转过头来面对着他。她的话几乎没传进他的耳朵：他只注意到了她的声音和一个令人震惊的事实——她的声音竟没有在他的记忆里留下印象，甚至连它低沉的音调和稍有些刺耳的辅音都不曾记得。
“你改了发型了，”他说，心里砰砰直跳，仿佛说了什么不可挽回的话似的。
“改了发型？不——这只是娜斯塔西娅不在身边时，我自己尽可能做的。”
“娜斯塔西娅？可她没跟着你吗？”
“没有，我一个人来的。因为只有两天，没必要把她带来。”
“你一个人——在帕克旅馆？”
她露出一丝旧日的怨恨看着他说：“这让你感到危险了？”
“不，不是危险——”
“而是不合习俗？我明白了；我想是不合习俗。”她沉吟了片刻。“我没想过这一点，因为我刚做了件更不合习俗的事，”她眼神略带嘲讽地说。“我刚刚拒绝拿回一笔钱——一笔属于我的钱。”
阿切尔跳起来，后退了两步。她收起阳伞，坐在那儿，心不在焉地在沙砾上画着图案。他接着又回来站在她面前。
“有一个人——来这儿见你了？”
“对。”
“带着这项提议？”
她点了点头。
“而你拒绝了——因为所提的条件？”
“我拒绝了，”过了一会儿她说。
他又坐到她身边。“是什么条件？”
“噢，不属于法定义务：只是偶尔在他的餐桌首位坐坐。”
又是一阵沉默。阿切尔的心脏以它奇特的方式骤然停止了跳动，他坐在那儿，徒劳地寻找话语。
“他想让你回去——不惜任何代价？”
“对——代价很高，至少对我来说是巨额。”
他又停下来，焦急地搜寻他觉得必须问的问题。
“你来这儿是为了见他？”
她瞪大眼睛，接着爆发出一阵笑声。“见他——我丈夫？在这儿？这个季节他总是在考斯或是巴登。”
“他派了个人来？”
“对”
“带来一封信？”
她摇摇头说：“不，只是个口信。他从来不写信。我想我一共就收到过他一封信。”一提此事令她双颊绯红，这红润也反射给了阿切尔，他也面色通红。
“他为什么从不写信？”
“他干吗要写？要秘书是干什么的？”
年轻人的脸更红了。她说出这个词仿佛它在她的语汇中并不比其他词有更多的意义。一时间，他差一点就冲口发问：“那么，他是派秘书来的？”但对奥兰斯基伯爵给妻子的惟一一封信的回忆对他来说太现实了。他再次停住话头，然后开始又一次冒险。
“而那个人呢？”
“你指的是使者吗？这位使者，”奥兰斯卡夫人依然微笑着答道，“按我的心意，早该走了，但他却坚持要等到傍晚……以防……万一……”
“那么你出来是为了仔细考虑那种可能？”
“我出来是为了透透气，旅馆里太问了。我要乘下午的火车回普茨茅斯。”
他们默默无语地坐着，眼睛不看对方，而是直盯着前面过往的行人。最后，她又把目光转到他的脸上，说：“你没有变。”
他很想说：“我变了；只是在又见到你之后，我才又是原来的我了。”但他猛然站起来，打量着周围又脏又热的公园。
“这里糟透了。我们何不去海湾边呆一会儿？那儿有点风，会凉快些。我们可以乘汽船下行去阿利角。”她抬起头迟疑地望了望他。他接着说：“星期一早晨，船上不会有什么人的。我乘的火车傍晚才开：我要回纽约。我们干吗不去呢？”他低头看着她，突然又冒出一句：“难道我们不是已经尽了最大努力克制自己了吗？”
“哦——”她又低声说，接着站了起来，重新撑开阳伞，向四周打量一番，仿佛审视眼前的环境，下决心不能再呆在里面了，然后又把目光转到他脸上。“你千万不要对我说那些事了，”她说。
“你喜欢什么我就说什么，或者干脆什么都不说。除非你让我说，否则决不开口。这又能伤害谁呢？我只想听你说话，”他结巴着说。
她取出一只金面小怀表，表上系着彩饰的表链。“啊，不要计算时间，”他脱口而出说，“给我一天吧！我想让你甩掉那个人。他什么时候来？”
她的脸又红了。“门点。”
“那你必须立即回来。”
“你不必担心——如果我不来的话。”
“你也不必担心——如果你来的话。我发誓我只想听听你的情况，想知道你一直在干什么。自从我们上次见面，已经有一百年了——也许再过一百年我们才能再见面。”
她仍然举棋不定，目光焦虑地望着他的脸。“我在奶奶家那天，为什么你不到海滩上接我？”她问道。
“因为你没回头——因为你不知道我在那儿。我发誓只要你不回头，我就不过去，”他想到这种孩子气的坦白，笑了。
“可我是故意不回头的。”
“故意？”
“我知道你在那儿。当你们驾车来时我认出了那几匹马，所以去了海滨。”
“为了尽量离我远些？”
她低声重复说：“为了尽量离你远些。”
他又放声大笑起来，这次是因为男孩子的满足感。“哎，你知道，那是没用的。我还可以告诉你，”他补充说，“我来这儿要办的公事就是找你。可你瞧，我们必须动身了，否则会误了我们的船。”
“我们的船？”她困惑地皱起眉头，接着又嫣然一笑。“啊，可我必须先回旅馆：我得留个便条——”
“你喜欢国多少就留多少。你可以在这儿写。”他取出皮夹和一支自来水笔。“我甚至有个信封——你看，事事都是命中注定的！来——把它固定在膝盖上，我马上就会让笔听话；等着——”他用力以拿笔的手敲打着凳子背。“这就像把温度计里的水银柱甩下来：是个小把戏。现在试试看——”
她大笑起来，然后在阿切尔铺在皮夹上的纸上写起来。阿切尔走开几步，用那双喜气洋洋的眼睛视而不见地盯着过往的行人，那些人轮番驻足注视这不寻常的光景：在广场的长凳上，一位穿着时髦的女士伏在膝头写信。
奥兰斯卡夫人将信纸塞进信封，写上名字，装进口袋，然后她站了起来。
他们返身向比肯街走去。在俱乐部附近，阿切尔看到了将他的便函送往帕克旅馆的那辆装饰豪华的赫迪克马车。车夫正在拐角处的水龙头上冲洗脑门，以解送信的劳累。
“我对你说了，一切都是命中注定的！这儿有辆出租马车，你看！”他们大笑起来，对眼前的奇迹感到惊讶。在这座依然把出租马车场看作“舶来”的新事物的城市里，在这样的时刻和地点，他们竟找到一辆公用马车！
阿切尔看了看表，发现去汽艇停泊地之前还来得及乘车去一趟帕克旅馆。他们卡塔卡喀地沿着热气腾腾的街道疾驶，到旅馆门前停了车。
阿切尔伸手要信。“我把它送进去吧？”他问，但奥兰斯卡夫人摇了摇头，从车上跳下来，消失在玻璃门里面。时间还不到10点半，可是，假如那位信使等答复等得不耐烦，又不知如何打发时间，正好坐在阿切尔在她进旅馆时瞥见的附近那些喝冷饮的游客中，那可怎么办？
他等着，在赫迪克马车前踱来踱去。一个眼睛跟娜斯塔西娅一样的西西里青年要给他擦靴子，一名爱尔兰女子要卖给他桃子；隔不了几分钟玻璃门便打开，放出一些急匆匆的人。他们把草帽远远推到脑后，眼睛打量着他从他身边过去。他奇怪门怎么开得这么勤，而且从里面出来的人竟如此相似，长得全都像此时此刻从本地各旅馆旋转门中进进出出的那些急匆匆的人。
这时，突然出现了一张与众不同的脸，从他视线中一晃而过，因为他已走到踱步范围的尽头，是他转身折回旅馆时看见的，在几种类型的面孔中——倦怠的瘦脸、惊诧的圆脸、温和的长脸——一张迥然不同的脸。那是张年轻男子的脸，也很苍白，被热浪或焦虑或两者折磨得萎靡不振，但不知何故，看上去却比那些面孔机敏、生动、或更为清醒；也许是因为它迥然不同才显得如此。片刻间阿切尔似乎抓住了一根记忆的游丝，但它却迅即扯断，随着那张逝去的脸飘走了。显然那是张外国商人的脸，在这样的背景下益发像外国人。他随着过往的人流消逝了，阿切尔重新开始他的巡逻。
他不愿在旅馆的视界内让人看见手中拿着表。单凭估计计算的时间，他觉得，如果奥兰斯卡夫人这么久还没回来，只能是因为她遇上了那位使者，并被他拦住了。想到这里，阿切尔心中忧虑万分。
“如果她不马上出来，我就进去找她，”他说。
门又打开了，她来到他身边。他们进了马车，马车启动时，他掏出怀表一看，发现她只离开了3分钟。松动的车窗发出卡嗒卡嗒的声响，无法进行交谈。他们在没有规则的鹅卵石路上颠簸着，向码头奔去。
船上空着一半位子，他们并肩坐在长凳上，觉得几乎无话可讲，或者更确切地说，这种与世隔绝、身心舒展的幸福沉默完美地表达了他们要说的话。
浆轮开始转动，码头与船只从热雾中向后退去，这时，阿切尔觉得过去熟悉的一切习俗也都随之退却。他很想问一问奥兰斯卡夫人是否也有同样的感觉：感觉他们正起程远航，一去不返。但他却害怕说出这些话，害怕打破支持她对他的信任的那种微妙的平衡。事实上，他也不希望辜负这种信任。他们亲吻的记忆曾日日夜夜灼烫着他的双唇；甚至昨天去普茨茅斯的路上，想起她心里还像着了火一般；然而此刻她近在眼前，他们正一起漂向一个未知的世界，亲近得仿佛已达到了那种手指轻轻一碰，就会立即分开的深层境界。
船离开港湾向大海驶去。一阵微风吹来，水面上掀起泛着油污的长长的波浪，随后又变成浪花飞溅的涟漪。热雾仍挂在城市上空，但前方却是一个水波起伏的清凉世界，远处灯塔耸立的海岬沐浴在阳光中。奥兰斯卡夫人倚着船栏，张开双唇吮吸着这份清凉。她把长长的面纱缠在了帽子周围，这样却把脸露了出来，阿切尔被她那平静、愉悦的表情打动了。她似乎将他们的这次冒险视为理所当然的事，既不为意外遇上熟人而担心，也不因有那种可能而过分得意（那样更糟）。
在小旅店简陋的餐厅里——阿切尔本希望他们两个人占用二一一池们发现有一群唧唧喳喳、面目天真的青年男女。店主告诉他们，那是一群度假的教师。一想到必须在他们的嘈杂声中交谈，阿切尔的心不觉往下一沉。
“这不行——我去要个包间，”他说；奥兰斯卡夫人没提任何异议，等着他去找房间。包间开在长长的木制游廊上，大海穿过窗口扑面而来。屋子简陋却很凉爽，餐桌上铺着一块粗糙的花格桌布，放着一瓶泡菜和装在笼里的紫浆果馅饼。人们一眼便能看出，这小间是专供情人幽会的庇护所。阿切尔觉得，奥兰斯卡夫人在他对面坐下时，她脸上略显愉快的笑容流露了对这个所在的安全感。一个逃离了丈夫的女人——据说还是跟另一个男人一起逃离的——很可能已经掌握了处乱不惊的艺术。然而她那镇定自若的神态却遏止了他的嘲讽。她那样沉稳、镇静，那样坦然，说明她已经挣脱了陈规陋俗；并使他觉得，两位有许多话要谈的老朋友，找个僻静的处所是件很自然的事……
