Quotation from: The Arrow of Gold

Written by: Joseph Conrad


I woke up to a great noise of feet, a sudden influx of people
through the doors of the platform. I made out my man's whiskers at
once--not that they were enormous, but because I had been warned
beforehand of their existence by the excellent Commissary General.
At first I saw nothing of him but his whiskers: they were black
and cut somewhat in the shape of a shark's fin and so very fine
that the least breath of air animated them into a sort of playful
restlessness. The man's shoulders were hunched up and when he had
made his way clear of the throng of passengers I perceived him as
an unhappy and shivery being. Obviously he didn't expect to be
met, because when I murmured an enquiring, "Senor Ortega?" into his
ear he swerved away from me and nearly dropped a little handbag he
was carrying. His complexion was uniformly pale, his mouth was
red, but not engaging. His social status was not very definite.
He was wearing a dark blue overcoat of no particular cut, his
aspect had no relief; yet those restless side-whiskers flanking his
red mouth and the suspicious expression of his black eyes made him
noticeable. This I regretted the more because I caught sight of
two skulking fellows, looking very much like policemen in plain
clothes, watching us from a corner of the great hall. I hurried my
man into a fiacre. He had been travelling from early morning on
cross-country lines and after we got on terms a little confessed to
being very hungry and cold. His red lips trembled and I noted an
underhand, cynical curiosity when he had occasion to raise his eyes
to my face. I was in some doubt how to dispose of him but as we
rolled on at a jog trot I came to the conclusion that the best
thing to do would be to organize for him a shake-down in the
studio. Obscure lodging houses are precisely the places most
looked after by the police, and even the best hotels are bound to
keep a register of arrivals. I was very anxious that nothing
should stop his projected mission of courier to headquarters. As
we passed various street corners where the mistral blast struck at
us fiercely I could feel him shivering by my side. However,
Therese would have lighted the iron stove in the studio before
retiring for the night, and, anyway, I would have to turn her out
to make up a bed on the couch. Service of the King! I must say
that she was amiable and didn't seem to mind anything one asked her
to do. Thus while the fellow slumbered on the divan I would sit
upstairs in my room setting down on paper those great words of
passion and sorrow that seethed in my brain and even must have
forced themselves in murmurs on to my lips, because the man by my
side suddenly asked me: "What did you say?"--"Nothing," I
answered, very much surprised. In the shifting light of the street
lamps he looked the picture of bodily misery with his chattering
teeth and his whiskers blown back flat over his ears. But somehow
he didn't arouse my compassion. He was swearing to himself, in
French and Spanish, and I tried to soothe him by the assurance that
we had not much farther to go. "I am starving," he remarked
acidly, and I felt a little compunction. Clearly, the first thing
to do was to feed him. We were then entering the Cannebiere and as
I didn't care to show myself with him in the fashionable restaurant
where a new face (and such a face, too) would be remarked, I pulled
up the fiacre at the door of the Maison Doree. That was more of a
place of general resort where, in the multitude of casual patrons,
he would pass unnoticed.

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