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I'm sure that's not it, I said.
“绝对不是这一家。”我说。
The concierge shrugged his shoulders. There was no other hotel of that name in Paris. It occurred to me that Strickland had concealed his address, after all. In giving his partner the one I knew he was perhaps playing a trick on him. I do not know why I had an inkling that it would appeal to Strickland's sense of humour to bring a furious stockbroker over to Paris on a fool's errand to an ill-famed house in a mean street. Still, I thought I had better go and see. Next day about six o'clock I took a cab to the Rue des Moines, but dismissed it at the corner, since I preferred to walk to the hotel and look at it before I went in. It was a street of small shops subservient to the needs of poor people, and about the middle of it, on the left as I walked down, was the Hotel des Belges. My own hotel was modest enough, but it was magnificent in comparison with this. It was a tall, shabby building, that cannot have been painted for years, and it had so bedraggled an air that the houses on each side of it looked neat and clean. The dirty windows were all shut. It was not here that Charles Strickland lived in guilty splendour with the unknown charmer for whose sake he had abandoned honour and duty. I was vexed, for I felt that I had been made a fool of, and I nearly turned away without making an enquiry. I went in only to be able to tell Mrs. Strickland that I had done my best.
看门人耸了耸肩膀。巴黎再没有另一家叫这个名字的旅馆了。我想起来，思特里克兰德本来是不想叫别人知道他行踪的。他给他的合股人这个地址也许是在同他开玩笑。不知道为什么，我暗想这很合思特里克兰德的幽默感，把一个怒气冲冲的证券交易人骗到巴黎一条下流街道上的很不名誉的房子里去，出尽洋相。虽然如此，我觉得我还是得去看一看。第二天六点钟左右我叫了一辆马车，到了摩纳街。我在街角上把车打发掉，我想我还是步行到旅馆，先在外面看看再进去。这一条街两旁都是为穷人开设的小店铺，路走了一半，在我拐进来的左面，就是比利时旅馆。我自己住的是一家普普通通的旅馆，可是同这家旅馆比起来简直宏伟极了。这是一座破烂的小楼，多年没有粉刷过，龌龌龊龊，相形之下，两边的房子倒显得又干净又整齐。肮脏的窗子全部关着。查理斯·思特里克兰德同那位勾引他丢弃了名誉和职责的美女显然不会在这样一个地方寻欢作乐，享受他们罪恶而豪华的生活。我非常恼火，觉得自己分明是被耍弄了。我差一点连问都不问就扭头而去。我走进去只是为了事后好向思特里克兰德太太交待，告诉她我已经尽了最大的努力。
The door was at the side of a shop. It stood open, and just within was a sign: Bureau au premier. I walked up narrow stairs, and on the landing found a sort of box, glassed in, within which were a desk and a couple of chairs. There was a bench outside, on which it might be presumed the night porter passed uneasy nights. There was no one about, but under an electric bell was written Garcon. I rang, and presently a waiter appeared. He was a young man with furtive eyes and a sullen look. He was in shirt-sleeves and carpet slippers.
旅馆的入口在一家店铺的旁边，门开着，一进门便有一块牌子：账房在二楼。我沿着狭窄的楼梯走上去，在楼梯平台上看到一间用玻璃门窗隔起来的小阁子，里面摆着一张办公桌和两三把椅子。阁子外面有一条长凳，晚上守门人多半就在这里过夜。附近没有一个人影，但是我在一个电铃按钮下面看到有侍者 字样。我按了一下，马上从什么地方钻出一个人来。这人很年轻，贼眉鼠眼，满脸丧气，身上只穿一件衬衫，趿拉着一双毡子拖鞋。
I do not know why I made my enquiry as casual as possible.
我自己不知道为什么我向他打听思特里克兰德时要装出一副漫不经心的样子。
Does Mr. Strickland live here by any chance? I asked.
“这里住没住着一位思特里克兰德先生？”我问。
Number thirty-two. On the sixth floor.
“三十二号，六楼。”
I was so surprised that for a moment I did not answer.
我大吃一惊，一时没有答出话来。
Is he in?
“他在家吗？”
The waiter looked at a board in the bureau.
侍者看了看账房里的一块木板。
He hasn't left his key. Go up and you'll see.
“他的钥匙不在这里。自己上去看看吧。”
I thought it as well to put one more question.
我想不妨再问他一个问题。
Madame est la?
“太太也在这里吗？”
Monsieur est seul.
“只有先生一个人。”
