Stroeve's face grew white. 施特略夫的脸色一下变白了。

Why didn't he write and tell me? “他为什么不写信告诉我？

How stupid of me to quarrel with him. 咳，我同他吵嘴做什么？

We must go to him at once. 咱们得马上去看看他。

He can have no one to look after him. Where does he live? 没有人照料他。他住在什么地方？”

I have no idea, said the Frenchman. “我说不清。”那个法国人说。

We discovered that none of us knew how to find him. 我们发现谁也不知道该到哪儿去找他。

Stroeve grew more and more distressed. He might die, and not a soul would know anything about it. 施特略夫越来越难过。“说不定他已经死了，他的事没有一个人知道。

It's dreadful. I can't bear the thought. We must find him at once. 太可怕了。我真是受不了。咱们一定得马上找到他。”

I tried to make Stroeve understand that it was absurd to hunt vaguely about Paris. 我想叫施特略夫明白，在茫茫大海似的巴黎找一个人是荒谬的。

We must first think of some plan. 我们必须首先有一个计划。

Yes; but all this time he may be dying, and when we get there it may be too late to do anything. “是的。但是也许就在我们想办法的时候，他正在咽气呢，等我们找到他的时候，一切就都太晚了。”

Sit still and let us think, I said impatiently. “先安安静静地坐一会，想想该怎么办，”我不耐烦地说。

The only address I knew was the Hotel des Belges, but Strickland had long left that, and they would have no recollection of him. 我知道的唯一地址是比利时旅馆，但是思特里克兰德早已搬出那个地方了，那里的人肯定不会记得他了。

With that queer idea of his to keep his whereabouts secret, it was unlikely that, on leaving, he had said where he was going. 他行踪诡秘，不愿意让别人知道自己的住址；在搬走的时候，多半没有留下地址。

Besides, it was more than five years ago. 再说，这已是五年前的事了。

I felt pretty sure that he had not moved far. 但是我敢肯定他住的地方不会太远。

If he continued to frequent the same cafe as when he had stayed at the hotel, it was probably because it was the most convenient. 既然他住在比利时旅馆的时候就到这家咖啡馆来，后来始终没有换地方，一定是因为这里对他很方便。

Suddenly I remembered that he had got his commission to paint a portrait through the baker from whom he bought his bread, 突然我想起来，他经常去买面包的一家店铺曾经介绍他给人画过像，

and it struck me that there one might find his address. 说不定那家面包店会知道他的住址。

I called for a directory and looked out the bakers. 我叫人拿来一本电话簿，开始翻查这一带的面包店。

There were five in the immediate neighbourhood, and the only thing was to go to all of them. 我一共找到了五家，唯一的办法是挨家去打听一遍。